"Did you twist your ankle when I set you down?" There was genuine concern in Gabriel's voice now. "My apologies, madam. Here, let me assist you."

"There is nothing wrong with my ankle," Phoebe said impatiently. "My left leg is somewhat weak, that is all. The effects of an old carriage accident."

"I see," Gabriel said. He sounded thoughtful.

Phoebe wondered if the obvious weakness in her left leg bothered him. It had certainly put off other men in the past. Few men invited a woman with a limp to join them in a waltz. Normally she was not bothered by such reactions. She was used to them. But she discovered that it hurt to think that Gabriel might be one of those males who could not tolerate imperfections in a woman.

"If I seem a trifle nervous," Phoebe said gruffly, "it is because I do not know you all that well, sir."

"I'm not so certain about that," Gabriel said with a hint of amusement in his voice. "You are about to steal your third manuscript from me. It would seem you know me very well, indeed."

"I am not stealing from you, my lord." Phoebe reached up to the brim of her small hat and lowered the second layer of the dark veil. One layer might not be enough to conceal her features inside the cottage. "I consider us rivals, not enemies."

"There is little difference when it comes to this sort of thing. Be warned, madam. You may have pushed your luck too far with this night's work."

Phoebe knocked quickly. "Do not fret, Wylde. I am certain there will be other opportunities for you to win in this game."

"No doubt." Gabriel's eyes were on Phoebe's heavily veiled face as footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. "I shall certainly make it a point in the future to provide you with more of a challenge than I have thus far."

"I have been quite satisfied with the challenge to date," Phoebe said as the door was unlatched inside. Sparring with Wylde was akin to dragging a chunk of raw meat in front of a tiger. A dangerous business, to say the least. But she must keep him intrigued, she reminded herself. If he lost interest, he might simply vanish into the night. Once again she could only regret the current shortage of knights-errant. Selection was limited.

"If you are satisfied with the challenge thus far," Gabriel said, "it is only because you have been winning. That is about to change."

Chapter 2

The door of Nash's cottage opened and a stout, middle-aged housekeeper in a dingy cap and apron peered out.

"Who be you?" the woman demanded in a suspicious tone.

"Kindly tell your master that the person to whom he recently sold a medieval manuscript has arrived to collect it," Phoebe said. She glanced into the hall behind the woman. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls. Each shelf was crammed full with leather-bound volumes. More books were stacked in piles on the floor.

"So he's sold off another one, eh?" The housekeeper nodded with obvious satisfaction. "Well, now, that's a blessing. He's behind on me wages again. Owes me a packet, he does. I'm going' to see to it he pays me afore he settles up with the tradesmen this time. Weren't nothing' left by the time he got around to me last quarter."

"Nash sold an item from his collection to pay his bills last quarter?" Gabriel asked as he strode into the tiny hall behind Phoebe. His heavy coat swirled around the tops of his beautifully polished Hessians.

"Egan finally talked him into it. You'd have thought Mr. Nash was getting' a tooth pulled." The housekeeper sighed as she closed the door. "The master cannot bear to part with any of them old books of his. They're all he cares about."

"Who is Egan?" Phoebe asked.

"The master's son. Comes by to see to things once in a while, thank the lord, or else nothin' at all would get done around here." The housekeeper led the way down the hall. "Don't know what we'd have done if Egan hadn't convinced Mr. Nash to sell off one or two of them dirty old books. Starve to death, more'n likely."

Phoebe glanced covertly at Gabriel, who was examining the shabby, book-filled hall. He had removed his hat. She studied him with the new, heightened awareness that he had ignited in her. In the dim glow of the flickering candlelight his hair was still as black as midnight, just as she remembered. There was a faint trace of silver at the temples. But then, he was thirty-four now, she reminded herself. And the silver was oddly attractive.

Eight years ago she had thought him rather old. Now he seemed exactly the right age. Her gloved fingers tightened around a fold of her purple riding habit. She lifted the small train to clear a pile of books. The rising sense of anticipation inside her had nothing to do with collecting the manuscript or convincing Gabriel to help her in her quest to discover Neil's murderer.

It had everything to do with Gabriel himself.

Dear heaven, this was getting dangerous indeed, Phoebe thought. This sort of emotional complication was the last thing she needed at the moment. She must keep a clear head and remember that Gabriel had no reason to feel any affection for any members of her family.

Gabriel's face was half averted as he read the spines of some of the books stuffed higgledy-piggledy into the nearest case. Phoebe gazed at the hard line of his jaw and the arrogant angle of his cheekbones. For some reason she was startled to see that he still had the face of a raptor.

Her stomach fluttered nervously. She had not expected that the passage of the past eight years would soften those fierce features. It was unsettling, however, to see that they had become harsher and more unyielding than ever.

As if he could read her mind, Gabriel suddenly turned his head. He looked straight at her, pinning her with predatory green eyes. For a nerve-racking moment Phoebe had the impression he could see beneath her heavy veil. She had forgotten about his eyes.

As a young girl on the brink of womanhood, she had not understood the impact of that intense green gaze. Of course, she had only had a few brief glimpses of it. Those occasions had occurred when Gabriel had come to her father's town house along with all the other young bloods of the ton to pay court to her lovely sister, Meredith.

The only man in the crowd who had interested Phoebe had been Gabriel. She had been curious about him from the start because she had avidly read the books and poems he had given to her sister. Gabriel had wooed Meredith with Arthurian legends rather than flowers. Meredith had not been interested in the ancient tales of chivalry, but Phoebe had devoured them.

Every time Gabriel had come to call, Phoebe had made it a point to observe as much as possible from her hiding place at the top of the stairs. In her naiveté, she had thought the glances he had given Meredith were deliciously romantic.

Now she realized that romantic was far too soft and frivolous a word to describe Gabriel's glittering gaze. No wonder her sister had found him terrifying. For all her razor sharp intelligence, Meredith had been a gentle, timid creature in those days.

For the first time since she had begun the reckless quest to lure Gabriel into helping her, Phoebe felt momentarily overwhelmed by the challenge. He was right. He was not a man with whom an intelligent woman played games. Perhaps her scheme was not going to work, after all. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was still safely concealed behind her veil.

"Is something wrong?" Gabriel asked softly. His eyes skimmed over her bright purple habit. He looked amused.

"No. Nothing." Phoebe lifted her chin as she turned away from him to follow the housekeeper. What did it signify if the purple shade of her habit was a trifle livid in tone? She was well aware that her taste was not appreciated by many. Her mother and sister were always lecturing her about her love of what they termed inflamed colors.

The housekeeper showed them into a small room that was even more crowded than the hall. Bookcases took up all the available wall space. Each was filled to overflowing. Volumes were stacked waist high on the floor, forming meandering paths. Heavy trunks, lids open to reveal more books and papers, were stationed on either side of the hearth.

A portly man dressed in overly snug breeches and a faded maroon coat sat at a desk piled high with books. He was hunched over an aging volume. Candlelight illuminated his bald head and thick gray whiskers. He spoke without looking up from the page in front of him.

What is it, Mrs. Stiles? I told ye I was not to be bothered until I have finished translating this text."

"The lady has come for her manuscript, sir." Mrs. Stiles did not seem perturbed by her master's gruff manner. "Brought a friend with her, she has. Shall I make tea?"

"What's this? There's two of 'em?" Nash threw down his pen and surged to his feet. He turned toward the door and glowered at his visitors through a pair of silver-framed spectacles.

"Good evening, Mr. Nash," Phoebe said politely as she stepped forward.

Nash's scowling gaze was drawn briefly to Phoebe's left leg. He refrained from commenting on her limp, however. His already florid face turned a darker shade of red as he looked at Gabriel. "Here, now. I'm only sellin' the one manuscript tonight. How come there's two of ye?"

"Do not concern yourself, Mr. Nash," Phoebe said soothingly. "This gentleman is with me merely because I did not like the thought of coming out alone at this hour."

"Why not?" Nash glared ferociously at Gabriel. "No harm will come to ye in this neighborhood. Nothin' ever happens around this part of Sussex."