Giving in to the comforting lure of sleep, he closed his eyes. A blanket was brought over his body, and the sweet fragrance of roses surrounded him. He wanted to pull Emma in but his arms didn’t respond to his commands. All he did was drift back into the blackness.


“How could you do that to him?” Emma snapped.

“How could I not? We have to think very carefully about what we wish him to know.”

“We should tell him everything.”

“Absolutely not. He’ll use it against us.”

“Eleanor, it’s too late to deny what we did. If we explain to him the why of it, he might be able to help us.”

“And what if we have to explain the why of it at our trial? I’d rather hang than disgrace Elisabeth before all of London.” Eleanor strode from the room.

Emma bent down and pressed a kiss to James’s forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

Then, because he was asleep and Eleanor wasn’t about, she touched his hair where it poked up over the bandage. It had been windblown when he arrived, giving him an almost barbaric appearance. She trailed her fingers around his face, relaxed now, but the cragginess that she so loved gave a hardness to his familiar features. When he’d leaped from his horse, his fury matched the worst storm to ever sweep over the land. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected of him. That he’d taken her in his arms had both terrified and thrilled her.

Resting her hand against his throat, she felt the thready pulsing of his blood. She wanted to smack Eleanor for giving him a draught. Hadn’t they done enough to him?

Charm him, seduce him, distract him, Eleanor had urged. Emma found the task to be heaven and hell. She’d enjoyed every moment in his company, even as each one was tainted with guilt.

She’d known every time he began to ask her questions that he was striving to determine her purpose. How often she’d wanted to confess all, to seek his opinion, to share her doubts. Eleanor had been convinced that a lord of the realm would go unpunished in spite of his abhorrent behavior. They’d had to take matters into their own hands, had to make him pay for what he’d done to Elisabeth-and perhaps others.

Emma had agreed that Rockberry needed to be dealt with. But she’d never wanted to hurt James. That last night in his arms, she’d known that no matter how desperately she wished otherwise, she would bring him pain.

Taking his hand, she brought it to her lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

Revenge was not for the faint of heart, but she’d discovered too late that neither was it for her.


When Swindler awoke, darkness had descended and the wind shrieked, a forlorn sound that echoed the cries of his own heart. Knowing everything he knew about Emma’s conniving, how was it that once again he’d allowed her to bewitch him? How could she still look so innocent? In her eyes, he could have sworn he saw regret, but also tenderness and a powerful yearning that matched his.

He rolled over, swinging his legs off the bed, and sat up. Dizziness assailed him, and he gave it a moment to pass. His head throbbed dully-he suspected more from whatever Eleanor had put in his whiskey than from the horse’s kick. He wished he could take only her back to London and leave Emma here, but how would he explain his providing the alibi? Either way he would look the fool, but at least the truth wouldn’t destroy his reputation, only sully it. Without Emma he would be viewed as a liar, his days working with Scotland Yard behind him.

He’d worked so damned hard to rise out of the gutter, to no longer be thought of as the son of a thief. He refused to let all his struggles go for naught. Although he was dead, his father deserved a son more worthy. Swindler had always been determined not to disappoint him.

Rising to his feet, he walked to the window and peered out on the darkness. Rain lashed at the windowpanes. With the flashing of lightning, he saw the white crests of the distant turbulent sea and trees bending from the force of the wind. Deafening thunder cracked. Living so near the sea was not for those easily frightened by strength and power. Little wonder Emma was as courageous as she was. She’d no doubt been shaped by these storms, knew the force of nature, knew how to withstand its onslaught.

Emma. Just the thought of her filled him with mixed reactions: wanting and aversion. She and her sister had taken justice in their own hands. Damn it all, it made him a hypocrite not to admit that he’d done the same on occasion. He’d always justified his actions, believing he knew what constituted justice because he’d seen so much injustice in his youth. Arrogant bastard. Emma was making him face his own shortcomings and he didn’t much like it.

Turning from the window, he strode to the door, turned the knob, and discovered it was locked. Pressing his forehead to the wood, he laughed darkly. Apparently, even after everything they’d shared during their brief time together, Emma had absolutely no clue with whom she dealt.


In the kitchen, Emma carefully folded the cloth napkin that she would place on the tray she was preparing for James. It was silly, really, that she wanted everything to be perfect, especially as he’d no doubt wake up in a foul mood from Eleanor’s tampering with his whiskey.

“I know you’re angry because I gave him the sleeping draught,” Eleanor began as she sliced the mutton. It had been almost an hour since they’d spoken. While Eleanor had begun preparations for dinner, Emma saw to the animals, herding them into the barn before the storm broke.

“I’m more than angry. He’s done nothing to deserve such distrust,” Emma replied, beginning to lose patience with her sister and her inability to understand that they’d crossed a fine line once. It wasn’t going to become their habit.

“He’s come to arrest us and I’ve been thinking long and hard about it. Our best course is to convince him that he should leave you here. Truly, what good can come from both of us being hanged? It was my idea, after all. You only went along because it’s your nature to go along.”

“My recollection of our conversation is something along the lines of your suggesting that we should kill him and then our arguing about which one of us should have the honor of doing him in.”

Eleanor’s lips twitched. “I suppose you didn’t take any convincing that he needed to be done in.”

“None at all. I’d read Elisabeth’s journal as well.”

“Then perhaps I should read it.” The deep voice echoed through the room.

With tiny screeches, Emma and Eleanor both spun around. They stood close enough that they managed to come together, holding each other as though the devil had risen from hell in order to claim them. But it was only James, filling the doorway, appearing incredibly handsome despite his somewhat disheveled state. He’d removed the bandage from around his head, but hadn’t bothered to put on his waistcoat and jacket-or rebutton his shirt, for that matter. His throat and a narrow V of his chest were visible, but it was enough to make Emma’s hands itch to touch him. If Eleanor hadn’t been squeezing them so tightly, Emma might have crossed over to James and done just that: touched him, stroked him, held him.

A corner of his mouth hitched up into that cocky smile that she so loved. “You didn’t honestly believe a locked door was going to keep me in that room, did you?” He held up a small diamond hairpin, and Emma recognized it as the one she’d worn in her hair the night of the ball, the one she’d forgotten and left in his bedchamber. “I was raised among thieves and pickpockets. A lock is child’s play.”

Emma broke free of her sister’s hold and glared at her. “You locked the door?”

Eleanor gave her a mulish look. “While you were out tending the animals. I wanted to be certain we weren’t disturbed while we worked out our plans if he awoke quickly.”

“Eleanor-” Before she could go on, Eleanor glared at James.

“It was rude of you to startle us so,” her sister said, her voice sharp enough to slice the mutton. Emma knew her tartness harbored her fears that she was no longer in control of the situation. Eleanor was the plotter, the planner, the one with grand schemes and designs. Once, they had focused on how to acquire the best husband; lately, they were centered on how best to avoid the noose.

“Your hospitality is rather lacking,” James said.

“I suppose you expect me to apologize for the sleeping draught.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t expect anything of you.”

His words contained a wealth of meaning, as though Emma and Eleanor were the lowest of the low, snakes-like the ones they’d seen at the zoological gardens-to crawl on their bellies because they were too vile to be given the means to stand.

“I was preparing a tray…your dinner,” Emma said, her voice unsteady. She was anxious to change the subject, to make some sort of peace offering.

“I’m able to eat at the table. I don’t need to be waited on.”

Emma nodded jerkily. “Well, then, we shall serve dinner in half an hour.”

His eyes slowly roamed over her, before his gaze settled on Eleanor. “Put anything in my food or drink again and you’d best hope it kills me, because when I awaken you’ll suffer my wrath, and trust me on this-it’s not at all pleasant.”

He strode from the room without another word.

“I won’t be able to eat a bite with him sitting at the table,” Eleanor said.

Emma wouldn’t either, but she suspected her reasons were very different from Eleanor’s. In spite of everything, she wanted nothing more than to once again lie in his arms.

Chapter 15

The wind continued to howl outside, locking them all within the cocoon of the dining room. With the storm, the darkness was arriving earlier. Candles flickered on the table. Dishes were passed around, mutton, potatoes, and beans heaped on plates, and silence reigned, except for the occasional scraping of silver over china.

What surprised Emma was that James had come to the table cleanly shaven, once again wearing his waistcoat, neckcloth, and jacket. No matter how he appeared-like a ruffian or a gentleman-the sight of him did strange things to her stomach, made it flip over again and again.

He sat at the head of the table while she and Eleanor were on either side of him. Her father had never commanded that seat as James did-as naturally as though he were a king. She fought not to imagine how satisfying it would be to see James in that spot every night. He was not made for the quiet life here near the coast. Although at that moment, the night was anything but quiet as the windows rattled.

“Is there the slightest chance this house will be blown into the sea?” he asked calmly.

“No,” Emma assured him. “As the wind is coming from the sea, I suspect if it were to be blown anywhere, it would be blown into the village.”

His eyes glinted with amusement. She could almost forget that he was here for a reason that was anything except humorous.

She fought not to wonder-if she’d been the daughter chosen to go to London last Season, if she might have met him at any balls. Would he have looked across the room and noticed her? Would he have asked her to dance? Would the attraction between them have sparked as quickly when mystery surrounded them?

He studied her now over his wineglass. Earlier he’d brought an unopened bottle up from the cellar, opened it, poured it himself, and not allowed it to leave his sight. Slowly, almost suspiciously, he shifted his attention to Eleanor, then returned it to Emma. “When I questioned your landlady, she was aware of only one lady staying in the hired rooms.”

“Don’t say anything, Emma,” Eleanor ordered sternly. “Presently he comes to us with little more than speculation and conjecture. He can prove nothing. There is no evidence that you were ever in London.”

His uncompromising gaze settled more firmly on Emma. “Because wherever you went, whatever you did, you claimed to be Eleanor. I believe you always planned to be somewhere, with someone, while Eleanor saw to the deed. I fit rather nicely into your little scheme.”

“Yes.” She forced the word up from a pit of regret. She’d hoped to use someone of Rockberry’s ilk, not quite as dastardly as he but a man who deserved to be used. She’d never expected someone like James, with a moral compass that always pointed to decency, honor, and principles.

With his finger, he slowly tapped his wineglass, tap, tap, tap, as though he was locking pieces of a puzzle together. His finger stilled, extended as though he needed to make a point.

“It might have worked…if you hadn’t left incredibly quickly-without so much as a good-bye.” The heat in his eyes almost matched that of the small fire in the hearth. “Especially after…the intimacy we’d shared.”