Flick’s words whirled in her mind; Pris managed an inelegant snort. “You thrive on taking risks, especially with what matters.”

“Not when I might lose more than I’m willing to lose.”

She thought that over and realized it was a statement with which she couldn’t possibly argue.

She also realized she couldn’t recall ever winning an argument with him. She grumbled on principle, but he held firm, finally silencing her with, “Besides, you’re not the only one who can plan.”

Before she could decide if that was a threat or a promise, she fell asleep.


The next morning, Dillon was seated at Horatia’s dining table, happily alone, even more happily putting the final touches to his plans for the day, when the knocker was plied with considerable force.

Highthorpe strode past the dining room door; Dillon heard voices, then Barnaby walked in.

A disheveled, bedraggled, exhausted Barnaby.

“Good God!” Dillon sat up; setting down his coffee cup, he waved to a chair. “Sit down before you fall down. What the devil happened?”

Through two days’ growth of beard, Barnaby grimaced wearily. “Nothing a cup of strong coffee, breakfast, a bath, a razor, and a day of sleep won’t cure.”

“We can start with the first two.” Dillon nodded as Highthorpe placed a cup before Barnaby and filled it.

He waited until Barnaby had taken a long sip, eyes closed, clearly savoring the relief. When he opened his eyes and looked over the breakfast dishes spread on the table, Dillon said, “Help yourself-just talk while you do. You’re hardly a sight to calm nerves.”

Barnaby fleetingly grinned and pulled a platter of ham his way. “I drove all night. And most of the day and night before that.”

“Martin?”

Barnaby nodded grimly.

Dillon frowned. “You found him?”

“Yes, and no.” Barnaby stabbed a piece of ham. “Stokes and I visited the house in Connaught Place.” He put the ham into his mouth, waved the empty fork as he chewed, then swallowed. “It wasn’t Martin in the house, but a family renting from Mr. Gilbert Martin. We found the agent, and Stokes persuaded him to give us Martin’s address.”

Barnaby looked at his plate. “Northampton. Stokes went with me. When we got there, it was the same story. Someone else in the house, renting via an agent from Mr. Gilbert Martin. And so we found that agent, and went on to Liverpool.”

Dillon held his tongue while Barnaby ate.

“After that, it was Edinburgh, York, Carlisle, Bath, then Glasgow.” Barnaby frowned. “I might have missed one or two towns, but the last was Bristol. That’s where we ran Mr. Gilbert Martin to earth, entirely by accident, through an acquaintance in the town.”

Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “Mr. Gilbert Martin is seventy-three years old, has no son, knows of no other Gilbert Martin, and although he does indeed own the house in Connaught Place and rents it via that first agent, Mr. Martin hasn’t the faintest idea about his supposed new address in Northampton or any of the other houses.”

Barnaby paused, then added, “The rental monies from the London house are paid into an account in the city, and Mr. Martin draws on that. There’s been no change there, so he had no idea anything was going on.”

Dillon’s frown deepened. “So we have no idea who that other Mr. Gilbert Martin is?”

“Other than a devilishly clever cove? No, none.”

After a moment, Barnaby went on, “During our travels, Stokes and I had plenty of time to dwell on various scenarios. Once we learned what a goose chase Mr. X had sent us on, and how neatly it had been arranged, more or less guaranteeing that even the head denizens of the underworld would never be able to trace him, it became clear just what danger you, especially, now face.”

He looked at Dillon. “If Mr. X decides on revenge, we’ll have absolutely no idea from which direction the blow might come.”

Impassive, Dillon nodded. “Yet there might be no blow, no revenge. I can hardly go through life constantly expecting it. Mr. X has to have been savaged financially. He might already have fled the country.”

“There’s that, but…” Barnaby met Dillon’s eyes. “It doesn’t feel right. He went to all that trouble to hide his identity-what are the chances he’s one of us, a member of the ton?”

“Gabriel’s continued searching, but as of yesterday, he’d found no trace, no trail, not an inkling.”

“Just so. Mr. X is a past master at hiding his tracks. He could be the gentleman at your shoulder next time you stop by your club, or at the next ball you attend. I don’t suppose you’d consider repairing to Newmarket?”

“No.”

Barnaby sighed. “I told Stokes so, but, like me, he’s sure Mr. X will have a try at you, even if he then scurries off overseas. He’s probably planning to, so killing you just before will fit nicely into his plans.”

Dillon couldn’t help his smile. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Yes. Is it working?”

“Not quite as you imagined, but…I have an idea. As you’re both so convinced Mr. X will come after me, doesn’t that suggest we have an opportunity-possibly our last opportunity-to lay our hands on him?”

Barnaby blinked. “You mean use you as bait?”

Dillon raised his brows. “If I’m the one lure we’re all agreed he’ll come after…why not?”


He called for Pris at eleven, bullied her into her pelisse, then drove her to his chosen place.

As he led her through the doors and down the nave, she looked around, then leaned close to whisper, “Why are we here?”

About them, the sacred peace of St. Paul’s Cathedral held sway. “Because,” he whispered back, winding her arm with his, “I wanted a place where despite being alone, we wouldn’t run the risk of distracting ourselves. We need to talk, and for that we need to think.”

She considered protesting, then thought better of it; she looked around with greater interest. “Where?”

He’d planned that, too. “This way.”

The day was cool, clouds scudding overhead, a brisk wind debating whether to unleash some rain or not. An assortment of sightseers wandered both nave and transept, studying the plaques and monuments, but when he escorted Pris through the door at the rear of the side chapel, as he’d hoped there were no others enjoying the peace of the ancient courtyard beyond.

A narrow, walled rectangle, in days gone by the courtyard had provided herbs for the infirmary attached to the cathedral. Now it was simply a quiet place for contemplation.

The perfect place to consider and decide the rest of their lives.

He led her to a gray stone bench thickly cushioned with thyme. Gathering her skirts, she sat and looked up at him. After an instant’s hesitation, of gathering his thoughts, he sat beside her.

“Never having done this before, I’m not sure of the best approach, but I can’t see that going down on one knee is going to help.”

“It won’t.” Her voice was noticeably tight, a touch breathless.

“In that case…” He took her hand in his, gently tugged off her glove, tossed it in her lap, then clasped her hand palm to palm in his. He looked across the courtyard at the ancient walls-as old as time, a fitting setting for them. In some ways they were “old souls,” too, more pagan than most.

“We’re not like other people, other couples, you and I.” He glanced at her; he had her full attention. “I knew that the instant I set eyes on you, on the steps of the club. You were…so unlike any other woman I’d ever met, ever seen. You saw me, the real me. Not through a veil but directly. And I saw you in exactly the same way. I knew then, and I think you did, too. But for both of us, the concept didn’t fit what we’d thought would be, so…we prevaricated.”

His lips curved; he looked down at her hand, tightened his about it. “You more than me, I think, but then came the confusion of why I’d offered for you, and that was my error. I knew why all along, but fate’s intervention and a moment’s hesitation meant you weren’t sure. I’ve since told you something of my reasons, but I haven’t told you all. I’ve told you what I feel for you-that you’re the woman who makes me feel whole and complete, the natural other half of me-but I haven’t told you why you…are so precious to me.”

Her eyes on his profile, Pris gripped his fingers, from her heart softly said, “Isn’t that implicit?”

She saw his lips curve, then he shook his head.

“No more prevarications. The truth is, if I hadn’t met you that day on the steps of the Jockey Club-if you hadn’t been there, searching for Rus-then I seriously doubt I would ever have come to this point. I don’t think I could ever have married, not because I don’t wish to, but because marriage to a woman who couldn’t see me, who could never truly know me, would be…”

“Something very like prison.”

He nodded. “Yes-you see that. But few others ever would.” He glanced at her, lips still curved, yet with seriousness and honesty in his dark eyes. “The truth is, you’re my savior. If you’ll accept me as your husband, if you’ll take my hand and be my wife, you’ll be freeing me, replacing the specter of that prison with a chance to live the life I would, if I could, choose.”

His eyes locked with hers, he shifted to face her. “And my chosen life would be to live with you, to renew Hillgate End as a home with you, to have children with you, and grow old with you.”

He paused, then, his eyes still on hers, he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed. “Will you marry me, Pris? Will you be my savior and take my hand, and be my goddess forever?”

It took effort not to let her tears well to the point where they would fall. She had to take a moment to find her voice, conscious, even through that fleeting instant, that he was watching her, that the tension in him rose a notch even though he had to know how she would reply.

He embodied everything she wanted, all she needed. Drowning in his dark eyes, in the steady light that shone there, she had no doubt of her answer, yet he deserved more than a bare acceptance. She drew in a not quite steady breath, held it for an instant, then said, “Yes, but-” She held up her other hand, staying him as he drew her nearer. “If we’re to speak truth here, then my truth is that you’re my savior, too. Perhaps I would have married, but what are the chances I would have found another gentleman who not only recognizes but appreciates my ‘wild and reckless ways’?”

She looked into his eyes. “The truth is, if I hadn’t found you, I would have suppressed that side of myself, and it would have been like a slow death. But if I marry you-if you marry me-I won’t have to. I can simply be me, become the best me I can be, for the rest of my life.”

Her heart leapt, then soared at the prospect. Her lips curved irrepressibly as joy filled her, steady and sure.

He studied her eyes, her dawning smile; to her surprise, he remained sober. Then he drew in a breath, tightened his hand about hers. “I have a caveat to make.”

It was her turn to study his face. “A caveat?”

“Your ‘wild and reckless ways’…do you think you could promise to indulge in them only when I’m with you?” He was serious and uncomfortable, uneasy in making the request.

She blinked. “Why?”

Jaw setting, he looked down at her hand, trapped in his, then looked up and met her eyes. “Because”-his expression had changed to one she knew well, all arrogant, domineering male-“losing you is the one risk I will never take.”

You are my life. You mean too much to me.

That message was blazoned in his eyes, etched in the hard planes of his face, carried in the defined lines of muscles that had tensed. She felt that reality, unequivocal and unyielding, reach out to her; she hesitated, breath caught, but then she closed her eyes and let it wrap about her.

Accepted it. Accepted him.

As he was. As she needed him to be.

Wild and reckless, passionate-and possessive.

That was the real truth of him. Of them. Of us.

She opened her eyes, looked into his, still burning with possessive heat. “Yes. All right.”

He wasn’t sure whether to believe her, to put his trust in the bright joy in her eyes. He hesitated, then asked, “All right? Just like that-all right?”

She considered, then nodded. Decisively. “Yes. Yes to everything.” Rescuing her glove from her lap, she stood. Happiness was welling, flooding through her, threatening to spill over; better they left before it did.

Dillon rose with her, retaining his hold on her hand. “So you agree not to take any risks-any risks at all-unless I’m with you?” Feeling a trifle off-balance, he tried to see her face as they walked back to the chapel door.

“Yes! Well, as far as I can.” Reaching the door, she halted and faced him, met his eyes directly. “And no, I am not pleased to have to make such a promise, but…” Tilting her head, she searched his eyes. “You won’t rest unless I do, will you?”