He was about to tense and lift from her when a crashing in the wood captured both their attentions.

Turning his head, he watched Barnaby stagger from the trees. He was holding his side and had clearly failed to capture the Irishman.

Very much the worse for wear, Barnaby slumped against the bole of a tree. “Thank God.” He dragged in a painful breath. “You caught him.”

Dillon sighed. Without releasing his captive’s hands, he pushed up, got his feet under him, and rose, hauling her unceremoniously up before him.

He looked over her head at Barnaby. “No. I caught her.”

3

By the time Caxton steered her into his office, Pris had her wits firmly back under control. It helped that, in marching her back to the Jockey Club, he’d done no more than grip her elbow. Even that much contact was more than she would have wished, but it was a great improvement over what had gone before.

Those moments when she’d lain beneath him welled again in her mind. Resolutely, she jammed them down, buried them deep. She couldn’t afford the distraction.

He thrust her into the room, in the direction of the chair before his desk, the one she’d previously occupied.

After hauling her to her feet, with a detachment that, to her in her highly charged, overwrought state, had somehow smacked of insult, he’d tugged loose her kerchief, pulled her arms behind her, and bound them. Not tightly, but too well for her to slip her wrists free.

She’d borne the indignity only because her wits had still been reeling, her traitorous senses still whirling, leaving her weak-too weak to break away.

But their plodding journey through the wood had given her time to catch her breath; she was feeling considerably more capable now.

Halting beside the chair, she narrowed her eyes at Caxton as he came up beside her. “You’ll need to untie my hands.”

It was the earl’s daughter who spoke. Caxton met her eyes, considered, then reached behind her and tugged the knot free.

Leaving her to untangle her hands, he walked on; rounding his desk, he dropped into the chair behind it.

Behind her, Pris heard the door shut and the latch click home. As she sat-noting that Caxton hadn’t waited for her to do so before sitting himself-she glanced at his friend. He limped to the armchair and slowly let himself down into it.

She managed not to wince. Her confidence in Rus hadn’t been misplaced; there was a bruise on the man’s cheekbone, another on his jaw, and from the way he moved, his ribs hadn’t escaped punishment. He looked thoroughly roughed up, yet she detected a shrewdness, an incisiveness in his gaze; he was still very much mentally alert.

Shaking out her kerchief, she rolled it, then calmly knotted it once more about her neck. She looked at Caxton, noted he was frowning, then realized his gaze had lowered to her breasts, rising under the fine shirt as she reached to the back of her neck.

Thanking the saints that she didn’t blush easily, she lowered her arms. “Now that we’re here, what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

She had every intention of making this interview more painful for them than for her.

Dillon blinked, then locked his gaze on her face, on her fascinating eyes. “You can start by telling us what you were doing skulking about the wood.”

Her emerald eyes opened wide. “Why, skulking about the wood, of course. Is that a crime?”

He didn’t try to stop his jaw, his whole face from hardening. “The man in the wood-who was he?”

She considered asking what man. Instead, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“You were there to meet him.”

“So you say.”

“He’s a felon who’s been trying to burgle the Jockey Club.”

“Really?”

Dillon could almost believe the arrested look that went with that, as if he’d told her something she hadn’t known. “You know him, because you deliberately distracted me from helping Barnaby-Mr. Adair-apprehend him. You knew he’d overcome one man, but not two. You’re his accomplice-you helped him get away. Presumably you were his lookout.”

She sat back in the chair, outwardly as at ease, as comfortable and assured as she’d been in her emerald gown. Arms resting on the chair’s arms, she met his gaze directly. “That’s a fascinating hypothesis.”

“It’s the truth, or something close to it.”

“You have an excellent imagination.”

“My dear Miss Dalling, what do you imagine will happen if we deliver you to the constable and tell him we discovered you, dressed as you are, hiding in the wood behind the Jockey Club, just as a man seeking to break into the club fled the scene?”

Once again, she opened her eyes wide; this time, a gentle, subtly mocking smile played about her mobile, thoroughly distracting lips. “Why, that the poor constable will curse his luck and be made to feel terribly uncomfortable, for as we’ve already established, skulking about in the woods is no crime, your assertion that I know the man is pure conjecture, conjecture I absolutely deny, and as for being dressed as I am, I believe you’ll discover that, too, is not against the law.”

The poor constable would be mesmerized by her voice. If she spoke more than two phrases, it required a conscious exercise of will not to fall under her spell. And, of course, in this case, she spoke the unvarnished truth. Sitting back in his chair, Dillon studied her, deliberately let the moment stretch.

She met his gaze; her lips curved, just a little-enough for him to know she knew what he was attempting, that she wasn’t susceptible, wasn’t going to feel compelled to fill the silence.

Despite his intention not to shift his gaze, he found himself glancing at her attire. In a town like Newmarket, the sight of ladies in breeches, while not socially acceptable, was hardly rare. An increasing number of females-Flick being one-were involved in one way or another with preparing race horses, and riding such animals in skirts was simply too dangerous. When he called on Flick, he was as likely to find her in breeches as in skirts.

It was his familiarity with ladies’ breeches that prodded his mind. Miss Dalling’s weren’t made for her; they didn’t fit well enough, being a touch too big, the legs a trifle long. Likewise the jacket; the shoulders were too wide, and the cuffs fell across the backs of her hands.

Her boots were her own-her feet were small and dainty-but the clothes hadn’t been hers originally. Most likely a brother’s…

Lifting his gaze, he captured hers. “Miss Dalling, can you tell me you don’t know this man-the man Mr. Adair attempted to apprehend?”

Her fine brows arched haughtily. “My dear Mr. Caxton, I have no intention of telling you anything at all.”

“Is he your brother?”

Her lashes flickered, but she held his gaze, direct and unflinching. “My brothers are in Ireland.”

Her tone had gone flat. He knew he’d hit a nerve, but he’d also hit a wall. She would tell him nothing more, at all. Inwardly sighing, he rose, with a wave gestured to the door. “I would thank you for assisting us, Miss Dalling, however…”

With a look of cool contempt, she rose. Turning, she paused, studying Barnaby. “I’m sorry you were injured, Mr. Adair. Might I suggest ice packs would help with those bruises?”

She accorded him a regal nod, then, lifting her head, walked to the door.

Dillon watched her, noting the swaying hips, the supreme confidence in her walk, then he rounded the desk and went after her.

Even now, especially now, he wasn’t about to let her wander the corridors of the Jockey Club alone.


Damn it, Rus, where are you?”

Holding her frisky bay mare on a tight rein, Pris scanned the gently undulating grassland that formed Newmarket Heath. Here and there between the scattered trees and copses, strings of horses were being put through the daily round of exercises that kept them in peak condition. Horsey breaths fogged in the crisp morning air. Dawn had just broken; it was cold and misty. Beyond the practicing strings, wholly absorbed with their activities, the Heath was largely empty; other than herself, there were few observers about.

More would gather as the sun rose higher; she intended to be gone before too many gentlemen rode out to view the runners for the race meet tomorrow.

The string she’d been observing from a safe distance wasn’t Irish. Straining her ears, she could just pick up the orders and comments tossed back and forth. This group was English, definitely not Lord Cromarty’s string.

Suppressing her disappointment, doing her best to ignore her mounting anxiety, she set the mare cantering on to the next string.

It was the second morning she’d ridden out. Yesterday, Adelaide had accompanied her, but Adelaide wasn’t a confident rider; Pris had spent as much time watching over her as she had scanning the sward. This morning, she’d risen earlier, donned her emerald velvet riding habit, and slipped out of the house in the dark, leaving Adelaide dreaming.

Of Rus, no doubt. In their unwavering devotion, Adelaide and she were alike, albeit for different reasons.

Two nights before, she’d truthfully told Caxton her brothers were in Ireland. Rus wasn’t her brother-he was her twin. He all but shared her soul. Not knowing where he was, simultaneously knowing he was facing some as-yet-nebulous danger, set fear like a net about her heart.

With every day that passed, the net drew tighter.

She had to find Rus, had to help him break free of what ever it was that threatened him. Nothing else mattered, not until that was done.

Catching sight of another string, she turned the mare in that direction. The horse was still fresh; Pris let her stretch out in an easy gallop, but given that she was riding sidesaddle over unfamiliar ground, she kept the reins taut.