Her fascination didn’t center on Michael himself, but on what they, together, created between them.

That was where the power that both he and she were drawn to resided. It was something she could sense, at times so real she felt she could almost touch it; it arose from the link that was forming between them, that grew from the amalgam of their selves…

Frowning, she rose, drew her fringed shawl about her shoulders, and stepped down onto the lawn.

It was so hard to see what was happening—impossible to reduce the emotions and sensations, and that simple overwhelming certainty that engulfed her when she was in his arms, to statement, to logical rational description from which an argument could be formed, a position defined, action planned…

She stopped, tipped her head back, and looked up at the sky. “Heaven help me—I really have become far too much like Camden.”

Shaking her head, she looked down and continued on, eyes fixed unseeing on the path before her feet. Trying to understand what was developing between her and Michael… using logic wasn’t going to work. What she was dealing with operated beyond logic, of that she felt quite sure.

Emotion, then. That, indeed, seemed the more likely key. She needed, would feel more comfortable having, some sense of whither they—and their new and strange relationship—were heading, where it was leading them, both she and he. If she was to let emotion guide her…

She grimaced, and paced on.

No help there either; she didn’t know—couldn’t explain—what she felt. Not because she was unsure of what she felt, but because she had no words for it, no measure for it, no recognition of what the feelings burgeoning and growing stronger every time she and Michael met were, let alone meant.

She’d never felt like this before. Not about Camden, not about any man—and especially not with any other man. That was another aspect about which she was certain—whatever she felt, Michael felt it, too. It was a mutual development, affecting him as much, and in much the same way, as she.

And she suspected his reaction was the same as hers. They were both mature; they’d both seen the world, were comfortable in who and what they were, confident of their positions in society. Yet what was evolving between them was a fresh field, one on which neither had previously dallied, one with horizons neither had previously explored.

When faced with a new and different challenge, they both possessed temperaments that impelled them to walk confidently in and examine, study—assess what new opportunity life might be offering them. She was conscious of an eager interest, of something more compelling than mere fascination, a need more than an inclination to go forward and learn more. Understand more. And perhaps, ultimately…

She broke off her thoughts, blinked—and realized she stood facing the gate leading out of the garden. She muttered an oath and glanced back; she hadn’t meant to walk this far, hadn’t been conscious of doing so. She’d been thinking, and her feet had brought her here.

Her instinctive destination was clear, yet she knew Edward, once free of Elizabeth’s sonata, would look for her to watch over her. But he knew of the cottage and that she often walked there; when he discovered she wasn’t in the house, he’d guess…

Facing forward, she looked at the path wending its way across the first meadow and into the first stretch of woodland. The path cut through a number of such wooded stands, but none were dark or dense; with the sun streaming down, it was difficult to imagine anyone skulking along the way, waiting to shoot or attack her.

And really, why would they? Looking along the path, she couldn’t, no matter how hard she tried, drum up any fear. The pellets striking Henry and the arrow had been accidents; admittedly, the arrow striking the tree so close to her had been momentarily scarifying—she could still hear the dull thwack in her mind—and she could still remember the desperation, the cold clutch of fear that had gripped her when Henry had bolted, but Michael had rescued her—she’d come to no harm at all. As for the attack on Miss Trice, that had been nasty and shocking, but hadn’t truly touched her at all; there was no reason to suppose she’d been the intended target.

She pushed the gate open and walked on. Her instincts had been right; she wanted to go to the cottage. Perhaps needed to be within those walls to revisit her feelings of yesterday and delve past the superficial to see what lay beneath. Besides, she was sure Michael would call soon—he’d know where she’d gone.

Eyes down, for once blind to the beauties of the countryside around her, she walked steadily on. And returned to her interrupted thoughts. To, perhaps, the most crucial point. Where, ultimately, was her liaison with Michael and the emotions that generated leading her? And was it, all aspects and feelings considered, a place she was prepared to go?

Michael left Atlas with Geoffrey’s stableman and walked over the lawns to the house. He half expected to see Caro drift out onto the terrace to meet him. Instead, Elizabeth walked briskly out from the drawing room, looking about. She saw him and waved, then looked to his left.

Following her gaze, he saw Edward striding up from the summer-house. The younger man waved and strode faster; premonition, faint but real, caressed Michael’s nape.

Edward spoke as soon as he was within hearing distance. “Caro’s gone off somewhere. She was on the terrace, but…”

He glanced at Elizabeth, who’d come down from the terrace to join them. “She’s not in the house. Judson said she’s probably gone down to the weir.”

Edward looked at Michael. “There’s a cottage—a retreat she often disappears to. She’s most likely there.”

“Or on her way there,” Elizabeth said. “She couldn’t have left that long ago, and it takes twenty minutes to walk there.”

Michael nodded. “I know the place.” He looked at Edward. “I’ll catch up with her. If she’s not there, I’ll come back.”

Edward grimaced. “If we find she’s still here, I’ll stay with her.”

With a salute for Elizabeth, Michael strode back down the lawn, then took the path through the shrubbery, retracing the route he and Caro had taken the day before. He reached the gate; it wasn’t latched. He’d latched it yesterday when they’d returned.

Going through, he strode quickly along the path. It didn’t surprise him that Caro had a habit of walking alone through the countryside. Like him, she spent most of her life in ballrooms, drawing rooms, and elegant salons; the sense of peace he felt when he came home, the blessed contrast, the need to enjoy it while one could, was something he was sure she shared.

Nevertheless, he would much rather she wasn’t rambling all alone. Not just at present, when he felt sure someone had designs on her life. Designs he didn’t understand; designs he absolutely could not allow to succeed.

He didn’t question from where the grim and steely purpose behind that “absolutely could not allow” came; at the moment, wherefores and whys didn’t seem that pertinent. The need to protect her from all harm was deeply entrenched, as if etched on his soul, an immutable part of him.

It hadn’t always been so; now it simply was.

Premonition stroked, chillingly cloying, again; he strode faster. Cresting a rise, he saw her, clearly visible in a pale muslin gown, her nimbus of fine hair glinting in the sunshine as she strolled across a meadow some way ahead. She was too far away to hail; she walked steadily on, looking down.

He’d expected to feel relief; instead, his instincts seemed to tighten—to urge him to hurry even more. He couldn’t see any reason for it, yet he obeyed.

A little further on, he broke into a loping run.

Regardless of his insistence on watching over her, his rational mind did not expect another attack, not here on Geoffrey’s land. Why, then, was his chest tightening—why was apprehension filling him?

He was running when he broke into the final clearing—and saw, across the meadow, Caro halfway across the narrow bridge. She was still steadily walking, looking down. Smiling, pushing aside his distracting premonition, he slowed. “Caro!”

She heard. Straightening, lifting her head, she turned, reached for the handrail as she grasped her clinging skirts and flicked them about. She smiled in glorious welcome. Grasped the rail as she released her skirts and raised her hand to wave—

The handrail broke. Fell away as she touched it.

She valiantly tried to regain her balance, but there was nothing to clutch, to cling to.

With a faint shriek, she toppled from the bridge, disappearing into the swirling mists boiling up from the racing waters funneling through the narrow gorge, hurling themselves into the deep waters of the weir.

His heart in his throat, Michael sprinted down the meadow. Reaching the bank, he frantically searched, simultaneously hauling off his boots. He was shrugging out of his coat when he saw her surface, a bobbing white welter of muslin skirts flashing into sight at the mouth of the weir. Her silk-fringed shawl dragged at her arms as she struggled to raise them, to stroke, to float.

The rushing current pulled her back down.

She was not a strong swimmer; the current, fueled by the torrents gushing past either side of the island, was sweeping her into the weir.

He dived in. A few swift strokes brought him to where she had been. He came up, trod water, trying to glimpse her, to more accurately gauge the current’s direction. The undertow was ferocious.

She resurfaced, gasping, some yards farther on. He plunged back into the swirling waters, went with the tow, added his own powerful strokes to it—glimpsed a murky whiteness ahead and lunged for it.