"What does it say?"

"I don't know. It's written in some foreign language. I'm afraid it might have information about David… information I wouldn't want anyone else to know, which is why I did not put it back before I gave the box over to Lord Shelbourne."

"May I take a look at it?"

She wordlessly handed him the delicate paper. Moving to the fireplace, he crouched on the stone hearth and held the note at the best angle to capture the light. After a minute he remarked, "I think this might be Gaelic."

Her stomach knotted. "I thought so as well, in which case it most likely does concern David. He was familiar with the language."

He nodded in an almost absent manner, then said, "This word… how odd." He pointed to a word. "That looks like 'Evers.' "

Crouching down beside him, she squinted at the cramped, faded letters. "Yes, it does," she agreed. Something tickled her memory, but remained just out of reach. "Does that mean something to you?"

"Only that it is my friend Michael's surname."

Recognition hit her. "The pugilist fellow who bandaged us."

"Yes." He continued to examine the letter. Nearly a minute passed where the only sound breaking the silence was the snapping of the orange-red flames in the hearth.

"Look at this word," he finally said, pointing to another faded group of letters. "I swear it looks like the name of the town in Ireland where I recall that Michael grew up." He turned to her, his eyes dark and serious in the firelight. "I'd like to show this letter to Michael."

She opened her mouth to protest, but before she could utter a word, he said, "Being from Ireland, he might be able to translate the words. I give you my word that he is discreet."

She debated saying no, but a wave of weariness washed over her, nearly drowning her in its wake. She wanted so badly for this to be over…

"Very well," she agreed in a tired voice.

Robert watched as the strength seemed to simply seep out of her. Setting the note on the mahogany end table, he stood, then reached down to help her up. She stared at his hands for several seconds, and he thought she was going to refuse his help. But then she grasped his palms and allowed him to assist her to her feet.

No more than two feet separated them. Her hands felt small and cold clasped in his, and her eyes… they appeared enormous in her pale face, shadowed with ghosts of the past and inner weariness. She looked emotionally and physically spent.

His chest tightened, and all the anger he'd held steadfastly at bay while listening to her tale bombarded him. A violence such as he'd never before experienced rose in him, and he deeply regretted that he'd never have five minutes alone with David Brown. Now he knew where the girl in the sketch had gone. And he couldn't help but marvel at the determination and inner strength that had kept even a tiny flicker of that girl alive.

Looking at her now, however, his anger faded as quickly as it had flared, snuffed out by a swell of sympathy. Bloody hell, what this young woman had endured… and how she'd fought back. And how difficult it clearly had been for her to tell him.

She suddenly stiffened and pulled her hands from his grasp.

"Another reason I moved away," she said, "was to distance myself from my family. Not only did I not want the scandal to touch them any more than it already had but I simply couldn't stand their pity any longer. I knew they loved me, yet every time they looked at me, all they saw was 'poor Allie.' They all stared at me with that same expression that's on your face right now." She lifted her chin, her gaze steady. "I do not want your pity."

"I understand. Yet I cannot help but feel sorry for what you've suffered. If it makes you feel better, I can tell you that pity is actually only a small part of what I'm feeling right now."

She pressed her lips together, then raised her chin another notch. "I imagine you're quite disgusted."

"Indeed, it disgusts me to know that not only do people such as David Brown exist but they hurt people… kind, trusting people, like you."

"I meant disgusted with me. For being so stupid as to love such a man. For not being able to see his true nature."

"No. God, no." Reaching out, he cupped her shoulders. "You did nothing wrong. You were victimized-in the crudest of ways. I feel the deepest admiration for you, for the way you paid back his other victims. You're very brave."

A short, humorless laugh blew from between her lips. "Brave? I'm frightened all the time. Unsure of… everything."

"Yet you go on. Trying your best. Bravery isn't being without fear-it's overcoming your fears. Moving forward in spite of them. Facing them down." When she continued to look unconvinced, he continued, "I cannot tell you how much I admire your strength. How you've worked so hard to right wrongs that weren't even yours."

Confusion flickered in her eyes. "Giving back things that did not belong to me, returning money that David had stolen, that did not take strength."

"Didn't it? How many other people do you honestly think would have done it? Especially if it left them on the brink of financial ruin?" His gaze roamed her lovely, pale face, and his heart, quite simply, turned over. "I believe you're the bravest and strongest woman I've ever met. And I give you my word that whoever is behind these 'accidents' and abductions and robberies will be apprehended. I'll not allow anyone to harm you again."

A wealth of expressions flitted across her features. Surprise. Doubt. Uncertainty. Then gratitude. And all of them shadowed by an underlying vulnerability that made him want to wrap his arms around her and protect her from anyone or anything that would be foolish enough to attempt to hurt her again. Her bottom lip trembled slightly, drawing his attention to her mouth… her full, beautiful mouth.

Desire slammed into him-low, hard, and undeniable. She was so achingly beautiful. A sudden flush of color washed over her cheeks. Clearly she'd recognized the hunger he knew burned in his gaze. He remained perfectly still for several seconds, giving her the chance to move away, but she stood her ground. That beguiling blush beckoned him like a siren's call, and slowly, as if in a trance, he raised his hand to her face and gently brushed his fingertips over her cheek.

Velvet. Her skin was like cream velvet. Or was satin softer? Or silk? He didn't know, but she was most definitely whichever was the softest. A tiny, breathy sound escaped her, once again drawing his gaze to her lips. And suddenly he could not recall one reason why he shouldn't give in to the longing that had plagued him since even before he'd met her, and kiss her. She didn't mourn… Her heart was free.

Wrapping one arm around her waist, he slowly drew her to him until they touched from chest to knee. Her eyes widened slightly, but there was no mistaking the awareness glimmering in her golden-brown depths. Or the stirrings of desire. He inhaled, and her scent wrapped around him like a seductive vine. Lowering his head, he brushed his mouth over hers.

At last.

That same intense rush of feeling he'd experienced at the pier enveloped him, and for several seconds he couldn't move as the words reverberated through his mind. If it had been possible, he would have laughed at his strong reaction. Bloody hell, he'd barely touched her…

He pulled her tighter against him. No woman, ever, had felt this right. As if she'd been fashioned precisely for him and no one else. Rising up on her toes, she strained closer to him, pressing her lush curves against him, instantly evaporating any hopes he might have foolishly harbored about remaining in control. A low growl rumbled in his throat. He touched his tongue to the seam of her lips, and she opened for him with a husky sigh of want that ignited him, racing his blood through his veins.

She tasted like heated wine. Smooth and warm, delicious and intoxicating. While he explored the dark mysteries of her mouth, she explored his with equal fervor, her tongue rubbing against his with exquisite friction. Need, hot and increasingly demanding, ripped through him, and if he'd been able to think clearly, he would have been appalled at his lack of subtlety.

He tunneled impatient fingers into her soft hair, scattering pins, until a curtain of flowery-scented tresses rained over his hands. Soft. God, she was so soft. And smelled so damn good. Her thick hair rippled through his fingers like cool silk, a stunning contrast to the fire burning through him. A fire made all the more intense by her reactions. For as impatiently as his mouth claimed hers, she pressed against him. For as eagerly as his hands combed through her hair, her fingers raced through his.

A moan vibrated between them. Him? Her? God help him, he didn't know anymore. Desperate to feel more of her, his hands smoothed down her back until he cupped her rounded buttocks. Every muscle strained with wanting her closer, and he cursed the barrier of their clothing that kept their skin from touching.

He didn't know how long that frantic mating of lips and tongues continued before a semblance of sanity returned, along with a modicum of finesse. He gentled his kiss, somehow finding the strength to abandon her lips and explore the delights of her slender neck. He ran hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw to the rapidly quivering pulse at the base of her throat. He gently touched his tongue to the spot, savoring the long, low moan vibrating in her throat.

"That fragrance," he whispered against the shell of her ear. "What is that incredible scent you wear?" He captured her lobe between his teeth and lightly tugged.

"Honeysuckle," she breathed, the word ending on a husky groan.

Honeysuckle. The luscious aroma that had embedded itself in his mind had a name. Honeysuckle. Hell, it even sounded luscious. Sensual. Like the woman in his arms.