She must have dozed off. When next she opened her eyes, he was crouched before the hearth. The candle had guttered; the only light in the room was that thrown by the flames. Half-asleep, she watched as he laid logs on the blaze, banking it for the night.

During their earlier conversation, she'd kept her eyes on his face or the flames; now, with the firelight sculpting his arms and shoulders, she looked her fill. Something about all that tanned male skin had her battling a fierce urge to press her fingers to it, to spread her hands across the warm expanse, to curve her palms about hard muscle.

Arms crossed, hands safely clutching her elbows, she shivered.

In one fluid motion he rose and turned. And frowned. "Here." Reaching past her, he lifted his soft jacket from the table and held it out.

Honoria stared at it, valiantly denying the almost overwhelming urge to focus, not on the jacket, but on the chest a yard behind it. She swallowed, shook her head, then dragged her gaze straight up to his face. "No-you keep it. It was just that I woke up-I'm not really cold." That last was true enough; the fire was throwing steady heat into the room.

One black brow very slowly rose; the pale green eyes did not leave her face. Then the second brow joined the first, and he shrugged. "As you wish." He resumed his seat in the old carved chair, glancing about the cottage, his gaze lingering on the blanket-shrouded figure on the bed. Then, settling back, he looked at her. "I suggest we get what sleep we can. The storm should have passed by morning."

Honoria nodded, immensely relieved when he spread his jacket over his disturbing chest. He laid his head against the chairback, and closed his eyes. His lashes formed black crescents above his high cheekbones; light flickered over the austere planes of his face. A strong face, hard yet not insensitive. The sensuous line of his lips belied his rugged jaw; the fluid arch of his brows offset his wide forehead. Wild locks of midnight black framed the whole-Honoria smiled and closed her eyes. He should have been a pirate.

With sleep clouding her mind, her body soothed by the fire's warmth, it wasn't hard to drift back into her dreams.

Sylvester Sebastian Cynster, sixth Duke of St. Ives, known as That Devil Cynster to a select handful of retainers, as Devil Cynster to the ton at large and simply as Devil to his closest friends, watched his wife-to-be from beneath his long lashes. What, he wondered, would his mother, the Dowager

Duchess, make of Honoria Prudence Anstruther-Wetherby? The thought almost made him smile, but the dark pall that hung over his mind wouldn't let his lips curve. For Tolly's death there was only one answer; justice would be served, but vengeance would wield the sword. Nothing else would appease him or the other males of his clan. Despite their reckless propensities, Cynsters died in their beds.

But avenging Tolly's death would merely be laying the past to rest. Today he had rounded the next bend in his own road; his companion for the next stretch shifted restlessly in the old wing chair opposite.

Devil watched her settle, and wondered what was disturbing her dreams. Him, he hoped. She was certainly disturbing him-and he was wide-awake.

He hadn't realized when he'd left the Place that morning that he was searching for a wife; fate had known better. It had placed Honoria Prudence in his path in a manner that ensured he couldn't pass her by. The restless dissatisfaction that had gripped him of late seemed all of a piece, part of fate's scheme. Jaded by the importunities of his latest conquest, he'd come to the Place, sending word to Vane to meet him for a few days' shooting. Vane had been due to join him that evening; with a whole day to kill, he'd thrown a saddle on Sulieman and ridden out to his fields.

The wide lands that were his never failed to soothe him, to refocus his mind on who he was, what he was. Then the storm had risen; he'd cut through the wood, heading for the back entrance to the Place. That had put him on track to find Tolly-and Honoria Prudence. Fate had all but waved a red flag; no one had ever suggested he was slow to see the light. Seizing opportunity was how he'd made his name-he'd already decided to seize Honoria Prudence. She would do very well as his wife. For a start, she was tall, with a well-rounded figure, neither svelte nor fleshy but very definitely feminine. Hair of chesnut brown glowed richly, tendrils escaping from the knot on the top of her head. Her face, heart-shaped, was particularly arresting, fine-boned and classical, with a small straight nose, delicately arched brown brows, and a wide forehead. Her lips were full, a soft blush pink; her eyes, her finest feature, large, wide-set and long-lashed, were a misty grey. He'd told true about her chin-it was the only feature that reminded him of her grandsire, not in shape but in the determination it managed to convey.

Physically, she was a particularly engaging proposition-she'd certainly engaged his notoriously fickle interest.

Equally important, she was uncommonly level-headed, not given to flaps or starts. That had been clear from the first, when she'd stood straight and tall, uncowering beneath the weight of the epithets he'd so freely heaped on her head. Then she'd favored him with a look his mother could not have bettered and directed him to the matter at hand.

He'd been impressed by her courage. Instead of indulging in a fit of hysterics-surely prescribed practice for a gentlewoman finding a man bleeding to death in her path?-she'd been resourceful and practical. Her struggle to subdue her fear of the storm hadn't escaped him. He'd done what he could to distract her; her instantaneous response to his commands-he'd almost seen her hackles rising-had made distracting her easy enough. Taking his shirt off hadn't hurt, either.

His lips twitched; ruthlessly he straightened them. That, of course, was yet another good reason he should follow fate's advice.

For the past seventeen years, despite all the distractions the ton's ladies had lined up to provide, his baser instincts had remained subject to his will, entirely and absolutely. Honoria Prudence, however, seemed to have established a direct link to that part of his mind which, as was the case with any male Cynster, was constantly on the lookout for likely prospects. It was the hunter in him; the activity did not usually distract him from whatever else he had in hand. Only when he was ready to attend to such matters, did he permit that side of his nature to show.

Today, he had stumbled-more than once-over his lustful appetites.

His question over underdrawers was one example, and while taking off his shirt had certainly distracted her, that fact, in turn, had also distracted him. He could feel her gaze-another sensitivity he hadn't been prey to for a very long time. At thirty-two, he'd thought himself immune, hardened, too experienced to fall victim to his own desires.

Hopefully, once he'd had Honoria Prudence a few times-perhaps a few dozen times-the affliction would pass. The fact that she was Magnus Anstruther-Wetherby's granddaughter, rebellious granddaughter at that, would be the icing on his wedding cake. Devil savored the thought.

He hadn't, of course, told her his name. If he had, she wouldn't have fallen asleep, restlessly or otherwise. He'd realized almost immediately that she didn't know who he was. There was no reason she should recognize him. She would, however, recognize his name.

Her peculiar profession would make keeping up with ton gossip imperative; he had not a doubt that, had he favored her with his name, she would have made the connection and reacted accordingly. Which would have been trying for them both.

Convincing her that she had no reason to fret would have taken a great deal of effort, which he did not, at the moment, have to spare. He still had Tolly's murder to contend with-he needed her calm and composed. He found her directness, her unfussy, almost wifely matter-of-factness, refreshing and strangely supportive.

The fire glowed, gilding her face. Devil studied the delicate curve of her cheek, noted the vulnerable softness of her lips. He would confess his identity in the morning-he wondered what she would say. The possibilities were, he judged, wide-ranging. He was mulling over the most likely when she whimpered and stiffened in her chair.

Devil opened his eyes fully. And simultaneously became aware of the renewed ferocity of the storm. Thunder rolled, rumbling ever nearer. The wind rose on a sudden shriek; a sharp crack echoed through the wood.

Honoria gasped and came to her feet. Eyes closed, hands reaching, she stepped forward.

Devil surged from his chair. Grabbing her about the waist, he lifted her away from the fire.

With a wrenching sob, she turned and flung herself against him. Her arms slipped about him; she clung tightly, pressing her cheek to his chest. Reflexively, Devil closed his arms about her and felt the sobs that racked her. Off-balance, he took a step back; the old chair caught him behind his knee.

He sat down; Honoria did not slacken her hold. She followed him down, drawing up her legs; she ended curled in his lap. Sobbing silently.

Tilting his head, Devil peered at her face. Her eyes were closed but not tightly. Tears coursed down her face. She was, in fact, still asleep.

Trapped in her nightmare, she shuddered. She gulped down a sob, only to have another rise in its place.

Watching her, Devil felt a sharp ache twist through his chest. The tears welled from beneath her lids, gathered, then rolled slowly, steadily, down her cheeks.