"Didn't it cross your mind that the letter might be important?"

"I'm a busy man, Morgan," the doctor said defensively, folding his lanky arms across his chest. "I have more important things to do than oversee my patients' correspondence. Now, you can continue to berate me for a small oversight, or you can open the blasted thing and read it." Vivien had already broken the seal. Unfolding the neatly creased paper, she discovered a few lines written in flowery script. Some of the words had been dashed off hastily, a few letters left unfinished.

Dearest,

No, you must not come to town. There is trouble brewing here, but nothing I can't manage. I'm off to settle a few minor matters, and then I'll come to Surrey. Together soon, dear--

Vivien

Barely aware of Grant reading over her shoulder, Vivien continued to stare at the letter. "Did she mean to send this to a lover?" she murmured.

"Probably."

"Do you think she could be there now? At this White Rose Cottage?"

"We'll find out. I'm going there today," Grant said. "Right after I report to Cannon at Bow Street."

"I want to go with you."

"We don't know who will be there, or what to expect. You'll be safer here."

"But that's not fair!" Vivien exclaimed. "If the real Vivien is in Surrey, I want to see her too. She might be able to explain how I came to be in her place. She might even know who I am. I must go with you!"

"No," Grant said. "You're staying in London in the protection of my own home. I'll have one of the Runners assigned to watch you this evening, in the event that I need to stay away longer than expected." Seeing her unhappy expression, he slid an arm around her waist and bent his head to speak softly. "I won't risk a precious hair on your head. I don't know what I might find in Surrey--and I'd prefer you to stay here and be safe and comfortable. Let me take care of this alone."

Vivien nodded, feeling comforted by his concern for her. "You'll hurry back as soon as possible?" she asked.

His lips pressed against her forehead, and she felt him smile against her skin. "Believe me...the only place in the world I want to be is wherever you are."

Staring at the letter in her lap during the short ride home, Vivien traced the feminine script with the tip of her finger. V. Devane...The name bothered her, tugged at her. Like so many other things, it seemed familiar but evoked no actual memories. V. Devane...

"Do you remember the little painting in Vivien's bedroom, by her dressing table?" she asked. "A cottage covered in white roses...and it had been signed by Devane. This man must mean a great deal to her, if she keeps his painting in her bedroom and runs to him when she is in trouble." She fidgeted with the letter until Grant finally held his hand out for it.

"Give me that thing before you rip it to shreds," he said. Vivien surrendered the letter without protest. "Do you really believe that Vivien is still alive?" she asked softly.

His hand slid over her knee, and he squeezed it reassuringly. "I believe she's landed on her feet like a cat."

She was relieved by his answer. "I feel so protective of her. I wonder if I truly am related to her. Do you think she and I might be sisters?"

"You look too much alike not to be."

Closing her eyes, she let out a tense sigh. "I want to know about my family...friends...I want to know why no one seems to be looking for me. A person can't disappear withoutsomeone noticing...Isn't there anyone who misses me?" Her voice faded to a near whisper. "Anyone who loves me?"

"Yes."

Startled, Vivien looked up into his purposeful face, while her heart pounded hard. He must be referring to himself, she thought in wonder.

"If I find Vivien today," Grant said, his green eyes filled with warmth, "it will change nothing between you and me. And when you recover your memory, I don't give a damn about what or whom you remember. I had no part of your past...but I intend to be your future."

"I-if you're talking about somehow making reparations f-for last night," she stammered, "I've already told you it's not necessary--"

"No, I'm not referring to that. I'm talking about my feelings for you."

His words caused equal parts of delight and dismay. Vivien could imagine no greater joy than being loved by a man like Grant Morgan. However, she feared that he still harbored guilt for having taken her virginity, and she did not want him to propose merely because she had been "ruined." Above all else, she must not be an obligation that had been thrust upon him. And she had not forgotten what he had once said on the subject of marriage. He had no use for a wife, he had told her. He hadn't wanted to stay faithful to one woman for a lifetime. Had he sounded less certain, less cynical...but he had left no room for doubt. And therefore, if he were saddled with a bride he had never really wanted, he might eventually come to resent her.

"Don't make promises to me," she begged, silencing him with her fingers as he began to say something. "Not yet."

Catching her hand, he kissed her fingers and palm and the fragile veins of her wrist. "We'll talk when I come back."

The carriage stopped, and Vivien realized they were home. "Have a safe journey," she said, her fingers closing tightly around his.

"Don't worry," he said. "I intend to find Vivien Duvall and solve this infernal mess. And after that..." He paused and grimaced. "I'll apologize to her, dammit."

"You will?" She stared at him with patent surprise, her lips parting softly. "Even if it kills me." A self-mocking grin twisted his lips. "It just may," he added with a short laugh, leaning forward to steal a kiss before helping her from the carriage.

CHAPTER 13

The small village of Forest Crest was located in the heathland of Surrey. Unspoiled and half hidden by surrounding slopes of gorse and heather, Forest Crest possessed two main streets, a church, and a green planted with acacia trees. It seemed that the dragonfly was something of a village symbol, carved into a few shop signs and the front of the village inn. Indeed, there were many dragonflies buzzing in the air around the green. Stopping his curricle on the side of the central street, Grant went into the village bakery. The air was hot and sweet, and he inhaled appreciatively as he ventured further into the shop.

A plump woman with well-muscled arms was pulling a flat of large buns from the depths of an inglenook hearth. "Will ye have some baked goods, sir?"

Grant shook his head. "Thank you, but I'm looking for White Rose Cottage...Can you tell me where to find it?"

"Aye. For years it was occupied by the village schoolmaster and his daughter, the Devanes. A lovely pair, they were, always up to their ears in books and surrounded by children. But poor Mr. Devane died two years ago of a weak heart. His daughter still abides there. Follow Cottage Street to the lane that goes past the Church of All Angels. Out in the heathland, ye'll see the cottage. Mind ye don't frighten the girl, she's a timid sort. We've not seen her in town for weeks. Just the maid." She paused and asked with a slight frown, "May I ask what yer business with her is, sir?"

He smiled. "You may ask, but I won't tell."

The baker's wife chuckled. "I would say she's a fortunate girl, to have a big handsome lad appear on her doorstep. Fare-thee-well!"

Returning to his carriage, Grant urged the horses forward with an impatient flick of the ribbons. The light curricle bounced and jostled along the uneven road, until Grant arrived at the thatched and timbered cottage. The little structure stood at the end of the lane in a profusion of rosebushes. It was so quiet that Grant could hear the dragonflies' wings beating the air, and the drone of insects browsing among the flowers. The heavy, powdery scent of roses surrounded him as he approached the arched doorway bordered with thick wooden posts. The cottage looked like an illustration for a fairy tale, with a stone garden shed nearby and a brook trickling amidst a grove of yew and willow.

Unconsciously Grant held his breath as he knocked at the door with two knuckles. He sensed movement within the house, a scrape, a whisper, a sudden awareness that a stranger had come to call. After what seemed an interminably long wait, he knocked again, this time using the side of his fist.

A young cook-maid came to the door, dark hair tucked beneath a blue cap, her face uncertain. "Good day, sir," she murmured.

"I'd like to speak with the lady who lives here."

"She's not at home, sir." The girl didn't lie well. "No one's at home."

Ironically Grant reflected that no one was ever "at home" when a Runner came to call. "Go fetch her," he advised softly. "I have little time, and even less patience."

The cook-maid flushed with obvious distress. "Please, sir, won't you go away?"

Before he could reply, a cool, velvety voice came from inside the cottage. "I'll speak to him, Jane. Perhapsthis will be suitable inducement for him to leave."

Grant shoved the door open wide. A woman was standing in the central room of the cottage. She wore a gown of sprigged muslin, the dainty fabric draped over the burgeoning swell of her stomach. Rapidly Grant's gaze moved over her pregnant form, and lingered at the pistol held in one small, steady hand.

The weapon wavered slightly as she saw his face. "My God," she gasped. "It's you. Morgan."

"Vivien?" He identified her in a tone loaded with dark irony. "Or are there more than two of you running around England?"

CHAPTER 14