"I'll have them sent to you," James bit off. "Did you bring a carriage?''

Fellport shook his head. "I came with Binsby."

"Good. The town is barely a mile away. You can hire someone to take you back to London from there."

Fellport nodded.

"And if you breathe a word of this to anyone," James said in a deadly voice, “if you so much as mention my presence here, I will kill you."

Fellport nodded again, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to follow James's orders and leave, but James still had him by the collar.

"One more thing," James said. "If you mention me,

I will, as I said, kill you, but if you mention Miss Hotchkiss…"

Fellport soiled himself.

"I will do it slowly."

James let go of Fellport's collar, and the baronet stumbled a few steps before running off. James watched him disappear over the gentle rise of the hill, then strode back into the stables. He hadn't liked leaving Elizabeth alone after such a traumatic experience, but he'd had no choice. He had to deal with Fellport, and he didn't think that Elizabeth wanted to be in the same room as the scoundrel for one moment longer than was necessary.

Not to mention that Fellport could have revealed James's true identity at any moment.

The minute James stepped into the stables, he heard her crying.

"Damn," he whispered, stumbling for half a step as he went to her. He didn't know how to comfort her, didn't have the slightest idea what to do. All he knew was that she needed him, and he prayed to God that he didn't fail her.

He reached the corner stall, the door still hanging drunkenly from its hinges. Elizabeth was huddled against the far wall, her arms wrapped around her legs, her forehead resting against her knees. The cat had somehow wedged itself into the hollow space between Elizabeth's thighs and torso, and, much to James's amazement, appeared to be trying to comfort her.

"Lizzie?" James whispered. "Oh, Lizzie."

She was swaying slightly from side to side, and he could see her shoulders rise and fall with each shuddering breath.

He knew that sort of breath. It was the one you drew when you were trying so hard to keep your feelings inside, but you just weren't strong enough.

He moved swiftly to her side, settling down next to her in the hay. Laying his arm around her slender shoulders, he whispered, "He's gone."

She said nothing, but he felt her muscles tense.

James looked down at her. Her clothing was dirty but not torn, and though he was fairly certain that Fellport had not managed to rape her, he prayed that his attack had not gone beyond a brutal kiss.

Kiss! He nearly spat out the word. Whatever Fellport had done to her, however much he had forced his mouth against hers, it had not been a kiss.

James's eyes wandered over the top of her head. Her white-gold hair was matted with straw, and even though he could not see her face, she looked so forlorn.

His hand clenched. It was rushing back-that familiar feeling of helplessness. He could feel her terror. It shook through him, coiled in his belly. "Please," he whispered. "Tell me what I can do."

She made no sound, but she huddled closer to his side. James tightened his embrace.

"He won't bother you again," he said fiercely. "I promise you."

"I try so hard to be strong," she gasped. "Every day, I try so hard…"

James turned and grasped her by the shoulders, forcing her to lift her teary eyes to his. "You are strong," he said. "You're the strongest woman I know."

"I try so hard," she said again, as if trying to reassure herself of this. "Every day. But I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't-"

"Don't say that. This wasn't your fault. Men like Fellport…" James paused to gather a ragged breath. "They hurt women. It's the only way they know how to feel strong."

She didn't say anything, and he could see her struggling to hold back the sobs gathering in her throat.

“This-this violence… it is due to a defect in his person, not yours." He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut for the barest of moments. "You didn't ask him to do this to you."

"I know." She shook her head, and her lips quivered into the saddest smile he'd ever seen. "But I couldn't stop him."

"Elizabeth, he is twice your size!"

She let out a long breath and pulled away from him, slumping back against the wall. "I'm tired of being strong. I'm so tired of it. Since the day of my father's death…"

James stared at her, searched her eyes as they went blank, and a very queer, foreboding feeling squeezed around his heart. "Elizabeth," he asked carefully, "how did your parents die?''

"My mother was killed in a carriage accident," she replied, her voice hollow. "Everybody saw it. The mangled carriage. They covered her body, but everyone saw how she died."

He waited for her to say something about her father, but she didn't. Finally, he whispered, "And your father?"

"He killed himself."

James's lips parted in surprise, and he was struck by a fierce and uncontrollable anger. He had no idea what had happened to make Elizabeth's father feel so desperate, but Mr. Hotchkiss had taken the coward's way out, leaving his eldest daughter to care for his family.

"What happened?" he asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

Elizabeth looked up, a bitter, fatalistic sound escaping her lips. "It was six months after Mama's accident. He always-" She choked on her words. "He always did love her best."

James started to say something, but words were spilling from Elizabeth's lips with the speed of rushing water. It was as if he'd broken through a dam, and now she couldn't stem the flow of emotion.

"He just couldn't go on," she said, her eyes growing bright with anger. "Every day he'd slip further and further into some secret place that none of us could reach. And we tried! God, I swear to you, we tried."

"I know you did," he murmured, squeezing her shoulder. "I know you. I know you tried."

“Even Jane and Lucas. They would scramble onto his lap, just like before, but he'd push them away. He wouldn't hug us. He wouldn't touch us. And toward the end, he wouldn't even speak to us." She took a deep, sucking breath, but it did little to calm her. "I always knew he'd never love us as he did her, but you'd think he'd love us enough."

Her fingers curled into a tight fist, and James watched with helpless sorrow as she pressed it hard against her mouth. He reached out and touched her fingers, feeling oddly relieved when they wrapped around his hand.

"You'd think," she said, her voice the saddest, tiniest whisper, "that he'd have loved us enough to live."

"You don't have to say anything more," James whispered, knowing he'd be haunted forever by this moment. "You don't need to tell me."

"No." She shook her head. "I want to. I've never said the words."

He waited while she gathered her courage.

"He shot himself," she said, the words barely audible. "I found him in the garden. There was so much blood." She swallowed convulsively. "I've never seen so much blood."

James held silent, wanting so much to say something to comfort her, but knowing there were no words to help.

She laughed bitterly. "I tried to tell myself it was his last act of caring, shooting himself in the garden. I made so many trips to the well, but at least the blood washed right into the ground. If he'd shot himself in the house, tie Lord only knows how I would have cleaned it up."

"What did you do?" he asked softly.

"I made it look like a hunting accident," she whispered. “I dragged his body out to the woods. Everybody knew he was a hunter. No one suspected it was anything else, or if they did, they never said anything."

“You dragged him?'' he asked in disbelief. “Was your father a small man? I mean, you're quite petite, and-"

"He was about your height, although a bit thinner. I don't know where I got the strength," she said, shaking her head. “Born of pure terror, I suppose. I didn't want the children to know what he'd done." She looked up, the expression in her eyes suddenly unsure. "They still don't know."

He squeezed her hand.

"I've tried not to speak ill of him."

"And you've been shouldering this burden for five years," he said softly. "Secrets are heavy, Elizabeth. They're hard to carry alone."

Her shoulders rose and fell in a weary shrug. "Maybe I did the wrong thing. But I panicked. I didn't know what else to do."

"It sounds as if you did exactly what needed to be done."

"He was buried in consecrated ground," she said in a flat voice. "According to the church-according to everyone but me-it wasn't a suicide. Everyone kept offering condolences, calling it such a tragedy, and it was all 1 could do not to scream out the truth."

She twisted her head to face him. Her eyes were wet and glistening, the exact color of violets. "I hated that he was made to sound a hero. I was the one to hide his suicide, and yet I wanted to tell everyone that he was a coward, that he had left me to pick up his pieces. I wanted to shake them and shake them and shake them and make them stop saying what a good father he was. Because he wasn't." Her voice grew low and fierce. "He wasn't a good father. We were nuisances. He only wanted Mama. He never wanted us."

"I'm sorry," James whispered, taking her hand.

"It's not your fault."

He smiled, trying to coax one from her in return. "I know, but I'm still sorry."

Her lips quivered-almost a smile, but not quite. "Isn't it ironic? You'd think that love is a good thing, wouldn't you?"

"Love is a good thing, Elizabeth." And he meant it. He meant it more than he ever could have dreamed he would.

She shook her head. “My parents loved too much. There simply wasn't enough left over for the rest of us. And when Mama was gone-well, we just couldn't take her place."