Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, prayed for control, then lifting his lids, he looked down, and nudged her head with his jaw. “My hands.” His voice was barely working. “Untie them. Pris-please?”

For a moment, she lay dead, then he felt her breasts swell as she drew in a huge breath. Then she shifted, reached for one wrist, stretched, and tugged.

The instant he felt the silken shackle give, he wrenched his hand free, reached across, tipping her on his chest, and with one yank had his other hand untied.

Then he caught her, kissed her, claimed her mouth, and let all he felt for her free. He rolled, and she was beneath him; deep in the kiss, he reached for her thighs, spread them, lifted them, and sank home.

Deep. Where he belonged.

She thought so, too. On a gasp and a sob, she wound her legs over his, tilted her hips, and pulled him even deeper.

He filled her, savoring every inch of her tight clasp, of her complete and willful surrender. Then he took, filled his soul, his heart, his senses with her. Let the thunder in his veins drive them both. Felt her join him, felt her clutch, heard her moan.

Then they were flying far beyond the edge of the world, well beyond perception’s reach, one heart, one soul, two merged minds, two bodies in thrall to that elemental hunger. Driving, reaching, striving, wanting.

She fragmented, came apart, and took him with her; hand in hand, fingers tightly laced, they gained their private heaven. And felt the glory close around them, welcoming them in, assuring them beyond words, beyond thought, that this truly was their home.

That this was where Us belonged.


Ask me again.” Pris lay slumped, exhausted, beside him, the glory of aftermath a golden warmth in her veins.

He lay spooned around her, cradling her against him, her back to his chest. “No.” A mumbled rumble.

She tried to frown, failed, then remembered he couldn’t see. “Why not?”

“Because neither of us is thinking straight-capable of thinking straight. I’m not going to risk you giving me the wrong answer, or, heaven forbid, later forgetting what answer you gave.”

Flick’s words whirled in her mind; Pris managed an inelegant snort. “You thrive on taking risks, especially with what matters.”

“Not when I might lose more than I’m willing to lose.”

She thought that over and realized it was a statement with which she couldn’t possibly argue.

She also realized she couldn’t recall ever winning an argument with him. She grumbled on principle, but he held firm, finally silencing her with, “Besides, you’re not the only one who can plan.”

Before she could decide if that was a threat or a promise, she fell asleep.


The next morning, Dillon was seated at Horatia’s dining table, happily alone, even more happily putting the final touches to his plans for the day, when the knocker was plied with considerable force.

Highthorpe strode past the dining room door; Dillon heard voices, then Barnaby walked in.

A disheveled, bedraggled, exhausted Barnaby.

“Good God!” Dillon sat up; setting down his coffee cup, he waved to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. What the devil happened?”

Through two days’ growth of beard, Barnaby grimaced wearily. “Nothing a cup of strong coffee, breakfast, a bath, a razor, and a day of sleep won’t cure.”

“We can start with the first two.” Dillon nodded as Highthorpe placed a cup before Barnaby and filled it.

He waited until Barnaby had taken a long sip, eyes closed, clearly savoring the relief. When he opened his eyes and looked over the breakfast dishes spread on the table, Dillon said, “Help yourself-just talk while you do. You’re hardly a sight to calm nerves.”

Barnaby fleetingly grinned and pulled a platter of ham his way. “I drove all night. And most of the day and night before that.”

“Martin?”

Barnaby nodded grimly.

Dillon frowned. “You found him?”

“Yes, and no.” Barnaby stabbed a piece of ham. “Stokes and I visited the house in Connaught Place.” He put the ham into his mouth, waved the empty fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “It wasn’t Martin in the house, but a family renting from Mr. Gilbert Martin. We found the agent, and Stokes persuaded him to give us Martin’s address.”

Barnaby looked at his plate. “Northampton. Stokes went with me. When we got there, it was the same story. Someone else in the house, renting via an agent from Mr. Gilbert Martin. And so we found that agent, and went on to Liverpool.”

Dillon held his tongue while Barnaby ate.

“After that, it was Edinburgh, York, Carlisle, Bath, then Glasgow.” Barnaby frowned. “I might have missed one or two towns, but the last was Bristol. That’s where we ran Mr. Gilbert Martin to earth, entirely by accident, through an acquaintance in the town.”

Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “Mr. Gilbert Martin is seventy-three years old, has no son, knows of no other Gilbert Martin, and although he does indeed own the house in Connaught Place and rents it via that first agent, Mr. Martin hasn’t the faintest idea about his supposed new address in Northampton or any of the other houses.”

Barnaby paused, then added, “The rental monies from the London house are paid into an account in the city, and Mr. Martin draws on that. There’s been no change there, so he had no idea anything was going on.”

Dillon’s frown deepened. “So we have no idea who that other Mr. Gilbert Martin is?”

“Other than a devilishly clever cove? No, none.”

After a moment, Barnaby went on, “During our travels, Stokes and I had plenty of time to dwell on various scenarios. Once we learned what a goose chase Mr. X had sent us on, and how neatly it had been arranged, more or less guaranteeing that even the head denizens of the underworld would never be able to trace him, it became clear just what danger you, especially, now face.”

He looked at Dillon. “If Mr. X decides on revenge, we’ll have absolutely no idea from which direction the blow might come.”

Impassive, Dillon nodded. “Yet there might be no blow, no revenge. I can hardly go through life constantly expecting it. Mr. X has to have been savaged financially. He might already have fled the country.”

“There’s that, but…” Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “It doesn’t feel right. He went to all that trouble to hide his identity-what are the chances he’s one of us, a member of the ton?”

“Gabriel’s continued searching, but as of yesterday, he’d found no trace, no trail, not an inkling.”

“Just so. Mr. X is a past master at hiding his tracks. He could be the gentleman at your shoulder next time you stop by your club, or at the next ball you attend. I don’t suppose you’d consider repairing to Newmarket?”

“No.”

Barnaby sighed. “I told Stokes so, but, like me, he’s sure Mr. X will have a try at you, even if he then scurries off overseas. He’s probably planning to, so killing you just before will fit nicely into his plans.”

Dillon couldn’t help his smile. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Not quite as you imagined, but…I have an idea. As you’re both so convinced Mr. X will come after me, doesn’t that suggest we have an opportunity-possibly our last opportunity-to lay our hands on him?”

Barnaby blinked. “You mean use you as bait?”

Dillon raised his brows. “If I’m the one lure we’re all agreed he’ll come after…why not?”


He called for Pris at eleven, bullied her into her pelisse, then drove her to his chosen place.

As he led her through the doors and down the nave, she looked around, then leaned close to whisper, “Why are we here?”

About them, the sacred peace of St. Paul’s Cathedral held sway. “Because,” he whispered back, winding her arm with his, “I wanted a place where despite being alone, we wouldn’t run the risk of distracting ourselves. We need to talk, and for that we need to think.”

She considered protesting, then thought better of it; she looked around with greater interest. “Where?”

He’d planned that, too. “This way.”

The day was cool, clouds scudding overhead, a brisk wind debating whether to unleash some rain or not. An assortment of sightseers wandered both nave and transept, studying the plaques and monuments, but when he escorted Pris through the door at the rear of the side chapel, as he’d hoped there were no others enjoying the peace of the ancient courtyard beyond.

A narrow, walled rectangle, in days gone by the courtyard had provided herbs for the infirmary attached to the cathedral. Now it was simply a quiet place for contemplation.

The perfect place to consider and decide the rest of their lives.

He led her to a gray stone bench thickly cushioned with thyme. Gathering her skirts, she sat and looked up at him. After an instant’s hesitation, of gathering his thoughts, he sat beside her.

“Never having done this before, I’m not sure of the best approach, but I can’t see that going down on one knee is going to help.”

“It won’t.” Her voice was noticeably tight, a touch breathless.

“In that case…” He took her hand in his, gently tugged off her glove, tossed it in her lap, then clasped her hand palm to palm in his. He looked across the courtyard at the ancient walls-as old as time, a fitting setting for them. In some ways they were “old souls,” too, more pagan than most.

“We’re not like other people, other couples, you and I.” He glanced at her; he had her full attention. “I knew that the instant I set eyes on you, on the steps of the club. You were…so unlike any other woman I’d ever met, ever seen. You saw me, the real me. Not through a veil but directly. And I saw you in exactly the same way. I knew then, and I think you did, too. But for both of us, the concept didn’t fit what we’d thought would be, so…we prevaricated.”