It seemed his intention to have a bed to himself, a privilege for which he'd paid handsomely, was to be thwarted, he thought ruefully. Reaching over, he eased the pillow out from under her head.

Miranda was lost in the depths of a pleasant if ill-defined dream. Feather beds were a rare luxury in her life and the warmth and softness of this one had lulled her to sleep within minutes of clambering into it. But she was a light sleeper and her eyes flew open the minute Gareth leaned over her. Disoriented, she blinked in the yellow light of a candle held close above her, for a moment unable to place the face gazing down at her.

Then she remembered. She flung an arm over her eyes to shield them from the light. "Is something the matter, milord?"

"Only that I hadn't expected to find you in my bed," he replied, shaking out the pillow he'd removed from behind her head.

Miranda sat up, the covers falling to her waist, revealing a pair of small but perfectly formed breasts and an amazingly narrow rib cage." There didn't seem anywhere else and I don't take up much room. Everyone I share a bed with says I sleep very still. I won't disturb you."

Gareth was not so sure about that. Naked women in his bed were inclined to disturb him.

"I'm sure you're a very considerate bed partner," he said, leaning over and thrusting the pillow beneath the quilt down the middle of the bed. "However, since I may be a somewhat less tidy sleeper than you, we'll create a little separation."

"Let me help." Miranda threw off the bedcovers, slid to her feet, and busily set about positioning the pillow, fluffing up the bolster, and straightening the sheet.

Gareth stepped away from the bed, aware that his heart was thudding. She was perfectly formed. A perfect miniature of a woman with dainty breasts, a tiny waist, and the merest hint of a curve to her hips. She carried not an ounce of spare flesh, but the muscles moved smoothly beneath the taut skin, reminding him of some superbly and purposefully constructed machine. She turned her narrow feet out like a dancer, and her belly was so flat it seemed to cleave to her backbone.

If asked for his ideal of womanhood Gareth would have produced a description of Charlotte: tall, deep-bosomed, well-hipped. A lush, sensual creature with rippling golden hair and a full red mouth and eyes that drew a man down and down into the seductive maelstrom of her passion. A woman who knew her power and her beauty and knew exactly how to use them.

But Miranda's sublime indifference to her nakedness, her blithe ignorance of the effect it was having upon him, was mote alluring than all of Charlotte's knowing wiles.

One too many rum punches, he told himself, turning away from the bed. His voice had a slight catch to it as he said, "That'll do fine. Get back under the covers before you catch cold."

Miranda obeyed with alacrity. It was true that the night air coming through the unshuttered window was quite chilly on her bed-warmed flesh. She drew the covers up to her chin and asked companionably, "Did you have a pleasant evening, milord?"

Gareth's murmured response didn't encourage further friendly discussion.

The moon was for the moment obscured by cloud and Gareth hastily blew out the candle, plunging the chamber into darkness. Taking advantage of the gloom in which his body would be visible as only a pale shape, he threw off his clothes, leaving them on the floor where they fell, and climbed into bed. The mattress sank under his weight and Miranda's slight body rolled against the separating pillow. Gareth could feel the warmth of her body beneath the covers, although they weren't touching, and he could smell her skin and hair, a faintly earthy yet curiously innocent scent in the air around him.

Miranda rolled onto her side, tucked up against the pillow. "I give you good night, milord."

"Good night, Miranda." But it was long before Gareth finally slipped into slumber.

When he woke, daylight was pouring through the unshuttered window and there was no sign of either Miranda or the monkey. He stretched, yawned, flung aside the covers, and stood up, surprised at how clearheaded and remarkably well he felt, given his rather short and not entirely dreamless night. His eye fell on Miranda's orange dress lying on the window seat and his well-being suffered a small dent. If she wasn't in the room, and she patently wasn't, then where in the devil's name had she gone in a state of undress?

Applause, whistles, and catcalls drifted through the open window from the inn's courtyard beneath. He went to the window, looked out, looked sideways, then stared, his heart in his mouth. Miranda was on the point of the steeply pitched, black-leaded, red-tiled roof to his right. She was barefoot, clad only in the leather leggings and her chemise, and she was performing an acrobatic routine for the enjoyment of the inn's staff many feet below.

She was standing on her hands, or rather on one hand, he amended sickly; the other hand was waving to the audience. Chip was standing on the sole of her upturned foot, raising his hat in a similar salute.

Gareth bit back a yell of fury, terrified of disturbing that precarious balance. He held his breath as she back-flipped on the razor-thin edge of the roof pitch, sending Chip soaring through the air in a tumbling somersault. Miraculously they both landed on their feet, but his mind wouldn't lose the image of her body tumbling over and over through the air, legs and arms flailing as if they could halt her fall, until she landed on the cobbles beneath, sprawled and limp as a rag doll, a pool of blood spreading from beneath her head and the strange sharp angle of her neck.

Charlotte. No, that was Charlotte. He could still hear her scream as she tumbled backward from the window, to land at his feet. He could still feel the warmth of her skin beneath his hands as he touched her fallen body.

Gareth shook his head to banish the ghosts. He looked down at his Bands, slim, white, strong. They had confirmed her death, closed her eyes on that hideous afternoon. Each movement so cold, so deliberate…

He let his hands fall to his sides. It was not Charlotte he had to worry about, not now, not ever again. He leaned out of the window as far as he could.

"Miranda." He kept his voice low and even as if he were hailing her calmly on the street.

"I give you good morrow, milord," she called merrily, turning her body into a taut triangle, one hand clasping one ankle, the other hand and ankle raised way above her head.

"Come in," he said, still quietly, his heart throbbing thickly in his throat. She merely laughed and his fear gave way to a surge of black rage. "Come in this instant!"

Miranda heard his tone but at first didn't recognize it for what it was. It didn't occur to her that he could be frightened for her. She had been performing such antics ever since she could remember and no one in the troupe would ever have considered them dangerous. The occasional sprain was a routine hazard, but that she might be endangering her life didn't occur to her. So she ignored the earl's instruction and continued her performance, which was as much for her own amusement as it was for the audience in the court below.

Gareth withdrew from the window when he finally realized that she wasn't going to take any notice of him and he could bear to watch no longer. Furiously, he snatched clean linen from his portmanteau and began to dress swiftly, only the roars of approval from the crowd reassuring him that Miranda was continuing to perform without mishap. And paradoxically with each reassuring burst of applause, his anger grew.

He was buttoning his shirtsleeves when the applause ceased and Miranda jumped exuberantly through the window, landing on the floor on the far side of the window seat with a neat scissor kick of her leather-clad legs.

"Just what in Lucifer's name were you doing?" His voice was ominously quiet.

"Practicing," she informed him cheerfully. "I have to practice every day and the roof was a perfect place."

She dropped her palms flat on the floor as she continued her chatter, stretching out her calf muscles.

"Chip needed to go out… he's very well house-broken, you should know… and since I wasn't sure what kind of reception we'd receive if we went downstairs, the roof seemed the only alternative. And while we were out there, it seemed sensible to kill two birds with one stone and get some practice in."

Gareth closed his eyes briefly. Miranda straightened and looked at his set face, the taut line of his mouth. "You're vexed," she said in astonishment.

The astonishment was the last straw. "Of course I am! What do you expect when I wake up to discover you breaking your neck out of sheer reckless exhibitionism? Or were you intending to send that monkey round with the hat?"

Miranda looked as confused as she felt. "No… I explained… I was just practicing. I have to practice every day. If people want to watch then I don't mind."

He massaged the back of his neck, regarding her in frustration. "Didn't it occur to you that you could have broken your neck?"

Miranda looked even more bewildered. "You were afraid I might slip… and fall?"

"Goddamn it! Of course I was!" he exclaimed.

"But it's not possible for me to make such a mistake."

Gareth stared at her, incredulous. She believed it. The conviction shone unshakable in her eyes, was carried in the firm line of her jaw. She believed that out there on that roof she had been utterly safe. And then he understood that the slightest hesitation, the faintest flicker of a doubt in her own ability, would be fatal. Of course she had to believe in her invulnerability, to perform as she did.

He exhaled slowly. In a different tone, he said, "Would you pass me my boots? And you'd better finish getting dressed."

Miranda passed him his leather boots, her fingers unconsciously caressing the butter-soft cordovan leather. She had never touched anything quite so luxurious. She handed the boots to him and offered a tentative smile, aware of an odd feeling. He had been afraid for her.

Miranda didn't think anyone had ever been afraid for her before and she didn't know quite what to make of it, or of the strange warmth it brought her.

Her smile was utterly irresistible, Gareth recognized with a wry resignation. The bodice of her chemise was only partially laced and the creamy curves of her breasts, the dark rose of their crowns, peeked between the thin ribbons. The garment was tucked roughly into the waistband of her leather leggings, producing a roll of material around her hips that he found peculiarly endearing.

Without volition, he pulled the chemise free of the leggings and smoothed it down over her hips, then tied the ribbons of her bodice more securely. "You are an untidy wretch," he muttered. "It's not enough for you to risk breaking your neck for the edification of a pack of stable lads, but you have to do it half-naked."

"I beg your pardon," Miranda said meekly, looking down at his fingers deftly threading the laces into the eyelets on her bodice.

She dropped her orange dress over her head. It was more of a shift than a gown, with a laced bodice through which the white holland of her undergarment as visible, and short sleeves that finished above her elbows, revealing the sleeves of her chemise. She noticed that those sleeves were grubby and cast a discomfited look at milord's pristine linen.

"If I'm to pretend to be this Lady Maude, I'll need another gown," she suggested.

"At least one," he agreed, pulling on his boots, turning the high cuffs over below his knees. "But there'll be time enough to see to your wardrobe while your hair's growing."

Miranda ran her hands through the short straight bob, fluffing it out around her face. "Long hair is a nuisance when I'm tumbling."

"Yes, but you will not be tumbling while you're taking my cousin's place in the world," he pointed out.

"I suppose not." Miranda pushed her feet into her wooden pattens. "I don't suppose your cousin has any acrobatic tendencies." She went to the door. "Shall I ask them to send up hot water for you?"

"If you please." Gareth was still trying to imagine Maude with acrobatic tendencies but the image was too absurd. "And perhaps you'd tell them in the kitchen to send a message to the livery stable to have the nag saddled and ready to leave within the hour."

"Are we to ride to London?"

"Yes." He caught her doubtful look and said, "Can you not ride?"