She scrambled to her feet and stared down at him as if he’d suggested some unnatural practice. “My brother wants me to marry Lord Desborough.”

More slowly, Harry rose from his knees, his gaze never wavering from Sophie. “You can’t marry Desborough. You love me.”

For a moment, he thought she might hurl herself into his embrace, but she curtailed the movement and wrapped her arms around her crushed bodice. “My brother is determined on the marriage.”

“Your brother is a reasonable man. He’ll—”

She interrupted him. “He is a reasonable man. He’s arranged a match with a kind gentleman of great fortune who’s fond of me.”

Harry glared at her. “You sound like you want to marry the sod.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said on an exhalation of despair. “You don’t understand.”

He folded his own arms, fighting his hurt. To think, five minutes ago, he’d considered himself the world’s happiest man. “I understand that you said you’d marry me and now seem to say that you won’t.”

She curled her hand around his tight forearm. “Let’s not quarrel.”

“I can’t let you marry Desborough.”

“I don’t want to. But my brother is in a state because of Uncle Neville’s suicide and because Sedgemoor is working against us and because he thinks the scandal may end his political career. It’s not the time to tell him that his carefully laid plans won’t eventuate.”

“You’re frightened of him.”

The suggestion shocked her. “Of course not. But open defiance now, when he feels like the world turns against him, would hurt him.”

What about me?

Harry bit back the childish question. “So what do you propose?” Moments ago, “propose” had conveyed a completely different meaning.

She stared up with a sweet entreaty that, if he was less upset, would have him back on his knees. “We wait.”

“I can’t wait.” He made a sweeping gesture. “I need everyone to know that you’re mine. Living without you this last week nearly broke me.”

“Please don’t be angry,” she said softly, changing her grip into a caress.

“How long until you turn twenty-one?” Although even then if Sophie married without Leath’s approval, there would be a brouhaha.

Devastation darkened her blue eyes. “Nearly two years.”

Two years? That was an eternity. He stared at her in anguish. “I can’t bear to think I might lose you.”

“You’ll never lose me,” she said with a certainty that should have surprised him, but didn’t. She was young, but she was steadfast. Which was a double-edged sword. A flightier girl wouldn’t spare a thought for her brother. “We can continue as we are.”

“Meeting in secret? Lying? Snatching moments that only serve as a painful reminder that moments are all we have?” He swung away. “The longer we wait, the more the world believes that you’ll marry Desborough.”

“Do you want me to release you from our engagement?” she asked miserably, stepping back.

A cold wave of dread turned Harry’s blood to ice. “Do you want that?”

She looked on the verge of crying. “Of course not.”

He crossed the chasm separating them and discovered it only measured a pace. He seized her in his arms and kissed her hard. For an instant that lasted an eon, she resisted before kissing him back with a fervor that threatened to send everything but passion to hell.

She leaned back to see his face. “I want to marry you, but I don’t want my selfish pursuit of happiness to burden my brother with more scandal.”

“Does that extend to marrying Desborough?” Harry asked harshly. “When I met you, you were crying over your brother’s plans. Don’t pretend that suddenly you’re prepared to play the dutiful sister.”

With a sigh, she laid one hand against his cheek. “I was prepared to play the dutiful sister. That’s why I was crying.”

Fear dug its talons into his aching heart. “You can’t enter a loveless marriage to save Leath’s pride.”

She stiffened. “You demand so much.”

His hand tightened on her waist as if Leath emerged from the undergrowth to steal her away. “Meeting like this does us no credit.”

Temper lit her face to vivid beauty. “You should be used to deception. I’ve heard gossip.”

Harry’s resentment of Leath ratcheted up another notch. “I’ll wager most of it came from your brother.”

When Sophie avoided his gaze, he knew he was right. “Did James lie?”

Harry had never been ashamed of all his dashing widows and bored wives before. He was ashamed now. “Hell, Sophie, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.” His voice shook with sincerity. “That’s what’s important. That, and how these meetings stain your character and mine.”

Resentment shadowed her expression. “You’re cruel.”

“No. I’m a man in love.” He paused. “I want to shout that love from the rooftops, not meet you in corners as if my feelings are a dirty secret.”

“Harry, I’m sorry.” She rose on her toes and peppered his face with kisses. Each one eased his outrage, until he caught her and pressed his lips to hers.

“I can’t be angry when you kiss me.”

“That’s good.” She trailed her lips along his jaw with a tenderness that melted pique. “When we’re married, I’ll kiss you all the time.”

She spoke as if merely by promising to marry him, their difficulties vanished like mist across the morning meadows. He wasn’t nearly so convinced that delay would change her brother’s mind.

For the sake of his future and his love, Harry must brave the dragon and claim the maiden.

Chapter Ten

English Channel, late March 1828


Cam stood clinging to a rope on a deck that bucked up and down. He wiped stinging, icy rain from his eyes and reminded himself that the yacht had withstood worse. His gut tightened with foreboding only because they were so close to journey’s end.

They’d experienced rough weather since leaving the Mediterranean and sailing into the Atlantic. Thus far, the Windhover had coped with raging seas like the thoroughbred she was. Spring gales had tossed the ship until Cam didn’t know which way was up. Much the way he felt when he encountered his enigmatic passenger.

Now they were only hours from Folkestone, the port he’d chosen in preference to Dover. At Dover, he was too likely to run into someone who recognized him. After that inn above Genoa, Cam was more careful than ever. Pen had assured him that she’d headed off Mrs. Barker-Pratt’s curiosity. If she was right, Cam had achieved a miracle. He’d managed to bring Pen home without jeopardizing his plans to marry Lady Marianne.

Even more miraculous, he’d managed to keep his hands off Pen. Despite a case of blue balls unlike any he could remember, he’d resisted the ravening hunger that kept him awake at night, and restless and cranky all day.

A wonder indeed.

Now he just had to deliver Pen to London. Then, given her plans to return to the Continent, he’d probably never see her again. He was a damn fool to regret that. But regret it he did. Losing her before he discovered what all those lovers had taught her made him want to gnash his teeth and break something.

Even in the last minutes, the storm had worsened. The wind through the rigging shrieked like lost souls in hell.

“Can we turn back to France?” he shouted to his captain, who was lashed to the wheel. The usually imperturbable Scotsman fought to hold the helm steady, the set of his jaw betraying their danger.

“Too far.” Through the gale, the man’s brogue was barely comprehensible. “Better we race for the nearest port and wait the storm out.”

“Do as you think best,” Cam shouted back.

For years, he’d sailed with John MacGregor. If anyone brought the Windhover through, it would be the dour Aberdonian.

“Go below, Your Grace.” His tone held no deference. If Cam hadn’t been worried sick, he’d smile. “Ye’re proving a wee distraction up here.”

It was an indication of their perilous situation that MacGregor admitted to needing all his concentration to keep the yacht afloat. “I want to help.”

“Ye’ll help by bundling up somewhere safe. If the bonnie Duke of Sedgemoor drowns on my watch, my bluidy wife will never let me hear the end of it.”

Cam acknowledged the man’s dry humor, surely the only dry thing left on the ship. He clapped MacGregor’s shoulder then turned. Staggering from one handhold to the next, he struggled against the clawing wind toward the hatch.

Below decks, he’d thought the din would lessen, but it was somehow worse for being contained. The creak of timbers, the water pounding against the hull, the deep, irregular bang as the Windhover struck the bottom of a wave. He wondered how the fragile wooden structure survived.

In the saloon, he shook off the water drenching him. Like the crew of five above, he wore oilskins. Not that they provided much protection. Swiftly he undressed to shirt and breeches, shivering in the cold.

Pen was in her cabin. Throughout this trip, she’d borne every inconvenience without complaint. But in such a storm, even a good sailor with a courageous heart would be frightened. Whatever her distaste for Cam’s company, he couldn’t leave her terrified while they plunged through this turbulent ocean. She was alone—Maria hadn’t wanted to come to England.

Bumping drunkenly from one wall to another, Cam made his way down the short corridor to where Pen’s cabin faced his. During their fortnight at sea, that proximity had plagued him. Now, all he could think about was extending comfort and reassurance.

Although it was only early afternoon, the hallway was as dark as the pit. Cam knocked on Pen’s door, received no reply, knocked more loudly, then realized that he’d need to bash the polished teak with a hammer for her to hear. Feeling like a trespasser, he depressed the brass handle and stepped inside.