She carried her cloak over her arm. Only he knew the folds concealed her cutlass. She tossed both into the carriage, turned and thanked the staff for their attentiveness, then climbed up.

He caught a glimpse of her boots as she did-her privateer boots, the knee-high ones she’d worn aboard ship. The sight of her in nothing more than a chemise and those boots, striding about the room that morning, the faint light of a candle flickering over her as she’d prepared to take her turn at watch in the sitting room, had ensured he’d got no more sleep.

With a nod for the doorman, he followed her into the carriage. Settling on the seat beside her, he found her hand, linked his fingers with hers, gently squeezed. He caught her gaze as she looked at him, under cover of the others stowing their bags, murmured, “You are what you are. It doesn’t matter what you wear, whether you do something this way or that. Whether you embroider brilliantly, or raise donkeys instead. Regardless, people see you for the lady you are.” Raising their linked hands, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “You never pretend, or prevaricate about yourself-and that’s good, not bad. That’s reassuring and comforting. That’s strong. That’s why people are drawn to you.” Lowering his voice, he touched his lips again to her fingers, smiled. “That’s why I adore you.”

Linnet stared into his eyes, mesmerizing midnight eyes, then rapidly blinked, looked away as the others climbed in.

Damn man-impossible man. He actually understood.

In her heart of hearts, she could admit that her one private vulnerability, a weakness she did her best to hide, was her uncertainty over how others, those in the wider world, saw her. She’d grown up a ship’s brat, but outside her domain she had to be a lady. She had none of the right training; when outside her world, she was never confident of meeting the standards of behavior her station demanded.

Within her own world, she knew who and what she was, knew why she was that way, knew her strengths and weaknesses, and was always utterly confident.

Out of her domain, the uncertainty lingered. And she hated, hated , feeling uncertain.

And somehow, he understood.

That unsettled her more than the rest.

She stared steadfastly out of the window as the carriage rolled unchallenged out of Bath and headed at a spanking pace toward Swindon and Oxford beyond.

As the gray miles and the louring skies passed uneventfully by, her inner turmoil subsided. A large part of the reason she found Logan, his understanding and his comfort-that freely offered, never pushed on her, simply there, at the right time and in the right way, comfort-so unnerving was that she was always the strong one, the one who comforted others, the one others turned to for strength and support. That was her role; it always had been.

Only Muriel guessed that sometimes she needed comfort, needed strength and support. And Muriel only saw because she cared…

But now Logan had seen, because he cared, too. Cared enough to look beneath her surface.

She didn’t pretend, was no good at lying, but she did hide her uncertainties, her weaknesses, well. Yet he saw because he looked with the eyes of one who cared.

She dragged in a breath, held it.

He cared. And she loved him.

Not even because he cared-that was the silliness of love in all its glory. She loved him regardless of anything and everything-the impossible man who’d washed up in her cove, woken up in her bed, and changed her life.

He made her want the impossible, too.

She loved him. She was only now learning what that meant, yet given how she’d felt when she’d seen him attacked, when cultists had swung swords at him intending to kill, there was no point avoiding that inescapable conclusion-it was set in stone.

Engraved on her virgin queen’s heart.

She had to face it, because now she had to deal with it…

No, not now. Later.

After.

Yes, after. With a firm mental nod, she made that her resolution; she wouldn’t think any more about him, her, and any potential future until his mission was over and complete.

The uneventful day was no help.

As Charles had noted, the route they took was no minor road, but a well-traveled highway. They passed through Chippenham, Lyneham, and Wootton Basset; by the time they stopped for lunch at a busy coaching inn in Swindon’s main street, they were all bored beyond bearing.

However, when they paused in the busy inn yard and looked around, they spotted a number of black-scarf-encircled heads. “Three at least.” Taking her elbow, Logan steered her toward the inn door. “Could be more-difficult to tell with the crowd.”

Over luncheon in a private parlor, the men spread out the map again and pored over it, teasing themselves with the prospect that perhaps an ambush might lie ahead. Eventually, however, the consensus was no. Not today. The road to Oxford was too open, too clear of useful geographical obstacles, too busy-and, as Logan pointed out, too damned far from any port.

If anything, the lack of action preyed even more heavily on Charles and Deverell; both seemed positively itching to be out and doing. Logan wasn’t surprised when they decided to play spy again-to hire horses and circle around to follow their pursuers.

“At least we’ll get a better idea of their numbers,” Charles said.

Logan would have liked nothing better than to be on horseback again, out in the fresh air, even if it carried an arctic chill. But Linnet would remain in the carriage-anything else was too problematical-and he felt compelled to stay by her side.

If by any chance their assumptions proved incorrect and an attack was mounted on the carriage, he would need to be there to defend and protect her; any other option was untenable.

With horses arranged, Charles and Deverell set out, intending to find a spot from which to watch the carriage go by, then slip behind any cultists following. Fifteen minutes later, Logan ushered Linnet back into the carriage, and they set out once more.

As predicted, they rolled briskly on through the gloomy afternoon, through Faringdon and on toward Oxford, without challenge. Without sighting any cultists, much less Charles and Deverell.

After several miles had rolled by in silence, Linnet stirred and glanced at him. “Penny for your thoughts.”

He met her eyes briefly, then admitted, “I was thinking of the others-my three comrades-in-arms.”

When he said nothing more, she prompted, “What of them?”

He hesitated, yet if they were to be man and wife… he drew in a breath, said, “Del’s made it through, at least to Somersham Place, and Gareth’s in Boulogne, possibly already in England. But no one’s heard anything about Rafe… and of us all, he’s the most risk-loving, the most devil-may-care.” He glanced at her. “His nickname is Reckless, but more than that, he was the closest to James.”

She searched his eyes. “The one who died?”

He nodded. “We all thought of James as our junior, but to Rafe he was more like a younger brother. James’s death hit him the hardest.”

“You’re worried about him-Rafe?”

Logan half grimaced, half smiled. “You’ll understand when you meet him, but all of us-Del, Gareth, and I-will be worrying about Rafe until we lay eyes on him again.”

Somewhat to his relief, she nodded and fell silent again, and he didn’t have to explain that part of his worry was that he didn’t want to face losing another close friend, most especially not to the Black Cobra.

With all prospect of them seeing action of any sort fading with the chill winter light, Linnet found it increasingly difficult to cling to her resolution. No matter that trying to think logically about Logan with him sitting alongside her, one of his hands engulfing one of hers, his solid presence, his elemental masculine warmth constantly impinging on her senses, was a near impossible task, the impulse was a constant temptation.

In the end, she gave up, gave in. Shut her senses to his nearness as best she could, and in light of all she’d learned and now felt, tried to evaluate the pros and cons of marrying him. Until then, she’d been thinking of their marriage on a purely practical plane-how would it work?-but perhaps, with them, there were other aspects to consider. Possibly more important aspects.

She wanted him, and that in itself was unexpected. She’d never wanted any other man, yet she wanted him, yearned to keep him by her side, and not just for the obvious physical benefits. Lust played a part in her want, but it was by no means the sum of it. The prospect of having a strong, reliable, honorable man, one willing to stand at her back or by her shoulder rather than in front of her, to help in whatever way she needed-with the estate, with her wards as they grew older-was temptation beyond measure.

Companionship of a kind she’d never had, enough to banish the loneliness of her private life. A man who understood her better than even her father had-he’d appreciated her wildness, her love of challenges, her adventuring soul, but he hadn’t understood her compulsion to nurture, to grow, to protect on the emotional plane as well as the physical.

Above all, a man she could trust. With her life, with the lives of those she cared about.

Logan encompassed all of that, seemed to grasp all of that-all of her. With him, she might even have a child of her own, a fundamental want she’d buried deep for so many years it ought to have died, but instead, now he was there, now the prospect dangled before her, she’d discovered that want had with the years only grown stronger. More intense, more compelling.

Logan offered her all the critical elements of a relationship, of a love she’d years ago resigned herself to doing without.