The door swung open. With a jerk of his head, the giant indicated he should enter. "This way," he growled, leading Robert down a short corridor. Opening a door, the giant shouted across the threshold, "Here's the bloke wot came to see ya."

Robert entered the breakfast room. Michael looked at him over the rim of a steaming cup of what, based on the redolent scent in the air, was strong coffee.

"Good morning, Jamison. You're looking a mite better than when I saw you last."

"Feeling better, too."

"No more being bashed on the head, then?"

"No, Although I suspect your, er, butler would be happy to oblige."

"Don't worry about Crusher. His bark far outweighs his bite."

"I don't believe I'd care to experience either his bark or his bite. Do I want to know why he's called Crusher?"

"Probably not." He waved Robert forward. "Sit down. Enjoy some coffee. Would you care for some food?"

"No, nothing, thank you. I cannot stay. We are leaving for Bradford Hall as soon as I return to the town house."

"We?"

"Me and Al-Mrs. Brown."

"Aye? And how is the lovely widow? Fully recovered, I hope?"

To Robert's annoyance, warmth crept up his neck. "She is very well."

Michael studied him for several seconds with a penetrating, inscrutable look, then slowly nodded. "So it's that way, is it? I suspected so."

He didn't even attempt to deny it. "Yes. It's that way. But she's in danger-there's no doubt of it. Other things have happened since the night she was abducted, and I need your help." Sitting down across from Michael, Robert filled him in on the disturbing events that had occurred since he'd last seen him- the robbery, the attempted break-in, and finally the discovery of the note. At the end of his recitation, after stressing the need for discretion, he carefully withdrew the fragile note from his waistcoat pocket.

"Can you read this?" he asked, handing Michael the missive.

Michael gently unfolded the paper, then spent several minutes studying it. "I would agree with you that this is Gaelic," he said. "Unfortunately, except for a few words, I cannot read the language. I was always more a fighter than a scholar."

Reaching across the table, Robert pointed to the two words he'd deciphered. "Do you not agree that is 'Evers' and that is the name of the town where you grew up?"

"Yes." A puzzled frown creased Michael's brow, and he leaned closer to the paper.

"Do you recognize something else?" Robert asked.

"It looks like this says 'Brianne,'" Michael said slowly. "That name's bloody odd."

"Odd? Actually, I think it's rather a nice name."

"It is." Michael looked up at him, a combination of confusion and suspicion flickering in his eyes. "It's my mum's name."

Robert raised his brows and stroked his chin. "Bloody odd, indeed. Granted, there's probably thousands of women named Brianne in Ireland -"

"But it's peculiar that my surname, the town I lived in, and my mum's name are all in this note," finished Michael. A troubled frown pulled down his brows. "I wonder if this could explain…"

When he did not elaborate, Robert leaned forward and prompted, "What?"

"I don't know… it's probably nothing."

"What is probably nothing?" When his friend again remained silent, Robert's patience slipped. Reaching across the table, he grasped his friend's forearm. "Damn it, Michael, you must realize how important this is. Tell me."

After another long hesitation, Michael finally said, "When I was a lad, I used to tell my mum that her eyes were 'secrety.' A silly, childish word, but I didn't know any other way to describe what I read in her eyes. To this day, I still don't. She told me that everyone has secrets… And it was always evident to me that she herself had some."

"Surely you don't think this note has something to do with your mother?"

"Brianne's a common name, but I don't recall any others called that in our small village. Impossible as it seems, I can't dismiss the possibility. Can you?"

Robert raked his hands through his hair. "I suppose not. Can your mother read Gaelic?"

"Yes." His steady gaze met Robert's. "I'd like to show her this. I understand Mrs. Brown's desire for discretion. You have my word I'll show it to no one else but my mum."

A long silent look passed between them, then Robert nodded. "All right. But I'd like this matter resolved as quickly as possible-before any further strange incidents or accidents occur. When can you depart for Ireland?"

"I'll make arrangements to leave today."

Robert rose, then extended his hand to his friend. "I'm grateful."

"I'll report back to you at Bradford Hall as soon as I can."

"Thank you. And Michael-be sure to watch your back."


********

Unobtrusively lifting his gaze from the book he'd been trying to concentrate on for the past several hours, Robert ventured a look across the seat at his traveling companion. She sat perfectly composed, holding a book she appeared completely engrossed in.

He swallowed a disgruntled sound. She'd kept herself busy from the moment she'd settled herself in the carriage. First she'd sewn tiny buttons on several pairs of black gloves. Then she'd pulled out an embroidery hoop, which had occupied her for over three hours. Now her nose was buried in a book. He'd twice tried to engage her in conversation, but she'd answered in monosyllables, never looking up from her stitching or reading, and he'd finally turned his attention to his own book- with miserable results.

How could she concentrate on such mundane matters when all he could do was think of her? The feel of her. The taste of her. He inhaled and the flowery scent of her skin… that luscious honeysuckle, wrapped around his senses. How was it that while she clearly found him completely resistible, he found her completely irresistible?

And just what the bloody hell was she reading that was so fascinating? They'd both chosen volumes from the town house library before departing, but he had not asked what she'd selected. Shifting slightly forward, he squinted at the title printed in gold leaf on the leather spine of her book. His eyes widened.

She was reading The Taming of the Shrew.

Upside down.

He stilled, then pressed his lips together to contain the broad grin that threatened to spread across his face. Clearly she wasn't quite as engrossed in the Bard as she'd like him to think.

Considerably cheered, he gave up all pretense at reading. Snapping his book closed, he laid it on the velvet squabs next to him and indulged in a long, leisurely look at her.

She was dressed from head to toe in unrelenting black. The gown she wore looked new, and he surmised that it was one of those she had purchased from Madame Renee. The stark color contrasted with her creamy skin, lending her an alluring air of delicacy. Her black bonnet covered nearly all of her hair, and his fingers itched with the desire to untie the ribbons and remove it. He recalled the silky, thick texture of those chestnut strands sifting through his fingers. With her eyes cast downward on the upside-down words, he noted the length of her lashes casting crescent shadows on her smooth cheeks.

His gaze lowered to her lips and he stifled a groan. The feel of that luscious mouth crushed beneath his came roaring back with a vengeance that swelled him against his breeches. Such a delicious mouth. And bloody hell, she knew how to use it.

Wrapped in mourning from her neck to her toes, she looked like a remote, black-garbed island-untouchable, and lonely. Yet he knew the passion that hovered beneath the surface of her quiet exterior. And he was determined to share and experience that passion, in all its forms, with her. For after a sleepless night spent pacing and thinking, he'd finally, as dawn approached, accepted the irrefutable truth.

Allie was The One.

The one he'd been searching for. The one who made him feel that "certain something." The one he wanted.

Oh, he'd tried to talk himself out of the realization as he'd paced a trough in his bedchamber last night. Ticking off the reasons on his fingers. He'd known her less than a week. She lived an ocean away. She did not trust men. In her own words she'd said she refused to risk herself again. To any degree. For any man.

But as quickly as the obstacles rose, he felled them. It did not matter that they had not known each other long. Every member of his family had married after brief, whirlwind courtships. He'd always known that when love hit him it would, in the family tradition, resemble the strike of a lightning bolt-fast, hard, furious, and sizzling. As for living in America, she could simply do as Elizabeth had done-resettle in England. And while her aversion to involvement and marriage was justified, he would just have to find a way to overcome it. She might not want to risk herself for any man, but damn it, he wasn't just any man. He was the man who loved her.

But how to convince her to change her mind-set? To make her want him as he wanted her? How to get her to give up the past and embrace a future with him?

He shook his head at his own conceit. He had never even considered the possibility that when he found "the one" she might not fall in happily with his plans-might not feel exactly the same way about him. No, he'd simply assumed that Cupid's bow would strike them both simultaneously, and there would never be any question that they were made for each other.

He swallowed an ironic snort. Of course, he'd always thought he'd fall in love with an uncomplicated English girl who would worship the ground he walked upon. Instead, Fate had presented him with an American widow whose life was in danger, who adamantly wanted nothing to do with men or marriage, and who compared him to her criminally-minded, adulterous late husband.