Captivated

chapter 1

LondonMay, 1889

"I'm leaving town today."

"And brave your sister's wrath?" Lord Akers glanced across the billiard table, his sceptical gaze taking in the Marquis of Crewe's lounging form. "You're supposed to be hosting your niece's coming out ball tonight."

Hugh Dalsany shrugged one shoulder negligently before lifting his glass of cognac to his mouth. "Fanny won't care if I'm there or not so long as I pay for it."

"Your legion of lovers will despair at your absence," his friend drolly noted. "Don't you service two or three a night?"

"Precisely why I'm not going." The young marquis grimaced before draining his glass, the last few days of carouse enervating. "I'm sick of them all," he murmured, leaning forward in a ripple of honed muscle, reaching for the liquor decanter. "I'm done fucking."

Charles Lytton's cue scratched down the green felt, missing the ball completely. "Are you on your deathbed?" he sardonically inquired, tossing aside the cue and standing upright. "Or just out to win this game?"

"Neither. I'm just bored to death. How many years have I been fucking?" The marquis slid lower in his chair and contemplated the liquor in his glass. "Too damned many," he said, half to himself, and, lifting the glass to his lips, he washed the taste of surfeit from his mouth.

"You're just grim about having to play the gentleman for your niece this Season. The debs will put any man out of sorts. Spend a week or so with Lavinia and you'll change your mind."

"Lord no, she's talking marriage. I'm serious, Charlie, I'm done with cunt. I must have fucked a thousand women in the last decade. That's enough for any man. I'm going up to Woodhill and settle into farming."

"You won't last a fortnight." Walking around the end of the billiard table, Lord Akers dropped into an adjoining chair. The game room was deserted, the men's dishevelled evening attire from the previous night not untypical for the more libertine club members. "Besides, we promised the Bellemy sisters we'd entertain them after your niece's soiree."

"You'll have to do it alone. I'm having my driver pick me up in a few minutes." The marquis smiled. "Im sure you'll manage without me."

"Five thousand says you won't remain celibate forwhat… a month?" Charlie's brows lifted in ironic query. "Or are you having all your house and dairy maids sent into purdah?"

"You'll lose your five thousand, and the maids will be perfectly safe." Save for his heavy-lidded gaze, the marquis's handsome face bore no marks of dissipation regardless the relentless debauch of the last few days. "You don't realize the extent of my ennui, Charlie."

"Nor would anyone watching you the week past."

The marquis shrugged again, any attempt at explanation beyond Charlie's understanding. "Give my regards to my sister Fanny if you see her tonight. I've sent her a note, but she's bound to have questions."

"Not that I could answer them. Good God, Crewe, this will astound everyone. They're going to say you're raving mad."

"If I was concerned with people's opinions," the marquis lazily drawled, "I'd have led a very different life, now, wouldn't I?"

"Can't argue with you there." Charlie and the marquis had been the bellwether for scandal since adolescence.

"Come up for fishing when you have your fill of London," the marquis offered, setting his glass aside and rising from the chair. "And I'll show you the improvements on the estate."

"Are you sick, Hugh?" Charlie's voice had gone soft, genuine concern and bafflement in his eyes.

"Don't worry, Charlie. Ihaven't been brought low by Venus's revenge. I've just decided to find something else to do besides fuck."

"You've never talked like this before."

Crewe 's tone was tolerant. "Don't worry, Charlie. It's not contagious." He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Pierce is waiting. I'll see you when next you come to Woodhill." And with a wave, he walked from the room.

"Where's Pierce?" Standing on the curb outside Brookes, the marquis surveyed the unknown driver seated where his head groom should have been.

"He was taken sick, my lord."

"And Oates?"

"Driving Lady Castleton and Lady Jane, my lord."

"I hope you know the way to Woodhill," Hugh gruffly noted, disconcerted to find someone other than his personal driver at the reins. Pierce was more than a driver; he was privy to much of the marquis's personal life and held the enviable position of confidant.

"Yes, sir, I know the way, sir. No question o' that."

"Then get me there post haste. I'm weary to death of London," Crewe added, moving toward the carriage door held open by a small page he didn't recognize. "Are you from Dalsany House?" he inquired, placing his foot on the step, his weight putting a strain on the carriage springs. His second step put him inside the carriage, and the boy's response went unnoticed, for he found himself with company as the door shut and the carriage pulled away from the curb.

Female company.

"Who the hell are you?" the marquis curtly inquired, dropping into the opposite seat, a faint frown marring the perfection of his forehead.

"I apologize for taking Pierce from you."

"Taking him where?" Leaning back against the green leather squabs, he crossed his legs and scrutinized the woman seated across from him. She was fashionably dressed in primrose China silk patterned with blue flowers, the sumptuous summer gown, feminine, beribboned, and flounced, lush foil to her heavy auburn hair and porcelain skin. His gaze slowly traveled down her body, long-held habit still operating despite his new venture into celibacy. Her opulent bosom, slender waist, the curve of her hips garnered his approval if no longer his interest.

"Pierce's destination isn't important right now," she said, her posture unlike his, stiffly upright, her gloved hands folded in her lap. "He's perfectly fine. You needn't be concerned."

"Pierce can take care of himself, I'm sure," the marquis softly murmured, taking measure of the woman's unease. "You, however, have two minutes to explain your presence before I put you out."

"I'll be brief then." An underlying sultriness colored her voice; he took immediate note of it. "I have a proposal I'd like to make you." She hesitated briefly, and when his brows rose in silent query, she said in a rush, "I need a child."

He didn't pretend not to know what she meant. "Why come to me?"

"Because you have the reputation for being"a blush colored her cheeks"accommodating to women."

"Sorry. You're a day too late."

"I wouldn't be here unless my situation were critical."

"Look," the marquis gently said, "it's nothing personal. I've just decided to rusticate for a time. But there's any number of men who would be more than pleased to help you."

"Unfortunately, my husband chose you."

His lounging form stiffened at her words. "Chose me?" he murmured, his voice chill. "Who are you?"

"I'm not at liberty to say, but your reputation brought you to my husband's attention. While rumors of your most recent child by the Countess of Lismore last month apparently determined his final decision. I'm sorry."

"This is preposterous, of course." He'd relaxed again, the woman's story beyond the limits of possibility. He was wealthy, well connected; his ducal father was powerful, a personal intimate of the queen. This woman's proposalor her husband's proposalwas ludicrous. And he said as much again.

"Perhaps it won't take too long," she only said, and added again, "I'm sorry to involve you."

"You haven't," he snapped, reaching up to rap on the front panel, a signal for the driver to stop.

But rather than stop, the carriage picked up speed.

"Someone's going to pay for this," he muttered, his hand on the door latch.

A second later, in response to his glare, she calmly said, "It's locked from the outside."

Flinging himself back onto the seat, he swore in a lengthy stream of invectives before settling into a moody silence, the streets of London flashing by in rapid succession. The irony of his position had not escaped his notice and he contemplated briefly whether some mysterious vengeance was being exacted for his past sins. He further considered who might be behind this grotesque form of retaliation, but the list of disgruntled husbands, fathers, brothers was too lengthy to contemplate with any certainty. The lady's faint accent wasn't Englishalthough his amorous activities hadn't been confined to England so that only narrowed the possibilities marginally.

Surveying her from under his long lashes, he tried to recall whether they'd met before, and while the blur of women in his life was a constant, her dramatic beauty would have made her memorable. She was the kind of woman he and Charles would have rated in their green youth as worth a week of their time. Even now, in their jaded manhood, she would have been unforgettable. And if he'd not reached the ultimate point of female saturationand had she not forced herself on him, and further had he not been adamned prisoner in his own carriage, she might have piqued his interest.

But in his current hot-tempered misogyny, she was anathema.

Surveying the passing landscape as they moved into the countryside outside London, he considered the possibility of kicking the door out and jumping from the fast-moving carriage, but outriders flanked the conveyance front and back, he discovered, the large troop conspicuously Slav, their flat-boned cheeks and dark coloring, the medieval character of their armament giving evidence of their Balkan heritage. A practical man, he realized how ineffectual any attempt at escape would be and came to understand as well that the lady in his carriage or her husband at least had roots in the area east of the Adriatic.

Although at closer inspection, the lady, opulently titian-haired, white-skinned, and emerald-eyed, had none of the look of the East. Richly dressed, her sapphire jewelry first-rate gems, her mildly imperious air all bespoke a patrician world, but her eyes, brilliant green even in the shadowed interior, had none of thejeunesse dorée languor habitual to the beau monde. They shimmered with a barely restrained heat, like the husky contralto of her voice and the flaunting voluptuousness of her form would have lured a monk from his vows.

And now apparently he'd been selected to satisfy her husband's impulse for an heir. "Is your husband old?" he asked, curious.

"Yes."

"I see."

"No, you don't. He prefers young men; he's always preferred young men, but in his position a wife is required. As is a child eventually."

"Are you a virgin then?"

"Do I look like a virgin?" she coolly replied, blunt like he.

"You look like you probably seduced your first tutor."

"Or he me," she said in that same neutral voice. "Was it a housemaid for youyour first time?" she blandly inquired. "I expect your looks had them all giddy to sleep with the duke's son."

"And you wouldn't be giddy."

"I haven't been giddy for a very long time, my Lord Crewe."

"Your husband's going to have to find someone else. You know that, of course."

"You don't know my husband. He won't be finding anyone else."

"He can't force me."

"Actually, that's my job."

"You're wasting your time."

"We'll see about that, I suppose. A note has been sent to your family so no one will expect you in your usual haunts the next month. My husband is very thorough, you see… and very determined."

"Fuck you," the marquis brusquely said.

"Now there's a sensible young man," she purred.

In a very short time, they turned off the main road onto a country lane, and moments later, the vehicle passed through an imposing gateway that offered a splendid view of a Capability Brown landscape, manicured to perfection so it had the look of a Lorrain painting.

Why didn't he recognize the estate? he wondered; there were only so many gardens by the Brown dynasty in England. This one had apparently escaped his notice.

"The Spanish royal family originally owned this," she said, perhaps interpreting his reflective look or perhaps simply being courteous. "A cadet branch, I believe. It passed to the Hapsburgs in one of the royal marriages. I think you'll find the stables excellent."

"Will we be riding?"

"Of course. You're my husband's guest."

"He's here?" Was the man a voyeur, too.

"Of course not. He has no interest in mein this… other than the end result."

"There won't be any end result. Let me make that perfectly clear. I insist on sending your husband a strongly worded protest. And once he understands how useless his ploy, I'll bid youadieu and hope our paths never meet again."

"I understand," she calmly said, as though consoling a recalcitrant child. "It's all quite barbaric. I suggested he adopt one of his nephews. His sisters breed like rabbits, but he insists on the fiction this child is his. I'm so very sorry," she added in a dulcet murmur. "But please, feel free to send your objections to him."

The country home had been begun in Elizabethan times, the old redbrick and Gothic-arched windows covered with ancient ivies. As each successive generation added to the original structure, one architectural style overlay another, but the sprawling whole still looked as though it were wedded to the land, the grand scope of English history written on its exterior. They entered by the most recent Gothic-revival portico into a small secondary entrance hall gleaming with hand-rubbed paneling and massive silver pieces from India. No servants appeared, their escort two of the quasi-military troop that had flanked the carriage from London. Hugh was shown into a large bedroom suite on the main floor, the view of the rolling lawns falling away to a sylvan lake put there by Capability Brown like a perfect jewel in the green countryside.

"Pierce will be up shortly," the lady said, standing in the doorway.

Hugh swung around from the windows. "You've thought of everything," he drawled. "My compliments to your husband's thoroughness."

"Since Pierce served as your batman in India, my husband considered him appropriate for valeting you in this rather rustic abode. The staff is minimal for obvious reasons."

"While the mounted troop is large."

"Exactly. We dress for dinner despite the rural setting. You'll find your clothes in the dressing room." Although the marquis's brows rose at her last statement, she went on as though she were hostess under ordinary circumstances. "We keep country hours here; dinner is at eight." Moving back into the hall, she allowed the guard to swing the door shut.

It was locked, of course, but he had to check, and returning to the windows overlooking the lake, the Marquis of Crewe surveyed the countryside and pondered the startling circumstances of his captivity.

Pierce arrived shortly with servants carrying water for a bath, and once the staff were dismissed, the two men exchanged stories of their abductions. Pierce had been stopped in the mews behind Dalsany House, where the lane was narrow and out of sight of traffic. Both the tiger and groom had been taken as well. "I don't know for certain where they are, but I was most kindly treated considering. Why are we here?"

"Apparently I'm to stand stud to this nameless lady."

"A command performance," Pierce said with a sly smile. "You should manage."

"I dislike being coerced."

"If it's the lady I seen in the corridor with red hair and a right comely shape, sair, she'll make the coercion sweet enough I don't doubt."

"Her husband's a brute."

"Not likely that should matter none. Seems lots o' ladies you bed have husbands like that. They like you the better for it."

"Don't be so bloody reasonable, Pierce. This is fucking irritating to have some Balkan satrap decide I'm to produce his heir. Damn his impertinence. I'll bed whom I please."

"If'n it's just the coercion, sair, hell, there's men who pay for that in them fine brothels."

"I'm not one of them."

"I know, but she's a fine piece for all your temper. How can it mattera night or two with this'un after all the years of fucking, sair."

Another logical insight, Hugh thought with disgust, and had he not been glutted and weary of the concept, he could have been logical, too. "How many guards do they have?"

"It looks like forty or so; only a small troop followed you here. The rest were in place when I arrived. It won't be easy if'n you're thinking of escape." The small, wiry, sandy-haired man had served in Hugh's regiment in India and decided he preferred the position of batman to the marquis than the brutal life in the Army. He knew combat firsthand and was the very best man to have beside you in a tough fight.

"Are you allowed any freedom of movement?"

"Not without a guard at my side, sair. It's a right tight camp they've set up here."

"Do what you can in tracking their schedule. I don't intend to stay any longer than necessary."

"I'll try, sair, but I'm not allowed much movement. See what the lady has to say at dinner. If she doesn't wish to be here, either, she might be able to help. She goes about without a guard."

When Crewe entered the dining room at eight, his escort fell back, and with the silence that seemed habitual with them, they shut the doors behind him. The marquis stood motionless, taking in the large dimensions of the dining room, his gaze sweeping over the allegorical mural of Apollo driving his sun chariot above his head, coming to rest on his hostess yards away down the length of a mahogany table. She looked very small in the cavernous room.

"Do you have a name?" he asked, strolling toward her, his evening shoes sinking into the plush nap of a Tabriz carpet custom-made for the chamber.

"Call me Juliana."

"You don't have a name then. Why don't I call you Delilah?"

"It would be very much easier for us both if you simply did what you apparently do so well," she replied, ignoring his discourtesy. "The record of your female conquests is formidable. What do they call youThe Rajah?for the number of women in your personal harem. Do they take a number? How do you arrange to satisfy them all?"

"I see I was vetted."

"Most carefully. My husband has memorized theAlmanack de Gotha; your bloodlines are pure enough even for a descendant of Charlemagne. Do sit down. You'll find the menu to your liking."

"Your husband's spies are competent," he noted, taking his seat at the place setting beside her. "You have my favorite champagne."

"My husband's security system is extensive. And more than competent. Keep it in mind, my lord," she gently said, nodding minutely in the direction of the large standing portrait of a Hapsburg in Elizabethan hunting dress. At which point, a procession of serving men flowed through a hidden door in the linen-fold paneling, carrying an array of silver platters and dishes filled with the marquis's preferred foods. Each roast and fish, soup and vegetable, dainty and sweet were arranged French style down the long table, and as silently as the servants had appeared, they disappeared through the concealed door.

"I thought we might have an informal dinner tonightwithout staff. I hope you don't mind."

"And if I did?" he softly inquired, pouring his champagne goblet full, his sidelong glance sardonic.

"I told the prince you'd be difficult."

"Impossible, actually. Tell him that."

"I wish it were so simple, my lord. Marko unfortunately has no understanding of dissent." She rose from her chair, her pearl-embroidered gold net gown rustling faintly as she moved toward the splendid display of food. "Please help yourself," she remarked, as if immune to her companion's umbrage, spooning a serving of trout and morels on her plate. "You must be hungry after your recent days of debauch."

Surprise registered for a flashing moment in his eyes.

"One of the women was in my husband's employ," she explained, looking up from a decorative lobster aspic, the spoon in her hand suspended above the elaborate jellied mold, her breasts mounded high above her low décolletage equally lush. "Clarissa gave you high marks," she added, a faint smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"This isn't going anywhere," the marquis curtly said, resisting the magnificent display of feminine pulchritude, lifting his glass to his mouth and emptying it down his throat. "No matter how damned urbane you are." He reached for the bottle again, refilled his glass, and, raising it to his lips, glared at her over the rim. "I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last woman on the face of the earth." After which pithy statement, he drained the glass, pushed his chair away from the table and rose to his full commanding height.

He was outrageously beautiful, she thought, all bristling resentment and affront, tall, powerful, dark as sinthe contrast to her despised husband so striking, she almost felt compelled to thank Marko for his good judgment. Although certainly, if her husband had any expertise, it was in the appraisal of young, good-looking men.

Turning from the table, the marquis stalked toward the door through which he'd entered only to be stopped midway by the appearance of four guardsmen stepping from behind a large ivory screen shielded by the ubiquitous palms, which were de rigueur in every Edwardian interior.

They stood directly in his path, men as tall as he, armored in crimson leather jacks like some Byzantine praetorian guard, their swords drawn.

"They have orders to only detain you so you needn't fear the sharp blades," the lady remarked. "If you're sensible, you'll rejoin me for dinner. They have instructions to tie you in your chair and feed you if necessary. Not my orders," she calmly added, cutting her fish. "And if it were possible to apologize enough for this distasteful situation, I wouldmost profusely. But I learned long ago not to ignore my husband's commands and I suggest you do the same. There are a dozen more guards in the adjoining room."

Hot-tempered or not, he couldn't take on sixteen men. And, cursing, he turned to retrace his steps.

"For your information," she quietly said as he sat down again, "the estate is well secured, too. Or did Pierce tell you?"

"And how areyou guarded?"

She seemed to stiffen slightly, but her smile when she spoke was so genial, he questioned his observation. However, her reply was pitched low, her words barely audible. "I'm guarded always. Please, have something to eat, my lord," she went on in a normal tone. "You'll enjoy the roast beef."

And dinner proceeded as if they were actors on a stage. He ate in a minimal way, drank two bottles, responded to the lady's conversational gambits in a desultory fashion, and, in general, planned revenge on his unknown adversary. The marquis had been born and bred a golden child, gifted with all of nature's bounty: beauty of face and form; wealth beyond measure; the bluest of blood and lineage; intelligence rarely found in those of his class; the enterprise to work as hard as he played. And he intended to find his way out of this snare, no matter how many guards were in place.

But he didn't understand the price of failure when the despotic Prince Marko of Badia was displeased. Men died at his orders, the bastinado his discipline of choicehis principality remote from the civilized world when it suited him.

Both his wife and guards understood they must heed his commands.

So once the marquis had been returned to his suite after dinner, the lady entered his bedchamber a brief time later, elegantly robed in green cut velvet against the cool evening. A fire had been lit in the grate, and the marquis, still dressed, stood at the window, a bottle in his hand, drinking away his discontent. He didn't turn at the sound of her voice nor when she came up behind him and, reaching up, touched his shoulder.

"Go away," he said, lifting the cognac bottle to his mouth.

"I can't. No more than you can."

"If he's not here, you can do anything you damned well please. I'm not fucking you. How many times do I have to say it?" The stars shouldn't be shining so brilliantly tonight, he sullenly thought, when he was so afflictedhis sense of injustice keen, the idea of captivity galling.

"You have to."

He swung around so violently, startled, she jumped back. "No," he whispered, unbridled rage vibrating in his voice. "I don't."

He took a threatening step forward, but she stood her ground. She'd learned long ago to never show fear.

He carefully set the bottle down as if to restrain his more brutish urges and, towering over her, quietly said, "Get out of this room."

She raised her hand the merest distance from her side, a gesture so small it would have gone unnoticed had she not been closely watched.

The dressing-room door opened and his four warders from dinner strode into the room, their faces impassive.

"Tie the marquis to the bed," the Princess Marko softly said.

He didn't succumb passively, and during the struggle, additional guards were called in, several of them bearing damage from the marquis's powerful fists before they were able to subdue him sufficiently to tie his wrists and feet. He was carried to the bed and placed on his back on the crimson brocade coverlet, four guards firmly holding him down while four others untied his feet and, slipping his shoes off, secured his ankles to the bed posts with thick, braided silk cord. Restrained by the weight of four guardsmen, his wrists were then untied and, after forcing his arms above his head, he was bound to the headboard with knots pulled so tight, there was no question of him gaining his freedom.

One of the guardsmen spoke to the princess in an unfamiliar language, his phrases in the nature of a question. She shook her head slightly, replied in a few brief words and waved them out. Without even a glance at the bed, she turned away from the door, walked to a chair by the fire, sat down and, resting her head against the pillowed chair back, gazed into the flickering flame. The heavy Genoa velvet of her gown spread in folds at her feet, the opulent fabric lush, touchable, like her pale skin and silken hair. The delicacy of her features, the tumble of her loosened hair on her shoulders, gave her a look of innocence at odds with the depraved circumstances.

The silence was a balm to her agitated senses, the dancing flame mesmerizing, and she wished for a moment she could sit here forever in this suspended moment of time. But she couldn't, she knew, reality too intense and demanding, the requirements of her hermitage in the country exacting. She was to conceive an heir to Marko's title. Like the marquis, she was a prisoner… worsehis durance vile would end in a month and hers would not.

The lady before the fire evinced such melancholy, even in his vengeful mood, the marquis was struck by her sadness. And her words from dinner reminded him she was no more free than he. "Come and talk to me," he neutrally said, surveying the room, wondering where the peepholes and listening posts were.

She looked up, but neither moved nor replied.

"I'm not asking to be untied. You're safe enough."

"A relative term."

"Come closer," he cajoled, his understanding of women acute after years of sharing their beds. She might be as interested in her freedom as he was in his. "Tell me exactly what's expected of me," he added, wanting to coax her near so they could talk with less fear of being overheard.

"Nothing out of the ordinary for you, if gossip is true."

"I can't hear you," he murmured, arching a brow toward the dressing-room door, where the guards apparently had set up their watch.

She seemed to understand, for she rose and walked toward him.

"Sit down," he suggested when she stood indecisive at the foot of the bed. "Tell me your name."

She sat a circumspect distance away, and when she said, " Sofia " in little more than a whisper, he felt a curious provocation quite distinct from logic. Maybe it was the sultry undertones of her voice or the wafting sweet scent of her hair; maybe it was because he'd loved a Sofie once who'd died when they were both very young and he'd never loved anyone again.

This Sofia 's lashes were sooty dark as if they'd been kohled although they hadn't, and her eyes were like tamped green flame. And her flamboyant auburn-haired beauty wasn't like his Sofie at all, who had been very blond and childlike and much too young to die. But provocation and beauty aside, he had no intention of fathering a child on this unknown woman. "Is there any way you can get us out of here?" he murmured. "I'll protect you from your husband."

Instant fear shown in her eyes.

"Bend down and kiss me," he whispered, "so we can talk."

She hesitated, skittish under the surveillance.

"I could say seduce me if you can," he murmured, challenge in his dark gaze, his mouth quirked in a smile.

"I wouldn't have to kiss you for that." How curious that he could almost make her smile when so much in her life was cheerless.

"You might enjoy it."

"And so might you."

"Not likely," he said in truth and also to nettle, wanting her to move nearer.

Both considered themselves jaded, worldly, immune to trembling anticipation, but when she accepted his challenge or his offer to talk and moved closer, gracefully leaned forward when her silken hair brushed his face and her perfume pervaded his nostrils, when she stroked her palms lightly down his temples and held his finely modeled face between her hands, they both felt an irrepressible impatience, a restless enticement quite distinct from previous amorous encounters. "I think I hear choirs of angels," he lightly breathed.

"Nocherubim," she whispered, her voice as teasing.

Then their lips touched and pure lust dissipated more temperate images of heavenly bliss. His body instantly responded, the shock of desire so intense he wondered if he'd been drugged at dinner. She pulled away as if burned and sat trembling beside him.

"Untie me," he whispered.

She seemed to come back from some inner world and, appalled at her response, at what she perceived as the disreputable marquis's expertise and cunning, she said, cool and brisk, "Let's keep this impersonal."

"It's too late."

"You're wrong."

"I can make you hear those cherubim anytime you want." Seduction was so familiar to him, even he didn't know whether it was emotion or necessity driving him. But this woman was the only way to freedom.

That he knew.

"Untie me. It's safe enough with all the guards. And if we must dothis… baby making," he gently said, his gaze guileless, "why not make it more pleasant?"

Debating his sincerity, she gazed at him, his power undiminished despite his bondage. He stretched the length of the large bed, his powerful musculature evident beneath the fine wool of his evening clothes, his thighs and biceps straining the fabric. And then her glance slipped downward and his arousal brought a heated blush to her face.

"There are enough guards to protect you," he quietly reminded her and, taking note of her gaze, insolently added, "Do you like it?"

"Whether I do or not doesn't matter." Her eyes turned cool.

"I can make it matter if you'd let me," he lazily drawled.

"Maybe I'm offended by such libertine charm."

"Really. You don't look as though pleasure offends you."

"This isn't pleasure, Crewe not by the farthest stretch of the imagination."

"Untie me and I'll change your mind."

His voice was like velvet, his husky promise tantalizing even while she resisted the urge to believe him.

"How can it hurt? We're both here as captives, and if we must perform, why not at least attempt some semblance of politesse. I'd prefer holding you."

She softly sighed. "Can I trust you?"

"Hardly a word for you to use with me," he lightly remarked, lifting his arm the marginal distance allowed by his tight bond.

"Touch é," she softly murmured.

"Would it be too much to ask you to cover the peepholes?" he queried, his brows lifted faintly.

"No, and I apologize once more for"she lifted her hand in a gesture of futility"for everything…"

"We can argue degrees of blame later," he pleasantly said. "Right now I'd prefer not having an audience."

He watched her cover the surveillance points, four in all, pulling drapes over two, sliding a picture into place over another, hanging a pillow sham over one beneath a hook on the door. And when she returned to the bed, she said, very low, "This is very difficult."

"Just untie one of my hands and I'll do the rest. You can shut your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else."

"Wouldn't that be nice," she sardonically murmured, reaching for the knot at his wrist. She struggled with the tie while he lay quiescent, trying to appear calm when his mind was racing with the options available to him once he was freed. "There," she said, the knot loosening, and she unwound the braided cord on his wrist.

Half sitting up, he smiled at her and reached for the bonds on his left wrist. Swiftly he released the tie and then those on his ankles in quick succession. One floor to drop, he thought, the landscape outside his windows etched on his brain. Springing from the bed, he sprinted toward the windows. Reaching them, he lifted a heavy upholstered chair as though it were weightless and heaved it through the leaded glass. Following his juggernaut through the large opening in the glass, he leapt to the ground below.

Of course he would have tried to escape, Sofia reflected, picking her way through the shattered glass on the carpet, moving to draw the drapes over the broken window. Next time, she sensibly decided, tugging on the crimson velvet, the sounds of a skirmish coming out of the darkness before she shut out the cool night breeze and the strident accents, she'd be sure to leave him tied. The guards under the windows should soon have him in custody once again.

chapter 2

When they next met a brief time later, the marquis was captive again, bound to the bed in another room. Nude.

"I'll kill your husband for this," he snarled.

"I hope you weren't hurt." It took effort to keep her voice temperate. He was magnificenthis musculature tautly defined, the sense of rampant power only barely leashed, riveting. The width of his shoulders was startling, the ridged muscles of his lean torso classically sculptured, the strength in his thighs evidence of years in the saddle. How could fashionable evening clothes have disguised such brute strength?

Such striking virility. Even in repose, the length of his penis was formidable. Aroused, he would bea tiny flutter raced up her spinemonstrous. His legendary reputation was well deserved.

"You're all fucking crazy," he growled. "And yes, jumping fifteen feet to the ground leaves a bruise or two, not to mention your guards who are none too gentle."

"Why not agree to my proposal and be done with this?" She gestured at his bindings.

"Because I'm not inclined to suffer capture docilely. Your deranged husband will rue the day he chose me as stud for his dynasty."

"Then we might as well get on with this," she said with a repressed sigh.

"You forget there are some things your husband can't control," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood for sex."

"Then shut your eyes and pretend you're somewhere else," she noted, in parody of his earlier remark. "I'll take care of everything else."

"Good luck," he curtly said.

But when she unclasped the jeweled closures of her robe and slipped it from her shoulders, he found himself drawn to the glorious sight despite his raging anger, regardless of the bindings cutting into his wrists and ankles. Her husband must have had her vetted before marriage, he thought, for her sumptuous body was perfectionevery depiction of Venus from antiquity to the present outdone by the flaunting pride of womanhood before him.

He swore under his breath, the term "compromising position" advancing front and center in his mind, and he wondered how long he'd be able to control himself. It would take an impotent saint to withstand such blatant sexuality. And sainthood had always eluded him.

"I have instructions to see that you come in me twice a day during this month-long hermitage," she murmured, walking toward the bed. "I hope it won't be too arduous for you," she went on, a half-smile forming on her mouth as his erection came to life. "Apparently not," she sardonically noted.

Her demented husband understood lust at least, even though his other sensibilities were suspect, Hugh thought. He knew his nude wife would be irresistible. Now what the hell was he going to do?

As if logic and reason had a chance against rapacious desire. As if deductive analysis would serve as a reliable restraint in the next few minutes.

Squaring her resolve, the princess knew she must do what she must do. In sending her to England, her husband had taken added measures to see that she obeyed him; her mother was hostage at her husband's court. She must submit to his commands. "I'm as resentful as you," she said, moving onto the bed, kneeling beside him. "Neither of us wish to be here… so this should be"she exhaled softly"interesting."

"Do you play the whore for him often?" the marquis maliciously drawled.

She slapped him so hard, her fingers left red welts on his face.

"Touchy, are we?" he sarcastically murmured, the taste of blood in his mouth.

"You don't know anything, Crewe, about man's inhumanity to man. And until you do, I'd suggest you reserve judgment on others. Now I'm going to have intercourse with you and I expect you'll enjoy it whether you want to or not. Consider this your first lesson in the realities of life."

Having spent three years in India, he'd seen misery on a grand scale, but he supposed the princess wasn't in the mood to compare life experiences. "Perhaps someday, I'll be able to return the favor," he coolly said, "in terms of showing you the realities of life."

"I doubt that. At the end of a month, we'll never see each other again."

"Don't count on it," he brusquely muttered, vengeance burning through his brain. "I don't plan on walking away from this, no matter what you and your crazy husband want. This won't be over in a month."

"I'm not here to argue with you."

"No, you're here to fuck whomever your husband tells you to fuck," he viciously replied.

"You don't understand."

"A slut is a slut."

"While your libertine ways arewhatmasculine prerogatives? Why don't we see how virtuous you can be, how righteous and unsullied," she murmured, leaning forward to trace a gentle finger down his chest. "Will you resist temptation? Can the profligate Marquis of Crewe say no?"

He twisted in his bonds, trying to avoid her touch, but her hands lay warm on his flesh, her plump breasts quivered before his eyes and when she purred, "Gossip says a night with you ruins women for other men. Why not show me that splendid… expertise?" she dulcetly breathed. Bending low, her breasts brushed his arm, seared his senses, the silken pressure of her pliant flesh reminding him that she was pliant… everywhere, and if not exactly willing, receptive. "You can refuse me, of course," she whispered, lightly cupping his testicles with one hand, the fingers of her other hand closing around his penis.

He tried to recall every repugnant image, every gruesome picture in his memory, he tried counting in German, mentally recited the alphabet in Greek. But the pressure and rhythm of her fingers slowly increased, her scent accosted his senses, her warm body half covered his, and in brief moments, he was in heated rut, his erection rock hard, lust pulsing through every nerve and muscle in his body.

"I don't suppose you're saying no… with this," she whispered, tracing a delicate path around the swollen crimson crest of his penis. "You must set records."

"Like you," he rudely retorted. "Have you found stripping naked has predictable results?"

"It depends on the man," she flippantly replied. "Or do you prefer a single style of woman?" She knew better; the only thing Crewe preferred in a female was availability.

"I'd prefer to be untied," he ground out.

"But then I'm not witless. The only freedom you're allowed is with this deliciously rampant penis. Do you think you might be interested in putting this"she lightly squeezed the pulsing tip"inside me?"

"No," he said through clenched teeth, his refusal taking every shred of willpower at his command.

"Youseem interested," she murmured, dipping her head to brush a flickering caress over the distended head.

He groaned, every muscle taut with restraint.

"Such self-control, Crewe. Your vicar would be proud. Perhaps I'll have to exert myself more. Can you feel this?" Her closed fingers slid downward again, her grip tightening, the pulsing veins of his erection graphic in high relief as his penis reared higher. His breath caught in his throat and he arched his back against the exquisite sensation. "Damn you," he grunted.

"And damn you, Lord Crewe. But then, this isn't an amorous interlude," she murmured, her fingers sliding up his erection, "so we needn't like each other at allonly procreate. Something you're very good at." She watched his arousal swell larger, disturbed by her own flaring desires, irritated that she could be aroused, that the throbbing between her legs was immune to his venom.

She should thank him, she supposed, for making it so easy, for being so virile and male, for exciting some sordidly voracious need she didn't realize existed. Such pulsing anticipation was reminiscent of her youth when the first, tremulous stirrings of carnal urgency, inexplicable and illicit, had overwhelmed her senses. She hadn't felt like that for a very long time, the men in her life no more than idle distractions.

"When this is over, I'm going to find you both," he panted. "Keep that in mind." Anger pulsed through him with as much vehemence as the lust bombarding his senses, revenge a powerful craving.

"If a child comes of this," she said, suddenly wanting to expedite the proceedings, uncomfortable with her feelings, with feeling anything at all in this hideous drama, "it won't matter what you do. Because it'll be too late," she grimly added, moving to straddle his thighs.

"I'll take the child away," he brusquely muttered, his pulse pounding in his ears.

"Why?" Shocked, she sat motionless on his hard thighs, her green gaze on him. "You never have before."

"Who knows if any of the children are mine with married women?"

"How is this different?"

"You said yourself your husband wasn't interested in women."

She shrugged. "I have many lovers. Does that put your mind at ease?"

He struggled against his bonds, his frustration monumental. "Fuck you," he whispered, his body twisting against the silken cords.

"At last we agree," she murmured, rising on her knees enough to position the crest of his erection on her throbbing labia. "Tell me how this feels," she insolently murmured, taking note his breathing had stopped, her own breath momentarily in abeyance, the exquisite wash of pleasure rippling up her vagina so intoxicating, a moment of pure personal pleasure overrode the repellent coercion.

He suddenly heaved his hips upward and drove into her, his body's responses automatic, necessity, blind instinct operating.

She cried out as he rammed into her, stretched her, thrust so deeply inside, it felt as though he were in her throat. "Oh, God," she breathed, impaled, his enormous erection buried to the hilt, her tissue taut, pulsing, a dizzying delirium burning through her brain.

"And now I'm going to fuck you," he growled, embittered, an unreasoning need for retaliation driving his lower body deeper and deeper, the drumming urgency of both vengeance and orgasmic release a heedless tumult in his brain, the powerful rhythm of his carnal lust forcing her wider and wider until she was gasping, panting, hysterical, frenzied, meeting each surging thrust with a passion as rapacious as his.

It was a mating, pure and simple.

When she first climaxed, he swore, and when she climaxed again he called her whore, slut, wanton, but he lived in a world of double standards, and when his orgasm came rushing down, filling her sleek interior with a white-hot river of semen, he forgot deviations of morality, overlooked impropriety and self-denial and ejaculated the blue-blooded sperm so coveted by the lady's husband.

The Marquis of Crewe had performed as required.

But then, Prince Marko had counted on the young lord's well-developed sexual drive.

When it was over, he called her every vile name in his extensive repertoire, and after extricating herself from his still-rigid erection, she coolly said, "Your cooperation was greatly appreciated." Then she leaned forward and carved a bloody path down his cheek with the nail of her forefinger. "I understand retaliation, too, my lord," she murmured. "And if cursing would help, I'd add mine to yours." Sliding from the bed, she picked up her robe and slipped it on. "Your next scheduled orgasm is after breakfast," she remarked. "Pleasant dreams."

She disappeared through the door into an adjoining room, and, minutes later, Pierce entered through a door on the opposite wall. "Were you a spectator, too?" the marquis heatedly inquired.

"Not likely, sair. Such piquant sights are raffled off in the barracks. There's only so many observation points and the lady closed most o' them."

"Like slaves in a breeding shed," Hugh disgustedly spat, although he'd performed for spectators in the occasional orgy common to young, hot-blooded London bucks. "Get these bindings off so I can punch a hole in the wall."

"I wouldn't recommend it, sair," his batman gently responded. "Seein' as how you might need that there hand"his voice lowered to a whisper"for riding or shooting later, if you know what I mean."

At which point, the men's conversation continued in tones pitched too low for those listening outside the room.

The Princess Sofia dismissed her maids immediately as she entered her rooms and, lying on her bed, mentally checked off the first of sixty required encounters with the Marquis of Crewe. There was no point in bursting into tears, although she was very close to losing her composure. But her family depended on her, her mother in the most dire peril at the moment under her husband's guard, so she must see that this month with the marquis ended successfully.

Conception was a requirement. Once it was certain, her mother would be freed, and after that, there was always the hope in the following eight months she herself might find a way to escape. She had no intention of leaving a child under Marko's supervision, and she desperately hoped the world was large enough for refuge once that time came.

Morning arrived too early; she begrudged the sun shining into her room, and no matter the glory of the spring day, her mood was dismal. She slowly dressed herself, unable to face the necessity of talking to the servants. And she wondered what would happen if she didn't appear in the breakfast room as scheduled. But her mother was a pawn in this dangerous game, so she did what was expected of her.

The marquis was in a glowering mood, the wound on his face prominent even against his tanned skin.

"You'd think in this pile of rooms, we wouldn't be required to eat together," he growled as she entered the sunny chamber.

"Take your complaints up with my husband. He has a droll sense of humor."

"He's a sadist, you mean."

"How astute, my lord. You noticed. Although I see, your sullen mood hasn't affected your appetite," she insolently added. His plate was piled high with bacon, kippers, ham, eggs scrambled with mushrooms and tomato. He was buttering a croissant, not his first apparently from the debris of crumbs at his plate.

He looked up from his buttering, his mouth set in a grimace. "Let's hope you start puking soon and this charade can come to an end."

"One can but hope," she sardonically replied, the sight of food curiously unpalatable. It was impossible, of course, that she could be pregnant after a single encounter with the marquis, but when the first sip of her morning coffee turned her nauseous, she wondered if all his rumored bastards were indeed the result of a remarkable virility. They ate together in silence, or rather he ate and she picked at a piece of dried toast, her lack of appetite eventually coming to his attention.

"If you don't eat," he nastily said, "you'll faint when next you climax."

"I may not," she coolly replied.

His brow lifted in loathsome irony. "Faint?"

Her own brows delicately rose. "Does it bother you if I have an orgasm?"

He debated his answer for a moment, not sure why he was offended beyond his captive status. "Yes. Don't ask me why," he honestly added.

"It seems to me I should get some pleasure from this ordeal."

"Ordeal?" he skeptically repeated. "You could have fooled me."

"Would you like me to compliment you on your physical prowess? I didn't realize you were so vain."

He wasn't, and another niggling second passed while he wondered at his indignant response to the princess's passion. "How many lovers have you had?" The impulsive question surprised him, but he didn't retract it.

"Not as many as you. There are records and there are records," she gently noted. "I'm very much outclassed by your repute."

"And you've never become pregnant?"

"I wouldn't have dared. Marko has very strong feelings about pure bloodlines."

"And yours are pure?"

"How rude you are."

"You're much too beautiful." It was his first civil remark.

"You mean only chorus girls and actresses look like this."

"Generally, yes."

"And you should know."

"And I should know."

"My family is Hungarian on my mother's side and noted for their favorable matches."

"If they all look like you, I can see why. So Marko has money."

"That's what favorable means, my lord. You know that better than most. My father's family is Venetian; they settled in Dalmatia long ago and gave numerous counts to the Hapsburg court as envoys to Venice. Does that suitably satisfy your standards?"

"I have no standards as you no doubt know," he replied, rude once again, his brief moment of compassion revoked by recall of the compulsion behind his visit to the country. "Although under other circumstances, you and I might have had a damned good tumble in the hay."

"Have you dispensed with your recent attempt at celibacy?"

"Temporarily, it seems. Will your husband's schedule permit another cup of coffee before the next fuck?" he insolently inquired.

"As long as you don't take too long," she replied, snide and oversweet.

When the guards came into the breakfast room shortly after, he stood and sketched her a brief bow. "Until we meet again, Madame," he impudently murmured. "On stage."

It minutely salved his anger to see her furiously blush, a minor concession to his umbrage, but satisfying. And after he'd entered his bedroom, he held the guards at bay with an upturned palm, undressing himself this time. He preferred not being touched by other men, a fact he explained to them in fluent Italian. Since she was from Dalmatia, he assumed Italian would serve as a bridge between the guards' native tongue and English.

"We have our orders," their leader explained, his tone mildly apologetic.

"Everyone does, do they not with Prince Marko," he dryly retorted. "But tell him when next you see him that I'm coming to kill him once this is over." The marquis stood eye-to-eye with the tall guard, their gazes both unflinching.

"I'll tell him," the man replied, "in a month. Do you need to be tied?"

"If you want me to stay."

"I thought so." And the trooper nodded his head toward the bed.

The tying was swift and efficient, everyone civil, accomplished at their tasks, and then the marquis was left to wait for the prospective mother of his child. He shouldn't have been left alone so long, for the added interval gave him unwanted opportunities to recall their heated coupling of the previous night. The princess was flamboyantly sexual, hot-blooded, unbridled in her response. Irresistible to a man of libertine propensities. His thoughts fluctuated equivocally between provocative arousal and hot-tempered annoyance, but he was realistic enough to wonder how long his annoyance would last once she stood before him in all her naked glory.

When Sofia came into the room, a cool self-possession masked the tumult of her feelings. "I don't know if I can do this," she quietly said, standing just inside the door. Only the pressure of her mother's welfare had brought her back to this room.

"But they're watching."

"Perhaps."

"You don't strike me as naive," Hugh mocked. "Maybe we should just chat about the weather," he silkily went on, "and see how long it takes before someone comes in and forces us to copulate."

"Right now I dearly wish I were an orphan." She hadn't moved from the door, her hands pressed to the wood as if seeking strength from the sturdy oak. Her white dimity robe lent her an air of touching innocence, the blue ribbon in her tousled hair slightly askew, like that of a fey maiden.

How did she do it, he wonderedalter so completely from incarnate sexuality to this trembling, unsure adolescent with high color on her cheeks?

"How old are you?" His gruff voice sounded very loud in the silence.

She looked up, startled, seeming to forget where she was. "Today?" she queried as though getting her bearings. "Much too old," she added in a whisper.

"Tell me."

"A million years old," she simply said, her green gaze distant.

"I'm twenty-seven."

"I know. You were twenty-seven in March. I read the dossier."

"You're younger, aren't you?"

"No." Her brows tilted upward in whimsy. "But thank you."

"Should I guess?"

"No, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters," she breathed, her voice trailing away.

"Are you all right?" A modicum of concern infused his voice, but he caught himself in time, not about to allow himself sympathy, and as her eyes flared wide in astonishment at the compassion in his tone, he'd already lapsed into a moody scowl.

"You were almost human for a moment," she murmured. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Are you going to stand there all morning?" he gruffly muttered, wanting her when he shouldn't. But he'd lived too long in the world of privilege to question what he wanted.

"Are you ready then?"

He couldn't help but smile at her naiveté, his teeth flashing white against his tanned skin. "Come and see," he whispered.

"Should I draw the drapes?"

His gaze flitted from them to her, and he shook his head. "Unless you want to," he hastily addedhis first small courtesy.

"I'm sorry about the scratch," she offered in turn, her hand fluttering upward briefly toward his face.

"This is turning too civil," he teased.

"You prefer angry women?"

"I prefer seeing that robe on the floor."

"Please, don't be coy," she returned, smiling for the first time… in an age. "I can't untie you, can I?"

"Not really," he said with a boyish smile. "But you can kiss me if you like."

Such delicious charm, she thought, even in this extremity. How lethal his allure must be under more gracious circumstances. "What makes you think I want to kiss you?" she asked, the merest flirtation in her tone.

"I can tell," he said, his dark gaze amused.

"Because every woman wants to kiss you?"

"When I'm nice they do."

"Like now."

"You noticed."

How could she not. He exuded joy and warmth along with a tantalizing sexuality. Not to mention that he was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. "Do women ever say no to you?"

"Only one," he said with a beguiling smile. "And I'm trying to coax her nearer right now."

"So your record won't be spoiled."

"So I can fuck her," he wickedly replied.

Irrepressible desire trembled through her body, memory a powerful impulse.

"If you sit on me," he murmured, "I'll let you come as many times as you like." His gaze flickered downward toward his swelling erection.

"I shouldn't want this," she whispered, transfixed by the riveting sight.

"And I shouldn't be here, but… since I am," he quietly noted, "and since you are"his heated glance slowly traveled down her body"why not make the best of it."

"I should refuse."

"I know. So should I. Tell me how strange this is."

"It's strange," she quietly agreed.

"Tell me about it at closer range," he softly suggested, his smile ravishing with promise.

Pushing away from the door, she responded to his heated smile, to his stark beauty, to the mesmerizing lure of his enormous erection. Her robe trailed across the pale Aubusson carpet as she moved from the door to the bed, a small, incipient joy beginning to warm her senses. "Tell me this is all right," she hesitantly murmured.

"This is very fine," he breathed. All the rest was hellish, he thought, but even thin-skinned and moody, he recognized the rarity of emotion drawing them together. "Come sit by me."

When she did, she placed her hand on his thigh as if she needed solid reassurance, as if his strength could sustain them both. "I don't want to take my robe off," she said, her voice low, strained.

"Then don't."

"I had to last night… because"

"I know."

"They may be watching."

"What's the commanding guard's name?"

"Gregory."

"Gregory! Fucking shut the closures!" he shouted in Italian. "The lady would like some privacy!"

The scraping sound of closing apertures indicated assent, and Hugh pleasantly murmured, "Now we can get to know each other better."

"He must like you."

"Or dislike your husband. Which apparently isn't very hard from the sounds of it. Gregory and I have an understanding," he said with a mischievous wink.

"I still don't want to take my robe off."

"You don't trust them to shut all the peepholes?"

"One learns not to trust anyone."

"How long have you been married?"

"Fifteen years."

"Good God. You must have been a child. How frightening for you."

"The marriage settlement was considerable."

"I'm sure it was," he cynically murmured.

For a flashing moment, the pain shone in her eyes, but as quickly it was shuttered away. "He's often away."

"I could protect you from him."

She shook her head. "You don't understand."

"Show me the way out of here," he quickly said, "and I guarantee your safety."

"I can't. He has my mother."

His surprise showed. "As hostage?"

"Until I return pregnant."

"And then what?"

"He releases her."

His gaze narrowed. "Can you trust him to do that?"

She nodded again.

"Jesus," he muttered on a slow exhalation of breath.

"Does your life look more pleasant now?"

"Untie me," he abruptly ordered.

She withdrew her hand and marginally distanced herself from him, her fear apparent. "I don't dare after last night."

"I give you my word. I won't run."

She contemplated him for a lengthy moment, wanting to believe there were honorable people in the world. "Lord Crewe… what if you're lying?"

"I wouldn't do that to youto your mother," he softly added.

His quiet addendum convinced her, as did the tenderness in his eyes. "We both suffer if you renege," she quietly warned.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

Her eyes glistened with tears. No one had taken care of her for a very long time. With the death of her father, her family had been left unprotected. "Thank you," she softly said. "But I'm not your responsibility."

"You are now," he brusquely answered. "Untie me."

But when she released him, he put his finger to his mouth, rose from the bed, and carefully surveyed the room to see if they were being observed.

Her heart beat wildly while he moved about the large chamber, not certain he would keep his word and stay, her thoughts in such chaos, she couldn't separate joy from fear, desire from anxiety. Nor understand why she was sitting, hands clasped tightly in her lap, shivering, trembling for him.

When he'd offered to care for her, she'd blindly wanted him to, like a heedless young maiden. But harsh reality wouldn't allow such fantasies for longnot with a husband like hers. And a wave of sadness washed over her, the emptiness of her future devastating to consider.

He was walking toward her, a calmness about him, an ease, warmth and kindness in his eyes. "It seems we're actually alone," he lightly noted. And then he saw her forlorn eyes "I said I wouldn't go."

"I wasn't sure." Her tears welled up, suddenly vulnerable to the cruel torture of hope.

"I can get us both out of here," he said, touching her clasped hands lightly, smoothing her fingers with his, warm comfort in his touch. Bending low, he kissed her lightly on the cheek, like one might a child in reassurance, and then, sitting beside her, he gently lifted her onto his lap. "Don't be sad," he murmured, holding her nestled against his warm, solid chest, his hand gently stroking the curve of her back.

Overwhelmed by his kindness, her tears spilled over.

"It's going to be fine," he soothed, thinking she was frightened and unsure. "We'll find a way." Tugging a portion of the sheet loose, he wiped away her tears.

"You… don't… know him," she hiccupped.

He brushed a finger over her cheek. "All you have to do is ride," he softly said. "I'll do the rest."

Wistful hope shone in her eyes. "You make it sound possible."

"We'll ride out later and survey the countryside."

"There's still my mother." Cold reality intervened.

"I have friends at the consulate in Trieste. They can help her to freedom."

Her spirits lifted again. "Do you answer everyone's prayers or only mine?" A new lightness infused her voice; he made the daunting odds seem feasible.

"Just yours, darling," he roguishly murmured. "Ask me for… anything."

Her mouth quirked in a faint smile. "Are you flirting with me?"

He grinned. "I didn't know I had to with your husband's schedule. You're available to me twice a day with or without seduction."

"How quickly you've changed your mind." Playful, arch, she gazed up at him with a mischievous light in her eyes.

"The incentive turned out to beirresistible," he finished in a husky whisper.

"I return the compliment, but you already know that, don't you? Actually, I find myself extremely pleased," she went on in a lush contralto, "that my husband found you for me. Don't be alarmed," she hastily interjected, his sudden apprehension obvious. "I'm not interested in permanence any more than you."

Relief flickered across his face, although he was courteous enough to say, "I'm not alarmed."

"Just cautious," she supportively corrected, sliding her arms around his neck and smiling up at him. "I don't blame you. They all want to be married, don't they?"

"I never ask," he briefly replied, and then intent on changing the subject, he dropped back on the bed, pulling her with him. Rolling over her a flashing moment later, he said, hushed and low, "Does our morning schedule have a time limit or can I fuck you all day?"

"Just to reassure you, Crewe," she silkily murmured, aware of his evasion, "I'm only interested in your enormous cock; I don't need your title or money."

He softly chuckled. "A woman after my own heart."

"Do you have one?"

"On occasion."

"Does it permit you to indulge me now?" Her green gaze was bewitching. "Youdid promise me as many times as I want," she purred.

"At your service, Your Highness." He was already easing himself between her legs, nudging her thighs wider, pulling her dimity robe off so his heated flesh touched hers. "You're nicely wet for me," he murmured moments later, his fingers sliding over her pouty vulva.

"And you're always nicely hard, aren't you?" she pleasantly observed, his erection hot against her skin. "I'm so glad you came to visit me."

He laughed at this curious reversal of motive and impulse. "It turns out I am, too, with sweet, eager cunt like yours to enjoy."

"While I have a virtuoso rake to enjoy."

"We're here to please you, ma'am. Although you may have to beg me the first time as payback for last night," he teased, lightly brushing her sleek, pulsing labia with the swollen crest of his penis.

"Under the circumstances, I'm definitely not averse to begging," she breathed, needful, sensual urgency a constant with the Marquis of Crewe unclothed and aroused before her. She lifted her hips to more readily accommodate him.

"Tell me how much you want this," he murmured, inserting the tip of his penis the merest fraction, the pressure on her swollen tissue exquisite.

"I want you wildly, madly, feverishly," she whispered, moving her hips in a lush, sensuous undulation, enticing him in.

"Don't be shy," he sardonically murmured, smiling, and he guided himself into her drenched passage, his degree of lust as irrepressible. Adjusting her hips minutely, he penetrated slowly so they both felt the tremulous friction, the reluctant yielding as his huge cock stretched her, invaded her, forced her pulsing tissue wider.

All feeling was suddenly concentrated in the heated core of her body, the unspeakable flux and flow as he began moving a heady, breath-held delirium. There were degrees and more glorious degrees, she feverishly reflected, dissolving, dizzy with intoxicating pleasure.

How fuckable she was, he thought, plunging into her soft body, an intense, primordial satisfaction bombarding his senses fathomless, inchoate, different. Unbridled in her desires, lushly demanding, she was as selfishly intemperate as he.

In a slow thrust and withdrawal, he plunged deeper and deeper in an unrestrained rhythm that only partially satisfied his inexplicable craving. And she met him in her own wild, carnal urgency. It seemed as though they were completely alone in this strange bedroom and manor house, in the world and universe, all else displaced by raw, turbulent desire. Crying out, she clutched at him, drawing him closer, deeper, greedy, wanton, and suddenly he found himself thinking that a woman of such flagrant appetites had men in her past. Brushing his hair back from his face, as though an unobstructed view were required, his gaze narrowed on the flushed, passionate woman beneath him. "You do like fucking, don't you," he murmured, harsh and low, images of a crowd of amorphous men invading his consciousness.

Whimpering, impaled, she couldn't respond, could barely think beyond the delirious echoing mantra equating the marquis's hard erection with paradise, waves of carnal heat pulsing and throbbing through her vagina in a mindless, frenzied rhythm, orgasm, seconds, moments, away.

Suddenly resentful of her fierce abandon, he withdrew marginally and, frantic, she cried out, grasped him more tightly.

"No," he roughly breathed, holding himself motionless in mid-passage, rankled, wondering how many other men had brought her to this point of sexual hysteria.

Her hips arched high to draw him in, her fingers bit into his lower back.

"Fuckingno." Stung, maddened by an unnatural jealousy, he resisted her tenacious grip.

"Yes," she imperiously cried, panting, ravenous. The throbbing between her legs echoed in her brain and body, in every cell and tissue and coursing vein, her climax beginning to shudder on the fringes of her mind. "Damn you," she breathed, willful, commanding, the strength in her hands astonishing. "Give it to me."

She shouldn't have used those words.

They struck a perverse emotion, base prerogatives, untamed urges coming to the fore. "You want it?" he whispered, driven by powerful impulse. And teeth bared, vicious, he drove into her, unrestrained, merciless, giving her what she wantedwhat he wantedthis hot, hot, burning hot princess who made him forget everything but lust and debauch and burying his cock hilt-deep inside her.

She was panting, her climax so close, the peaking pleasure had begun flowing, that first runnel of rapture racing, leaping, swelling an instant later, bearing her to an orgasm so torrid and blissful, her high-pitched scream brought the guards to attention.

The marquis's climax was only seconds behind, and as the last vestiges of her cry died away, he abruptly withdrew and came on her stomach.

"No… no," she panted, her gaze still half-lidded. "You can't…"

It was too late, and rolling away, he lay sprawled on his back, eyes shut, breathless, inexplicably angry.

She lunged at him. "You can't do this to me!" she screamed, pummeling him wildly.

His eyes snapped open at the first blow, and, catching her fists in a brutal grip, he shoved her away. "I'm not… a pawn in your game." His breathing was labored, his body sweat-shined, his steely grasp hard like his eyes.

"This isn't a game," she said through clenched teeth, trying to shake his hands off. "It's not negotiable."

His hold only tightened. "I don't care what it is. Find some other man to"he drew in a deep breath to stabilize his breathing and temper"do what you want. I won't."

Poised on her knees beside him, prisoner in his grip, she raged, "You don't realize how necessary this isfor me. How can I make you understand?"

"You can't." All he could think of was her eager, untrammeled passionof all the men who had been where he'd been, when it shouldn't matter, when it had never mattered before. "Are you always so fucking enthusiastic?" he growled.

She went motionless. "You are bothered by that?"

"Maybe I am."

"Maybe I don't care," she hotly replied, struggling to pull free of his grasp.

"Answer me." His fingers were crushing.

"What do you want me to say? No? No, then. I was a virgin when I met you. Like all the other women you fuck," she snapped, as temperamental as he, as moody, as sullen. As troubled by disquieting feelings. "That's your specialty, is it?" she sarcastically went on. "Fucking innocent maids. Strange. Rumor has it you like adultery bestall those society belles whose husbands don't satisfy them flock around you in droves. What's your record for a night? Eight?" she waspishly noted. "Or was it ten. I forget the dossier figures." Tantrumish, she glared at him. "So don't lecture me on morality," she said, testy and thin-skinned. "You don't qualify as a critic."

His rising temper was almost visible as her sarcasm escalated, and when she finished, he curtly said, "I prefer quiet women."

"Shall I tell you what kind of men I prefer?" she insolently returned. "We could compare the best of our repertoires. I've always found that men who"

Her words were cut short by his fingers pressed hard against her mouth. "Why don't I tell you instead what I want from you," he said, rude and glowering. "Stop that or I'll break your wrist," he gruffly added, warding off her blow with his shoulder, his grip viselike on her other hand. "Maybe I'll tieyou to the bed this time," he brusquely said, restive under incomprehensible emotion, unsated lust flaring at the sight of her still pinked with passion telling him of other men. What had they done to her and she to them? he wondered, his erection swelling. How often did she respond like she had with him? Why did he feel this overwhelming need to possess her?

There were no answers, nothing simplistic to explain the inexplicable. "You wanted numberless orgasms, didn't you?" he murmured, shifting into a seated position in a smooth flow of muscle, flipping her over on her stomach. "Let's see what we can do about that," he went on, moody, insult in his tone, raising her to her knees with effortless strength.

"Stay," he ordered as he would to a recalcitrant pet, slapping her bottom as she tried to escape, holding her securely around the waist while he moved into position behind her. His grip was pitiless, his fingers leaving marks on her pale skin. "You never even need stimulation, do you?" he silkily murmured. "How convenient," he sardonically went on, her dew-wet cleft tantalizingly available, the pink curve of her bottom provocatively raised to meet him. And, resentful of his stark craving for her, he thrust forward without preliminaries, gliding in too easily, he thought with chafing displeasureher vagina slick again with the sweet liquid of desire.

She shouldn't respond to such brute disdain, she querulously reflected, and while her intellect understood the ruinous barbarism of his actions, a molten heat dissolved through her body, the feel of himgloriously large, exquisite, the delectably forceful friction of his penetration sending fevered tremors coursing through her senses. She shivered at the heated rush, moved backward in greedy, shameless longing, slavish to the pleasure he provoked, an orgasmic flutter already pulsating deep inside her. She gasped, whimpered, the aching pressure flaring, quickly reaching tinder point as though he had to no more than enter her and she climaxed.

His savage rhythm continued unrestrained, each stroke driven by the entire force of his lower body throughout her orgasmic spasms and beyond, unrelenting, powerful, and within seconds she was crying out again in violent climax. Raw sensation tore through her mind and body and senses over and over again as the Marquis of Crewe gave vent to his moody need for submission. He rode her with a reckless disregard for everything but his own inexcusable need to assert himself, to master this woman who challenged his susceptibility to feeling.

"No more, no more…" she panted after numberless orgasms, her body over sensitized, ravished. "Please… no more…"

Her soft appeals finally pierced the mindless fury of his discontent and an enigmatic satisfaction pervaded his mind as he allowed himself his own climax outside her body, the soft curve of her lower back alternative to her fertile interior. Then his hands gentled on her, and he felt the silken texture of her skin as if for the first time and in a voice pitched low, filled with grace and charm, he whispered, "I'm sorry."

She twisted around so violently, he was taken by surprise. Swinging her arm back, she slapped him with such fury, she was shaking in the aftermath. "I wish I had a whip so I could thrash you bloody," she stormed, trembling, glaring at him.

Her capitulation full recompense for his resentments and, momentarily sated, he was in a mollifying humor. "Perhaps we can accommodate your fetish for flagellation later," he suavely said.

"Only if you die in the process."

"Then where would you be in your quest for an heir?" he pleasantly queried.

"No worse off than I am now in your uncooperative mood. At least I'd have the satisfaction of wiping that insolent smile from your face."

"Forgive me," he murmured, schooling his face into somberness, currently in harmony with the world. "I'm completely to blame."

"Damn right you are."

"Now, if there were only some way I could compensate you," he murmured.

"Don't toy with me, Crewe. I nearly expired with your particular brand of recompense and I'm no nearer pregnant than I was before."

His facile smile vanished and his extended sigh recognized the extent of their dilemma. There was no denying her sensual appeal, and whether he fucked her out of spite or desire wasn't particularly clear. "Is there no middle ground?" he queried.

"Not if I care to live. Or my mother."

"Don't say that."

"I wish I could sugarcoat the truth, Crewe, but there you have it. Look," she plainly said. "You know as well as I dothe whole world knows, you don't exactly use caution in the dispersal of your semen. So do me a favor. Think of me as one of your nameless London belles, many of whom offer your children to their husbands without a qualm. Disregard this quibble with coercion and be as obliging to me."

"But itis coercion."

"I can be as accommodating as Lady Lismore or Caroline Bennett or any number of others. Would it help if I saw that you had your freedom on the estate? Let me talk to Gregory."

His interest immediately piqued by her offer, he weighed the odds of her becoming pregnant before he could escapebefore they both escaped if she wished to leave as well. An expert gambler, no one understood the laws of chance better than he. "How much freedom?" he bargained, an edgy excitement flaring through his brain.

"We'll talk to Gregory and see what's possible. I need a child, Crewe, and I'm willing to negotiate."

"Call him in."

Her brows rose. "Should we dress first?"

"You should, at least," he casually replied, familiar with the company of men.

But he pulled on a pair of riding pants while Sofia found her robe, and before long they were discussing the requirements of Gregory's role as warden on the terrace below, the east view from the house bucolic in the morning sun.

"The marquis would like some incentive to go along with my husband's plans," the princess explained.

The captain gazed across the marble table at the marquis, his gaze blank. "Why?"

"Don't be difficult, Gregory," she interposed. "I would prefer cooperation, if you must know."

His gaze softened as he looked at his mistress, which fact the marquis took note of. "Would you cooperate then?" the captain inquired, his oblique eyes flicking to Hugh, his glance suddenly piercing as though he could see into the marquis's mind.

"Yes," Hugh said, knowing what the quid pro quo would be, counting on the favorable percentages in terms of time. If he could escape in a day or so, a pregnancy might be averted. "How much freedom would you be willing to concede?"

"A hundred yards in the open. Your privacy in the house."

"Two hundred yards and freedom of movement in the house."

"Fine."

It was too easy. "Any guarantees?"

"Are you giving any?"

The perimeters of trust were clear. There were none.

Although the men might have been related in a more perfect world, their looks so similar. Only the subtle ethnic differences set them apart: their eyes, the marquis's slightly fuller mouth, the nuance of a curve in the marquis's nose where it had been broken in public school. But they were both dark, tall, powerfully built, and interested in the princess.

Perhaps that interest could be turned to his advantage, the marquis thought. "Why don't we ride out and see the estate," Hugh suggested, anxious to test the limits of his freedom. "Can my batman come along?"

"Certainly."

"Obliging," Hugh softly murmured, his dark eyes on the captain.

"As long as you're obliging to the princess, my lord, I'll continue to offer you every courtesy. Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly. Let me get my boots and a shirt. How much time do you need?" he courteously inquired of Sofia.

"Ten minutes."

"A woman who can dress in under two hours. Where have you been all my life?" the marquis silkily intoned.

"We aren't all china dolls, my lord. Perhaps you've been associating with the wrong women."

"Obviously," he replied, his gaze amused. "Very obviously," he softly murmured, his glance altogether different.

She blushed.

The marquis smiled.

The captain did not.

"Well, then," Hugh pleasantly said, rising from his chair, the order of precedence having been nicely clarified, "why don't we meet at the stables in ten minutes."

The princess looked glorious in a form-fitting forest-green riding habit, the military cut accentuating her voluptuous femininity, her veiled hat seductive.

"You turn heads, my lady," Hugh graciously said as she approached. "Do I detect a Worth creation?"

"How perceptive, my lord. While you look like a red Indian in your buckskins."

"I dress for comfort," he replied, smiling, his fringed jacket and chamois riding pants consummate foil for his harsh masculinity.

"Have you been to the American West?" she inquired, moving toward a splendid Thoroughbred held by a groom.

"Several times. The hunting is superb."

"A change from your pursuit of females?"

"Females inhabit the West, my lady."

She cast him a sharp glance. "Of course. I should have known."

"Men must be a constant in your life as well." His tone had turned minutely chill. And he cautioned himself to restraint, every rational impulse reminding him to ignore the princess's amorous partners.

And for a flashing moment, he acceded to the persuasion of reason.

"Do you hunt or do they hunt you?" he abruptly inquired, following her, waving away the groom.

"I don't need your help," she murmured, gesturing the groom back.

The marquis said "Get away" in such a vicious tone, the man literally leapt aside. "There, now," Hugh softly murmured, cupping his hands to lift her up, "let me help you mount."

"A change for you," she tartly said, her smile brittle.

"And when it seemed as though you were enjoying yourself," he sardonically replied, watching her cheeks turn pink.

"Perhaps I can repay the favor someday," she brusquely declared, placing her booted foot in the scoop of his hands. An unwanted shiver ran down her spine as he smoothly lifted her weight and dropped her onto the saddle.

"I wait with bated breath, my lady," he murmured, adjusting her foot in the stirrup with an authority that triggered a rush of heated memory. His palm drifted up her leg, smoothed the folds of her skirt, stroked her knee curved over the pommel of the sidesaddle. "You look… ready," he whispered.

She shouldn't react to such insolence, she thought, nor respond to the carnal heat in his voice, but her body failed to understand degrees of pique and she felt a damp heat liquify between her legs. "You irritate me, Crewe," she curtly said, repressing her shameful carnal urges.

"That's not all I do to you, Princess," he quietly remarked, skilled at recognizing female arousal. "Should I see if you're wet for me?" he whispered with unctuous charm.

She brought her whip down on her mount's flanks in answer, and he quickly stepped back, his smile knowing. Striding to the mount prepared for him, he leapt into the saddle and threw a swift glance at Gregory and his troop, at Pierce. "Keep your distance," he ordered, and, whipping his black, he galloped after her.

Matching his mount's pace to hers, he maintained several yards between them, surveying the country through which they passed, taking note of landmarks, his eye on the sun, gauging their direction… until he spied a distinctive grotto on a distant hillside and, overtaking her, he forced her mount to turn.

She fought against the pressure of the large black he rode, the horses shoulder-to-shoulder in a hard gallop, the inexorable pressure of his larger mount bringing hers around. "I don't want to ride with you!" she shouted.

"Show me the view from there!" he shouted back, ignoring her words, pointing at the tumble of stone perched atop a wooded rise. And when she continued to oppose him, he leaned over, grabbed her reins, and pulled the horses to an easy lope. They slowed as the ascent became steeper, but he didn't release his grip on her reins and, pursed-lipped, she rode beside him.

"How much can Gregory be trusted?" he asked, glancing back to see their guards the required distance away. Pierce rode alone behind them. "Not talking, are we?" he noted a moment later, surveying her set face.

"What good would it do?"

"I thought you wanted to get away."

"I'm to trust you, you mean." Her tone was filled with disgust.

"I suppose you'd have to."

She snorted, her swift glance barbed. And they settled into silence the remainder of the way up the rise. The grotto turned out to be much larger at close quarters, the entrance two beautifully cast bronze doors worthy of at least a baptistery if not a cathedral, the pile of stones artfully arranged specimens of exquisite marbles and malachite in harmonious hues, a riot of vines, flowers, moss ornamenting the stone. "A very expensive alehouse," Hugh blandly remarked, sliding from his saddle, aware of the common entertainments for picturesque follies like this.

"Or a dolly house," Sofia flippantly noted, staying in her saddle, her reins still securely in the marquis's gloved hands.

"Is that why you didn't want to come here? You don't trust me?" the marquis impudently inquired, walking around to lift her from her mount. He put up his hands.

"Must I?" she coldly asked.

"Unless you think you can wrestle me to the ground and then ride away," he drolly returned.

"Lord, you're difficult."

"Down," he ordered, beckoning with his index finger.

"I could scream for help," she petulantly said.

"And that would get you a baby?" His smile was boyishly innocent.

"Damn you."

"But I'm a necessary evil," he softly replied. "Now, if you prefer, I can haul you from that saddle."

Abruptly pitching forward, she fell limp as a rag doll, and only his quick reflexes saved her. Grunting, he absorbed her sudden dead weight, steadied himself, and, scooping her up against his chest, hatless now since her fall, he lightly said, "Your husband might have good reason to be out of sorts with you. You're damnably headstrong and independent."

"Only men are supposed to be headstrong and independent?" she hotly contended.

"Of course. Haven't you read the rules?" His voice was teasing as he moved toward the small structure.

"Then it's time to change the rules."

"Good. You'll come away with me then," he advanced, looking down at her, his gaze suddenly grave.

"Maybe I will." But even as she spoke, caution warned her against believing a man she'd met a day ago, a man captive and intent on escape.

"Youcan be accommodating after all," he murmured, more inclined every moment she was in his arms to graciously acquiesce to his assigned role as stud. "And I did promise Gregory to honor my part of the bargain," he softly added.

"Will you now?" she queried, as aware as he of their closeness, her voice taking on a tantalizing nuance.

"The thought of coming in you is beginning to hold great appeal," he honestly replied.

"I'd be most grateful," she said with equal honesty. A pregnancy would put her beyond her husband's retribution and save her mother.

"A folly of another kind in this architectural one," he mockingly declared, bending slightly to turn the knob. "I hope we both know what we're doing." The door swung open on well-oiled hinges onto a sun-dappled chamber illuminated by latticework skylights. Cool marble covered the walls and floor, elaborately inlaid with gilt mosaic. Off to one side a small pool, moss-banked with a lightly flowing current reflected the sunlight in sparkling luminescence. The furnishings were faux rustic, primarily willow and bamboo chaises covered in colorful patterned silks. "Apparently vice was the entertainment of choice here," the marquis dryly noted, surveying the numerous chaises. "Shall we find the softest one?"

"I should be hostile and cross."

"Instead of hot and excited," he murmured, his gaze roguish. "I know."

She smiled. "It must be kismet."

"Nothing so romantically, darling," he lightly teased, his endearment a spontaneous utterance he considered with brief astonishment. But shewas darling at the moment, he thought, and damned luscious. "Carnal urges, more likely," he added. "But if you want romance, I can do that, too," he offered, his generosity equally spontaneous.

"Are you sick, Crewe?" she teased, her grin infectious. "Such politesse."

"Sick with a sudden craving for your hot cunt," he murmured.

"How indecent of you," she whispered, his words triggering an unconscionable, shocking rush of pleasure deep inside her as though he'd entered her already.

"My specialty," he said, his voice low. "I've been in training."

"Lucky for me."

"I'm not so sure who's more lucky," he softly declared, a small heat in his dark gaze. "So tell me, what do you want to do first?"

"We could bathe," she murmured, gesturing toward the glistening pool.

"Wrong answer." He grinned. "Sorry. I'm currently in rut."

"How unusual for you."

"Or for you," he replied, his gaze returning from contemplation of the chaise nearest the door. His dark brows formed into a faint scowl. "Actually, I find myself offended by your lascivious passions. Don't ask me why," he gruffly added.

"Could you be…" She quirked her lacy brows. "Pardon me for using such an unpleasant wordjealous?"

"No." His scowl deepened.

"If it helps," she said, surveying the most sought-after lover in the western world, thinking herself grossly ingenuous to even consider honesty, "I've never physically responded to a man like I have to you."

"You're lying."

"I wish I were," she quietly said. "It would make everything so much easier."

"A fuck is a fuck, you mean."

"Something like that."

"And it isn't now, is it," he slowly said, the faintest frowns marring his brow.

"Not for me at least. I'm sorry," she said, watching his gaze shutter. "I should be more urbane. How tired you must be of women telling you they want you."

He walked the few feet to the nearest chaise and put her down before he spoke, and when he did his voice was well bred but circumspect. "We're both worldly people," he carefully said, standing a prudent distance away. "We both have other lives. I'm not sure what's happened here, but the usual rules don't seem to apply. You're not nameless or faceless in the customary way." He shrugged, the fringe on his jacket moving minutely. "You know what I mean." He looked at her as if needing affirmation, and she said, "Benign promiscuity. I know."

"All I want to do is fuck you," he murmured, the disbelief in his voice patent.

"And you want me to tell you that aberrant feeling will pass."

"It would be reassuring." His mouth twitched into a rueful smile.

Perhaps she'd had to make more compromises in her life or perhaps he'd never had to make any. "You won't remember me in a month," she pleasantly declared, when she wasn't sure she'd forget him in a dozen lifetimes.

"Really." A current of resentment underscored the word. "So a new man will be listening to your orgasmic screams."

"Look," she quietly said, "we both know this can't go anywhere. And no, there won't be another man. But this is jealousy, Crewe, in case you've never experienced it. Mark it on your calendar."

"I could take you with me." Single-minded, he wanted what he wanted.

"For how long? Be practical. You'd be looking for a way out within a fortnight. I won't go into a closet until you call for me or melt into the woodwork like some doxy thrilled you've looked her way. You'd have to see me across the dinner table and consider this, Crewe, when lust isn't doing your thinking for youacross the breakfast table as well. That should put the fear of God in you."

He smiled at her blunt depictions. "Is it really that bad?"

"Let's not talk about that."

"We should keep everything in the present tense?"

"Certainly a habit of long standing with you."

"So…" he murmured, his voice husky, a familiar touch of amusement vibrating in its depths, "are you interested in having my child?"

"You've returned, darling," she playfully replied. "I think we'll both be more comfortable with the normal, profligate Hugh Dalsany. And the answer is yes." She raised her arms to him in slow, deliberate invitation, and, leaning back on the golden silk, she purred, "Let me entertain you…"

She lay Venus-like on the willow chaise, all blooming flesh and curves, her narrow waist corseted to hand's-span width, the flowing riding skirt trailing on the floor, the braided frogs and closures on the jacket so overtly masculine, her voluptuous form seemed more perversely erotic in contrast. As though green serge and severe tailoring, all the accoutrements of military dress, could scarcely contain the lush fertility of her womanhood. And if he had any misgivings, the image before him would have tempted more virtuous men than he.

He was slipping the bone buttons of his fringed jacket free as he moved toward her.

He walked through the dappled light, his dark hair gleaming intermittently as sunshine and shadow bathed his form, the sculpted planes of his face cast and recast in flickering splendor. She wondered for a moment what parents begat such handsomeness, and a heartbeat later realized they might be parents someday to a similar young man.

Past and present images raced through her mind toward a staggering unknown, and for a transient moment the stark reality of parenthood overshadowed even her husband's lethal threats. But, as quickly, those reflections were suppressed by more powerful instincts of survival.

There were no choices in this obligatory country sojourn neither for herself nor the marquis.

She watched him discard his fringed jacket in a pale, velvety heap on the marble floor, and when he tugged his shirt from his riding pants in one smooth pull, she found herself focusing on more immediate sensations.

Her nostrils flared as though primordial emotion responded to the Marquis of Crewe's audacious sexuality. He undressed casually as if he'd done this numberless times in similar situations, unconscious of the impact of his lean, powerful body. And fascinated by his virility and strength, she gazed, tempted like Eve herself in the presence of such flaunting masculinity. "You show well, my lord," she murmured, his conspicuous erection garnering her full attention.

"So I've been told," he unabashedly replied. "I expect you could silence a room without much effort. I won't ask if you have," he cheekily added.

"We don't have the same exhibitionist impulses," she softly said.

"Obviously you have some," he murmured, moving closer, "or you wouldn't offer yourself in such a seductive pose. How many men have seen you like that," he went on, sitting down beside her, "in that arms'-open welcome? How many have you offered to entertain in that lush, tantalizing purr?" He placed his hands lightly on her thrusting breasts, palms down, and, leaning forward, a sudden uncharitable light glittered in his eyes. "Tell me," he whispered, "how many?"

"We don't want to start comparing numbers, Crewe," she quietly replied. "Believe me."

His slender, tanned fingers tightened.

"Do you like violence with your sex?" Insolence colored her tone.

"Sometimes," he murmured, not sure himself why he couldn't overlook the men in her past. "Is your husband violent?"

"If you're talking about sex, I wouldn't know."

"The others then."

"How can it matter? This is only sex, not ownership. Or do you only like women who slavishly adore you?"

Her remark raised a smile, and, diverted from his inexplicable resentments, he said, "I particularly avoid women who adore me."

"Then we should get along famously, and if you'd ease your hold, I could take this very constricting riding habit off."

"Would you like help?" he lightly asked, sitting upright, his hands falling away, finding himself capable once again of depersonalizing his feelings.

"I'm here to accommodate you, my lord," she softly said. "You tell me."

"Suchcarte blanche, Princess. It almost makes one believe in heaven."

"A male heaven no doubt," she observed, one brow pertly arched.

"No doubt," he murmured, taking in the lush vision of paradise before him. "Undo those fastenings on your jacket."

His quiet voice of command made her shiver, the plain words, the authority, more seductive than a score of kisses. "And then what?"

"Then I'll tell you what I want nextand because you're here to accommodate me… you'll oblige, won't you?"

"Of course." She slipped the first silken frog free.

"And you'll like it, too, won't you?" he sardonically observed.

"You make it very pleasant." Her voice was bland.

"How tame you make it sound. Would you prefer we go riding instead?"

"I'd prefer riding that splendid cock of yours."

"That's what I thought," he gently said, "and as soon as you take all those clothes off, I'll let you climax once or twice."

"I should despise your arrogance."

"Do you actually like fawning men?" His mouth curved into a wicked smile. "You seem as though you prefer something different."

"Meaning you."

"Meaning me," he impudently replied. "Take your time, though; I can wait."

She paused in her unfastening. "Maybe I can, too."

"Suit yourself," he murmured, lightly grasping his erection, sliding his closed fingers downward so the full length reared upright, the swollen red crest gleaming. "I don'thave to come in you."

"Yes, you do," she hotly whispered, and, swiftly moving upright from her lounging pose, she covered his clasped hand with hers and, leaning forward, lightly licked the full, stretched head. Looking up at him a second later, she murmured, "Now let's see who can wait." And opening her mouth, she drew the pulsing crest into her mouth.

His eyes shut, a soft groan punctuated the silence, and his free hand automatically moved to cradle her head. The dynamic suddenly shifted, levels of lust instantly equalized, and for a lengthy interval, the only sound in the grotto was the light ripple of moving water and a soft sucking sound.

When the princess raised her head sometime later and gazed at him, her lips, pinked and wet, he muttered, rampant and resentful, "You're much too accomplished."

"You didn't like it?" she dulcetly inquired. "When it seemed as though you were"her eyes were amused"responding…"

No longer interested in a skirmish of wills, interested only in possessing her completely, his hands clamped hard around her slender waist, and, swinging her upright in a blur of muscle and sinew, he set her on her feet facing him. "Lift up your skirt," he curtly ordered.

She instantly obeyed, as aroused as he, as selfish, not quibbling over motive with libidinous desire torrid in her blood. Urgent, lustful, he stripped her doeskin pantalettes down her hips with a brusque, wrenching jerk.

He swore under his breath at the delay while he unbuckled her boots and stripped them off so he could slide the sleek leather over her feet, his erection throbbing, aching, his need for this woman beyond any former concept of wanting.

She was panting at the last.

They were both trembling.

"Tell me there's a rational explanation for this," he muttered, lifting her again as though she were weightless, depositing her on the chaise, sliding between her welcoming thighs a second later with the ease of considerable practice.

She shook her head. "It's insanity," she whispered. "We're losing our minds…"

But her last words were lost in a muffled moan as he drove into her, plunging so deep, he bodily moved her up on the chaise, and intellect and reason instantly gave way to riveting sensation. She came in seconds, as if she'd waited for this man, this hysteria, this exquisite degree of bliss, her entire life.

And now she'd found the secret key.

He knew all the keys; they weren't secret to him but the result of years of amorous diversion, a discriminating eye and sensitized perception. And more importantly, perhaps, he had a genuine passion for women.

Another orgasm washed over her brief moments later and, crying out, she fiercely gripped his strong body, his erection pressed hard against the extreme limits of her honeyed passage. Intoxicating bliss, bewitchment, melted through her brain, pulsed through every nerve and cell, touched the depths of her soul and miraculously entered her heart when she'd thought all feelings of love had died long ago.

And when he teasingly whispered, "Thereis a Cupid," she gazed up at him in wonder.

"You're feeling this too?"

His faint smile was close and hers, she thought with sudden revelation. "It's sorcery," he murmured.

"Pagan witchcraft," she agreed, reaching up to touch the curve of his mouth. "But don't break the spell."

"Never," he breathed, moving inside her, gliding against her slick, silken tissue, withdrawing just enough to make the resultant penetration more exquisite. The slow rhythm of his thrust and withdrawal overwhelmed their senses, the universe centered in their conjoined bodies, lust, wanton feeling, affectiona new, tremulous love singing in their blood.

Perhaps the planets were all perfectly aligned or sorcery indeed had taken a hand. Or maybe biology alone was the potent force. But they both understood the unprecedented wonder of the occasion.

"This baby is mine," he breathed, his orgasm beginning to rush downward.

"Ours," she whispered, clinging to him.

"Ours," he said, his eyes closing against the intensity of feeling inundating his body. And as the marquis poured into her, she met his heated climax, opened her heart and body to the awesome mystery and welcomed him with love.

Moments later, prostrate on the silken chaise, they lay panting, heated, touched by a rare sense of closeness.

"Now what are we going to do?" the marquis murmured, post coital unease reassessing such injudicious feeling.

"I thought we might cool off in the pool if you'd help me take off these yards of serge."

His sigh of relief was audible. "You're damned adorable," he murmured, his smile dazzling.

"While you have a very winning charm, my lord," she lightly returned, extricating them both from the Byzantine trap of too ardent feeling. "Are you as… resourceful in the water?"

"Let me know, Princess," he said with a teasing grin, rolling to his feet. Lifting her from the chaise, he carried her to the pool, stripped away her clothing with a deft expertise, eased them both into the cool water, and said, "Now I'll see if I can keep you warm."

He did.

With great skill.

And it wasn't until Gregory banged loudly on the door hours later that they noticed the day had vanished with the setting sun.

Twilight shadow filled the grotto with a suffused lavender ambiance, creeping darkness settling in the remoter corners of the chamber. "Do you want to stay or go?" he softly asked, kissing her gently as she lay on the mossy bank.

"You decide…" she whispered, blissful lethargy pervading her senses.

"Ten minutes!" Hugh shouted, but they found themselves reluctant to leave the enchanting grotto, and it was nearly an hour before they appeared outside in the falling dusk. He carried the princess cradled in his arms, her eyes shut like a drowsy child.

"She's tired," the marquis laconically announced, his gaze sweeping the mounted troop in mute challenge. "And we don't need company," he brusquely added, his glance settling on Gregory. "Two hundred yards," he reminded him.

On the ride back, the evening dusk seemed to enfold them in a gossamer warmth, the air velvet on their skin, the quiet of the night like the contentment of their souls, and when he whispered, "Thank you" in a husky murmur, she smiled up at him and softly breathed, "You bring me joy…"

It pleased him that he could bring her joy and he realized with a small exalting gladness that he adored her. And more, he knew, for love had crept in past the boundaries of his selfishness and avoidance in the hours past, or perhaps only the revelation. "Do you believe in fate?" he softly queried.

"Only if it's good." She didn't want to risk the bliss enfolding her. She wanted only agreeable speculations.

"Do you believe in love?"

She hesitated because before today, she hadn't and too, the marquis was hardly the kind of man susceptible to declarations of love. "Why do you ask?"

"So cautious," he said with a faint smile.

"I live my life with caution."

"Then I'll say it first. I love you, darling Sofia."

"Are you drunk, Crewe?" Playful and teasing, she couldn't afford for him to love her or she him.

"It wouldn't matter if I were. I love you drunk or sober, in the dark of night or in the morning light. I love you," he murmured, jubilation in the rich depth of his voice. "And you must love me back."

"I can't."

"But you do." He knewperhaps that knowledge had prompted his own gratifying realization. His dark gaze held hers in the gathering dusk. "You do."

Only the sound of frogs and crickets disturbed the silent evening for a lengthy interval.

"I do," she whispered, her eyes wet with tears.

They stayed together that night in the princess's room, making love in endless, leisured variety, both of them drowsy and oddly awakeelated, as though their minds were contending with their tumultuous feelings of love in alternate and parallel planes. And they made plans or Hugh made plans for their life together.

She awoke first at dawn's light and lay in blissful quiescence, understanding true happiness for the first time, her gaze traveling over the finely modeled features of the man who'd made her believe in love during the long hours past. He breathed quietly like a young child, his chest barely moving, his long lashes like black shadows on his cheeks, the curve of his mouth both sensual and tender like his kisses, his bronzed body half uncovered, as if he'd been too warm during the night.That arm held me, she thought, her gaze trailing down the tanned, muscled length,and those fingers touched me, the smallest quiver of excitement warming her senses at the memory of his skilled touch. And his long, powerful legs had twined around hers or served as firm support when she sat or lay on him. Her gaze traveled down the flawless perfection of his lean, rangy form and then back again to come to rest on his face. She liked his smile best, she reflected. When he smiled, he seemed to offer her boundless joy.

She'd miss that most.

For a few moments more, she memorized the sight of the man who had appropriated her heart and then she cautiously left the bed. She stood for a short interval more, wanting to remember every detail and minutiae, wanting to be able to bring the image of him into her mind with perfect clarity a thousand years from now.

But the clock in the hall softly chimed the hour, drawing her attention, and, with time so critical, she went to find Gregory.

"He wants me to leave with him tonight or tomorrow," she said, seated across from her troop captain in the downstairs steward's office.

"And will you?"

"If I could persuade him to wait two days, could you telegraph Milosh and have him set the schedule ahead?"

"Everyone's been ready for six months, Your Highness. Only your scruples have curtailed our plans."

"And my mother? Can you guarantee me her safety?"

"Like I have a thousand times before. Katerina will take her out through the tunnel and back to Hungary. It won't be a problem."

"I should go myself and see her out."

"And risk your husband's insanity? I'll personally see that you don't." He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. "Forgive me. My words were uncalled for."

She twisted the brocaded ties of her robe, ran the silken fabric through her fingers, her agitation pronounced. "We're taking an enormous chance with everyone's lives."

"It's necessary. Everyone knows it. Everyone's known it for a long time. Leave it all to me. Stay with the marquis for a fortnight, a month if you like. By that time, all will be resolved and you can come home in triumph."

"I'm allowed this small bit of happiness?"

"You deserve more, and if it were in my power, I'd give you the world, you know that." His heart was in his eyes, but he spoke with a brusque authority.

"I know, Gregory. Thank you," she softly said, understanding how he felt about her. He was her rock and guardian, her protector. "Two days then before we ostensibly escape?"

"I'll see that Pierce has access to the stables two nights from now. I'll send a telegram once all is in place for your return."

"My return," she softly murmured.

"You'll rule with or without an heir. The stipulation requiring a child is in effect only so long as your husband remains on the throne."

She nodded and rose from her chair. "Godspeed," she murmured, "in this treacherous game of state."

chapter 3

They fled the estate two nights later, Pierce having smuggled three mounts out of the stables. By morning they were halfway to London, and after stopping briefly at Dalsany House for fresh horses, clothes, and a quick luncheon, they continued north to the marquis's estate at Woodhill. It was dark by the time they arrived, but within minutes lights were blazing from every window, the entire staff bustling to see that the master and his guest were made comfortable.

The princess was introduced to Hugh's majordomo, his housekeeper, steward, and, at the last, his chaplain, John Wright, who said with a smile, "Hugh and I have been friends since boyhood. He's very generous with his tenants and the parish." By omission, the princess understood, the chaplain overlooked the less righteous qualities of his patron. And after a variety of orders had been transmitted by the marquis to his staff, he and the princess retired to his chambers.

"So this is where you were going to rusticate when I took you away," she said, gazing out on the moonlight lawns.

"This is wherewe're going to rusticate," he corrected, coming up behind her and enclosing her in his arms. "Just past those hills is the village. I'll take you there tomorrow and show you off."

"And no one will wonder who I am?"

"Let them wonder. A Princess Sofia is sharing my life. What else do they have to know. And if I love you, they will, too. Life is very simple here," he went on, filled with a rare contentment, the warmth of her body against his sufficient to make him believe in paradise.

"A simple life sounds very nice," she softly said, covering his hands with hers.

"We'll raise our child here. Our children. And if this is insanity," he said, a smile in his voice, "don't wake me up." "Nor me," she murmured, tears welling in her eyes.

The days passed in such joyful pleasure, the marquis and princess found themselves feeling pity for the rest of the world. They spent every minute together in a kind of harmony poets portrayed in lyrical stanzas and sonnets and those less poetical condemned as fantasy. They lay abed some days and made endless love; on others, they rose at dawn and rode or walked the estate, the gardens, the village lanes. Everywhere they went, people turned to watch them, such happiness startling, awesome, as if bliss and exaltation had taken corporeal form.

And when, after a fortnight, the princess noticed her courses hadn't come and shyly told the marquis, he decided to call the entire household and village to a celebration feast. "I won't embarrass you," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "We'll call it some summer harvest festival or the name day of some saint; we'll think of something." But many a watchful eye that day and evening when the parish ate and drank and danced on the marquis's front lawn took note of the marquis's tender attention to his princess and a countdown of days began.

"He'll have to marry her now," the housekeeper stoutly said, tipsy after several glasses of the marquis's best wine, "or his heir won't come into the title right and tight."

"Can't if'n she's married already," the head groom noted, casting a cool gaze at the housekeeper.

"He'll have to buy her a divorce then," the majordomo solemnly maintained, his hauteur still intact despite numerous glasses of the aqua vitae he favored. "The House of Lords does it all for a tidy sum."

"Which himself can afford. Did you see the new diamonds he gave to the princess? She wore them to dinner last night."

"And also while swimming in the pool in the white garden this morning, I hear," the groom roguishly pronounced.

"You tell those nasty stable lads to mind their own business or I'll box their ears," the housekeeper hotly returned. "I declare, there's not a speck of manners between the lot of them."

And as the evening progressed, bets were made and taken on the arrival date of the marquis's new heir.

While the master and his guest enjoyed the festivities in their own private way.

At ten, they excused themselves to a roar of ribald cheers and comment and retired to a small guest cottage beyond the noise of the festivities on the manor lawn.

The small stone house was lit by candles, the golden glow warm and inviting, the scent of lilies and roses permeating the rooms. Vases of flowers stood on tables and consoles, a cold supper had been left in the small dining parlor, the bed had been turned down in the tiny bedroom tucked under the eaves.

"Do you like it?" Hugh asked, holding her hand in his as they stood on the threshold of the bedroom.

"It's like a doll house or a fairy tale cottage."

"And quiet."

"Yes. But everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. You're much loved."

"John and my steward see to most of it. They're very competent."

"They couldn't do it without your approval." She knew firsthand how brutal and uncaring authority could be.

"My tenants might as well enjoy some of the benefits of my wealth, too. I'll show you my farms at Alderly tomorrow. We're trying out some new crops and machinery."

She smiled, thinking how different the country marquis from his libertine persona. "I'd like that," she said.

"Is there anything else you'd like?" he murmured, bending to nibble on her ear.

"Supper in bed?" she teased. "I'm famished all the time."

"And you should be. I want my baby well fed," he lightly declared. "Now, lie down and I'll bring up food and feed you."

"Youare a darling."

"And you're the love of my life," he murmured, drawing her into his arms.

That night, after their supper and after they'd made love, much later when the moon was moving toward the horizon, he quietly said, holding her in his arms, "I want you to divorce your husband."

He felt her stiffen in his arms.

"I can have a divorce secured without fanfare. No one need know the details or circumstances. My lawyers will be discreet."

"My husband won't allow it."

"I'll see that he does." He spoke with an authority that had never been gainsaid.

"Let's talk about it in the morning. Would you mind?"

"No, of course not," he gently said. "I'll do whatever you wish. But you know I want this child to be legitimately mine."

"I know," she whispered, and, reaching up, she kissed him, tears welling in her eyes.

"Don't cry. I'll make everything right," he tenderly said, wiping her tears away with the back of his hand.

"I know you will." Her smile quivered for only a moment.

She was gone when he woke in the morning.

He tore the house apart, the village, the parish, searching for any clue to her whereabouts. He hired detectives from London, from Paris, but there was no Prince Marko and consort; he had every British consulate looking for her, too, without success. She'd disappeared, as if the earth had swallowed her up.

When he retired from the world shortly after, there was talk of various maladies and illnesses. Some said he'd turned hermit as penance for his numerous sins; those who knew him better saw his desperate pain and sorrow and worried for his sanity. But as the weeks turned into months, he came to accept Sofia 's disappearance as inevitable and the rhythm of his life settled into a pattern measured only by the seasons of the field and farm. He kept to his estate at Woodhill, although his closest friends would come to visit. He traveled to London only rarelyfor the marriage of his niece and later that of his friend Charles, or for business once or twice a year; he appeared at an occasional race meet when his stable was performing well, and his local hunt club enjoyed his presence regularly during the hunt seasonalthough the level of risks he took at the jumps reached such proportions, wagers were made on whether he'd survive the sport.

Two years passed, with the young marquis living a life so antithetical to his former existence, all the ladies of his acquaintance despaired of ever experiencing the pleasure of his company again. More determined than most of the pursuing women, the lovely Countess Greyson once managed to infiltrate his household and appeared in his bed.

He took one look at her, she later related, calmly remarked, "I prefer sleeping alone," and left his bedchamber without a backward glance. After that episode, he gave new orders to his staff concerning his privacy, and no one breached the gates of Woodhill without his approval.

One August afternoon, several months later, he was going through his daily correspondence, the study doors open to the warm sun and summer breeze. What was she doing right now? he wondered as he often did when opening the latest letter from the detective firm in Paris he still kept on retainer. Expecting no more than the usual quarterly invoice without any new information, he unfolded a brief note and lifted out a news page photo. "Is this the necklace?" his contact in Paris had written. Raising the scrap of paper closer, he gazed at the indistinct image. An arrow had been drawn on the newsprint, indicating a woman in the background at a soiree for the Austrian ambassador in Paris.

Her face rose out of the crowd and his heart seemed to stop.

Cautioning himself against rash hope, he quickly scrutinized the photogravure. The woman was blonde; the hair color changed Sofia 's looks but the eyes were hers, and the perfect mouth. His gaze moved to the highlighted necklace, and his last present to Sofia glittered at her throat. Suddenly the blonde hair altered in his mind's eye to a rich, warm auburn and the woman in the background of the thronged soiree stepped from the page back into his life.

He left Woodhill within twenty minutes and was crossing the Channel five hours later. When the detective bureau opened in Paris the next morning, he was waiting at the door, having just arrived from the Gare du Nord, unshaven, disheveled, demanding immediate answers.

It took the remainder of the day to track down enough people in the photo to positively identify the woman with the diamond necklace.

She turned out to be Princess Mariana, regent of a small principality on the border of Dalmatia and Montenegro. Her son, for whom she ruled, was the young Prince Sava.

His journey took him from Paris to Salzburg to Zagreb. The train traveled through countryside dark with floods outside Zagreb before coming to the Adriatic, which looked that day like one of the bleak Scottish lochs. Sky, islands, and sea were all merged into the gray mist and sweeping rain. He took a steamer down the coast, past Korchula, Gruzh to Ragusa. There he hired a carriage and went inland.

The country through which he drove was so picturesque, it had the appearance of a stage set: high mountains, deep lakes, orchards and vineyards in the valleys, roses frothing over every wall and ledge. The woodlands were the clearest green laced with dark pines, the forest overseen by a majestic, snow-covered peak in the distance. He passed waterfalls that burst straight from the living rock, the limestone country cleft asunder as if by a giant's hand. Judas trees, fig trees, poplars, beech, wisteria vines were in wild abundance like an earthly paradise, and when he came at last to the small capital city he was reminded of a miniature Venice, all pale palaces and churches shimmering in the summer light.

The royal palace was constructed of gleaming white marble, its various levels and terraces spilling down a steep hillside amidst flowering shrubs and roses. But the marquis had no eye for the magnificent beauty of the setting or the splendor of the building.

All he could think of was seeing her again.

Guards stopped him at the entrance gates, but he insisted on seeing Gregory, speaking to the soldiers in a half dozen languages until they at last understood him and took him to a small sentry's lodge to wait.

When Gregory opened the door and saw him, he said, frowning, "I was hoping you'd forgotten her."

"But then, I was hoping she'd stay with me at Woodhill," the marquis replied, his voice chill. "So we were both wrong."

The captain came into the room enough to shut the door. "I can keep you away from her."

"Don't make this difficult," Hugh said, his gaze direct, challenging. "The British prime minister is more than willing to take a personal interest in my affairs."

Gregory minutely shifted his stance. "Why would he do that?"

"Because I'm his godson, which isn't so important," Hugh blandly remarked, "but he actually likes me as well and finds the old matter of my coercion intriguing." He tipped his head slightly toward the door. "So I suggest you tell the princess I'm here."

"What do you intend to do?"

The marquis held the captain's gaze for a long moment, a palpable tension in the air. "I'm not sure," he finally said.

She'd had time to compose herself after the initial shock of Gregory's announcement, and when she walked into the salon where the marquis waited, she was able to say, poised and unruffled, "You found me."

"Did you think I wouldn't?"

She shrugged, the flowered silk ruffle on her shoulder fluttering marginally. "It's been almost three years," she said, not mentioning his reputation for forgetting the females in his life.

"You're well hidden," he coolly replied.

"It was necessary." Only monumental self-control allowed her to speak as though he were a stranger when his presence filled the room, when his eyes burned with such fury, when she could still remember how it felt to be held in his arms.

"You didn't think I'd care that you kept my son from me?"

"Of course I did."

"But?" he sardonically murmured.

"You're not that naive, Crewe."

"No, I suppose I'm not," he softly agreed, thinking of all the British consul in Ragusa had told him. "Your husband's dead, I hear."

"Yes." It took effort to withstand the scorn in his gaze.

"Did you kill him?"

She didn't answer immediately. "I suppose in a way I did," she finally said, lifting her chin a fraction as if to ward off his disdain. "Did you come all this way to revile me?" she coolly asked, not willing to take on the role of villainess regardless of his perceptions. "If you did, I'll bid you pleasant journey back to England."

"What color is real?" he brusquely asked, gesturing at her pale hair.

"Does it really matter?" Tart, acrid words.

"I remember you differently, that's all," he softly said, his tone suddenly alteredkind, warm again, the voice she remembered from the days and nights at Woodhill. "I saw you had my necklace on in Paris."

She forced herself to an exterior calmness she was far from feeling, the husky intimacy of his voice triggering a flood of memory she'd tried to lock away forever. "I wear it often," she replied. Every day, she reflected, although she didn't tell him that, his gift her sustaining talisman in a lonely world not of her making.

"You should have written. At least when our son was born."

"I wanted to; I wanted more than that, but"she softly sighed"circumstances wouldn't permit it. I don't have a personal life, Hugh. You must know that."

"Nor have I since you left. I've missed you," he softly murmured. He stood very still, tall, dark, sinfully handsome just as she remembered, his words the fantasy she'd dreamed and wished would come to life.

"I didn't dare miss you. I wasn't allowed," she said with the faintest of smiles, thinking perhaps prayers were answered after all.

"Gregory."

Her smile broadened minutely. "He bolsters my sense of duty."

"While I've missed my son's baby years."

"Forgive me for that. But my life had to be sacrificed for this…" She lifted her hand in a brief sweeping motion that took in the broad vista of the city outside the windows. "And I thought you'd soon find other entertainments anyway," she gently added.

"Didyou find entertainments?" His voice took on a sudden harshness.

"I've been like a nun if you must know, while I expect you've been finding pleasure in your usual way." An unwished-for jealousy flared at the thought of his licentious prodigality. "Have you had any new children lately?" she murmured, the taint of insolence in her words.

The wordnun had abruptly absolved the tumult of his bitterness and spleen. "What would you do if I said I'm staying?"

"Answer my question," she said.

"None. No children, not one," he carefully enunciated, understanding invidious suspicion and mistrust. "I haven't made love to a woman since you left."

"I've heard differently." Her green eyes sparked.

"Then Gregory is lying," he said with silky malice.

"It wasn't Gregory."

"One of the other advisers who control your life then."

"I chose to come back; no one controls me."

"Then free will isn't an issue," he brusquely noted. "Do you love me?" His voice shouldn't have been so chill, he realized. "Do you love me?" he repeated, a softer appeal in his tone this time.

She gazedinto his beautiful dark eyes, then looked away, the crushing responsibilities of her life overwhelming.

"I'm not asking if you're allowed to love me," he gently said, "only if you do."

Her gaze swung back, and a lush warmth shone in her eyes. "You know the answer to that."

"I'm not as arrogant as I once was," he said with a rueful smile. "Tell me."

"I love you," she whispered, looking young and vulnerable in her summer frock. "I love you now, yesterday, a thousand years from this moment. I'll always love you."

"Three years is a very long time to live without you," he quietly said, holding his hands out to her. "There were times I thought I'd lose my mind."

When she still hesitated, he crossed the small distance between them and took her in his arms as though years and countries and politics didn't divide them. As though they were back at Woodhill and the sunshine of the world was shining on them alone. "I love you in every way a man can love a woman, and whatever you have to do, we'll do together," he murmured, holding her close.

"This is a dangerous part of the world," she softly warned.

"Then my son could use another guardian."

She gazed up at him. "You'd stay?"

"I'd do anything for you; you should have asked me three years ago."

"I didn't know. Forgive me… for everythingwell, almost everything." Her smile lit up her face. " Sava looks just like you, you know; you couldn't deny paternity if you wished," she lightly asserted. "And he always wants his own way, toolike you," she went on with a grin. "Would you like to meet him?"

"I would have taken on Gregory and his entire troop to see my son." His mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Love is strange."

"And miserable at times."

"Not anymore," he cheerfully declared, lifting her off her feet and swinging her up into his arms. "From now on," he murmured, smiling down at her, "we're the luckiest people on earth."

When father and son met short moments later, Sava raised his pudgy hands to his father and repeated the wordPapa his mother had used, his babyish smile open and warm.

His eyes glistening with emotion, Hugh glanced at the princess and whispered, "Thank you," before lifting the young toddler into his arms. He spoke to him in a low, gentle voice, telling him of his journey, of the trains and ships that would interest a young child, and before long, father and son were busily engrossed in the mechanics of a beautifully wrought model of a new steam-driven automobile.

They were like a matched pair, their features so pure and fine the princess marveled that the Crewe pedigree bred true to such a finite degree. Two dark, ruffled heads were bent over the delicate mechanism, identical black ochre eyes scrutinized the auto, and when they sent it racing down the nursery floor, they both laughed with the same abandon. Hugh Dalsany and Sava became fast friends that day, and in the years to come, the Marquis of Crewe reconciled to the role of legal guardian to the young prince. Guided him, nurtured him, loved him as a father.

The marquis and Mariana married when the prince was five, and three more children were born of the happy union. They stayed in the mountain kingdom far from the tumultuous events of Europe until the Treaty of Versailles rearranged the map of Europe once again, wiping away the last of the isolated Balkan principalities.

The duke took his family home to England then, to the estates he'd inherited on the death of his father years before. And the Duke and Duchess of Temerley, along with their children, lived a quiet, private life of great happiness.

Because of love.

And the rustication he'd once contemplated out of frustration and ennui became instead his blissful solace and content.