Ecstasy

Chapter One

London, November 1813

He rose naked from the surf, his wet, sleekly muscled body glistening in the Caribbean sun. Framed against the brilliant turquoise sea, he looked like some pagan god. Yet he was no god. He was the pirate who had stolen her virtue and then her heart.

Heat and vitality and danger throbbed from him as he stood spread-legged on the crystalline white beach, commander of all he surveyed. His engorged male flesh clearly proclaimed his arousal and made her breath falter.

As if he heard her soft gasp, his dark gaze riveted on her. She felt ravished each time he looked at her, even though she couldn’t make out his features. She could never see his face, only his dark eyes that were intense and burning.

He came to her then, purpose defined in every lithe stride. The sand was warm at her back as he bore her down, his hungry mouth hot as it claimed hers.

His kiss was ravaging, not in force but in effect; his touch dangerously, wildly sensual as his hands roamed over her at will.

He drank of her mouth, then shifted his caresses lower, gentle and ruthless at once. Pressing her head back, he kissed the arch of her throat, her collarbone, her naked breasts… His lips felt hotter than the sun on her bare skin, the blistering heat searing her flesh. He captured a nipple and suckled hard, shooting arrows of pleasure downward to her moist, feminine center.

She whimpered and parted her legs for him, sighing as he nestled his swollen sex against her softness, the throbbing ache between her thighs soothed and aroused at once.

“Please…” she pleaded.

Understanding her urgent need, he slid himself relentlessly within her, his huge shaft filling her, making her want to weep with ecstasy.

But then he went still, denying her the release she craved. The hot darkness of his gaze pinned her as surely as his pulsing masculine flesh impaled her.

“How can you wed him?” he demanded roughly. “How can you think to give yourself to him?”

“I must. I have no choice. I swore a solemn promise.”

His intense gaze burned into hers. “Your duke is cold, passionless. He cannot make you feel what I do. He cannot make your blood run hot as I can.”

She turned her head aside, knowing all he said was true. She felt a sense of desperation at the thought of her impending marriage. She wanted to forget…and yet her pirate would not allow her.

His hand clenched in her hair, his teeth bared in savage insistence. “You belong to me, only to me. You are mine, do you heed me? And I am yours. You created me.”

His possessiveness thrilled and excited her. “Yes,” she said simply.

He withdrew his slick shaft and sank forcefully into her again, thrusting completely home. “When you go to him, I will be the one you remember. My touch, my taste, my hard flesh driving deep inside you, making you cry out with need.”

“Yes. Yes…only you.”

She pulled his mouth down to hers, needing to taste him, feel him…

The fierce intimacy of his body locked into hers and he began to move again, taking her, claiming her. He wasn’t tender, but she wanted no tenderness. Instead she lifted her hips to meet his deep thrusts, answering him with all the vigor in her trembling form.

“More,” he urged hoarsely against her mouth. “Give me more. Surrender…”

Climax exploded through her in intense, rigid shudders again and again and again before at last he found his own release. Eventually he collapsed upon her, his gasping breath mingling with hers, their fierce hunger momentarily sated.

She lay back, replete, as silken waves came to lap at her, cooling her overheated skin and the blaze of passion between them…

Slowly Raven Kendrick roused from fantasy to awareness, recognizing her bedchamber. The chill light of early morning filtered through the damask curtains as she lay in bed, her body still throbbing with her powerful climax and the memory of her pirate. He was a wild, sweet fire in her blood…and he was merely illusion.

With a sigh of unfulfilled longing, Raven rolled over and drew a pillow to her still-tingling breasts. He was all she would ever have of true passion.

Her lover existed only in her imagination, although sometimes he seemed as real to her as any flesh and blood man. He had no identity, no past other than the one she had attributed to him. He’d come ashore in her dreams one bright Caribbean morning to plunder her body and capture her heart…

Her eyes closed on the memory of their most recent interlude. She was still hot and moist between her legs from his make-believe claiming, but in real life she had never felt the ecstasy of a man’s flesh filling her, burning deep inside her.

She could imagine, though. Indeed, she knew things no virgin should ever know. The rare, erotic book her mother had left behind at her death, A Passion of the Heart, had been given to Elizabeth Kendrick by the man she’d desperately loved and was forced to relinquish-a parting gift to keep his memory alive.

Penned by an anonymous Frenchwoman, the journal was a true, tragic tale of love and filled with exquisite details of carnal desire. It had provided solace to Raven’s mother for years, for although it mirrored her pain, the vividly told story let her relive her own lost passion.

Yet it was a scandalous tome for any young lady of virtue to possess.

Raven frowned defiantly. Perhaps she was wicked to foster such vivid illusions of her pirate, but in her fantasies she could be as unconventional and free as she chose. She could satisfy the deep restlessness inside her, indulge her forbidden hunger without the dire consequences of social ruin. Most vitally, she could give herself completely to a lover without fear of losing her heart and soul, the way her mother once had.

Involuntarily Raven clenched her fists as the familiar dread pulsed through her. She would never give her heart to a real man. She’d seen how love had destroyed her mother, made her a slave to dimming memory. For years her mother had sobbed into her pillow each night, lamenting the love she’d lost. By day she had pored over her precious journal, memorizing each poignant line.

Reaching into the bedside table drawer, Raven withdrew the jewel-encrusted book, her eyes blurring as she remembered. It had grieved her endlessly to see her mother waste her life away, wishing even on her deathbed for a man she could never have.

The loss of her mother had left Raven achingly bereft yet filled with determination. She would never make the same mistake her mother had made, falling victim to a hopeless love. No man would ever own her soul. She alone controlled the shape of her destiny. She might have resolved to marry, but love would form no part of the equation.

A rap on her bedchamber door brought Raven out of her dark reverie. Quickly returning the journal to the drawer, she bid admission, and her personal maid entered, carrying a tray.

“Morning, miss,” Nan said in unmistakably excited tones. “I’ve brought you a fine breakfast since you’ll need proper sustenance. ’Twill be many hours before the wedding feast.”

Inexplicably Raven’s heart sank at the reminder. Her wedding day at last was here.

She sat up slowly in bed and allowed Nan to set the tray on her lap, even though she suddenly had no appetite.

The maid poured her a cup of chocolate, talking all the while. “Just think, Miss Raven! You’ll soon be a duchess. ’Tis just like a fairy tale.” Nan sighed, her expression filled with reverence before she caught herself. “Beg pardon, miss. I shouldn’t let my tongue run away like that. But I’ve never known a real duchess before.”

Raven summoned a smile she didn’t feel. “That’s quite all right, Nan. I am a bit in awe myself.”

Turning to the hearth, the maid built up the dwindling fire to ward off the November chill, then bobbed a curtsy. “Your bathwater is heating, Miss Raven. If you please, I’ll return in half an hour to help you bathe and dress.”

“Yes, thank you, Nan.”

When the servant had left the room, Raven dutifully picked up her fork but set it down again as her stomach recoiled. In a few short hours she would wed the man she had chosen, a prominent nobleman who commanded the respect of the highest echelons of the ton. She had eagerly anticipated this day for months-so why did she now feel as if she were somehow going to her execution?

Bridal nerves. Her anxiety could be attributed merely to that. Every bride had misgivings on her wedding day.

She shook her head, determined to quell the knots in her stomach. It was absurd to be entertaining doubts at this late date about the plan she’d set for her future. Her marriage to the Duke of Halford would not only be the fulfillment of her mother’s most fervent wish for her-securing her rightful position among the nobility-but it meant she would no longer be an outsider.

She would at last belong somewhere.

As a duchess, she would be accepted by the cream of society…the society her mother had been denied after being banished to the West Indies more than twenty years ago by an irate father.

Raven raised her cup of chocolate to her lips, trying to ignore her qualms. Her future husband, the Duke of Halford, might be a proud, stiff-necked aristocrat more than twice her age-one, moveover, who’d had the misfortune to bury two young wives after accidental tragedies. But as his wife, she would no longer be compelled to fight the despairing feelings of aloneness that had haunted her for much of her life.

She was fortunate to have attracted Halford, considering the disadvantages she faced. Although a British citizen, she’d been born in the West Indies and had only come to England for the first time this past spring, a year after her mother’s death. Forcibly swallowing her reluctance, she’d reconciled with her estranged family-her ailing viscount grandfather and her dragon of a great-aunt, who had sponsored her London season as a debutante.

Since then, Raven had grown to realize how very much acceptance meant to her, how deeply she cherished the feeling of belonging.

To her relief and gratitude, her first Season had been a triumph. She was sought after by countless admirers and received a half dozen estimable proposals of marriage, along with several unsuitable ones. She’d fooled even the highest sticklers with her efforts at demure deportment. But with a hidden scandal in her past, she could give the ton no reason to challenge her entree into its select ranks, no matter how much she might like to thumb her nose in their faces. Not if she wanted to become one of them.

Her unconventionality was a definite drawback, Raven was keenly aware. Her upbringing on the Caribbean isle of Montserrat had afforded her a rare freedom, and she’d spent her hoydenish childhood swimming in secluded coves and playing pirate and riding to the wind. Even her name was unorthodox; she’d been named for the color of her hair, a throwback to one of her real father’s Spanish ancestors.

But once in England, she had striven to restrain her natural high spirits, repressing any sign of passion in favor of conformity, enduring the stifling rules of proper conduct because she was fiercely determined to be accepted.

One of her few concessions to restlessness was her early morning gallops in the park. And when she craved passion, she turned to her fantasies and her imaginary pirate lover. Though he was only an illusion-one that sometimes left her aching with an unfulfilled longing-she was certain her pirate could satisfy her deepest hungers far more profoundly than her real-life duke ever could or would.

Raven shivered, suddenly feeling the chill of the winter morning. Sternly repressing her apprehension, she set aside her tray and rose from the bed. Were this any other day, she would be riding at this very moment, but she had a wedding to prepare for.

She had just drawn on a woolen wrapper when another knock sounded on her door. To her vast surprise, her great-aunt entered.

Catherine, Lady Dalrymple, was an imposing figure-tall and elegant with handsome features and silver hair that lent her a majestic air.

“Is something amiss?” Raven asked with a frown. Never once in all the months of living with her great-aunt had she been visited like this. Nor did her elderly relative normally rise this early.

Aunt Catherine managed a stiff smile. “Nothing is amiss. I merely brought you a wedding gift.” She held out a small satinwood box. “These belonged to your mother. I suspect Elizabeth would wish you to have them.”

Raven felt her heart wrench at the mention of her mother. Opening the box with curiosity, she gasped to find a stunning strand of pearls and a pair of pearl-drop earrings, not large but with a lustrous sheen that suggested great value.

Raven gave her great-aunt a questioning glance, wondering what had caused this show of generosity. Lady Dalrymple usually treated her with a frosty reserve bordering on dislike.

“I harbored grave doubts,” her aunt answered her unspoken query, “that this day would ever come. But now that your nuptials actually are at hand, I think you are entitled to have these.”

“They are beautiful,” Raven murmured.

“Elizabeth refused to take them with her when she left,” Aunt Catherine observed with obvious disapproval. “Her defiance was imprudent, considering that she could have sold these for a pretty price. But I presumed you would wish to wear them at your wedding.”

Surprised but grateful for her aunt’s gift, Raven tempered her response. “Yes, thank you. I would like very much to wear them.”

Without speaking, Aunt Catherine turned to take her leave, but then turned back, arching one elegant eyebrow. “I confess you have pleasantly surprised me, Raven. I never imagined you would make such an advantageous marriage.”

“Why not?” Raven couldn’t help asking. “Because you didn’t believe I should aim so high, given the illegitimacy of my origins?”

“Few people know the secret of your origins, thank heavens. No, frankly, I didn’t believe you would have the good sense to accept Halford for your husband. You had so many suitors… I feared you might choose someone unacceptable just to spite us.”

She had indeed had numerous suitors, Raven reflected. In fact, one suitor in particular had hounded her relentlessly even after her betrothal to Halford was announced, nearly embroiling her in scandal. Thankfully her aunt knew nothing of that near disaster.

“I would never have behaved so rashly, Aunt-despite your estimation of me.”

“Perhaps not,” her aunt replied. “Still, I doubted your betrothal to Halford would last all these months, what with the vast disparity between you.” Catherine’s mouth twisted in the flicker of a smile. “Even I consider his grace a stuffed shirt. In disposition at least, he doesn’t appear at all to be the right match for you.”

“He isn’t all that bad,” Raven said in his defense. “Halford is reserved and very proper, certainly, but beneath the trappings of his rank, he is actually a very kind man.”

“Well, I am glad you don’t harbor foolish notions like marrying for love. Love does not ensure happiness, as your mother discovered to her everlasting grief.”

Raven felt herself stiffen. “Yes, quite the contrary. Love can bring great misery. I learned that lesson quite well, Aunt Catherine.”

“You obviously have more sense than your mother had.”

Raven lowered her gaze to hide her anger, deploring this conversation. She had no wish to discuss her mother or to dredge up painful memories.

The elderly lady pursed her lips together. “At least now you will have the future Elizabeth wished for you. A place in society that her folly denied her.”

Stung beyond bearing, Raven lifted her chin and looked piercingly at her aunt. “A place she was denied when her family cast her out, you mean,” she retorted, unable to keep the bitterness from her tone.

Catherine frowned. “We had no choice but to compel Elizabeth to marry. She was facing total ruin. Her behavior was scandalous in the extreme-becoming obsessed with a married man and letting him get her with child.”

Raven bristled to hear her mother’s sins catalogued so scornfully. “Grandfather did not have to disown her and send her across an ocean!”

“Perhaps not.” Catherine’s expression grew even frostier. “But Jervis made the correct decision. No one could expect him to tolerate the shame of his daughter bearing a child out of wedlock.”

“So he forced her to wed a man she disliked and then banished her from sight?”

“I assure you, Elizabeth understood that marriage was her only salvation. Wedding Kendrick rescued her from disgrace and saved you from being born a bastard!”

Raven winced at the familiar guilt that curled inside her. She well understood the sacrifice her mother had made for her. And that she had caused her mother’s downfall by her very existence. But the necessity of the marriage didn’t excuse her grandfather or her aunt for being so heartless and unforgiving.

“If my mother had not been forced to live among strangers,” Raven said tightly, “if she had been surrounded by family and friends and her familiar life, perhaps she might have been able to overcome her hopeless passion. As it was, she pined her life away, yearning for a love she could never have.”

“She had no one to blame but herself for her weakness. And she swiftly came to regret her grievous error in judgment.”

“Forgive me if I sound disrespectful, Aunt,” Raven replied with sarcasm, “but how could you possibly know?”

“Because she told me so in her letters. Elizabeth wrote to me upon occasion over the years.”

Raven found herself staring. “I never realized Mama wrote to you.”

“She did indeed.” Catherine’s gray eyes remained cold. “Her later letters clearly showed she had come to her senses. She bitterly regretted her fall from grace and losing the rank and privilege to which she was raised. She missed the life she could have had and thought you deserved… Which is why she was so determined you should have a different fate.”

That much was certainly true, Raven reflected somberly. Her mother had been nearly obsessive about rectifying her mistake. Elizabeth had spent countless hours-every afternoon over tea, in fact-trying to instill the graces of a lady in her daughter so that Raven might eventually take her rightful position in English society. On her very deathbed, she had made Raven swear to marry into the nobility…

“Do you still have any of Mama’s letters?” Raven asked, desirous of changing the subject.

“No. I didn’t keep them. But I’m certain she would be relieved to know you had landed a duke for your husband.”

“She would be relieved,” Raven corrected, “to know I needn’t worry about being labeled a bastard. She knew how cruel the ton could be, and she wanted me to be protected by rank and wealth, should my past ever be discovered. A duchess won’t be as vulnerable to such slights as a mere Miss Kendrick.”

“Well, I for one am relieved you have done nothing to shame your family, as she did.”

Raven curled her hands into fists, striving for control. “If you were so concerned that I would shame you, Aunt, I wonder that you gave me a home and sponsored my Season.”

“Because I was determined to keep up appearances, of course. And because your grandfather would hear of nothing else.” Catherine gave an elegant sniff. “In my opinion, Jervis has behaved rather foolishly, fawning over you as if you were his prodigal daughter. But when Elizabeth died, he formed the absurd notion that he had been too harsh-”

“Because he had been too harsh,” Raven interrupted. Her grandfather, Jervis Frome, Viscount Luttrell, had experienced a change of heart upon learning of his daughter’s death, regretting never having reconciled. When his health began to fail, he’d invited Raven to England, desirous of meeting his only grandchild and of making amends for his past intransigence and his estrangement from Elizabeth all these years.

Apparently Aunt Catherine had said her piece, though, for she turned away, every inch the imperious dame. “Enough dallying. You had best make haste. It won’t do to keep the illustrious duke waiting at the altar.”

“No,” Raven forced herself to say coolly. “As one of the chief arbiters of society, Aunt, you should know.”

When she was alone, Raven glanced down blindly at the pearls, still feeling the sting of her aunt’s scorn. Being scorned was a familiar experience to her.

Elizabeth had infuriated her haughty family, imperiling their social standing by developing a passionate love for a married American shipping magnate and conceiving a child out of wedlock. Disaster had been averted only by marrying her off to an impoverished neighbor’s younger son-one who held her in complete contempt, and her bastard daughter as well.

Raven cringed inwardly as she remembered the man who was presumed by the world to be her father, Ian Kendrick. For twenty years now, she had been Miss Kendrick in public, but privately he had never accepted her as his child. Never let her forget that she was in truth a bastard.

He had deliberately made her feel tarnished, unworthy…somehow to blame for both her mother’s weakness and his own misery. The terms of his marriage contract were clear: a small plantation and monthly income in exchange for remaining in the Caribbean with Elizabeth. Yet until the moment of his death in a riding accident eight years ago, Ian Kendrick had railed at his fate-being exiled to a backwater isle with barely the means to support his preferred standard of living-while his wife languished away, torn by unhappiness over her long-lost love. As for their daughter…

Raven steeled her shoulders, willing herself to calm. She’d carried the secret shame of her conception since she was old enough to comprehend the word “bastard.” And though her fear of discovery might be irrational, it was the chief reason she had favored Halford above all the other candidates who’d courted her so assiduously. And why she had carefully avoided the unsuitable ones. If she married high enough, if she aligned herself with a nobleman of power and consequence, then she would be shielded from her dubious past.

Admittedly she was guilty of deception for concealing her origins from her intended husband. But Halford would be getting exactly the sort of bride he required, Raven thought defiantly. She was virginal, possessed an acceptably winsome appearance, was of good blood and family connections, and had adequate countenance to fill the role of duchess. And she would willingly give Halford the heirs he wanted.

She would be getting precisely what she wanted as well: acceptance at last by the polite world that had never considered her good enough. And a husband who was safe. She would never make her mother’s mistake. Better a cold, loveless contract than a blazing passion that could rip her heart to shreds.

She was in no danger of falling in love with her duke, although she had hopes for eventually developing both affection and a satisfying friendship with him. Sometimes she even managed to delve beneath Halford’s stiff, straitlaced reserve and make him smile.

But theirs would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. They would live together in civilized harmony, both understanding exactly what was required of them.

In any case, her imaginary lover would keep her satisfied. And if she had to resort to fantasy in order to feel passion, to experience desire and warmth and fulfillment…well then, she would need such an escape if she hoped to endure a lifetime of her illustrious husband’s rigid British formality.

Truly, though, her fantasizing wouldn’t present any real harm to her husband or to her vows. She would be entirely faithful to Halford…except in her mind.

Raven took a deep breath, renewing her resolve as she turned to ring for her maid. She had made her own bed, as the saying went. Her betrothed would soon be awaiting her at the church-St. George’s, Hanover Square-along with several hundred of their friends and acquaintances, the very cream of the ton. And she intended to look her best for her special day.

Two hours later she descended the stairway to the entrance hall where, with the aid of a cane, her grandfather stood alongside his sister Catherine. The elderly viscount stayed here on the rare occasions when he came to town, rather than open his own cavernous mansion.

Lord Luttrell was tall and silver-haired like his sister, though not as handsome. He’d been ill for a long while, suffering from a weak heart.

Tears brimmed in his eyes, Raven saw when she reached him.

“So you approve, do you, Grandfather?” she asked, offering him a smile. She couldn’t totally forgive him for repudiating her mother so many years ago, but they had come to terms of sorts during the nearly eight months since her arrival in England.

He took her hand in his own shaky one. “Very much, child. You are exceedingly beautiful.”

Raven did think her appearance pleasing. Her empire gown was of pale lemon lustring, with an ivory net overskirt shot with gold threads. And she wore her mother’s pearls, while her raven hair was gathered high into an elegant coiffure.

Beside the viscount, her dragon of a great-aunt agreed even while sniffing in disapproval. “She is indeed beautiful, Jervis, but you will turn her head with such flattery. And Raven is not a child in the least. She turned twenty months ago.”

As usual, her grandfather ignored his sister’s waspish tone and patted Raven’s hand. “I have never been so proud of you. You will make a grand duchess.”

Raven bit back an instinctive reply. In her grandfather’s opinion-along with the much of the world’s-a woman’s worth was only measured by her husband’s position in society. Yet to his credit, Grandfather only wanted her to be well settled in life.

Despite the strain that had marked their early relationship, Lord Luttrell had welcomed her with a touching eagerness, making her feel like a cherished member of his family. And Raven had found herself immensely glad for the connection. He and Lady Dalrymple were the only blood relations she had left, other than an American half brother whom she could never publicly claim. She’d never even known her real father, the wealthy American shipping magnate who had died some years past.

And she knew the viscount truly mourned his late daughter and regretted his intractability.

“I am sorry your mother is not here to see you,” her grandfather said now in a trembling voice.

Raven felt her own throat constrict. She, too, wished her mother could be here to witness her triumphant union.

“Jervis, if you are finished wallowing in sentimentality,” Aunt Catherine interjected sharply, “we have a ceremony to attend.”

“Yes, of course,” Luttrell grunted with a quelling look at his sister.

After accepting her cloak from the Dalrymple butler, Raven allowed her grandfather to lead her slowly down the entrance steps of her aunt’s residence to where the viscount’s grand, crested carriage stood ready to transport them to the church.

To Raven’s delight, her long-term groom, Michael O’Malley, waited beside the carriage to see her off.

“ ’Tis a grand sight you are, Miss Raven,” the Irishman said in his lilting accent, beaming when she reached him. “And a proud day to be sure.”

With a brilliant smile of her own, Raven stepped aside to embrace the hulking, gray-haired fellow. “Thank you, O’Malley,” she said, her voice husky with emotion.

She kissed his grizzled cheek, ignoring her aunt’s sudden stiffening and her grandfather’s obvious frown of disapproval. For most of her childhood, O’Malley had been more father than servant to her. And he had accompanied her to England from the West Indies when she’d come to face her haughty, unknown relatives. She was immeasurably grateful to him for standing her friend.

Turning then, Raven allowed O’Malley to take her elbow so he could hand her into the elegant barouche. When she heard a sudden commotion, though, she glanced curiously up the street to see a closed carriage barreling toward them, its windows shuttered, its coachman wearing a hooded cape that made him appear phantomlike.

Strangely, the coach slowed as it passed the barouche, then rumbled to a halt while three armed, masked figures leapt out. To Raven’s shock, two of them pointed pistols directly at her, while the third brandished a cudgel.

“Ye’re to come with us,” one said in gruff voice, gesturing at her.

“Who the devil are you?” Lord Luttrell demanded.

When Raven stood frozen in bewilderment, the leader lunged at her and gripped her arm, dragging her toward the coach.

With a fierce growl, O’Malley made to intervene, but the man with the cudgel moved directly into his path, swinging his weapon viciously, preventing her groom from coming to her aid.

For an instant Raven wondered if she were imagining this nightmare, but the pain in her arm was very real as she was hauled toward the open door of the coach.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” her aunt exclaimed in her iciest voice. “I demand you unhand my niece at once!”

But Raven’s assailant paid no mind to the order. Instead he wrenched her around and snaked a thick arm about her waist from behind, lifting her bodily off her feet.

Gasping in fury, she fought back, struggling to be free of this rough, crude oaf, but her slippered heels made no dent in his beefy shins. When she bent her head in desperation and bit his shoulder through his tweed coat, her defiance earned her a cuff to the temple from his fist, a blow so violent that she saw stars.

Dazed, she glanced back to see the look of horror on her aunt’s face, the fear on her grandfather’s.

Her own fright grew as she realized the direness of her situation: she was being abducted in broad daylight!

Then she saw O’Malley struck down with the cudgel. Raven gave an anguished cry of protest, a cry that was cut short as she was shoved roughly inside the coach and facedown on the floor. She felt her gown rip at the shoulder as the coach door slammed behind her.

Stunned, the breath knocked from her, she scarcely comprehended the shouts from outside the coach as the vehicle lurched forward and began to move off. Groping the swaying seat to brace herself, Raven dizzily scrambled onto the rear-facing leather cushions.

She was not alone.

“You!” she exclaimed, recognizing the black-haired gentleman who sat opposite her. He was the same obsessive brute she’d barely escaped from once before: an unwanted suitor who’d assaulted her after refusing to accept her rejection. When she last saw him, he had been fighting O’Malley, who had come to her rescue.

Sean Lasseter’s savage smile held unmistakable menace, but it was the pistol aimed at her chest that made her heart jump to her throat.

“So you do remember me, Miss Kendrick, after all these months. I am flattered.”

“What do you want?” she demanded breathlessly, eyeing the pistol.

“Simple revenge,” her abductor replied, his own tone silken.

“Revenge? For what?”

Drawing a flask from his coat pocket, he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. She could smell the strong liquor in the close confines of the coach, could see the alcoholic glaze in his eyes.

“Surely you know,” he said, his voice grim.

Suddenly he lifted the butt of the pistol, and Raven flinched, knowing he meant to strike her. Frantically she raised her arms to protect her face from the threat, but he rammed the butt into the side of her skull, and she saw no more.