Virtue

6

The whitewashed bedroom beneath the eaves was sparsely furnished but clean. A rush mat covered the uneven planking, faded muslin curtains blew at the open dormer window, matching the tester of the poster bed. Judith walked across to the window, noticing distantly that her hands were shaking as she drew off her gloves. She looked out unseeing over the kitchen garden and the panorama of fields beyond. Behind her Marcus patiently dismissed Madame Berthold, the innkeeper's wife, whose anxious descriptions of the room's amenities were interspersed with dread predictions on the possible outcome of the coming battle.

Finally Madame was induced to leave and Marcus leaned against the closed door, regarding Judith's turned back, allowing the silence to fill the room, the anticipation to build again. He tossed his whip onto a chair and slowly drew off his own gloves. Judith didn't move.

Marcus came up behind her. He lifted the massed copper curls from her neck and laid his lips softly on her warm nape. A shudder went through her and he felt again that jolting surge of energy that met and matched his own. His lips moved to the soft vulnerable spot behind her ear, his breath whispering over her skin.

"My beautiful lynx, I want to see you naked." He drew her backward into the room, turning her to face him, taking her chin between thumb and forefinger. Judith read the brilliant sensual sheen in his eyes, as vibrant with longing as his words, and she felt herself slipping into some half world where the only reality was contained within the powerful surges of her responses. Her need and her hunger were his. She whispered that she wanted his nakedness as he wanted hers, and she ran her flat palm over his cheek, lightly tracing his mouth with her little finger. His hand came up to grasp her wrist, holding her hand steady, and he sucked her probing finger into his mouth, delicately nibbling the tip.

It was an exquisite sensation. The nerve endings in the tip of her finger seemed to be connected to other parts of her body. Her tongue ran over her own lips and her eyes glowed up at him, the sensual currents as frank and clear as his own.

"Sweet heaven, but I want you, Judith." His loins were on fire with wanting. "I have to look at you." He lifted her, feeling again her light, tensile muscularity. A true golden-eyed lynx.

He carried her to the bed and sat her on the edge, dropping to his knees to pull off her boots. He rose and drew her to her feet again. "I'll find it easier to undress you standing up," he said with a smile, kissing the corner of her mouth.

"I could do it more quickly," Judith offered.

Marcus shook his head, taking a handful of her hair in each fist, holding her face steady as he kissed her mouth. Her breasts pressed against his chest and she moaned softly beneath his lips. With a sharply in-drawn breath, he released her head. His fingers, swift and deft, moved to her jacket. The buttons flew undone and he pushed the garment off her shoulders with rough haste, before turning his attention to the buttons of her lawn shirt.

The soft mounds of her breasts, the nipples hard and erect widi desire, disappeared into his warm palms. Judith closed her eyes on a deep shudder of pleasure as his fingertips teased the taut crowns. He ran his hands down the narrow rib cage, feeling the shape of her, the smoothness of her skin, the delineation of her ribs, until he spanned her waist. He took a step backward and looked at her, bared to the waist for his hungry gaze, her hair lustrous against the whiteness of her skin, her breasts moving gently with her swift breath.

She smiled, a deep, self-absorbed smile, her eyes hooded as she ran her own hands over her bared breasts in offering. "Take your skirt off," he rasped.

She unfastened the hooks at the back of her skirt, sliding her hands into the loosened waistband, easing the garment over her hips, until it slithered to her ankles. She stood in front of him, clad only in her thin cambric petticoat. Putting his hands on her hips, he turned her. Judith shivered at his touch, at the warm imprint of his hands through the thin material. He ran a flat finger down her spine, feeling her skin ripple. Holding her shoulders, he bent his head and his tongue followed the path of his finger, a hot, moist stroke that brought a low moan to Judith's lips. She tried to keep still, but her feet shifted restlessly on the wooden floor.

The button at the waist of her petticoat came undone and the garment slipped to her ankles. Marcus ran his hands in a lingering caress over the curve of her hips, the firm rise of her buttocks, the supple slenderness of her thighs. Then, with his hands on her hips, he turned her around to face him.

Again stepping backward, he took in her body, from the tip of the burnished head to the toes of her still-stockinged feet. Lacy garters banded her thighs, just above the knee, and he decided he would leave them there. There was something rather wonderfully wicked about them, something that went with the essential Judith he thought he was beginning to know.

"So beautiful," he said. "As beautiful as in my wildest imaginings."

Judith stepped toward him, reaching her arms around his neck, pressing her nakedness against the slight roughness of his coat, feeling the smooth leather of his britches against her thighs. Her head fell back, offering him the porcelain column of her throat, her hair cascading in a burnished river over her shoulders, her loins pressed hard against him in a gesture as eloquent as any words of arousal.

"Dear God, Judith," he whispered, cupping her buttocks and lifting her against him. "Dear God, lynx. What are you doing to me?" He took a step to the bed and let her fall onto the coverlet. He stood looking down at her for a second, then began to throw off his own clothes.

Judith watched. She gazed with a predator's lustful greed as the powerful, athletic body was revealed. When he shrugged out of his shirt, she dwelled on the broad chest, lightly dusted with dark curls, the narrow waist, and then stared with uninhibited curiosity as he unfastened his belt and pushed off his britches; a concave belly, slim hips, long muscular legs, the hard, erect evidence of his arousal… He turned to throw his britches on the chair, revealing taut-muscled buttocks, and she drew in a sharp breath, her body stirring on the coverlet.

He came down to the bed, stretching himself beside her, kissing the soft pulse at the base of her throat as he caressed her belly, tickled a fingertip in her navel, inhaling the scents of her body. He touched the line of her body, from below her ear to her hip, feeling the tender curves, the deep indentations, and she moaned beneath his hand, whispering his name. His mouth moved to her breasts, his teeth lightly grazing her nipples, and Judith was awash in sensation, the liquid fullness in her loins a near unendurable urgency. Shifting her body, she felt his hardness against her thigh and reached down to take the turgid, ridged flesh in her hand, feeling the blood pulsing strongly against her palm. It was a curious and wonderful sensation as she curled her fingers around him, enclosing him in a warm grip.

Marcus groaned softly under the knowing caress, and his tongue trailed a moist and fiery path over her belly. She opened her thighs in sudden demand, still caressing his flesh, her fingers now conveying an acute urgency in their tips.

"Such impatience," he whispered, slipping a hand beneath her, his fingers closing like pincers over the firm, sweet flesh of her buttocks. "Slow down, sweetheart." He pinched just hard enough to pierce the self-enclosed trance of her need and her eyes opened, focusing fully on the face hanging over her. "You'll have me over the edge in a minute," he said, smiling. "And that would be a great pity for both of us."

She nodded in fierce understanding, clenching the cheek of her captured backside against his fingers.

Marcus moved his hand, flipping her onto her stomach. And now his lips were cool, his breath warm, erasing the marks of his fingers on the imprisoned flesh. His hand slid between her thighs, delicately probing, opening the soft swollen petals, feeling her warm readiness. She opened to his touch, moving her body backward against his hand, her little whimpers of pleasure filling the room.

"Turn over now," he said softly, moving his hand, kissing the nape of her neck. "I want to look into your eyes when I'm a part of you."

She rolled onto her back and gazed up at him through half-closed eyes. "I cannot describe how I feel." It seemed to both of them the first time she'd spoken in an eternity, and her voice sounded to Judith rusty and thick from disuse.

Marcus kissed her again, his pleasure in her pleasure glowing in his eyes as he eased himself between her legs with a low sibilant murmur of fulfillment. She felt the press of his manhood against the cleft of her body and instinctively tightened against him. Surprise skimmed his eyes, and then he touched her again with his hand, and her body surged against him, her legs lifting to receive him as he pressed within her, her heels gripping his buttocks with a wild urgency. Too late he became aware of her tightness, of the thin membrane momentarily barring his entrance. And then he was deep within her, his body a part of hers, and the tears glittered in her eyes, but her lips were parted on an exultant little cry and she was moving with his rhythm and the full force of Napoleon's Imperial Guard couldn't have stopped either of them then.

A look of astonishment appeared in her eyes, her head fell back, her throat arching, and her legs curled around his waist, pulling him into the cleft of her body. With a supreme effort of will, he held himself still, glorying in her velvet warmth as her climax surged around him. He wanted to stay forever on the precipice, reveling in the feel of her, the grip of her body around him, but the deep spiraling urgency could not be controlled. With a sharp stab of loss, he forced himself to withdraw from the tight sheath in which she held him, gathering her against him as his own climax throbbed.

"Sweet heaven." Judith gasped. "What a wondrous thing."

Marcus fell back on the bed beside her, his eyes tightly closed, and for a long minute he didn't say anything. Then finally he asked in a curiously flat voice, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

He rolled over, propping himself on an elbow. "That you were a virgin." His gaze fell on the bright blood smearing her thighs as she lay sprawled in wanton abandonment beside him. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" he demanded, his eyes hard as the shared glory of that union was abruptly tarnished by a wash of guilt and confusion.

"Did you think I wasn't?" she asked.

"How could I think you were? You behaved like an experienced woman. How could I possibly have imagined you to be still virtuous?"

"Does it matter?" Judith sat up, unease puncturing her euphoria.

"Of course it matters." He fell back on the pillows again. "I don't make a habit of deflowering virgins."

"But we only did what we both wanted." She was genuinely puzzled. "Nothing happened that wasn't supposed to happen."

He looked at her closely. "No," he said slowly. "Perhaps that's true. Nothing happened that wasn't supposed to happen."

There was an edge to the flat statement that was as

confusing to Judith as it was dismaying. She slid off the bed and went to the dresser, pouring water from the ewer into the basin. "You sound angry. I don't seem to understand why." She squeezed a cloth in water and sponged her thighs. "How have I upset you?"

Marcus stared up at the flowered canopy, trying to sort out the raging confusion in his brain. Perhaps he was wronging her. Why would she have contrived such a happening? And surely not even the most consummate actress could have faked her passion, her need, her fulfillment?

"Come to bed," he said. "It's well past dawn and we need to sleep."

"But won't you explain?" She came across to the bed, her eyes huge with tiredness and a distress that he would swear was genuine. With a wash of remorse, he reached up and drew her down beside him.

"Tristesse de I'amour, "he said gently. "Forgive me. It happens sometimes, and you did take me by surprise. I feel a little guilty, but it'll fade after a few hours' sleep. Close your eyes now." He closed her eyelids with his fingertips, stroking her cheek until he felt her relax against him, yielding anxiety to the soft billows of exhaustion.

Judith breathed deeply of the sweat tang of his skin and the lingering perfume of their loving as she slipped into unconsciousness. The whole business was so new to her it was no wonder it had some puzzling aspects.

She awoke to a rumbling, booming roar. For a moment she lay, disoriented, aware of the contours of an unfamiliar bed, staring up at the muslin canopy. Then memory rushed back and she sat bolt upright. "Whatever is that noise?"

"Guns." Marcus was standing at the window. He

had on his britches and was in the act of putting on his shirt. "The battle has been joined."

"What time is it?"

"Four o'clock." He turned to the bed. Judith was an artless yet bewitchingly wanton sight, sitting up, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, the sheet tangled around her thighs. He remembered the abandonment of her responses, the wild and glorious honesty of her desire. Honest… except that she hadn't told him of her innocence, had left him to discover it when it was too late for control or caution. But perhaps that was part of the openness of her response; she genuinely hadn't given it a second thought in the blind world of arousal. She was an adventuress, after all. He allowed doubt and confusion to fade and enjoyed the sight of her as she blinked and shook her head in some bemusement, struggling to come back to the bright world of daytime reality.

"We've slept the day away," she said finally.

"So it would seem." He crossed the room and bent to kiss her. "How do you feel?"

Judith took stock. "A little sore," she said, after due consideration.

He winced and said wryly, "I did ask, I suppose. There's hot water in the ewer. But how do you feel in yourself?" His voice was serious, telling her he wanted an equally serious answer.

"Wonderful," she declared. "Virginity is a much overprized condition." She smiled up at him. "Why were you worried about it last night? There's no need to feel guilty; you weren't responsible."

Marcus frowned. "Of course I was responsible." He caught a tangled ringlet and twisted it around his finger. "Things happened very fast… perhaps too fast."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, putting her head on one side. "I rather thought it was a very leisurely business."

Marcus gave up trying to persuade her to feel badly about something she clearly didn't regret in the least. Any regrets he might have would fade soon enough. It was done now, and there was nothing to hinder the progress of this liaison. Indeed, if it wasn't for the sound of cannon and the knowledge of what that meant, not to mention his own very empty belly, he'd be back in bed with her in a trice.

He laughed and pulled the sheet away from her legs. "Get up! Shameless wanton! I'm going belowstairs in search of an extremely delayed luncheon."

"Good, because I am starving. Are we going on to Quatre Bras, then?"

He was, but he had no intention of taking Judith into the theater of war. However, that tussle could wait on a full stomach. "As soon as possible. I'll be needed at Wellington's headquarters. I should have arrived there last night, but I daresay I'll think of some excuse other than the truth: that I was delayed by delight." He chuckled and drew the heavy, gold signet ring from his finger. "You had better wear this while you're here, for appearance's sake. Madame Berthold is sure to notice such an absence."

"Yes, of course. I hadn't thought," she said, slipping the ring on her finger. "It's a bit big, but I can hold it on." She poured water from the ewer into the basin.

Marcus stood transfixed by the door, watching the matter-of-fact manner in which she sponged her body. His loins stirred anew and, with a muttered oath, he fled the webs of enchantment and went down to the taproom that served as parlor and dining room.

"Oh, there you are, my lord. I was just explaining to these officers that we had a benighted gentleman and his wife as guests." Madame Berthold, the innkeeper's wife, looked up from the keg of ale from which she was drawing foaming tankards. She looked frightened. "The battle has begun, my lord. All day we've been waiting for the sound of the guns, only it didn't start till but an hour or two past. Boney's been delaying his attack, these gentlemen say."

"Carrington, good God, man, what brings you here?"

Marcus silently swore every oath he knew as he recognized the Dragoon officer and his two companions, lounging against the bar counter. "I'm on my way to Wellington's headquarters, Francis." He stepped into the room, nodding at the other men. "Whitby, George. Good day."

Colonel, Lord Francis Tallent, looked at his old friend with a suddenly arrested expression. "Wife?"

"We all have our secrets, Francis," Marcus said casually. His friends would draw the correct conclusion and discreetly drop the subject. A man's amorous adventures were his own concern. He turned to the innkeeper's wife. "Could you have a nuncheon taken abovestairs, ma-dame?"

"And would your good lady like a dish of tea with that, sir, or perhaps a glass of sherry?" The woman bobbed a curtsy, looking helpful.

"Oh, there's no need to wait upon me. I can perfectly well be served in the taproom. I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

Judith Davenport swept smiling into the room. She was still putting up her hair as she walked, blind fingers twisting the ringlets into a knot, pushing in securing pins. She wore no jacket and her lawn blouse was carelessly opened at the neck, her breasts lifted by her upraised arms. "Marcus, I was thinking…" Her voice died as she took in the room's other inhabitants, all of whom had turned the color of beetroot. Her hands dropped to her sides.

Had she heard the voices? How could she not have heard them as she came down the stairs? The world spun on its axis as Marcus faced what had happened and its immutable consequence. He'd once found a poacher caught in the steel jaws of a man trap. His sick horror at the man's plight was what he now felt for himself as the vicious jaws of his own trap clamped. He had no choice… no choice whatsoever. Adventuress she may be, but he'd taken her virginity and knew she was no whore… not unless he made her one.

"You know my wife, of course, Francis," he said. He crossed to the door and took her hand, drawing her into the room. "My dear, are you also acquainted with Viscount Whitby and George Bannister?"

"We have met, I believe," Judith replied distractedly, her head spinning as she took in the disaster. These men were all prominent members of London Society. The story of this encounter would be on everyone's lips and she'd never be able to enter the hallowed portals of the ton… and neither would her brother. And her father would go unavenged. Marcus's fabrication was her only protection at the moment, and she had to go along with it until she could think things through clearly.

"Devil take it, Marcus, but you're a dark horse!" Francis exclaimed. "Secrets, eh? Pray accept my congratulations, Lady Carrington."

"Yes, indeed. This calls for a bottle," Bannister announced. "My good woman, champagne."

"Well, I don't know as we've got any, sir," the flustered woman said. "I'll go and ask Berthold." She hastened out of the room and a short silence fell. The puzzlement of the other men was evident, although they were trying politely to disguise it.

"So, you're taking Lady Carrington to Quatre Bras?" Whitby said, raising his tankard of ale to his lips.

"In the manner of a honeymoon," Marcus agreed without blinking. "A little unusual, but then the times are not exactly accommodating." His smile was a trifle twisted.

"Quite so," Lord Francis said.

"What news of the battle?" Marcus changed the subject abruptly.

"As expected, he's attacking Bliicher at Ligny and Wellington at Quatre Bras."

"Why did he wait so long to attack? He's left himself but five hours until sunset."

"According to our agents, he didn't make his usual early-morning reconnaissance and thought he was only facing Bliicher's one corp at Ligny. He didn't realize Ziethen's forces had come up in support, so he didn't see any need to hurry," Francis replied.

"But despite the delay, we're being mangled on both fronts," Whitby said somberly. "Wellington's taking very heavy losses at Quatre Bras and we've orders to call up reinforcements at Nivelles."

"Here's a nuncheon, my lord, and a bottle of Ber-thold's best claret.'" The innkeeper's wife came in with a heavily laden tray. "I hope it'll do. We've no champagne, sir."

"It will do very well," Carrington reassured. He drew out a chair at the table. "Judith, come and sit down. Gentlemen, will you join us?"

"Thank you, no, Carrington. Beg you'll excuse us, ma'am." Whitby bowed formally. "Fact is, had nuncheon some time ago."

"It is rather late in the day," Judith managed to say.

She took the chair Marcus held for her, casting him a quick glance as she did so. His expression was impassive, his eyes unreadable.

"May I carve you some ham?" he asked with a distant courtesy.

"Thank you, sir." A pink tinge touched her cheekbones.

"A morsel of chicken also?"

"Please." She dropped her eyes to the tablecloth, feeling as if she had committed some dreadful crime for which retribution waited in the wings.

Wretched, she concentrated on her food and left the conversation to the men. The steady booming of the guns continued until the sound was abruptly overtaken by a swelling roar from outside. The roar gradually separated itself into shouts, screams, and pounding feet.

Lord Francis ran to the inn doorway, followed by the others. A torrent of humanity, some on horseback, some in gigs and dog carts, but most on foot, poured down the lane toward Brussels. Women carried babies, small children clinging to their skirts, stumbling on the hard mud-ridged road; the men were armed with whatever they had been able to grab in their haste: staves, knives, a blunderbuss.

"What the devil?" Marcus exclaimed.

"Looks like a rout," Whitby said. "Wellington must be retreating."

"Napoleon's not beaten him so far," Marcus said. "I can't believe he'll do it this time."

"Oh, sirs, they say the army is retreating!" Berthold, the innkeeper, came running in from the road, where he had been chasing after information among the fleeing crowd. "Wellington's falling back on Brussels. The Prussians are retreating to Wavre."

"Hell and damnation!" George Bannister grabbed up his hat. "We'd best be about our business."

"Berthold!" Marcus bellowed as the innkeeper ran for the door again. "Have my nag put to the cart." He strode to the stairs leading to the bedchamber and took them two at a time. Judith stood in the now-empty taproom, listening to the roar of humanity outside. Then she ran up the stairs after Marcus.

He was shrugging into his coat, checking the contents of his pockets. He glanced up as she came in and said curtly, "I'm going to Quatre Bras. You'll stay here. I'll pay our shot when I come back for you."

"You seem to be forgetting that / was going to Quatre Bras, too," she said, swallowing the lump that seemed to be blocking her throat. With what was happening at the moment, it was hardly feasible for them to discuss the personal mess they were in, but the coldness of his voice was surely unwarranted. And she couldn't believe he intended simply to take off and leave her stranded, cooling her heels in a lonely inn, not knowing anything of what was happening.

"Well, you're not going now," he said in clipped accents. "It's too dangerous with that horde out there, and you'll only be in the way."

Judith lost her temper. It was a relief to do so since it banished her feeling of helplessness and concealed for the time being the apprehension that something very hurtful lurked around the next corner of her relationship with Marcus Devlin.

"That's my horse and my cart," she said with furious emphasis. "And I'll have you know, Lord Carrington, that I go where I please. You have no right to dictate to me." She snatched up her jacket and gloves. "If you wish to hitch another ride in my cart, then you're welcome to do so. Otherwise, I suggest you find your own transport."

Before he could respond, she had turned and run from the room. With a muttered oath, Marcus grabbed up his whip and sprang after her. He reached the stable-yard on her heels. Judith leaped onto the driver's seat of the cart, standing ready as ordered, and snapped the reins. Marcus grabbed the bridle at the bit and held the horse still.

"You're behaving like a spoiled child," he said. "A battlefield is no place for a woman. Now get down at once."

"No," Judith snapped. "You really are the most arrogant, high-handed despot! I told you, I go where I please and you don't have any right of command."

"At this moment, I'm exercising a husband's authority," he declared. "A battlefield is no place for a woman and most definitely not for my wife. Now, do as you're told."

For a moment Judith was speechless. "I am not your wife," she managed to get out finally.

"To all intents and purposes you are now. And as soon as I can find a damned priest, you will be in the eyes of the church."

It was too much for a saint to bear. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth!" she cried.

"As far as you're concerned, my dear Judith, that's exactly what I am," he announced aridly. "The first and last man you will know, in the fullest sense of that word."

White-faced, Judith stood up in the cart and whipped at the horse with the reins. The animal plunged forward with a snort, catching Marcus off guard. He stumbled, still holding the bit as the horse lunged. He regained his balance just in time and released the bit before he was dragged forward by the now caracoling animal. He grabbed the side of the cart and sprang upward, seizing the reins from her. The horse shot off as if a bee were lodged beneath his tail.

"Monsieur… monsieur…" came the outraged screams of the innkeeper's wife behind them.

Judith looked over her shoulder. Madame Berthoid was pounding up the road in their wake, waving a skillet at them, her apron flapping into her face. Her cap flew off into the ditch but her charge continued regardless.

"I think you forgot to pay your shot," Judith said on a strangled gasp, an almost hysterical laughter suddenly taking the place of her rage.

"Damnation!" Marcus hauled back on the reins, and the near-demented horse reared to a snorting halt. He turned to look at Judith, who was now doubled over, weeping with laughter. His lip quivered and his shoulders began to shake at the absurdity of the scene. He glanced over his shoulder to where Madame Berthoid still pounded, panting, toward them.

"One of these days, I really will wallop you," he commented to the gasping Judith, as he reached into his pocket for his billfold. "You nearly had me taken up for a thief." Leaning down to the red-faced, indignant Madame Berthoid, he gave her his most charming smile and poured forth a flood of apologies, blaming the urgency of the moment for his forgetfulness.

Madame was appeased with a handful of sovereigns that more than compensated for her hospitality, and stood breathless and perspiring in the road as Marcus started the cart again.

"Now, where were we?" he said.

Judith had finally stopped laughing and leaned back against the rough wooden seat back. "On the road to Quatre Bras. Where we're both going against the traffic."

"So it would seem. We'll find a priest there."

"There must be some other way," she said, biting her lip. But she couldn't think of one that wouldn't ruin everything. How could Sebastian ever forgive her for destroying months and months of planning in the willful pursuit of passion?

"I took your maidenhead and we were discovered in a situation that would ruin you. In such a circumstance, there is no honorable alternative." He stated the facts bluntly, without inflection.

"But have you forgotten, my lord, that I am a card-sharping, horse-thieving, disreputable hussy, living on the fringes of Society, in the shadow of the gaming tables?" Her voice thickened and she swallowed crossly.

"No, I haven't forgotten. I'll just have to wean you away from your undesirable pursuits."

"And if I am not to be weaned, my lord?"

He shrugged. "It's not a matter for jest, Judith. As my wife, you will have responsibilities to my name and my honor. You'll accept those responsibilities as your part of the bargain."

Bargain? Judith turned away from him, trying to sort out the maelstrom raging in her head. Marriage to the Marquis of Carrington would work beautifully for both herself and Sebastian. Installed as the Marchioness of Carrington, she would have immediate and natural access to the circles frequented by Gracemere, as would Sebastian as the marquis's brother-in-law. Their position in Society would be assured and their present funds would be more than ample to set Sebastian up as a bachelor in London. He would need fashionable rooms instead of a house; one servant instead of a houseful. Their accumulated money would go much farther. It would mean they could begin to enact their revenge so much sooner than they'd anticipated. And when it was over,

Sebastian would be established in his own right. This card had been dealt to her hand; only a fool would refuse out of scruple to play it.

But Marcus mustn't know anything of that. There was a lifetime of secrets he couldn't know. So how could she fulfill her side of this bargain?

"I know nothing of you," she said aloud. "Why have you never married?"

There was silence. Marcus stared across the past and contemplated the truth… and the half-truth that had become the truth. Honor still bound him to the half-truth, for all that the one who could be most damaged by the whole story had been in her grave these many years past. The full truth was known now only to himself and one other. But it was a fair question.

"It's a plain and unremarkable tale, but pride is a devilish thing, and I have more than my fair share. Ten years ago I was to be married. A woman your antithesis in every way. I had known her since childhood and it didn't occur to me to woo her. She was a sweet, meek soul who I assumed would make me a compliant and exemplary wife. Instead, she fell wildly in love with a fortune-hunting gamester, who most skillfully swept her off her feet. She cried off."

His voice was perfectly level, almost bland as he continued. "The role of jilted fiance was a hard and humiliating one for me. I was rather young to face such public mortification with equanimity. I decided then that a man could live in perfect contentment without a wife."

"Did she marry the fortune hunter?"

What choice had she had…? Poor little dupe. Marcus closed his eyes on the memory of Martha's battered face, closed his ears to the sound of her broken whimpers. An untamed lynx would never get herself into such a predicament. An unprincipled adventuress would arrange matters to suit herself. Had she heard those voices on the stairs? Had she known who was in the taproom before she'd walked in, her clothes almost disheveled, the aura of a satisfied woman clinging to every curve and line of her body? Had she contrived this? But even if she had, a man of honor had no choice.

"Yes, she married him," he said, "and died in childbed nine months later, leaving him to game away her fortune." He shook his head in a dismissive gesture. "I don't wish to talk of Martha ever again. You and she are so different, one could almost believe you to be different species."

She wanted to ask him if he believed he could be happy married to her, but deep in her soul she knew the answer. His hand had been forced; he was making that clear with every word and intonation.

If it wasn't for Gracemere, it would be easy to let him off the hook. She'd be able to say that in her circles, reputation didn't matter, that she'd be perfectly happy to be his lover for as long as it suited them both. But she wasn't going to say any of those things. She was a gamester and she'd been dealt a perfect hand.

She turned her head and met his cool gaze. "We have a bargain, then, my lord Carrington," she said simply. Marcus nodded in brief affirmation and returned his attention to the road.

Judith closed her eyes, listening to the roar of cannon growing ever closer. The road was thronged with columns of soldiers, horses and limbers, fleeing civilians mingling with the detritus of a retreating army. Suddenly all thought of passion and revenge seemed trivial in the midst of an event that would obliterate thousands of lives and shape the future of their world.