Charlotte stubbornly shook her head. “You told me it was all an illusion, an enchantment. Enchantments don’t last.”

“Perhaps this one can,” he said tenderly, reaching out to brush a finger against her cheek.

Charlotte wrenched away from his touch. “Don’t,” she said, and meant it. “Which am I meant to believe? What you said then or what you say now? Or what you might say tomorrow?”

He knew the answer to that one. “Now,” Robert said firmly. “Definitely now.”

Apparently, that hadn’t been the right answer.

“No.” Drawing in a ragged breath, Charlotte braced her elbows against the rail. “How can you define when now is? Now keeps changing. You keep changing. Then was now then, and now will be then soon. You may think you mean it now, but what happens when you change your mind again next week? Another disappearance? Another ‘forgive me’?”

“I thought you were a forgiving person,” he said. It was a cheap shot, but he was desperate.

“Not that forgiving.” Unhappiness drew new lines in Charlotte’s face. “I don’t have that many forgive me’s in me. I wish I had. But I don’t.”

“You won’t need any more,” he promised. “This is the last time.”

Charlotte made an instinctive move of negation.

Pretending not to see it, Robert blundered on, “I want things to go back the way they were. Back at Girdings. We can go back, just the two of us. No Medmenham, no Hellfire Club. We’ll send your grandmother off to Bath,” he continued persuasively. He concentrated on weaving a spell with his voice and his words. “We can row on the pond and hunt for unicorns in the garden. I’ll feed you the very choicest bits of my jam tarts. We’ll spend every evening on the roof, counting stars.”

His own spell had him fast; he could picture it, down to the smell of Charlotte’s hair, the feel of her head pressed against his shoulder, the rough stone of the roof ledge at his back. He could smell the flowers in the garden, the flowers he had only seen as dry twigs wrapped in burlap; he could see them in full bloom, perfuming the whole house with their scent. He could imagine the long dinners in the long dining room, candlelight puddling like molten gold on the polished wood of the table. And then, at the very end of every evening, the walk arm in arm down the marble corridors of the first floor to the curtained opulence of the ducal chamber, where Charlotte’s inevitable pile of books would totter on the night table, her dropped pens would leave blots on the carpet, and that ridiculously large bed could at last be put to some proper use.

“We’ll spend every night in the ducal chambers, together,” he promised, willing her to see what he saw, the velvet drapes, the crested linen, the glow of the candles. “You can read me poetry. And I can teach you . . . other things.”

Charlotte’s eyes were as wide as saucers and slightly unfocused, as though she, too, were seeing the ducal chamber at Girdings and other things besides. Whatever it was stained her telltale skin a deep peony red.

Robert lowered his voice to the merest murmur. “All you have to do is say yes.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Charlotte protested, and he had the feeling she was arguing with herself as much as with him. Good. She looked at him imploringly. “You can’t just turn back the clock like that.”

“Why not?” He felt like a demon tempting an angel, stringing her along with dark sophistries and forbidden pleasures. Robert drew his voice from deep within his chest, as dark and compelling as the inside of midnight. “Why not if we both agree to it?”

Charlotte might be half-entranced, but she was entirely stubborn. “We haven’t both agreed. I haven’t agreed.”

“But you want to.”

Charlotte’s lips pressed together as she glowered at him in mute frustration. She looked as though she wanted to kick him. “Of course, I do,” she burst out.

But before Robert could bask in his victory, she hurried on, spitting out the words as though they might contaminate her otherwise, “But don’t you see? That’s not the point. The wanting isn’t enough. Just because I want you — ” Coloring, she bit down hard on her lower lip.

“Yes?” said Robert encouragingly, smoothing an errant curl back behind her ear. “Just because you want me . . . ?”

Charlotte stared at him pleadingly, the prey appealing to the predator. “ — doesn’t mean it won’t end badly,” she finished stumblingly.

He had won. He could tell. Or, at least, near enough for a kiss to cement the victory.

“On the other hand,” he murmured, his fingers tangling in her hair, “it doesn’t mean it won’t end well.”

They were close enough that he could feel the hurried beat of her heart. He could feel Charlotte’s indecision in every word she didn’t say and every move she didn’t make. She was tense with uncertainty, quivering with irresolution. She might not be leaning into him, but she wasn’t pulling away, either.

Running a gentling hand down her back, he tilted that crucial bit forwards, just as a jarring sweep sent them both tottering sideways.

Robert swore, catching at the side of the boat with one hand and Charlotte with the other, grabbing at the side of her dress to keep her from going over. Wiping the spray out of his eyes, he could see the vast bulk of Medmenham Abbey looming above them on the bank, like an evil sorcerer’s fortress. Swinging on a wide arc, sending water spraying in its wake, the boat made for the water stairs. They had arrived.

Damn, damn, damn. Even in absentia, Medmenham contrived to thwart his courtship.

Charlotte pulled away, shaking off droplets of water and frantically smoothing her hair. From the look on her face, the argument was far from over.

Robert’s throat constricted with the reminder of how badly he had managed to mangle something that could have been so simple. If he had only explained himself at Girdings, if he had only sent more than a two-word message — but he couldn’t have, back then, he thought wearily. Part of Charlotte’s accusation was fair; he hadn’t known her well enough to be sure how she would have received it. He knew now, but now it was too late. There was a certain Shakespearean irony to it.

There was no going back, he reminded himself, only forward. The endless night wasn’t over yet. There was the King to be found, and perhaps that might yet be the saving of him, if he could offer up the King to Charlotte as a token of his seriousness of purpose.

At least it would make a more original gift than flowers or chocolates.

Fabric rustled and loud yawns could be heard as the inhabitants of the cabin began to stir.

“Are we there yet?” came Miles’s plaintive voice from inside the tilt.

“Not quite,” Robert said dryly.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Charlotte was shaking with more than cold as she climbed out of the barge.

She had lost her lap rug somewhere on the deck of the shallop. Her lap rug and her senses, too. She could still feel the warmth of Robert’s fingers in her hair, like a phantom of her own folly. If the boat hadn’t turned when it had, quite literally dousing her with cold water . . . she didn’t want to think about that bit. Not with the others all waking and milling and stretching. Only so much of the color in her cheeks could be convincingly attributed to windburn.

Robert offered her a hand to help her out of the barge and she took it, feeling the clasp of his fingers sure and firm around her own. Charlotte glanced fleetingly up at him. He returned her glance with a slight, reassuring smile.

That smile made Charlotte bristle.

Was it her imagination, or was there something ever so slightly smug about that smile? As though he knew he had her in the palm of his hand and could decide to pick her up or drop her as the whim moved him.

Charlotte seized on that tiny, warming spark of anger. What did he think he was playing at? One moment Robert was all compliments and deep, burning looks, the next it would be calm reserve and protestations of indifference. Did he just have a horror of cold places? Charlotte would have laughed if she weren’t afraid her frozen facial muscles would crack with the strain. It had been frigid in the chapel at Girdings, too, and on the roof. That would be the most lowering explanation of all, to be wanted not for one’s wit or charm but for one’s ability to serve as a chest and lip warmer in cold places.

He couldn’t keep changing the terms. Charlotte was cold and numb and miserable, but she managed to grasp that one simple concept with her frozen senses. She — she told herself indignantly — had been more than accommodating in her willingness to forgive his last lapse and be friends despite it all. It wasn’t fair of him, just as she had worked her way around to understanding and forgiveness, to go and start the cycle all over again. This sort of romantic tangle wasn’t meant to be a cycle. She didn’t think she could bear to keep playing the same scenes over and over again, earnest affection followed by terse words of denial, followed by cautious forgiveness, followed by earnest affection again. It sounded like one of the more inventive torments derived by the Greek gods for their favored guests in Hades. Sisyphus didn’t even begin to compare.

Charlotte would have told him so, but now didn’t quite seem to be the time, not surrounded by their raggle-taggle band of adventurers with a king to be saved. Charlotte had always had the lowest possible opinion of those heroines who caused unnecessary delays in the middle of a quest by dragging in their own petty romantic problems.

What she had failed to allow for was that it wouldn’t feel nearly so petty when it was her own. But having a proper Lansdowne temper tantrum at Robert could wait until they had the King safely tucked into his own bed, attended by his own attendants. Minus Lord Henry Innes, that was. Even if Lord Henry had been merely the unwitting dupe of Robert’s mysterious Mr. Wrothan, he was still not fit to be entrusted with the care of a lapdog, much less the King.