It had been easy. So very easy she wasn’t sure she could trust her intuition. Surely nothing so important could be this straightforward.

Was it really love? How could she tell?

It was certainly more than lust that bound them; inexperienced though she was, she was sure about that.

Quitting the breakfast table the next morning, praying no one had noticed her amazing appetite, Portia headed for the morning room and the terrace beyond. She needed to think, to reevaluate, to reassess where they now were, and where, together, it was possible they might go. She’d always thought best while walking, rambling, preferably outdoors.

But she couldn’t think at all with him prowling beside her.

Halting on the terrace, she faced him. “I want to think-I’m going for a walk.”

Hands in his pockets, he looked down at her. Inclined his head. “All right.”

“Alone.”

The change in his face was not due to her imagination; the planes really did harden, his jaw firmed, his eyes sharpened, narrowed.

“You can’t go wandering anywhere alone. Someone tried to murder you, remember?”

“That was days ago-they must have realized by now that I don’t know anything to the point.” She spread her hands. “I’m harmless.”

“You’re witless.” He scowled. “If he thinks you’ll remember whatever it is he imagines you know but have forgotten, he won’t stop-you heard Stokes. Until the murderer’s caught, you go nowhere without protection.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you think I’m going to-”

“I don’t think-I know.”

Looking into his eyes, she felt her temper rise, like a volcano filling her, seething, building, preparing to erupt…

Her earlier thought echoed in her mind. Easy? Had she really thought it would be, with him?

She glared; others would cringe and slink away-he, his resolve, didn’t so much as flicker. Suppressing a growl-she really didn’t want to return to their previous sniping ways-she shackled her temper, then, seeing no other way forward, nodded curtly.

“Very well. You can follow.” She sensed his surprise, realized he’d tensed for a battle royal. Defiantly held his gaze. “At a distance.”

He blinked; some of his tension drained. “Why at a distance?”

She didn’t want to admit it, but he wouldn’t oblige if she didn’t. “I can’t think-not clearly, not so I trust what I’m thinking-if you’re on my heels. Or anywhere close.” She didn’t wait to see his reaction-her imagination was quite bad enough; turning, she headed for the steps. “Stay back at least twenty yards.”

She thought she heard a laugh, abruptly smothered, didn’t look back. Head up, she set off, striding across the main lawn in the direction of the lake.

Halfway across, she glanced back. Saw him leisurely descending the steps. Didn’t look to see if his lips were curved or straight. Facing forward, she walked on.

And turned her mind determinedly to her topic.

Him. And her. Together.

An almost unbelievable development. She recalled her original aim, the one that had landed her in his arms. She’d wanted to learn about the attraction that flared between a man and a woman, the attraction that led a woman to consider marriage.

She’d learned the answer. Quite possibly too well.

Frowning, she looked down. Hands clasped behind her back, she ambled on.

Was she truly considering marrying Simon, latent, ofttimes not-so-latent tyrant?

Yes.

Why?

Not because she enjoyed sharing his bed. While that aspect was all very nice, it wasn’t of itself compelling enough. Out of ignorance, she’d assumed the physical aspects weighed heavily in the scale; now, while she would admit they had some weight, indeed, were pleasantly addictive, at least with a gentleman like him, she couldn’t imagine-even now, even with him-that that alone had tipped the scales.

It was that elusive something that had grown between them that had added definitive weight and influenced her so strongly.

She might as well call it by its real name; love was what it had to be-there was no longer any point doubting that. It was there, between them, almost tangible, never truly absent.

Was it really new to them? Was there something different he was offering that he hadn’t before? Or had age and perhaps circumstances shifted their perspectives, opened their eyes, made them appreciate things about each other they hadn’t until now?

The latter seemed most likely. Looking back, she could admit that the potential might, indeed, always have been there but masked and hidden by the natural clash of their personalities.

Their personalities hadn’t changed, yet she and apparently he… perhaps they’d both reached an age when they could accept each other as they were, willing to adjust and cope in pursuit of a greater prize.

The lawn narrowed into the path leading toward the lake. She looked up as she turned the corner-

Nearly tripped, stumbled-grabbed up her skirts and leapt over some obstacle. Regaining her balance, she looked back.

Saw…

Was suddenly conscious of the soft breeze lifting tendrils of her hair, conscious of the thud of her heart, the rush of blood through her veins.

Of the icy chill washing over her skin.

“Simon?”

Too weak. He was close, but momentarily out of sight.

“Simon!”

She heard the immediate pounding as he rushed to her. Put out her hands to stop him as he, as she had, tripped, then stumbled.

He caught his balance, glanced down, swore, and grabbed her, held her tight.

Swore again, and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, swinging her away, shielding her from the sight.

Of the young gypsy gardener, Dennis, lying sprawled on his back, strangled… like Kitty.

Like Kitty, quite dead.

15

No.” Stokes answered the question put to him by Lord Netherfield; they-Stokes, Simon, Portia, Charlie, Lady O, and his lordship-were gathered in the library, taking stock. “So early in the morning, no one had any real alibi. Everyone was in their rooms, alone.”

“That early, heh?”

“Apparently Dennis often started soon after first light. Today, the head gardener passed him and spoke with him-the exact time’s uncertain, but it was long before the household was up and about. One thing, however, we can say.” Stokes stood in the middle of the room and faced them, gathered on the chaise and armchairs before the main hearth. “Whoever killed Dennis was a man in his prime. The lad put up quite a struggle-that much was clear.”

Perched on the arm of the chair in which Portia sat, Simon glanced at her face. She was still white with shock, and far too quiet, even though half a day had passed since her gruesome discovery. Second gruesome discovery. Lips thinning, he looked back at Stokes; remembering the gouges in the grass, the twisted body, he nodded. “Kitty could have been murdered by anyone; Dennis is another matter.”

“Aye. We can forget all thought of any woman being the murderer.”

Lady O blinked. “I didn’t know we were considering the ladies.”

“We were considering everyone. We can’t afford to guess.”

“Humph! I suppose not.” She fluffed her shawl. Her customary air of invincible certainty was wavering; the second murder had shocked everyone, not just anew, but to a deeper level. The murderer was unquestionably still there, among them; some had, perhaps, started to push the matter aside in their minds, but Dennis’s death had forced all to realize the horror couldn’t be so easily buried.

Lounging against the mantelpiece, Charlie asked, “What did the blackguard use to strangle the poor blighter?”

“Another curtain cord. This time from the morning room.”

Charlie grimaced. “So it could have been anyone.”

Stokes nodded. “However, if we assume the same person’s responsible for both murders, we can reduce the list of suspects considerably.”

“Only men,” Lady O said.

Stokes inclined his head. “And only those strong enough to be sure of subduing Dennis-I think the being sure is important. Our murderer couldn’t risk trying but not succeeding, and he had to get the deed done quickly-he would have known there’d be others about.”