"Oh, there you are, my lord. I was just explaining to these officers that we had a benighted gentleman and his wife as guests." Madame Berthold, the innkeeper's wife, looked up from the keg of ale from which she was drawing foaming tankards. She looked frightened. "The battle has begun, my lord. All day we've been waiting for the sound of the guns, only it didn't start till but an hour or two past. Boney's been delaying his attack, these gentlemen say."

"Carrington, good God, man, what brings you here?"

Marcus silently swore every oath he knew as he recognized the Dragoon officer and his two companions, lounging against the bar counter. "I'm on my way to Wellington's headquarters, Francis." He stepped into the room, nodding at the other men. "Whitby, George. Good day."

Colonel, Lord Francis Tallent, looked at his old friend with a suddenly arrested expression. "Wife?"

"We all have our secrets, Francis," Marcus said casually. His friends would draw the correct conclusion and discreetly drop the subject. A man's amorous adventures were his own concern. He turned to the innkeeper's wife. "Could you have a nuncheon taken abovestairs, ma-dame?"

"And would your good lady like a dish of tea with that, sir, or perhaps a glass of sherry?" The woman bobbed a curtsy, looking helpful.

"Oh, there's no need to wait upon me. I can perfectly well be served in the taproom. I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

Judith Davenport swept smiling into the room. She was still putting up her hair as she walked, blind fingers twisting the ringlets into a knot, pushing in securing pins. She wore no jacket and her lawn blouse was carelessly opened at the neck, her breasts lifted by her upraised arms. "Marcus, I was thinking…" Her voice died as she took in the room's other inhabitants, all of whom had turned the color of beetroot. Her hands dropped to her sides.

Had she heard the voices? How could she not have heard them as she came down the stairs? The world spun on its axis as Marcus faced what had happened and its immutable consequence. He'd once found a poacher caught in the steel jaws of a man trap. His sick horror at the man's plight was what he now felt for himself as the vicious jaws of his own trap clamped. He had no choice… no choice whatsoever. Adventuress she may be, but he'd taken her virginity and knew she was no whore… not unless he made her one.

"You know my wife, of course, Francis," he said. He crossed to the door and took her hand, drawing her into the room. "My dear, are you also acquainted with Viscount Whitby and George Bannister?"

"We have met, I believe," Judith replied distractedly, her head spinning as she took in the disaster. These men were all prominent members of London Society. The story of this encounter would be on everyone's lips and she'd never be able to enter the hallowed portals of the ton… and neither would her brother. And her father would go unavenged. Marcus's fabrication was her only protection at the moment, and she had to go along with it until she could think things through clearly.

"Devil take it, Marcus, but you're a dark horse!" Francis exclaimed. "Secrets, eh? Pray accept my congratulations, Lady Carrington."

"Yes, indeed. This calls for a bottle," Bannister announced. "My good woman, champagne."

"Well, I don't know as we've got any, sir," the flustered woman said. "I'll go and ask Berthold." She hastened out of the room and a short silence fell. The puzzlement of the other men was evident, although they were trying politely to disguise it.

"So, you're taking Lady Carrington to Quatre Bras?" Whitby said, raising his tankard of ale to his lips.

"In the manner of a honeymoon," Marcus agreed without blinking. "A little unusual, but then the times are not exactly accommodating." His smile was a trifle twisted.

"Quite so," Lord Francis said.

"What news of the battle?" Marcus changed the subject abruptly.

"As expected, he's attacking Bliicher at Ligny and Wellington at Quatre Bras."

"Why did he wait so long to attack? He's left himself but five hours until sunset."

"According to our agents, he didn't make his usual early-morning reconnaissance and thought he was only facing Bliicher's one corp at Ligny. He didn't realize Ziethen's forces had come up in support, so he didn't see any need to hurry," Francis replied.

"But despite the delay, we're being mangled on both fronts," Whitby said somberly. "Wellington's taking very heavy losses at Quatre Bras and we've orders to call up reinforcements at Nivelles."

"Here's a nuncheon, my lord, and a bottle of Ber-thold's best claret.'" The innkeeper's wife came in with a heavily laden tray. "I hope it'll do. We've no champagne, sir."

"It will do very well," Carrington reassured. He drew out a chair at the table. "Judith, come and sit down. Gentlemen, will you join us?"

"Thank you, no, Carrington. Beg you'll excuse us, ma'am." Whitby bowed formally. "Fact is, had nuncheon some time ago."

"It is rather late in the day," Judith managed to say.

She took the chair Marcus held for her, casting him a quick glance as she did so. His expression was impassive, his eyes unreadable.

"May I carve you some ham?" he asked with a distant courtesy.

"Thank you, sir." A pink tinge touched her cheekbones.

"A morsel of chicken also?"

"Please." She dropped her eyes to the tablecloth, feeling as if she had committed some dreadful crime for which retribution waited in the wings.

Wretched, she concentrated on her food and left the conversation to the men. The steady booming of the guns continued until the sound was abruptly overtaken by a swelling roar from outside. The roar gradually separated itself into shouts, screams, and pounding feet.

Lord Francis ran to the inn doorway, followed by the others. A torrent of humanity, some on horseback, some in gigs and dog carts, but most on foot, poured down the lane toward Brussels. Women carried babies, small children clinging to their skirts, stumbling on the hard mud-ridged road; the men were armed with whatever they had been able to grab in their haste: staves, knives, a blunderbuss.

"What the devil?" Marcus exclaimed.

"Looks like a rout," Whitby said. "Wellington must be retreating."

"Napoleon's not beaten him so far," Marcus said. "I can't believe he'll do it this time."

"Oh, sirs, they say the army is retreating!" Berthold, the innkeeper, came running in from the road, where he had been chasing after information among the fleeing crowd. "Wellington's falling back on Brussels. The Prussians are retreating to Wavre."

"Hell and damnation!" George Bannister grabbed up his hat. "We'd best be about our business."

"Berthold!" Marcus bellowed as the innkeeper ran for the door again. "Have my nag put to the cart." He strode to the stairs leading to the bedchamber and took them two at a time. Judith stood in the now-empty taproom, listening to the roar of humanity outside. Then she ran up the stairs after Marcus.

He was shrugging into his coat, checking the contents of his pockets. He glanced up as she came in and said curtly, "I'm going to Quatre Bras. You'll stay here. I'll pay our shot when I come back for you."

"You seem to be forgetting that / was going to Quatre Bras, too," she said, swallowing the lump that seemed to be blocking her throat. With what was happening at the moment, it was hardly feasible for them to discuss the personal mess they were in, but the coldness of his voice was surely unwarranted. And she couldn't believe he intended simply to take off and leave her stranded, cooling her heels in a lonely inn, not knowing anything of what was happening.

"Well, you're not going now," he said in clipped accents. "It's too dangerous with that horde out there, and you'll only be in the way."

Judith lost her temper. It was a relief to do so since it banished her feeling of helplessness and concealed for the time being the apprehension that something very hurtful lurked around the next corner of her relationship with Marcus Devlin.

"That's my horse and my cart," she said with furious emphasis. "And I'll have you know, Lord Carrington, that I go where I please. You have no right to dictate to me." She snatched up her jacket and gloves. "If you wish to hitch another ride in my cart, then you're welcome to do so. Otherwise, I suggest you find your own transport."

Before he could respond, she had turned and run from the room. With a muttered oath, Marcus grabbed up his whip and sprang after her. He reached the stable-yard on her heels. Judith leaped onto the driver's seat of the cart, standing ready as ordered, and snapped the reins. Marcus grabbed the bridle at the bit and held the horse still.

"You're behaving like a spoiled child," he said. "A battlefield is no place for a woman. Now get down at once."

"No," Judith snapped. "You really are the most arrogant, high-handed despot! I told you, I go where I please and you don't have any right of command."

"At this moment, I'm exercising a husband's authority," he declared. "A battlefield is no place for a woman and most definitely not for my wife. Now, do as you're told."

For a moment Judith was speechless. "I am not your wife," she managed to get out finally.

"To all intents and purposes you are now. And as soon as I can find a damned priest, you will be in the eyes of the church."

It was too much for a saint to bear. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth!" she cried.

"As far as you're concerned, my dear Judith, that's exactly what I am," he announced aridly. "The first and last man you will know, in the fullest sense of that word."

White-faced, Judith stood up in the cart and whipped at the horse with the reins. The animal plunged forward with a snort, catching Marcus off guard. He stumbled, still holding the bit as the horse lunged. He regained his balance just in time and released the bit before he was dragged forward by the now caracoling animal. He grabbed the side of the cart and sprang upward, seizing the reins from her. The horse shot off as if a bee were lodged beneath his tail.

"Monsieur… monsieur…" came the outraged screams of the innkeeper's wife behind them.

Judith looked over her shoulder. Madame Berthoid was pounding up the road in their wake, waving a skillet at them, her apron flapping into her face. Her cap flew off into the ditch but her charge continued regardless.

"I think you forgot to pay your shot," Judith said on a strangled gasp, an almost hysterical laughter suddenly taking the place of her rage.

"Damnation!" Marcus hauled back on the reins, and the near-demented horse reared to a snorting halt. He turned to look at Judith, who was now doubled over, weeping with laughter. His lip quivered and his shoulders began to shake at the absurdity of the scene. He glanced over his shoulder to where Madame Berthoid still pounded, panting, toward them.

"One of these days, I really will wallop you," he commented to the gasping Judith, as he reached into his pocket for his billfold. "You nearly had me taken up for a thief." Leaning down to the red-faced, indignant Madame Berthoid, he gave her his most charming smile and poured forth a flood of apologies, blaming the urgency of the moment for his forgetfulness.

Madame was appeased with a handful of sovereigns that more than compensated for her hospitality, and stood breathless and perspiring in the road as Marcus started the cart again.

"Now, where were we?" he said.

Judith had finally stopped laughing and leaned back against the rough wooden seat back. "On the road to Quatre Bras. Where we're both going against the traffic."

"So it would seem. We'll find a priest there."

"There must be some other way," she said, biting her lip. But she couldn't think of one that wouldn't ruin everything. How could Sebastian ever forgive her for destroying months and months of planning in the willful pursuit of passion?

"I took your maidenhead and we were discovered in a situation that would ruin you. In such a circumstance, there is no honorable alternative." He stated the facts bluntly, without inflection.

"But have you forgotten, my lord, that I am a card-sharping, horse-thieving, disreputable hussy, living on the fringes of Society, in the shadow of the gaming tables?" Her voice thickened and she swallowed crossly.

"No, I haven't forgotten. I'll just have to wean you away from your undesirable pursuits."