Portia, in the chair beside him, leaned forward, grabbed his arm, and tugged him around so she could see. Stifling a sigh, he obliged, knowing if he didn’t she’d stand and come to look; she was so pale, he didn’t want her on her feet.

Sighting the wound, minor to his eyes, she paled even more. She looked at Stokes. “If there’s nothing more you need of us, I should like to retire.”

“Of course.” Stokes bowed. “If anything comes up, I can speak with you tomorrow.”

He caught Simon’s eye as both he and Portia stood.

Guessing Stokes was considering reiterating the obvious-that Portia should not be left alone at any time-Simon shook his head. She wasn’t going to be left alone; she didn’t need to be reminded why.

Cupping her elbow, he guided her out of the room, and on through the hall to the stairs. Drawing in a breath, she picked up her skirts and ascended without his assistance.

Reaching the top, she let her skirts fall. “We’ll need to tend that cut.” Turning, she headed for his room.

He frowned, and followed. “It’s nothing. I can’t even feel it.”

“Cuts people can’t feel have been known to turn gangrenous.” Reaching his room, she turned to look at him. “You can’t possibly be worried about washing and salving it. If you can’t feel it, it isn’t going to hurt.”

He halted before her, looked down into her face-determined, stubborn-and still ghostly pale. It was going to hurt, just not in the way she meant. Setting his jaw, he reached past her and pushed the door wide. “If you insist.”

She did, of course, and he had to surrender. Had to sit bare-chested on the end of the bed and let her fuss and fret.

From his earliest years, he’d hated having any female fuss over him-passionately hated having his hurts tended. He had more than his share of scars because of it, but the scars didn’t bother him-feminine fussing, especially the focused, tender care, always had.

Still did; he gritted his teeth, swallowed his pride, and let her get on with it.

He still felt like a conqueror reduced to a helpless six-year-old-helpless in the face of the feminine need to care. In some indefinable way trapped by it, held by it.

He focused on her face, watched, outwardly stoic as she gently bathed, anointed, and bound the cut-which was deeper than he’d supposed. She smoothed gauze about his arm; he looked down at her fingers, long, supple, slender, just like her.

Felt the emotions he had until then held at bay rush in. Fill him.

He lifted his head as those minutes on the terrace replayed in his mind; his muscles hardened in inevitable reaction.

She’d been within his sight, yet he’d come so very close to losing her.

The instant she straightened, he rose and walked to the window. Away from her. Away from the temptation to end the game and seize, claim, decree, and take her from here, out of all danger.

Fought to remember there was more than one way of losing her.

Portia watched him walk away, noticed the stiffness, the way his fists had clenched. Letting him go, she tidied away the basin and cloths. That done, she paused by the bed and studied him.

He stood by the window, looking out, so tensed for action yet so restrained, his will was like a living thing, binding him, constraining him. That suppressed inner tension-was it fear or the reaction to fear, to danger, to her being in danger?-was palpable, thrumming through him, emanating from him, affecting him, and her.

It was all the murderer’s fault. The urn had been the last straw. She’d been frightened, upset, more than she’d realized, but now she was getting angry.

Bad enough that the fiend had murdered, not once but twice, but what he was doing to her now-even worse, what the situation was doing to Simon, to what they were trying to come to grips with between them… she’d never been one to let anyone tamper with her life.

Irritation edging through annoyance into outright anger rode her; her temper had always outweighed her fear. She walked to lean against the other side of the window frame. Looked at him across it. “What is it?”

He glanced at her, considered, for once didn’t attempt to evade the question. “I want you safe.”

She considered what she could see in his face, in his eyes. Hear in the harsh tones of his voice. “Why is my safety so important? Why have you always needed to protect me?”

“Because I do.” He looked away, out over the garden. “I always have.”

“I know. But why?”

His jaw set; for one long moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he said, his voice low, “Because you’re important to me. Because… in protecting you, I’m protecting myself. Some part of me.” The words, ones of discovery, hadn’t come easily. He turned his head, met her gaze, considered, but left the admission unchanged, unmodified.

She crossed her arms, looked into his eyes. “So what’s really worrying you? You know I’ll let you hover, that I’ll let you protect me, that I’m unlikely to do anything rash, so it’s not that.”

His resistance was a tangible thing, a shimmering wall he slowly, gradually, deliberately, let fall. “I want you mine.” His jaw clenched. “And I don’t want this getting in the way.” He drew a deep breath, looked out again. “I want you to promise you won’t hold whatever happens here-whatever happens between us because of this-against me.” Again he met her gaze. “That you won’t put it in your scales. Let it affect your decision.”

She read his eyes, saw both the turmoil, and the lurking predator. The power, the raw force, the primitive need he held back. The masculine need to dominate, reined in only by his iron will; it took courage to see it, recognize it, know she was its object, and not flee.

Equally, its very strength bore witness to his commitment to adjusting as much as he was able, to be her champion against his own instincts.

She held his gaze. “I can’t promise that. I’ll never close my eyes and not see you for what you are, or myself for what I am.”

A tense moment passed, then he said, voice sinking low, “Trust me. That’s all I ask. Just trust me.”

She didn’t answer; it was still too soon. And his “all” encompassed a lifetime.

When she remained mute, he reached for her, turned and drew her fully to him. Bent his head. “When you make your decision, remember this.”

She lifted her arms, wound them about his neck, offered her lips, and her mouth-his, as he wished. In this arena, she was already that, every bit as much as his conqueror’s soul might crave.

He took, accepted, wrapped his arms around her and sank into her mouth, then flagrantly molded her body to his, explicitly foreshadowing all that was to come.

She didn’t draw back, held nothing back-in this sphere, between them, all the barriers had come down.

At least, all hers.

Even as she let him sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed, let him strip away her gown and chemise, stockings and slippers, and lay her naked on his sheets, even as she watched him strip and, naked, join her, set his hands and his lips, his mouth and his tongue to her skin, her body, pressing pleasure and delight on her, even as he parted her thighs and she cradled him as he joined with her, as they rode through the now familiar landscape of passion, through the valley of sensual desire and on, deeper into intimacy, until their skins were slick and heated, their breaths were ragged gasps and their bodies plunged desperately toward ultimate bliss, even then she knew, with an intuition she didn’t question, that he yet held something back, kept some small part of him, some deeper need, screened from her.

He’d asked her to trust him; in this sphere she did. But he didn’t yet fully trust her-not enough to reveal that last little part of him.

Someday, he would.

In the moment that, locked together, they reached the bright peak and tumbled headlong into the void, she realized she’d reached her decision, already committed herself to learning that last fact, gaining that last piece of the jigsaw that was him.

To do it, she would have to become his in all the ways he wished, in all the ways he wanted, and, perhaps, needed.

That was the price of knowing, of being made privy to every last corner of his soul.

As she eased beneath him and they slumped together in the bed, she spread her hands on his back and held him to her, marveling at his weight, at the solid muscle and bone that pressed her into the mattress, yet at the same time protected her, left her feeling safe, cherished, guarded like some treasure.

Running her hands upward, she slid them into his hair, ruffling the silky locks, then smoothing them. She glanced at his face, shadowed in the gloom. Wished he’d lit the candles again, for she loved to see him like this, sated, deeply satisfied, having found his release in her.

There was power, a delicious power, in knowing she had brought him to this.

Shifting her head, she brushed her lips to his temple. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me.”

He humphed. After a moment added, “Later.”

She smiled, lay back, knew that while they lay there together, neither fear nor the murderer could impinge on her world. That the only currency there was what lay between them.

The emotional connection, the shared physical joy-the ephemeral bliss.

The love.

It had been there all the time, waiting for them to see it, understand it, and claim it.

She glanced at him. Realized he was watching her.

Realized she didn’t need to tell him-he knew.

She rolled toward him, let their lips meet in a kiss that said it all. His hand was cradling her head when it ended.

Again their gazes met, locked, then he ran his hand down, over her shoulder, down her back, gathered her against him, let his hand rest on her hip. Closed his eyes. Settled to sleep.

An utterly simple gesture of acceptance.

She closed her eyes and accepted, too.

“We have a problem.” Stokes stood in the middle of the summerhouse, facing Portia, Simon, and Charlie. They’d just quit the breakfast table, this morning all but deserted, when he’d met them in the hall and requested a meeting. “Mr. Archer and Mr. Buckstead have asked to take their families and leave. I can delay them for a day or so, but not more. That, however, isn’t the real problem.”

He paused, as if debating with himself, then said, “The truth is, we’ve no evidence, and very little likelihood of catching this murderer.” He held up a hand when Charlie would have spoken. “Yes, I know that’s going to be black for the Glossups, but it’s actually worse than that.”

Stokes looked at Simon. Portia did, too, and realized that whatever Stokes meant, Simon understood.

He glanced at her as Stokes went on, “Miss Ashford appears to be the murderer’s only remaining mistake. After last night, we know that, no matter she doesn’t know anything that would identify him, he’s still convinced she does. The adder-that might have been an attempt to frighten her off, but the attempt last night was intended to kill. To silence, as he’s silenced Dennis.”

Simon looked at Stokes. “You’re saying he won’t stop. That he’ll feel compelled to keep on, to dog Portia beyond the boundaries of Glossup Hall, through her life, wherever she goes, until he can make sure she’s no longer a threat to him?”

Curtly, Stokes nodded. “Whoever he is, he clearly feels he has too much to lose to risk letting her go. He must fear she’ll remember at some point, and that what she’ll remember will point too definitely to him.”

Portia grimaced. “I’ve racked my brains, but I really don’t know whatever it is. I just don’t.”

“That I accept,” Stokes said. “It doesn’t matter. He believes you do, and that’s all that counts.”

Charlie, unusually grim, said, “It’s actually very hard to protect someone who’s going about in society. Plenty of ways accidents can happen.”

All three men looked at her. Portia expected to feel fear; somewhat to her relief, all she felt was irritation. “I am not going to be”-she waved-” ‘cribb’d, cabin’d, and confin’d’ for the rest of my days.”

Stokes grimaced. “Yes, well-that’s the problem.”

Simon looked at Stokes. “You didn’t bring us here to tell us that. You’ve thought of some plan to put paid to this villain. What?”

Stokes nodded. “Yes, I’ve thought of a plan, but it’s not going to be something you”-his gaze swept the three of them-“any of you, are going to like.”

A momentary pause ensued.

“Will it work?” Simon asked.

Stokes didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t bother suggesting such a thing if I didn’t think it had a real chance of succeeding.”

Charlie leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs. “Just what are we aiming for here-the murderer unmasked?”