Thief Of My Heart

It was still a half day's ride to London. Nikita Wentwirth didn't know how on earth she was going to endure it, being sandwiched in the coach between a dandy in daffodil yellow inexpressibles called Percival Snow and a very portly middle aged lady called Mrs. Hatch, who held a small yapping dog in a basket on her lap.

Percival kept shooting her sly glances beneath his lashes. She had tired very hard at first to be polite, but halfway through the journey Nikita just tried her best to ignore him.

Nikita tried to move as far away from him as she could in the cramped space. His breath smelled of the mussels and brandy he'd consumed at the last stop. She told herself, with not a little disgust, that he must be one of those people who doused himself liberally with perfume rather than wash.

" Nikita is just the name I was given. I know little of its history, sir." That was a lie. She had been named after her father, Lord Nicholas Wentwirth, and her mother Kitty, but she was not about to discuss the personal details of her life. Besides, she had little information about the man she knew only from a miniature painted a short time before his death. He had died before Nikita's birth leaving her mother bereft. Her mother had spoken little to her of the man she called the love of her life. She died of a wasting disease when Nikita was but twelve.

She'd been raised by her grandfather, the Vicar of Leicestershire, James Grantham. A more domineering old codger one could never meet. For all that he seemed to despise Nikita for her intrusion in his life, he did see that she had some semblance of education in things besides the womanly arts. He cared little if she used his extensive library as long as she stayed out of sight and kept her mouth firmly shut.

That was fine by her. Nikita was, by nature, a solitary sort of child and had been quite happy to get into mischief on her own in the countryside or to curl up in the crotch of a high tree with a good book and a crispy apple to eat.

" I have taken a position as companion to a pair of sisters. They are spending the season in their house in Mayfair and wish me to act as their social secretary and companion." Actually she was going to London to drink in the sights and the sounds. She was determined to write a novel, something exciting and shocking, the sort of rousing and exciting tale that everyone would clamour buy, but deny ever owning. She had a great fondness for such books. She had read everything from the shocking and enlightening " Fanny Hill", Daniel Defoe's " Moll Flanders " to Quincy's " Confessions of an English Opium Eater."

" No. I didn't have a season, I'm afraid. My grandfather does not believe in such frivolity." Not that it would have mattered if he had wanted Nikita to come out.

He could never have paid for it, as introducing a young woman into society was monstrously expensive. Sometimes a girl of modest means might be sponsored

There was no one to sponsor her. And she had retained firm doubt in her mind that she would have 'taken.' She was not of conventional looks. At the time she would have come out, the rage among the ton was for girls with chestnut hair and small, rounded figures and tittering laughs. She knew that she resembled more of an Amazon than a titmouse. No one would say that her looks put her in the class of ape leader, but her height was intimidating.

Her mother had said she was pretty. Her hair was light blonde, tinged with strands of darker gold, her face oval, her nose pert, her lips full and pink. She thought her eyes her best feature. They were wide and as blue as Canterbury bells. Her face was painted with a smattering of light freckles that no amount of lemon juice would fade, not that she would try that again anyway. Her figure was rounded and feminine, despite the fact that her shoulders may have been a trifle wide. Her legs were long and well shaped, her ankles trim above shapely feet. Her grandfather said, with some acrimony, that Nikita could draw stares like honey drew bears.

She moved with confidence for she was quite used to walking miles of country road. Her diet, good country fare, contributed to her health and well-being. She could not remember ever being sick. Her smile was easy and cheerful, for she wasn't one of those girls to simper and try to compose her face into whatever sort of look society deemed acceptable at the moment.

She did not think much about what might have happened had she been allowed to make her debut in society. She had grown up accepting that the circumstances of her birth were something she could never change. It had always seemed a waste of time to dwell on things that could not be changed.

Her father's mother, the Dutchess Adrienne Wentwirth, had never acknowledged her existence, so Nikita had come to the conclusion that being only one step above a bastard, she ought to just enjoy her life the way that it was.

Her grandmother lived in London during the Season, but Nikita would not have known the woman were she have come to meet her face to face. Nikita doubted that she would acknowledge a granddaughter who aspired-- not to finding herself a man with a yearly income in the tens of thousands-- to writing novels.

It was a good thing Nikita had such aspirations. They might some day allow her the independence of which she dreamed. At twenty five Nikita was considered an old maid, far to old to be introduced into the marriage mart.

She would never marry. She was quite certain of it. That was a sore spot with her grandfather as she had recently turned down a proposal from a young man he considered a very fine prospect. Nikita had no wish to marry a man who was five inches shorter than she. He'd had a lisp and an over bite. He blushed every time he spoke to her and he smelled musty, like an old leather valise left overnight in the rain. She had thought about the prospect of marrying him for a full five minutes, imagining a country life with him, stitching away in the parlour, bearing children with overbites and large ears, the highlight of her week going to church on Sunday.

Nikita tried not to frown. She was quite certain that if Mr. Percival Snow could only afford to ride the post to London, he certainly would not know Lady Olivia and Lady Chloe Fairhurst. She mentioned the names. His eyebrows shot straight up in surprise. Obviously they were known by reputation.

" No. I have not." She was aware of the wealth of her new employers and their various holdings. Her grandfather had gone on at nauseating length about it.

" Poor, Fred. Scotland? Wild and wooly place, that. Dear old Freddy's quite the fixture at White's. He's there most nights. He's beat me in plenty a game of cards."

Nikita, thought raised in the country, was familiar with the men's club and of the vices of the ton's male establishment. It seemed that gaming, keeping mistresses and wearing impeccable clothes were all that entered the brain of a London rake.

Most men aspired to be rakes. It was a badge of male honour. Freddy sounded like the typical dandy. A lazy roustabout with little more to offer than fine clothes and a fat wallet stuffed by the grace of a large allowance from his father's estate and a pair of generous aunts.

" Mayfair!" piped up Mrs. Hatch. " Have you heard about the daring Thief of Mayfair? They say that he's been at it for months. A jewel thief. He breaks in during the dead of night, takes the finest jewellery and leaves a calling card."

" Yes. He signs it in French as Coeur Noir. Means Black Heart, I think. None of the Bow Street Runners have been able to catch him at it, but one woman did catch him in her boudoir. He gave her a kiss and she told him to take everything.

" She said that he was the handsomest devil she'd ever seen, though he did wear a silken mask over his face of course. But when the Bow Street Runners asked her for a specific description she was quite unable to tell them anything. Turns out that he only took one piece of jewellery. A necklace that had been recently acquired and was quite valuable."

" It seems that some of the ladies of the ton are so taken with the idea of the handsome thief coming upon them that they are bragging in most unseemly fashion about the jewels they possess. They wear the stuff in spades to parties with the hopes that the French thief might notice and come calling."

" Trust it to be a demmed Frenchie." sputtered Percival." My own brother was killed on the Peninsula. The deemed war against Boney might be over now but it's my opinion that we shouldn't be allowing them into the country." As was the cases with most of the British, animosity against the French continued to fester.

With that the conversation became a diatribe against the French. Nikita settled herself as best she could against the squabs and thought about the dashing thief of Mayfair.

The sister's five story townhouse sat in the heart of Mayfair. Built in the Georgian era, it had an excellent address not far from Hyde Park. There were rows of similar residences, all white, all similar, sporting pristine sidewalks and window boxes filled with bright red geraniums and trailing tendrils of ivy. The sister's house had marble sculptures of chained lions on either side of the steps leading to a black painted front door with a huge brass knocker that portrayed the face of a growling tiger. It was a far cry from the vicar's cottage where Nikita Wentwirth had lived with her grandfather.

She was aware that not all of the residences on Curzon Street were owned by their current occupants. Some of them functioned as small hotels, rented out by the room for the visiting ton. Others were let for the season by their owners, fully staffed and furnished. The people who rented them were often rich cits, the merchant class, those who had come to London in hopes of having one of their daughters snag an earl or a duke on the marriage mart during the main season.

They would make the rounds of parties and give a few, attend the fireworks displays at Vauxhall, see the plays and the opera and if supremely lucky, snag a voucher which would allow them the privilege of attending Almack's club. A voucher could only be obtained under the discretion of several patron-esses who oversaw the social club. Percy Snow told her he had attended Almack's several times as a guest. She didn't know whether to believe him or not.

She had bid fair well to her fellow riders, making Mrs. Hatch a promise that she would stop and take tea with her at the small hotel she ran with her sister. She was hoping that she should not run into Mr. Percy Snow, but he seemed quite determined that they should meet again. She decided that Mr. Percy Snow's interest in her would abate as soon as he spied the bevy of beauties being presented this year to the pink of the ton. No one was going to notice her in her meagre wardrobe standing off to the rear with the other companions. Companions were not generally given permission to dance.

She unpacked the last of her things, three India muslin day dresses, two shawls (not stylish Kashmiri, but hand knitted gift from a parishioner she used to read to on Sunday afternoons), one velvet pelisse and one of brown corduroy and an evening dress of periwinkle sarconet. The dress was a little countrified, but Nikita liked the colour and the lack of frills. She was far too big a girl for that. In frills she felt like an idiot.

Nikita actually had two rooms, a sitting room with a small fireplace and a desk at which to write her stories and a lovely, large bed chamber. She was taken with everything, the east facing windows, the view of the street and its occupants. All she saw tramp before her window in the country was a line of ducks.

Belinda, the lady's maid, entered her rooms with a saucy grin and set towels upon the highboy. She was a very tall woman, an inch or so above Nikita's own lofty height. She'd taken one long look at her on first meeting and had given Nikita some advise on deportment. " Hold your shoulders back, girl, and be proud. Thrust out those breasts. No sense on trying to look like a hedgehog. Won't make you look any smaller in the long run and you're not wanting a dowager's hump."

" I've only four. I've always done that sort of thing myself. I looked after my grandfather. He's a most particular man. I soon learned not to scorch the linens."

Belinda smiled. " Well, its nice to be handy round the house, miss, but I wouldn't admit that in society. Most girls wouldn't know an iron from a tea pot. Do you miss him? Your grandfather? "

Belinda laughed. " I think I'm going to like you, miss. We were all discussing your beauty round the table this morn. It's unusual for a paid companion to be so pretty. We didn't know what to expect. The last companion put on airs. We didn't like her at all. Walter talked about putting deadly nightshade in her morning tea."

Belinda raised a brow. " You'll have to ask him. He says he does. My goodness, I'd set out to shock you with that, miss, and it looks like you've turned the tables. What's your interest in poison? "

Belinda looked relieved. " For a minute I was thinking you were just daft like the rest of us. Get some sleep, miss. You look worn out from the trip."

" Oh, I'm not worn out. I feel most excited. I'm finally out on my own. It's most liberating." Nikita bounced hard onto the feather bed and grinned. Most liberating indeed.

She supposed it was getting away from her grandfather that made her feel this way, so light on her feet, so in charge of herself. She no longer had to copy out her grandfather's sermons ( in fact rewrite most of them). She could read anything she wanted from the sister's extensive library. There were some books her grandfather would never have approved of her reading. The library was vast, the sister's grandfather having been a scholarly type. She even found the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft there. She'd always wanted to read " Maria".

After Nikita had finished with the mail, answering and sending invitations, she was free until the rounds of calls that started late in the afternoon. Perhaps the only objection she had was to the late nights. The parties and balls generally started in the evening and went on until the wee hours of the morning. The sisters, at fifty and fifty two showed no evidence of being drained by the late nights. They didn't arise until noon. Nikita preferred to rise early and found herself nodding off a little at some of the parties.

She was happy in London, despite a small amount of homesickness. She had made friends with most of the staff already. George, the butler, seemed a little gruff and stiff but that was to be expected from one in his position. He'd once been in King George's employ, the sisters bragged, so he was entitled to his airs. Once you got to know him, he was a kindly, almost fatherly sort.

Walter was the cook. He'd once worked in France as a sous chef before the war and had been chased back to England for some awful transgression. There were several rumours: one that he'd been acting as a spy for England and poisoned someone.

This was according to Seymour, the head footman, who admired the chef greatly. Greg, the other footman, who did not get on with the cook, said he'd slipped belladonna in his employer's wine and then slipped into bed with his wife. Nikita was fascinated and decided that she would include his character in one of her novels. As far as she knew, he was happy with the sisters and had not killed anyone yet. Nikita had to believe that her employers were brave old souls.

She assumed the sisters kept him on for his superior abilities. Walter had a tendre for the regal Belinda whom Nikita liked immensely. She often caught them kissing in the hallway.

The other servants included Seymour and Greg, the footmen; Belinda, the tall and saucy lady's maid; Gail, the adorable upstairs maid, whom Seymour and Greg seemed to be fighting over most of the time; and Mick, the cockney coachman who was said to be involved with every pretty girl in Mayfair.

Nikita, as the lady's companion, was not strictly considered a servant. She dined mostly with the sisters on the days that she did not accompany them to parties. On the first days she had been at the house on Curzon Street, she'd risen to take her breakfast alone in the morning room, but she found the loneliness difficult to bear and one morning had wondered down to the kitchen where she had found the staff merrily eating at a long trestle table before a fire.

They'd stared at her at first in uncertainty but after a moment Walter had smiled and asked if she would like a cup of tea and some of his special oat porridge with treacle and cream. Gail, a sweet smile on her face, had scurried to serve her. She'd been most happy to accept, the idea of a breakfast so like those she'd consumed in the country bringing the silliest tears to her eyes. She had been taking breakfast with them ever since.

It was at breakfast when the servants shared most of their gossip. Mostly it was about their ton neighbours, gleaned from the staff of the other townhouses. Nikita had already learned a great deal about some of the people she was seeing at parties. It was not at all pleasant stuff, perhaps at times a trifle shocking. It seemed that the people of Mayfair traded partners a lot. The men often taking mistresses, their wives lovers among the young bucks.

This particular morning the talk centred around the Thief of Mayfair. It seemed that he had struck again recently, divesting the Earl of Endersby and his wife, a sickly creature, of some of their diamonds and pearls. The staff didn't seem shocked at all, or sorry for the earl. They didn't seem overly fond of the quality.

" Serves 'im bloody right," pronounced Mick around a hunk of fresh baked bread. " Bloke's a right bastard. He's in the gamin' hells while 'is wife is pretendin' at havin' the megrims. I heard it form a good source that she--"

George frowned. " Mick, there are ladies present. I have no particular fondness for the earl either but I'll not have swearing at table." George, as head of the staff, believed in keeping the others in line.

" At least one per week. There's hardly a lord or lady in Mayfair that hasn't been stuck. Some rich cits as well. They're having a right terrible time catching him, miss," said Gail. " The ladies do swoon over how handsome he is in his black silk garments. "

" I doubt they've even seen him. If the bloody fellow was that bumblin', being seen all the time, he'd never get away with anything. I think those society chits are making up half of it to give themselves a thrill. I'll bet you when he takes off his mask, 'e ain't comely at all," pronounced Mick.

" There are other parts on a man considered just as appealing as the face ," said the cheeky Belinda, with a wink to Walter. " Besides, he's French. The English claim to hate them but the ladies all say that the French can teach us all something in the matters of lovemaking."

The frank talk caused Nikita to blush. She was not a prude. She just was not used to such frankness about intimacy. Nikita doubted she'd ever want to do the things Belinda described with any of the gents of her personal acquaintance. There was not an Ivanhoe or a Lancelot or a dashing hero to be seen. Not that she wanted a conventional hero, mind. She'd always liked the fallen angels types better. They could always be reformed, yet still maintain their devilish and intriguing aspect.

She hadn't met a lot of truly good-looking gentlemen in her time. No one member of the ton she'd met so far impressed her. The penchant for garishly coloured pants and waistcoats, obscenely tight breeches, padded shoulders and even padded stockings and corsetted waists was a mystery to her. The strangely combed hair that must have taken hours to curl and flatten down to the temples in various arrangements took her aback even more. Some men had collars so high and stiff that their ears were covered. They seemed to be wanting to tilt their heads back and stare at the sky, so strangled they were.

Most of the men seemed to mince when they walked. Probably the tight trousers and corset. It was not at all masculine in Nikita's eyes. She had seen Beau Brummel, known as The Beau, and thought he looked ridiculous. She could

After the padding came off , what would be left? White boney legs? Spindly little arms? She knew what a man looked like naked. She'd seen anatomy books and the drawings of Leonardo DaVinci. Men's bodies as depicted by Michaelangelo'd sculptures did not resemble those of pigeons. The males she had seen in London so far resembled strutting pigeons. Or maybe peacocks with their dotted vests and striped green trousers.

After breakfast Nikita took a walk that led her round the whole of Hyde Park. There were few people about in the park or on the streets in the morning, mostly servants who went off to the market and shops. When she returned, she was informed by George that the sisters had both come down with the ague and would not be making their normal circuit of visits and parties for a few days while they recovered. Nikita was pressed into writing apologies and RSVPs, but would, for a few days be granted the glorious freedom to do as she wished. Or so she hoped.

She visited the sisters in their beds, both bundled up in far too many shawls and clothes and with the windows tightly shut and fires in the grate. She didn't presume to say that fresh air would undoubtedly do them far more good than being cooped up like swaddled infants. Both had been dosed with something the doctor prescribed for them and seemed tired and listless. Poor dear things.

Two days later, they seemed little better and complained incessantly when they were not sleeping. An endless stream of ton visitors came to the door. Nikita was forced to offer them tea and murmur thanks to their polite commiserations. The boredom, inactivity and change in schedule, not to mention an urge to plot on the novel she had started, caused Nikita to rise from her bed late one night.

She had tried to go to sleep far earlier than normal and had succeeded only in tossing and turning. She decided to go down to the library. She had spied a book there, a botany text all about flowers and fungi which she thought would be most helpful in her writing.

Dressed only in her white cambric gown, Nikita took a candle and made her way down the dark backstairs to the library. The house was quiet. The staff slept on the upper floors, except George and Mick. George slept in an apartment on the main floor, and Mick had rooms above the small carriage house in back. No one was likely to catch her trundling about in her nightgown, her books and writing materials in hand, her small wire rimmed spectacles perched on her nose.

She opened the library door, setting her candle on the mahogany desk. " Now where was that book," she whispered to herself. She went up on tiptoes, squinting at the titles. " Ah, there!"

She was about to reach up for it when a leather gloved hand covered her mouth and silk clad arm slid around her waist, clasping her tightly back against a long, hard body. She gasped and struggled against the rock hard arms as warm breath tickled her ear. " Do not make a sound, mademoiselle. I would not want to hurt you."

What in God's name would he do to her? Nikita wondered. She could feel his hand hot against the cambric of her gown, his long fingers pressing into the flesh of her stomach. Her buttocks, naked but for the folds of her voluminous gown pressed into his pelvis. It was thrilling and scary at the same time to be held this way. She tried to speak against the barrier of his hand. It was then that she tasted the metallic tang of blood in her mouth. Certainly not her own, because she hadn't bitten her lip. His pressure was firm but certainly not brutal enough to have cause injury.

"Yes! I'll not scream." Surely he hadn't held his hand over the mouth of that woman she'd heard about, the woman he had kissed in her boudoir. He'd not harmed her. She'd obviously been allowed enough freedom to kiss him. A little frisson of awareness traversed Nikita's spine at the thought of that kiss. " Please... you're bleeding."

Nikita couldn't have said anything if she'd wanted to. The sight of the man who had accosted her knocked the breath out of her lungs. They were right about him.

His body was beautiful, sinfully exquisite. He was dressed from head to toe in black. Leather boots lovingly clasped his shapely calves, skin tight black breeches skimmed his muscular thighs, narrow but beautifully formed buttocks, slender waist and flat stomach. She did not let her eyes linger too long on the way his trousers highlighted a certain portion of his anatomy. The black silk of his shirt caressed his wide chest and shoulders, the first three buttons open to reveal his the smooth skin of his deep, muscular chest and the tanned column of his neck.

The only part of his face that was uncovered was his firm jaw and slightly cleft chin. His mouth was what seemed to draw Nikita's gaze. His lips were not wide or overly full, but sculpted into the most beautiful coral coloured, albeit sardonic, half-smile she'd ever seen. She could just see the bottoms of the top row his perfect teeth.

Nikita lifted her eyes to the slits in his silken head wrap. She could see long sable coloured lashes through the slits but the colour of his eyes was indiscernible. She couldn't see what colour his hair might be either, as it was covered by the silk scarf tied tightly about his head.

He seemed very cynical, she thought. Obviously one of those men who did not trust the female of the species. She'd met many such men in her life, her grandfather chief amongst them. " If you would like to remove your glove, I can go and get something to clean that for you?"

" What a brilliant deduction. Yes, that was the idea. I never expected to be disturbed in the middle of it. I guess I'm losing my touch." He crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the window casement, his booted feet at a casual stance. The relaxed pose seemed to highlight his lean, strong build. "Are you a relative of theirs? "

The last words, said in a low, husky tone, startled her a little. She knew herself to be totally beguiled. She doubted he meant the words but for some strange reason that mattered little to her. Coming from that beautiful mouth the hackneyed words sent shivers up her spine. She'd heard those very words from other men before and had never been remotely moved to want to kiss the man or be held in his arms With this man that was all she could think about. Her grandfather was right about her. Deep down she must be a depraved and wicked girl. She bent and lifted the hem of her gown almost to the level of her knees.

" I am going to see to your hand, of course." Had he thought one compliment was going to get her to take off her gown or something? Men! Down deep they were all the same no matter the package they came wrapped in. " What do you think I'm doing? "

His words made her smile. She walked toward him with her hand outstretched, completely unafraid. " Give me your hand," she ordered him. " Take the glove off first. I'll bind it for you."

He seemed nonplussed by that, but he took off the glove and extended his hand. She examined it. It was a nice hand with long slender fingers and very clean nails. No hairy paw, thankfully, but an elegant gentleman's hand. It was warm and touching it made her feel a bit light in the head, like when she'd been spun to fast in a swing as a child. It was most disconcerting.

" Of course I do. I'm not some city bred chit. I assume that you'll be on your way once I have this cut bound. You'll not be taking the sister's goods or . . . um . . .anything else."

She laughed. " Are you French? They say you are. I wonder if the accent is fake. Your English syntax is remarkably true. Have they assumed that you are foreign from the calling cards you leave?"

" I surprised you. I could have had a pistol. You could be dead at my feet." The idea of that made Nikita feel most perturbed. Sad as well. It was the strangest thing that she should care at all about this thief.

" This is an anomaly. That's all. I intend to be more careful in the future." He gave her a smile. " I think I needed a small set-back. I was getting a little too cocky."

She did like the sound of his voice, rather husky, the accent a little too thick at times as if he were faking it. She finished wrapping his hand, tearing the fabric at the end of the strip in two so that she could tie it off. " There. All done." She wrapped her hands companionably over his, before she realised what she was doing and yanked them back.

" What? This? Stealing from the ton? Why? Why do you think? " He couldn't get his glove over the bandages so he tucked it into the waistband of his breeches.

She shrugged. " All depends on how you want to live, I suppose. You could find a rich widow or a bored noble woman to live off, for certain favours, just until you get back on your feet."

" I'm not stupid or innocent, sir. I'm from the country, but not naive. I've learned a lot lately. I have heard a few of the ladies at parties talking about the lovers they keep. People tend to talk loudly, as if wallflowers like myself have no ears. People deny it, but they love to be the subject of gossip if it is juicy enough."

" What's the difference between that and an arranged marriage? I mean there are men who marry quite miserable, unattractive women with large doweries and allowances every day. There is nothing seen as bad in that. "

"You could. I'm sure you have the looks and the charm to get an heiress. Men can do what they like in the world with little compunction. And I didn't say that I thought it honourable to live off a woman. That is your word. My word for it is understandable "

" Of course. I would prefer to hover around the edges of the social sphere. I am not the least avid to be a part of it, yet I would not want to be starving or living in the streets so I force myself to be tolerant. " She frowned over his wound. " This should be cleaned, you know. You'll do that when you get home." It was a command, not a question.

If a woman opened her mouth and gave an opinion on anything she was called a bluestocking. " Society accepts a lot of things I find intolerable. It deplores some natural acts or transgressions that I find quite easy to forgive. Why do you steal? "

He seemed to stiffen under her scrutiny. " Not so. Like you, and I am assuming this to be the case, I hate their ways, the way they flaunt their wealth, their supposed culture, the way they condemn each other with gossip and censure. They're total buffoons and they deserve someone to make a dupe out of them. I have no remorse about doing this. Do you know that these people will do almost anything to get out of paying bills to tradesmen? It is -How do you say it in English? - insufferable."

" Some of these rich make their servants buy their own food with their meagre wages and yet their own tables are filled to groaning with food that gets tossed away. They would not think to toss a penny to a sick child on the street, but they will make huge wagers over how quickly a drop of rain will traverse a window pane," the thief denounced.

" The ladies who live here are not like that. I am sure they are charitable with their fellow men. They're most kind hearted. The staff here are very happy and well fed. "

Nikita bit her lip. " I do hope you stop this soon before you get caught. I would not like to see you killed." While she spoke Nikita was trying to imagine what the rest of his face would be like. Perhaps his eyes were small and his nose too large. Maybe he was bald with a few sparse hairs here and there.

"Nikita. It's a pretty name, like its owner. Thank you for the humanitarian aid. I am most humbly your servant." He picked up her hand and pressed his warm lips to the backs of her fingers. " Nikita, you will allow me some time to get down off the roof before you summon the authorities, won't you? "

Nikita's heart fluttered in her breast. She told herself silently that she should not become unglued at such blatant sweet talk. " I am far too tall. I have to wear spectacles to see even short distances. I am not the crack at all."

He stepped forward. " For me. We meet almost eye to eye, mouth to mouth. A perfect fit." He slipped the spectacles from Nikita's nose and laid them on the table. She took a jittery breath. He leaned forward, his fingers barely touching her waist.

Then he brushed his mouth slowly across hers. Her nipples responded, hardening against the light cambric gown. Something fluttered and warmed deep inside her at the passionate touch of his slightly parted mouth. She drank in the taste of him, the texture of smooth lips and slightly abrasive beard.

The kiss did not last long enough. When it was over he rested his forehead against hers for the briefest time, as if trying to gain some semblance of control.

He pulled away, gave her a nod of his head and slipped like a wraith through the window. She followed, leaning out of it, but the thief of Mayfair had disappeared into thin air. Nikita just stood there for a long time, staring out at the moonlit rooftops, rubbing the backs of the knuckles he had kissed against her tingling lips.

" I'm sorry, Gail. Did you say something?" Nikita lifted her head. She'd been studying the pattern on the tablecloth in the kitchen thinking about him. As a result of the encounter she'd had very little sleep the night previous.

" The oddest thing happened. I found blood in the library this morning when I was dusting. On the window sill. I can't think of how it may have gotten there. There were even a few spots of it on the carpet."

" That-um-was my fault. I couldn't sleep last night. The blood was mine, in fact. I thought I'd clean it up today rather than disturb anyone last night."

" It wasn't a cut, Walter. Not at all. It was stuffy in the library. I'd been sneezing a lot and when I opened the window I banged my nose rather briskly on the frame. Hence the blood." Nikita felt rather proud of herself at the lie. She was not usually one who could make up lies on the spur of the moment.

" You don't look any the worse for wear, luv," said Mick reaching for bread which he slathered thickly with butter and treacle. " That adorable nose may look a bit more tip-tilted though, miss. Did you 'ear? The thief struck again last night. This time it was Clarges Street. I know a bloke who works there."

" Me friend's mistress's favourite pearls. Seventeenth century baroque, apparently. M' friend was quizzed for over an hour by the Bow Street runners. Wanted to know what he'd seen, where he'd been. Seemed he was in bed with one of the chambermaids at the time. Didn't 'ear a thing."

" He told me they'd be goin' about quizzing everyone in the vicinity. Seems they found a trail of blood in the alley just behind this house leading from the house that was robbed."

On hearing that Nikita suddenly lost her appetite. She set down her napkin and rose from her place after a muttered excuse. " I think I shall go back to my room. I have a slight headache."

" Don't forget that the modiste is expecting you today," said Belinda. " It's so kind of the sisters to purchase you a new gown for the Blankenship's ball. I think they could be persuaded into a few new day dresses, too."

" I had forgotten about that. My blue one would have been fine. And I have a few day dresses." They were rather unbecoming shades and she had sewed them herself using outdated patterns that she had tried to smarten a bit. Her sewing was rather abysmal.

" True enough. You'd be so lovely in the right gown, miss." Gail said with a sigh. Nikita looked from face to face, a little bewildered. Clothes meant very little to her. She never cared if she stepped on her hems and her gloves were often lost or stained. Her hat feathers were always limp. She just did not have the time or reason to care.

" So we all agree? " Belinda raised her nose. " I'm not sorry to say that your evening clothes are a disgrace, miss. You are far too beautiful to be so poorly set out. I tell you for your own good. Even a servant wouldn't wear the likes of that dress you planned to wear to the ball. Tell them that you'd look best in deep midnight blue. Or rosy pink. I know pastels are the rage at the moment, but we'll ask for a dark colour."

" And I'll do your hair this time, Miss Nikita," said Gail. " I'm ever so good with hair." For this show of kindness Gail received admiring glances from both young Seymour and Greg.

She peered across the street. A group of four people was entering Gunther's salon, frequented by the ton for the ices and their fine coffee and cakes. " Do you know them? "

She smiled. " Of course. My dear mama always told me I was a gossip. Since the cradle. Now, if you were to tell me your secrets, mind, I'd never reveal them."

" They're not the sort one would want to work for. I don't know them as well as I do Claridge but I'd say that like birds flock together. Perry Bauer, the Earl of Claridge, is a bad sort. I wouldn't even like to tell you about the people who came in and out of his house. Sometimes it was all very mysterious. He was always taking clandestine trips. He married his wife for her money and ran the estates she inherited to the ground. She died in a carriage accident. Some said the wheel had been tampered with."

" I don't know him well. I would guess that he's typical ton. He married for the promise of money. Lord Northwood shares Perry Bauer's proclivities for wenching and gambling, though I must say these rumours do not circulate out loud too often in society because they are very haut ton, though everyone knows the "on dits" and pretend they do not. They are deemed quite desirable. He, especially. Being a man with a title allows certain rights."

" Lady Northwood turns her cheek as do most wives. Actually I think she's probably sleeping with any number of men now under her husband's nose, with or without his say so," Belinda said with a sniff. " She's been married before. Several times. They call her the black widow. That girl is her daughter from a previous marriage. I've not seen the girl, but they say she's beautiful. She's also said to have a fiery temper. They say she killed a dog once."

" I think it pissed on her. She stomped it with her dainty foot. I heard that from the maid of a girl who'd had her beau stolen right from under her nose by Abby."

" I think her name is Lady Abigail Chesterfield. She'd be about nineteen. They're hoping to marry her off this year. Lady Madeline's mother is the dowager dutchess, Adrienne Wentwirth " Belinda broke off, realization dawning on her attractive face. " That's your name! Are you related to her? "

Belinda nearly fell over. Her cheeks were bright red. Nikita almost laughed. It was the first time the woman had ever seemed taken aback " I'm sorry, miss. I didn't mean Should I call you, Lady Nikita? " She was almost teasing.

" She's very in with the ladies at Almacks, is the dutchess. She's never had a problem getting vouchers. Lady Chloe and Lady Olivia know her very well. Have you met her? "

" She's a nice sort, really. Mick was her footman at one time. Never had a complaint about her. Did you know her estate is not entailed? Never has been since Tudor times. "

" Even you, miss. Being that you're her granddaughter. It's under her own discretion who inherits. Of course, most say it will pass on to Lady Northwood. It's disgusting really. I know that's all she and Northwood want. The two of them are power mad. I think they'll run it into the ground."

Nikita squinted across the street. Without her specs he could just make out the woman and her daughter. Her aunt and cousin. How strange to see them. She hadn't known of them at all. They were beautifully dressed, but their faces were obscured by the ridiculously long brimmed bonnets currently in fashion.

There was a man with them. He was tallish and well built, impeccably dressed, but she couldn't make out his face without her spectacles. The sun glinted off the reddish highlights of his tousled, chestnut brown hair. He held his curly brimmed beaver hat in his gloved hand. He seemed oddly familiar to her, but she couldn't have placed from where she knew him.

For a few seconds he had stopped in his tracks and stared across the street at them. At her, for a fact. Then he quickly turned his head and went into the building with the green awnings.

" I think he's Lady Abby's intended. Italian, so they say, but not swarthy at all. I think he's called the Count of Napoli. Something like that. I thought he'd be dark and olive skinned but he's fair, and they say his eyes are a smoky green. My goodness, he's a lovely looking bloke. I'd take him to my bed in a minute. And don't tell Walter that."

" I won't." She was, as ever, a little shocked by Belinda's open manner. She liked it, though. Nikita wondered what colour her thief's eyes were. Warm brown? Light blue? Mysterious green? She longed to share the story of the encounter in the library with the vivacious Belinda, but she did not dare. "Some Italians are fair skinned and blue eyed, I've heard. "

" From the Warwick's ball. Were you there? I don't recall. Lady Caroline Lamb announced to all and sundry that she wanted to sleep with the magnificent Italian before the week was out."

" That's where he was first seen by the ton. I was there to help the Warwick's maid in the powder room. The women were raving about him, the different cut of his clothes, his muscles, his green eyes, his hair. And his accent. It was very husky and attractive, so they said. One of the ladies said she almost had "the petite mort" when he whispered in her ear."

Nikita's eyes widened. She knew clinically what an orgasm was from her readings, but was not quite certain exactly what happened or how it could happen just being next to a man. " My goodness."

" So the lady's nephew Freddy told Walter.You've not met Freddie yet have you? There's a fop. He's been sent off to Scotland for trying to bugger the footmen again. Poor little Seymour--"

It was just then that the odious Percy Snow came out of Gunthers. Nikita turned quickly and hissed at Belinda. " I know that fellow in the hideous purple coat and green vest. I do not wish for him to see me. Shall we hurry? " She grasped Belinda's arm and dragged her down the street, telling her all about her coach companion with the dashing wardrobe and indescribable body odour. The two of them were collapsing in giggles as they walked down the street.

A Bow Street Runner was waiting in the parlour when they returned. Nikita's heart skipped a beat. Had the thief been seen coming into the house? Or had they followed a trail of blood right up to the library window? The Bow Street Runner was young and handsome in a rumpled way. He introduced himself as constable Marcus O' Brien. About Nikita's height and around the age of thirty-five, he had a wily, street-weary look about him. His hair was longish and unkempt, not the deliberately backswept style of the Windswept as Byron sported. It just looked like he'd been tearing at it with impatient fingers. His neck cloth was askew and may have had a smear of jam. Nikita steeled herself to smile into his sharp gray- blue eyes and asked if he cared for any tea.

" Why, thank you. That is most thoughtful, Miss Wentwirth. I would be pleased to take a cup. Do you think I might have some bread and butter? I've missed my nuncheon?"

After the tea was delivered by George and poured he started to question her. She watched with interest as he added six pieces of sugar to his china cup. He said: " The butler said you had been up and looking out the library window. That room looks out over the lane."

" A pearl necklace, I believe, with rubies in the clasp. A very valuable French antique. The owner had recently acquired it. It was his wife's favourite piece.

" The poor soul." Actually Nikita didn't feel sorry for her at all. People shouldn't feel distraught to the point of being bedridden over pearl necklaces.

" Doesn't that seem a bit strange, Constable O'Brien? One French piece missing. A single necklace. I'm sure there was a wealth of valuables to be had in the victim's safe."

" Perhaps he was startled by a noise," suggested O'Brien. " Perhaps he's a most discerning thief. It's likely that he has a market for such valuable French pieces back in his home country. There must be people there most willing to buy them. It would be difficult for him to fence such property here."

" I see. How very interesting," she murmured. " Have you looked into the connection between the pieces? Did they perhaps come from the same original source? "

" I've not thought a little about that, but it's not a likely factor. Many of these people buy through brokers or at auction. Your name is well known here in Mayfair. Are you, by any chance, distantly related to the Dutchess of Jarvis, Miss Wentwirth? "

" But you work for a living as a companion. Why is that? " He had a disappointed look on his handsome face. She wondered for a moment if he felt that it put her out of his league.

The two chatted for a time. Nikita felt rather pleased with herself for leading the runner away from the topic of the Thief of Mayfair. They instead began a lively discussion of highwaymen. The Bow Street Runners had begun in the eighteenth century as a force to reckon with the scourge. Nikita, herself, had always found the idea of highwaymen extremely romantic. She had written many a story about the black clad bandits of the coach road. They were becoming scarcer now.

When he was gone Nikita took a deep, cleansing breath and went upstairs to see the ladies. They were sitting up in bed and eating bon bons. They announced, cheerfully, that they would be quite ready to attend the ball on Thursday.

Olivia smiled at her. She was feeding her dog Horace bits of bon bon. Nikita wanted to tell her that the treats weren't good for the tiny dog, but Horace, a terrier with black spots, more of a country dog than a city one, seemed to have a stomach of cast iron. But he was prone to leaving stools behind the furniture in the morning room. George was forever in a dither about it.

" Yes." She blushed. " I let Belinda choose for me. I'm not at all certain about the neckline. It's a trifle indecent. And the colour is a bit extreme, I think. "

" I have my mother's locket. I'm afraid I don't own any jewels. Are you forgetting that I'm just there to see to your comfort? Not to dance or to catch a beau."

" We'll not speak of that. I've asked you not to speak to her of me." She gave the older women a warm smile that softened the terse words. " I don't need to be the belle. And I do not need the fancy accoutrements. I'd be fearful of losing your fine jewels."

" We have more than enough jewellery. All Livvi does is buy more. There is the most divine blue diamond necklace. A choker. Neither Livvi or I can get it around our fat necks, you see. And we're dying to show it off. Livvi thought we could have it made larger "

" It would match your eyes and since we bought it only last year, no one will have seen it yet. Our broker bought it from a French fellow. Said it had belonged to a French countess. An antique that had been in the family for generations."

Nikita sighed. It might be nice to look pretty for a change. " I'll consider it. I'm not the type to be tricked out in jewellery. You're both so generous, though, I feel almost like crying."

Two days later, an hour before the ball, Nikita stared at herself in the cheval mirror. It was a stare of sheer horror. Half her breasts were hanging out.

The dress was blue, simply cut with an Empire waist. There were no ruffles or ribbons, just flowing lines and fine tissue silk over a matching chemise in a slightly darker tone. Her shoes were a la Grecque, the gold satin ribbons lacing up her slender calves.

" Her lovers don't think so, " stated Belinda. " She damps her dresses as well. One layer of muslin, damp as a sheet on washday. You can see everything. She shaves her pubic hair off. She thinks that's being discrete. Wouldn't want to cast dark, lumpy shadows. "

"Oh, my lord, Belinda. I am not going to be able to look at any of the women this evening thinking that they might have done that! I've heard of damping dresses. In winter, even. No wonder women die of fevers." Nikita tugged the bodice a little higher. " My grandfather, the vicar, would have apoplexy if he saw me like this. He would have apoplexy if he could hear this discussion. Are you sure I can't leave my shawl on? "

The Blankenship's ball was one of the first and most important of the London Season. Lady Sally Jersey and the other patron esses of Almacks would be in attendance checking the new crop of debutants, deciding who was gauche and who would take. The beaus and the rakes were there as well, hoping to become linked with the greatest beauties of the season. This was after all a marriage mart.

Nikita had received some frosty stares, mostly from the other companions and matrons who knew that she had no real right to be wearing fine jewellery and a gown with such an indecently cut bodice. She was calling deliberate attention to herself and her Amazonian stature.

Oh, why had she let Belinda talk her out of the concealing piece of lace. She surreptitiously tugged the bodice up for what must have been the hundredth time. One of her nipples had already peeped out when she got out of the carriage. She couldn't lean her neck down too far because the high diamond collar would choke her and the pins that secured her wilfully stick straight hair into a Grecian knot were already threatening to spring from her head, fly through the air and poke out someone's eye.

She told herself it was a good thing that she could not have permission to dance. She was feeling quite miserable for someone pronounced by the admiring staff at the townhouse as an Incomparable. Why, Mick even seemed to have tears in his eyes when her saw her. That could only have been because George had made such a fine speech when he presented her with the orchid wrist posy that the men of the house had all pitched in to buy for her. They were really all too dear to her already.

Most of the ton beauties were draped in diaphanous clouds of white muslin, some indeed shockingly revealing. They were also draped in jewels. So many, in fact, that she doubted there were any left in London for the Thief of Mayfair to steal.

Belinda would kill her if she could see her standing behind the potted ferns like a coward. She swallowed hard in breathless wonder at the sights unfolding before her.

She watched the milling crowds, waiting the start of the dancing, the tittering females in little groups, the males preening like strutting peacocks. The place was a veritable crush of bodies and the smell was a little overwhelming. Like dirty socks, perfume and powder, sweaty armpits and unwashed hair. Nikita wrinkled her nose.

" Ah, yes. Isn't he all the crack? Look at him. He's dressed so differently than the others. Beau Brummel will be wanting to copy that suit. Mark my words, I think he's the only man here tonight wearing trousers. Black trousers! How daring he is! It's as if he cares nothing for fashion and yet he sets it."

Nikita slipped her spectacles up her nose and looked out at the floor. It was the man from the street of the other day. He was the most intriguing combination of angel and rake. There was something about the way he walked, like a sleek carnal beast. The sea of people parted for him.

She had to admit that he was beautiful, in his way. His colouring was exquisite, his features not conventional, but handsome in the way they were combined. His profile was a masculine revelation, something one would see in one of the frescoes at Bath. Sculpted, strong, masterful. She didn't think that he was as well built as the thief of Mayfair, perhaps a little thinner. No one could quite come close to the thief. He dwelled in Nikita's mind's eye as a paragon of masculinity. No one would ever quite match him.

Of course she was not saying that he was the sort of man she ought to admire. Far from it. But he was the first man who had ever stirred her senses like that and the first one to kiss her.

This Italian count looked to be a rogue. His mouth was different, the lips thinner than her thief's. She was quite sure of it. He was unsmiling, terribly serious looking, as if he carried the weight of the world. Not that those wide shoulders couldn't support the weight quite well. What did he have to look so world-weary about? Planning his latest seduction, she supposed. It was a serious matter with these Corinthians. She doubted he had any greater interest than seduction. The way he moved was so mesmerising, he ought to have women falling at his feet any second. She watched, her breath catching a little as he swept his loose chestnut coloured curls back from his face with a careless sweep of a gloved hand.

The voice did not register as directed to her. She was lost in staring at the spectacular form of the count when a hand closed over her wrist, crushing the tender, white orchid.

A Corinthian with breath that reeked of spirits was sticking his face inches from her own. " You promised to meet me. Where the bloody hell have you been, you little witch? "

Nikita stared at him, aghast. She'd never laid eyes on the man. " I beg your pardon, sir. You have mistaken me for someone else. We've not met before. "

" Yes." Staring into his thickly lashed green eyes was the most disconcerting experience she'd ever had. Quite rivalling the nighttime encounter with the thief of Mayfair. My goodness, he was handsome. He even smelled good. Clean. Like musky, morning rain. She could feel her blood singing through her veins at his nearness.

Goodness, she thought, I'm wishing I could kiss him. I must be some sort of sensualist. Else she would never be attracted to two such disreputable men in the space of a few days. Her grandfather would have her down on her knees praying for the redemption of her soul.

" Pardon me? Yes, to...? Oh! No, sir. He didn't hurt me. I'm only surprised. That's all. He mistook me for another woman, I think. People do that sometimes."

He gave her a slight smile and nodded. " So they say. You look pale to me after that ordeal. Let me take you for a stroll on the terrace." He leaned a little closer to her. " I think that you ought to pull your bodice up a little. I wouldn't want any other man allowed the lucky eyeful I'm getting now. Things may have become a little askew in the struggle."

Nikita looked down at her breasts. They had, indeed, been dislodged a little further from their moorings in the tussle. She felt her cheeks go hot and reached to tuck in and tug up her bodice. He was not gentleman enough to avert his eyes and she could not turn because his body afforded her a screen of privacy.

" Damn! I hate fashion. It's most embarrassing. Makes me think of an armful of lively puppies struggling to get free. I never thought I had this much. " She muttered that before she remembered that he was listening.

"It's the Italian in me. When we are in the presence of a beautiful lady we always use all of our senses. I find you English to be most repressed. My apologies."

She tried not to be flattered but she was. " I apologise, too. I'm from the country and not so aware as I'd hoped of current English morals and customs, let alone those of foreigners. I am in a trying state."

She hesitated for a moment. People were staring at them. Speculating as to where he was taking her, no doubt. About a million eyes bored into her, or so it appeared to her agitated mind. He squeezed her arm in reassurance. It seemed a kind gesture. She looked at his perfect profile. They were of a height, but he was so very imposing, the aura of power he held made him seem large and steady. A veritable brick. Maybe it was just the impressive width of his shoulders.

Like: Did you sleep with Lady Caroline Lamb? What in God's name do you see in a girl with a temper harsh enough to hurt a helpless animal? Do you care that she dallies with other men? Don't you aspire to one true, perfect love? Do you find me attractive? Or is it just my similarity to her?

Nikita's heart began to thump. " I had heard. I had hoped to avoid her," She tried to change the subject. " First names are fine. You may call me Nikita, if you wish. Is that too fast of me? "

" I did. Especially when I lost my teeth in a fall at four." He gave her a genuine grin, exposing teeth that would be the envy of any ton member. Most of the ton had terrible teeth. A few so called desirable bucks wore false ones that fell out if they laughed.

Nikita felt her insides melt at that smile. He was far too attractive. This was far to intense. She could not do this. And people were staring. She'd made a mistake but it was not too late to mend it. " You don't really have to escort me any further, sir. I see the French doors now. Everyone is going to get the wrong idea. I've not wish to be the subject of gossip amongst the ton. You have been most kind "

There was the most horrible picture of them trysting in Nikita's mind. It made her feel rather ill. Hot and breathless. Nikita took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, praying the puppies were sleeping. She pulled her arm from his grasp. " I do thank you. I'll be fine from here."

" My comment offended? I do forget that I am not at home at times. The English are most absurd. I assumed you to be like your grandmother. She is a most unusual lady. I value her sense of adventure and fun very highly."

" I'll not stop you from leaving my company, if that be your wish, Nikita. I'm not that sort of man. What will you do if someone else tries to accost you? Sometimes thieves come to these soirees and wait in the gardens for unsuspecting females."

She blinked as he raised his hand and touched the diamond drop that hung just at the hollow of her throat. She felt her pulses race at the slight brush of his gloved fingers on her bare skin, at the look in his eyes. What sort of heat might he inspire in her breast with a bared hand? Skin to skin?

" What if. . ." His eyes were like green gems. Too light and smoky to be emeralds. Too full of light for jade. Peridot maybe. They seemed to consume her, draw her into their brilliance. ". . . you were to meet this thief. This jewel thief everyone is talking about."

It was strange that he'd mention him. How very strange. What would he think of her if he knew? She told him a lie. " I'm a country girl. I know how to use my knee for the greatest advantage."

He watched her walk away. The back was as gorgeous as the front. Beautiful, he thought. So goddamned beautiful. He liked everything about her looks, her wide shoulders, narrow waist, her narrow but gently rounded hips. He thought about her legs. Long, sleekly muscled. How would they feel wrapped around his back? He thought about kissing her, about having his tongue in her mouth and her body pressed to his so closely a paper couldn't pass between them. He'd thought of nothing else the whole time he'd been near her. It was a good thing she'd slipped away so suddenly.

Michael practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of the familiar voice. He, the man with no nerves to speak of, startled. Ridiculous. He felt like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong.

Dutchess Adrienne Wentwirth leaned on her ivory topped cane, her slender, narrow shouldered figure slightly stooped, but still regal. She was garbed in an ivory coloured gown, not of the latest mode, but obviously expensive and elegant. Clouds of soft russet hair liberally tinged with white wreathed her head beneath her fine lace cap.

She laughed softly. " Yes, for now. Though I know she'll be soon looking for me. I couldn't sit in the corner and listen to the "on dits" for another second. Why aren't you dancing? "

" Ah, the necklace. Yes. Tis very fine. I don't think a boy like you needs to be so generous. In my day, all you'd have had to do would be to smile at me, Michaelagelo. I would have swooned at your Italian allure."

He smiled. It was a genuine one, not the phony one he cultivated for people. "I've no doubt you were lovely as a younger lady. I would have swept you off your feet. I'll dance with you now, if you like."

The dutchess laughed. " You do put me to the blush, lad. Alas, I am far to weary to dance. What are you doing here flirting with an old lady? You ought to be off looking for Abigail."

" I thought that I just saw her with you. Madeline and Paul are off somewhere. I think he's in the gambling salon. She was with that earl. The one with the pointy eyebrows "

" Yes. I forget names now. I could barely remember Sally Jersey's name. I have known the gel since she was in leading strings. Who was the girl with you, if it was not Abby? "

" Why don't you sit down, Dutchy. " He bent, taking her frail arm in his strong one, leading her to a settee in the corner. He sat down beside her, mindful of his coat tails.

" I think you know her. You haven't met yet, but last week I overheard your conversation with Lady Madeline. She'd asked you if you knew what happened to Nicky's child? "

" Before I had the spell. Yes. So much slips my mind of late. Nicky's child. The girl. She is here? Now?" Her tone was agitated. Her eyes flitted from face to face in the crowd as if hoping to find her.

Adrienne smiled sadly. " A combination of the two. Nicky and Kitty. I turned her away, you know. I had to. My husband would have none of his son marrying a vicar's daughter. He was ashamed. I tried to talk Nicky out of it. They married for love."

" No one in society marries for love. Who believes in love, anyway? It is all illusion, I think. Invented by fools. The body just has some sort of chemical reaction to the opposite sex. It soon fades and there is nothing left but a sense of ennui."

" Please make it soon. I don't know how much time I have and I do want you in the family. I have come to love you, lad. And I am speaking neither as a poet or a simpleton. Three months and you're in my heart."

" No. Tired. That's all. If you could have seen me three months ago before you came to England. Making plans for my rose garden and flitting here and there. It started the week Maddie came home. I started to have the dizzy spells. That's when Nurse Phipps was hired. I've been drinking the special teas and seeing the doctor, but to no avail. Sometimes I feel almost human and then " She broke off, taking his gloved hand in hers. "I am going on too much. I am an old lady. I have to accept it." Her hands were shaking. " Will you bring her to me, Michaelangelo? "

" No. Of course I don't know her. She seems decent. She's " He didn't know how to describe her. " She's like you, I guess. I like her. She's different than other women. I can tell that much without really knowing her."

Michael looked up. Nurse Phipps, Lady Madeline, in a gown so revealing it shocked even him and the lovely Abby, her daughter, walked toward them. " Here come the three bitches," he muttered.

Nikita walked slowly around the fountain, trying to breath, trying to think of something other than a French jewel thief with smouldering lips and hard, muscled thighs or the notorious Italian count with eyes that sparked green fire. Was she utterly mad to be so attracted to two such ineligible men? Rakes and robbers. Her grandfather would roll over in his grave, if he happened to be dead.

She put her hands up to her burning cheeks. The count was wicked. Had he really said that about Lady Caroline. She was a boring lover! What, in his estimation, qualified as a good one?

" Why did you bring that up to him, Nikita Wentwirth? Are you insane? " Obviously he thought she was common. Did he know she was a virgin? A twenty-five year old virgin with no experience? Or did he assume she was a lightskirt because of this dress and the shocking things she blurted out? " Think of something else."

She ought to find Lady Chloe and Lady Olivia. She was here to see to their needs. Even if it meant having her ear peeled off by some old lady with a hearing horn. Maybe it would be nice to listen to a heartfelt chat about dyspepsia, childbirth and bladder maladies.

She'd think about the wicked Earl of Hardshaft and the lovely Penelope. How would he kill his next victim? A shooting? Or poison? Maybe she ought to turn the tables and poison the earl. Then Penelope could run off with the handsome highwayman who is really a fine gentleman in disguise.

" What to use? Lily of the valley? All parts are toxic, but bitter. Put it in wine? Symptoms might not be obvious enough. No twitching or spasms at the beginning. Just memory loss and clammy skin, a rash. Maybe the earl could sicken for weeks until his heart gave out at the exact right moment. Maybe Jimsonweed. I'll poison Penelope with Jimsonweed. She could be going blind "

What was he doing now? she wondered. What were they doing? Both of them. The thief. Had he perhaps decided to become and honest man since meeting her?

Oh, she loved his name. Michaelangelo. The fallen angel. How perfect... How did this happen? How did one go from indescribable boredom in her grandfather's house to this level of intensity? This feeling of aching want. She felt as if she was sitting on a hornet's nest.

Nikita whirled around on her heel. The girl everyone kept taking her for stood a few feet away. The first thing she noticed was that she looked hardly anything like this girl called Abby at close range. It was merely a passing resemblance.

Abby was far more a ton belle than she could ever hope to be. Her figure was rounder, shorter and more voluptuous. Her shoulders were fashionably narrow, her hips fuller. She had tiny feet. There were no freckles to mar her peaches and cream skin. Her nose was thinner, her lips a lush cupid's bow rather than wide like Nikita's own. Her eyes were like hard, clear diamonds. As cold as ice.

She was Nikita's junior by years, but Nikita decided that if she kept drinking champagne she'd soon look older. She was fairly gulping it out of a crystal flute.

She had most likely bought her dress in Paris. It had too many ruffles and lace for Nikita's taste, yet it was still shockingly sheer. The sour expression on her face didn't help matters. The girl looked like she'd rolled naked in a pile of handkerchiefs and swallowed an unripened persimmon.

Nikita straightened her shoulders. No sense stooping. The girl was moving closer. Nikita's knees touched the back of the fountain. She thought of her grandfather's sermons. He who casts the first stone... Do unto others... Set a Christian example and turn the other cheek

Abby screeched, threw down the champagne flute and shoved full force against Nikita's chest. Nikita could not keep her balance. Her slick shoes went out from under her. It took great presence of mind and superior strength to pull Abby into the fountain with her.

She had planned to hold the girl's head under the water for just long enough to put some sense into her crazy head when she looked up to see Michaelangelo da Francisini, an elderly woman and several others including her aunt and her two employers. Everyone looked horrified except for Michael. It almost seemed as if he was trying not to laugh.

Nikita looked down in horror, then yanked her sputtering, choking cousin out of the water. The girl immediately launched herself at Nikita again, getting in a swing that bruised Nikita's jaw and brought stars to her eyes. It took another gentlemen and Michael to pull the two of them apart and out of the fountain.

Nikita struggled a little against Michael's arms. There was something vaguely familiar about having him hold her from behind like that, the feel of his rock hard arms wrapped around her waist, the warmth of his long body. " Please, let me go now. I'll not do anything else."

" Michael, she t-tried t-to kill me," the girl screeched. " I want you to call the Bow Street Runners to take her away. She ought to be locked up in Bedlam."

" She was only under the water for a few seconds," Nikita said. She was not about to say that the silly chit started it. No one would believe her anyway.

Nikita looked at the gathering crowd. Everyone was tittering behind fans and gloved hands. Of course she would be blamed. It only stood to reason. She met the eyes of Lady Chloe, who made a sympathetic face. Nikita sighed in misery.

Abby's mother, a tall, classically beautiful woman wearing a huge turban in a most unbecoming shade of purple was staring daggers at her. Her eyes were hell dark, almost back. Nikita wondered when she'd ever seen so cold a visage. She would be the most perfect villainess for a novel. And was that a love bite on the woman's neck!

" She attacked me, Mama," cried Abigail. Nikita could tell that the girl wanted to launch herself into her mama's arms, but Madeline was having none of it. She held Abby off with an upraised hand. " She'd been uttering things about poison made from lily of the valley and someone called little Penelope. I heard her. She is a dangerous, evil "

" Perhaps we can discuss what happened later," said the woman Nikita assumed to be her grandmother, the dutchess. She was a regal looking woman, a trifle pale and thin. Perhaps the incident had appalled her so deeply that she was feeling faint. Well, no matter, Nikita decided, as a dull pain began to throb in her jaw, she didn't want me anyway. Now she'll feel even more justified.

Madeline looked at her mother with something Nikita assumed was concern. Maybe it was pique, as if she was being put upon." Come then Mother" she said. " Why must you dawdle so? "

They'd been joined at this point by a man with white hair and a large, man with a full, florid face and red hair. Nikita assumed the white haired man was Lord Paul Northwood, her uncle by marriage.

" Yes," said the woman. " You are indeed like Kitty. But she was not such a spirited gel." The old lady suddenly seemed a little unsteady. Nikita reached her arm out to offer support but Michael was soon there enfolding the delicate old woman in his strong arms.

He looked at Nikita over the old lady's head. His green eyes were twinkling with amusement and something else she could not name. They swept down her body, lingering at her chilled erect nipples and back up to her eyes. The way his beautiful lips parted as he looked at her made her shiver all the more.

Disgusting male peacock. If he thought she was interested in him, he was-- He seemed to read her mind and grinned. " If it's worth anything to you, Miss Wentworth, I really don't believe you're a murderess. Do put some ice on that jaw when you get home."

Nikita straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. She did not like at all the strange way he made her feel. It was terribly disconcerting. " I really do not care what you believe, sir. Good night."

At breakfast Mick laughed until there were tears pouring from his eyes. " You should have seen her." He pounded the table with the flat of his hand. Plates and cutlery jumped. " Oh, Miss Nikita. It was rich. You were so bloody wet. The coach seats are going to have to be recovered."

" I've never heard of a fight in a fountain before," said George. " At court though there were a few fights. Pushes down the stairs by jealous females and all that. Sometimes I miss all that. "

Nikita gingerly chewed her toast. " I don't think so. At least there was nothing said about it." It had surprised her that Lady Chloe and Lady Livvy were not overset. For some odd reason they'd been proud of her.

" Well, I heard bloody Princess Abby screamin' 'bout it. All the way to the carriage. And then that handsome toff threw her over his shoulder and tossed her into the carriage like a bloody sack of potatoes. That made her howl all the louder."

" The Italian. The bloody count," said Mick. " Ah, he's got the finest clothes if ever seen. I'd like the name of the bloke's tailor. Can't be Weston. He's not fittin' trousers that way. Must be some Italian fellow what's dressed 'im. Elegant gent, he is, for a bleedin' foreigner."

" He's not that handsome," Nikita said. She could feel her face going hot. " He is tolerable, I suppose, if you like that type. I, personally, see nothing to recommend him, other than a very good sense of fashion and um fitness. He's a little too handsome for my taste."

" He doesn't pad, then? " asked Greg. " His calves, I mean." This subject of who padded and who did not seemed to be of great importance to footmen, who themselves often wore wooden false calves in their stockings to fill them out. Seymour, it seemed, had broken a toe once trying to kick Greg.

" I don't think he does." She sipped her tea, thinking about the way he'd lifted her out of the fountain. The way his body had felt. Warm. Hard. No. There was no padding there.

The conversation turned to the thief as it usually did. It seemed no one had been struck in the last few days, a most disappointing development for the entire staff.

Nikita straightened out the morning room while the sisters napped. Lady Olivia had made a mess out of crewel wools again and it would be up to Nikita to sort them. She had hoped that she could write today. She had enough thoughts in her mind to fill pages and pages.

George came into the room looking agitated. " Miss, there are two gentlemen here to see you. They arrived at the same time. Both are insistent that they see you today."

" Yes. One wants to see you about an important personal matter. The other is that Bow street runner. The one with the messy hair." George raised a bushy brow. " I couldn't get rid of him."

George ushered both men into the morning room. He asked if they would like refreshments. The count declined. O'Brien asked if he could get something to eat.

Nikita looked from man to man. She had never seen such a contrasting pair. The count stood near the fire, resting a boot clad foot on the grate. O'Brien sat in a chair looking ill at ease.

O' Brien was even more rumpled than the last time she'd seen him. Count da Francisini was perfect, breathtaking. He seemed to have come from a ride, probably on Rotten Row. He was wearing a tan riding jacket and fawn doeskin breeches tucked into highly polished black and tan Hessians. His hair was tousled into loose, shiny curls that begged a woman's hand to straighten them. On his hands he wore leather gloves that he didn't bother to remove.

The count made a small bow of his head." Perhaps Constable O' Brien would like to get his questions out of the way, Miss Wentwirth? I think I know what this is about. Utter nonsense. "

Nikita returned from seeing the Bow Street runner out the door a half an hour later. Michael was standing by the birdcage watching a pair of finches flutter from perch to perch.

" So is he returning later to drag you off to Bedlam? Kicking and screaming. Protesting your innocence. I'm surprised he didn't ask to search your room. For poisons. And pistols hidden with your under things. Maybe you've recorded all your nefarious plans in a diary? "

She just looked at him. Like a mother might look at an unruly child. It made his hackles rise further. She said: " You can be very scornful, my lord. My grandfather used to give long sermons about people like you."

" I get the impression that you feel trapped at times, my lord. Like this room isn't large enough to allow you to prowl around. You remind me of a lion, you know. Or perhaps a wolf."

" You get to say what ever is on your mind, don't you? Oh, but then you're a man. A count. You could open your mouth right now and tell me whatever you're thinking and I could say nothing to stop you."

" You might, at the very least, swoon. The thoughts I've been having about you are not innocent in the least." He continued to pace. " A tedious lion. I think you're right. I will have to do some self-examination. Is that the full opinion? "

" Do you want to know what I'm thinking now?" he asked. He was thinking of kissing her. Of making love to her. Of laying her down on the carpet and slowly slipping her bodice down so that he might kiss her lovely breasts.

" I was thinking that you look far different than you did last night, Miss Wentwirth. No silk and borrowed diamonds. You don't really need them at all." His voice was soft, rather husky.

" He took a deep breath. He had no idea why she made him feel this way. He never felt like this around women. He was a master manipulator of females, but she was immune to his charm. He knew he had charm in spades. She was totally insusceptible, damn her. " The dutchess would like you to visit her. She's going to be alone in her home for a week."

" I find you a trifle controlling. I hadn't quite realised it when we met at the ball. I guess I was stunned by your superior looks. There is an aura of control and restraint you project, while something deep and impassioned is seething just below the surface. It is like you have a very dark secret you have no wish to share. It is rather lion-like, in a way. Lions are always in complete command before they spring. Of course, all that leashed in intensity would make anyone tedious and cranky, wouldn't it? "

His mouth almost fell open. He had to clamp down his back teeth. She had him to rights. She did not like him. There was no admiration in her voice. She had simply seen through him and stated the obvious.

He's been out of control that night he'd kissed her. He'd known it then. She'd taken him unawares. She'd liked him well enough then. Well enough to allow him to take her sweet mouth under his. If he'd had the time he could have taken her on the library floor. If she knew who he was she would be eager.

" I'm not insulted. Nor am I cranky. I have a lot on my mind. Business. Personal matters. I am worried about the dutchess. She's been ill. She wishes to know you."

He stopped pacing and sat down on the settee beside her. He stilled her hand from the unravelling of the tapestry yarns. " She is one of the most singular people I have ever met. It would be a shame if you were not to know one another. Tell me that you would not regret it should something happen to her."

" I'll let you think on it. Tell me tomorrow," he said softly and then added as an afterthought. " Please, Miss Wentwirth. Don't do it for me. Or her. Do it for yourself. You will not be sorry."

There was no use for it, Nikita thought, She would never sleep. Rain pinged against the window, a noise that usually soothed her. It could not make her lull herself to sleep this night. There were too many things to think about. Not stories that flitted in and out of her mind, but real things. Things she must deal with.

Nikita threw back the bedclothes and slipped into a wrapper. She lit the candle on the bedstead. Perhaps a book would help. Something dry to relax her mind and make her eyelids heavy. She looked at the clock. One-thirty. And she'd had only hours of sleep the night before. She was going to feel wretched tomorrow.

The house was quiet. The ladies were leaving early in the morn for the border to meet Lord Freddy. Belinda would go with them. They were taking another friend so there would not have been room for Nikita had she wanted to go along.

Nikita opened the library door and set the candle on the desk. She peered up at the titles. She needed something really boring. She needed something that would drive all thoughts of those sardonic green orbs and that imperious stare out of her head. Nikita climbed barefoot onto the library steps to see the higher titles.

She gasped. He was there. The thief of Mayfair was standing in the far corner of the dimly lit room, his arms crossed over his silk clad chest, his lips twisted in a wry smile.

" No. I wanted to see you. I can't believe my good fortune. I didn't know which room was yours." He spoke in a low husky whisper. The French accent was pronounced. It made shivers traverse her spine. She could feel her legs quaking and grasped the edge of the shelf to steady herself.

He walked toward her. Before she could protest he was in front of the library stair, enclosing his strong hands about her waist. His face was at a level just below her breasts, where her ribs joined her sternum. He stood there for a moment just looking at her body, at her breasts, her tummy. His hands skimmed down her hips to the fronts of her thighs and back up again to circle her, his thumbs just below the curve of her breasts.

She felt her heart pulsate, the excited flutter in her tummy. Every nerve was madly, wildly vibrating. It felt like there was a scared bird, inside her, fluttering its wings. For a moment she thought he was going to lay his face against her body. She wanted him to do that. To press his cheek, his lips, against her softest most welcoming places. It was wicked but she longed for it. Her breasts were throbbing, something ached insistently between her legs, a need that begged to be satisfied. She knew only his touch could do that. Only him.

He lifted her down, his unusual nickname for her on his lips, allowing her body to skim slowly down the front of his. Her bare feet settled on the toes of his leather boots.

" I've been thinking about you. For a fortnight. Only you," he whispered, drawing her closer against him. He pulled her closer, close enough that she could feel the words he spoke against her mouth.

Her hands slid up his arms to touch his neck. " Won't you take this off so that I might see you? " She peered into the shadows of his eyes beneath the black silk. She wanted to see them, to determine their colour, to watch the pupils dilate with desire. Were they heavy lidded? Intelligent? Did he have a hawk's eyes. Or a fox's. Maybe yellow, amber like a cat. She wanted to see his face. She wanted to see him melt as he looked at her. To see him as mad with wanting her as she was for him.

He grabbed her wrists, pulling them gently down to her sides. " Not yet. I can't reveal myself yet," he whispered. His mouth found hers. Sealing it with small nibbling kisses, light, erotic licks of his tongue. His hands found the opening of her wrapper.

Nikita gasped as his hand found the hardened peeks of her breasts, caressing her nipples through the fabric of her gown while his mouth deepened the kiss. His tongue swept her mouth, sealing her fate with silvery, lush strokes.

She had never imagined anything this sweet. She felt almost drunk with it, her body spiralling up toward something she had never known before except in dreams. She heard his groan of longing, the insistent movement of a hard thigh, up between her legs. One hand found its way from her breast, down, to lift the cambric of her gown. She could feel the spines of the books in the case pressing against her back.

She felt the brush of his knuckles against the bare skin of her thigh. She gasped and then plunged her tongue into his mouth, digging her fingers into firm muscle and slippery, damp silk.

" Damn," he said, tearing his mouth from hers. His hand was still splayed on her thigh. The wetness of his kiss cooled on her fevered lips. His breath, agitated, aroused, feathered her hair.

" No," she whispered. " I longed for you to come to me. Please, stay with me," she entreated, touching his lovely mouth with the tips of her fingers. The dog continued to yap.

Nikita looked up. She felt bleary eyed. It had been hours before she'd fallen asleep and when she had, she'd dreamt of him. Of being in his arms. The dreams had been strange. Her lover's eyes had been the colour of sage, his hair russet tinged.

" I heard the dog fussing. He's afraid of the wind and the rain, " she said. She felt lost. If she didn't find something to hold onto she would drown. Her body tingled, reliving his touch, the magic of his kiss.

It was still raining. The drops pinged on the roof of the well sprung coach. It did not smell of moth balls and lavender perfume like the one she rode in with the sisters. It had taken her little time to pack with Gail's help. Even less time to dress on her modest muslin travelling dress, gray pelisse and chip straw bonnet. She felt too dowdy to be riding in such a sumptuous vehicle.

He was sprawled on the seat across from her, mesmerised by whatever he was seeing outside the coach. She took the opportunity to look at him, his bottle green coat, skin-tight buckskin inexpressibles, gleaming brown Hessians with tan leather tops, the way his cravat fell in a perfectly tied knot called The Waterfall.

His hair was damp from the rain. She noted that he didn't like hats. He always removed his hat and tapped it on his thigh. She studied his perfect profile, the way his mouth looked full and pouty from the side. What would it be like to kiss him? To have him kiss her the way--

" It seems to me that " She broke off. He had returned his gaze to the window again, ignoring her completely. Nikita sighed and pulled her book and spectacles out of her reticule. She leaned back against the squabs to read.

It was some time later when she felt his hand on her shoulder. She'd been sleeping, dreaming of her lover again. She opened her eyes to his green ones.

She didn't realise that he had called her Kita until she sat taking tea the next morning with her grandmother. Strange how it had sounded, low and husky, raw with something she could not fathom. It was a diminutive no one had ever used for her before. Strange that they would both say that, but men were strange. Her grandfather had called her 'gel'. Just that, never her name. Hearing a man utter her name was a curious thing indeed.

" What are you thinking of? " Mrs. Phipps had gone off after delivering the dutchess a drink in a special cup. Adrienne had waited for the woman to stumble off.

The dutchess turned to Nikita and said: " She drinks like a sot. I've seen to it that she has all she wants. Madeline won't allow it. She serves me this cat piss And then I pour it into the potted palm." She did just that. " Madeline usually stands over me and sees that I drink every drop."

She felt herself flushing. She had been very hard on him that morning, telling him he was cranky. She'd been feeling a little guilty about it. " Really? Then why did he say only two things to me in the coach? "

" He is preoccupied. He has worries." The old woman sighed. " He doesn't like to share them. But sometimes he forgets and smiles or laughs and it's like the entire world just opened up. Do you know what I mean? "

" I have only recently discovered that love is all there is in life. If I could have known that twenty -five years ago when other things seemed more important, I would be a happier woman. I would have had an extra laughing grandchild on my knee." She smiled. " Having you here has made me happy, child. It's as if I have known you forever. You are so like Nicky."

Nikita looked away, unsure of what to say. It would be hard to fall in love with her grandmother, only to be turned away when the others came back or if she died.

He kissed Adrienne and nodded to Nikita, making small talk about the news in the times. There had been a row between the Whigs and the Torries in Parliament. The Earl of Broughton's daughter was betrothed to a duke's son.

There had to be a hundred portraits in the great hall. All of them her ancestors but she knew nothing of them. It seemed blue eyes and blond hair had been prevalent in some ancient line.

She stopped at one she knew at once to be her father. He would have been around twenty, dressed in the ruffled, brocades of another decade. His hair and eyes were so like hers, his slender hand on the head of a large mastiff. The sight of him brought a lump to her throat and tears to her eyes. She went close to the painting, but she could not reach his face with her hand.

" Nikita? " Michael was standing beside her suddenly, his eyes warm with concern. It was fleeting, so fleeting she decided she had imagined it. " Are you alright? "

She looked at him and laughed. It wasn't that funny but it was a change from his seriousness.. He grinned back at her. She said: " I expect he would say that very thing.. Do your parents still live? "

" My mother is dead. She died a few years ago." The amusement faded from his fine eyes. His jaw drew tight. " My father, I haven't seen in many years. I think I was sixteen when he went away."

He walked on to the next portrait. It depicted Lady Adrienne with two small children, the boys very blonde, the girl so dark. Nicky and Madeline, his older sister. The older boy's name had been Giles. The oldest son had died in a riding accident when he was thirty.

" Alchemy?" They had stopped before a portrait of Abby. It was recent. She looked like a temptress. The artist had been generous with his brush, Nikita thought. Is this how Michael sees her? Has he made love to her? She shook away the thought. " Alchemy? Do you mean making gold from dross? "

" Yes, something like that," He murmured. " So much in this world is dross made to look golden and desirable. People see what they want to see, don't they? "

She looked at him, thinking that it was a very strange thing to say. She could think of nothing to say in return. They just continued to silently look at the portraits until he gave her a curt bow and said that he would leave her as he had business to attend to elsewhere.

Nikita was seated at the tea table in the garden when Miss Phipps delivered tea. The cup of special brew for the dutchess was set at her place by the nurse. She appeared to Nikita to be quite soused. " See that she drinks this, miss. I'll be in me rooms. Where is she anyway? "

Nikita waited for the nurse to leave, then she picked up the special tea. It had a very strong scent of lemon balm and mint leaves. Was it tainted in some way? Was someone, Madeline, her husband or even Lord Michael trying to poison the old woman?

She did not want to believe it of him but she could not help herself. He did have a vested interest. If the Dutchess were to die from what would be seen as a wasting disease, Abigail would be a rich woman. Very rich some day. He seemed a man who needed fine things.

Nikita looked into the steaming cup. There was only one way. Doubtless it would make her ill. For a day or two, most likely. The dose could not be strong enough to kill a healthy, sizeable girl like Nikita, or the weakened and elderly Dutchess would be dead by now.

She thought she was quite wrong until an hour before nuncheon when the pain in her head started. Her whole body felt on fire. Even her hair hurt. There was the strangest flush on her cheeks and her skin felt as clammy as if she'd just swum in a cold lake.

My, God, Nikita thought before she dropped onto her bed and fell asleep. I've poisoned myself. Well, at least if I do not die I'll be able to write about the effects of it.

She came out of it as though climbing up a long staircase through the fog. She opened her eyes. Her grandmother was hovering over her. She felt tired, as if she'd slept a week in one position, but quite a lot better. Her head did not ache. There was a dull residual soreness in her bones and muscles. Her mouth felt as though it was full of cotton wool.

" Don't. Don't take anything she gives you by mouth. And tell the cook she's not to come into the kitchen. I think you ought to fire her, Grandma." She explained what she had done, what she now suspected. " But don't tell Madeline. Or Michael. Do not tell him."

Michael looked at his reflection in the mirror. I wonder, he thought, if it is possible to be jealous of one's self. He knew it was possible to hate one's self. He had felt that emotion many times. But envy? It was rather ridiculous.

There was nothing to be done about it. He could not have her as Lord Michael. But he could have her as the black clad thief of Mayfair, the man with a heart as black as coal. The man he really was. She wanted him, too. With the same intensity as he wanted her. It almost scared him.

Two days, he said to himself. Two days and this longing will pass. He would go to the men's club and punch something. Maybe practice his fencing. Take a long hard ride. Beat it out of his system.

Two days. That ought to be satisfactory. He would not think of her long, slender body and her shapley legs or her blue eyes or the low sultry quality of her sighs. She was a virgin, most likely, for all her eagerness and he did not usually feel attracted to untried girls.

He knew that her want of the man he pretended to be was not love. She was seeking something. Experience? Danger. A way to escape the monotony of her life. Simple lust. His physique, the clothes, his low whispers in heavily accented French, the overtures he'd made, even the stories about the carnal thief that he had helped to create, brought that out in her. All woman had such fantasies. She didn't know who he was. How could she? They did not know each other well enough and his disguise was good. He rarely spoke above a whisper.

It was late. Her long sleep and the slight illness had drained her but she was left restless that night. Everyone in her grandmother's home was sleeping. She had walked the endless halls in search of something to quell this feeling of uncertainty.

She stopped in the portrait hall, staring up at her father's gentle face. Looking at him eased her mind somewhat. She raised the skirts of her gown and made her way back though the empty halls to her room.

A breeze blew at the curtains of the French doors that led out to the balcony. She had not left the window open. She would not call for the maid. She undressed herself, quickly, dropping dress and chemise, stockings and slippers on the chair.

A sigh? Perhaps it was just the wind whispering through the ornamental birch trees in the garden below. Nikita ran a brush though her hair, gazing out into the night. The scent of roses and night blooming stocks filled her nostrils.

A silk scarf slithered across her face. She breathed in the scent of his skin, of soap and pine, night mist and horse, of faint, clean man-sweat. She could feel his hard, virile body against her. His breath came in harsh rasps from his chest, vibrating through her back.

" Trust me." He released his hand. It was bare. She could still taste salt and saddle leather against her lips from his hard, slightly calloused palm. She closed her eyes.

He raised the silk scarf. It slid over her hair, the wanton whisper of it so loud in her ears. Everything was more intense. Every feeling. Her eyes closed. She could feel him tying it over her eyes. Blackness. Dark, silken blackness.

" I cannot let you see me, my love." His lips fell to her neck, cool and smooth, his tongue hot, by contrast, licking like sweet fire. His bearded cheek and chin rasped gently against her soft skin. It was delicious, sinfully good. She imagined his face against her breasts. She wanted that so much.

So hot, wet. His mouth. His beautiful soft mouth. She raised her hand and touched his head. Hair like satin. Loosely curled. His ears were flat, small, the lobes perfect. Velvety as down.

His hands snaked round her, releasing the ties of her night gown. His knuckles brushed against her erect nipples. He sighed against her neck and slowly slipped the gown down in a puddle of fabric at her feet. " So beautiful...ma femme..." he sighed against her nape. She shivered and cried out softly as his hands covered her breasts. " Do you want this?"

Her hand found his lean cheek, the rasp of several days growth of beard like sandpaper against her fingers. He turned her in his arms. Like a strange game of blind man's bluff. He led her to the bed, walking her there, his hands at her waist, his mouth against hers. He laid her down. " Wait..."

She opened her eyes against the black silk ... listening. Thunk. A boot tossed on the carpeted floor. Thunk. The voluptuous slither of his shirt against smooth skin, hard planes and valleys of sweat-slick muscle. The slight scrape of skin tight breeches over hard thighs and buttocks.

She gasped as the bed moved, at the feeling of him looming over her. She reached up in the darkness to touch his face. Lean. Eyes, large and deep set. Brows shapely, curving. Nose, bold and large, perhaps. Not too large for his face. Deep divot below his nose. Lips, smiling, bracketed by intriguing hollows. His cheekbones were high.

" You're so beautiful," she whispered, letting her fingers trail down his lower lip. Her fingers caught on the dew slick-inner skin there causing her to moan, just as he did. Down her fingers trailed, over his firm, slightly cleft chin to his smooth throat, his collar bones, his rock hard chest. His chest was beautiful. So wide her spread hands could not span its breadth. Solid smooth muscle. Only a little soft hair in the deep center valley. Flat, small nipples. She touched him there, felt his shuddering sigh.

Down her hands moved. Over rigid ribs and convoluted muscle. Her fingers slid into the indentation of his navel, over to his sides. Bunching muscles quivered against her fingers. She felt the hard, bony curve of pelvic bones and hip. Taut, rippling belly.

His rigid length filled her hand with plenty to spare. It scared her silly. Maybe it was because she couldn't see it. It was nice, softer than anything she'd ever touched before. Powdery and smooth like a baby's cheek. But powerful and hot, like velvet covered steel. Fear skittered up her spine for a second. It was a good kind of fear, she thought, if that were possible.

She heard his soft chuckle, felt him lower himself so that the scary but interesting part of him rested against her soft thigh. " Don't be scared. I'm told that I'm good at it."

" Hush. I know. Try not to worry. " He lowered his mouth to hers, tasting teasing, taking her lower lip between gentle teeth, speaking the words against her mouth. " Now it's my turn to touch you, to please you," he whispered. " Don't do anything but feel, my heart. Just feel."

He kissed her for a long time, his hand at her breast, the other tangled in her hair, holding her face to his. His kisses were far more potent than that drug she had taken, sweet and as heady as wine. His passion drew her out of herself, made her forget that she was so new to this. He made her want to give as much as she took.

She moaned as his mouth left hers to trail down her shoulder, across her chest until he found the curve of her breast. The intense sensation of his tongue and lips against her nipples made her want to fly out of her skin. He spent what seemed like hours loving, laving each one it turn, his rough cheek abrading, his tongue soothing the tender flesh.

He kissed his way down her torso, his hands bracketing her hips, arching her up slightly as his tongue tickled and licked her ribs and tummy. And then his mouth was down there. There, where she was crying for his touch. She wanted to protest but the liquid fire had already rushed in honeyed waves all through her body the second his tongue touched her. She was seeing red sparks behind the black silk.

She could barely draw breath as waves of sheer joy engulfed her. Her hand strayed to the blindfold, but he grasped it quickly, his fingers tightening like a vise around her wrist, holding her arm above her head where it sank into the pillow. His mouth was on hers again. His kisses were fervent. Fierce.

She gasped and bucked. He grasped her hip and held himself still until the pain was gone. She heard his long intake of breath. " I'm sorry, ma vie "

Once. Twice. Home. Home into the tight welcoming cradle of her body. His body went stiff, his muscles heaved and shuddered. It was perfect. She was perfect. His woman.

He collapsed against her, sighing her name, his face in the crook of her neck, his body a heavy weight upon her. He knew she didn't care that he was heavy. She buried her fingers in his hair, stroking the nape of his neck. He raised his hand to touch her face.

Nikita woke in a panic not knowing where she was. It was the poison she'd ingested still in her system. She'd been sleeping like the dead. She'd had such dreams last night

Oh, God. A black silk scarf lay tangled amidst the bedclothes. She was naked. She never slept without a gown. Her chest and breasts were covered with a faint rash. Like minute, fine scratches. It hurt a little between her legs when she moved. She rose from the bed. There were blood stains on the sheets.

" Morning, miss. Tis a lovely day out. Lady Adrienne is in fine fettle this morning. She's been up tending to her roses. Only you and Lord Michael are slug-a-beds today."

" He thinks I'm a fool," she muttered. " He thinks me a bloody fool." She raced to the chair and began to slip on her clothes from the day before, yanking them on like a mad woman.

Nikita raced down the hall, her hair flying out from her head, her dress half open down the back. She did not care. She yanked on the doors to his chamber, letting them fly open.

Totally naked. And beautiful. She looked at his long legs, his torso, his heavily muscled arms. His- That part of him. She gulped almost losing her resolve. Her anger. He just stared at her as if expecting this.

" How could you? " she hissed. She picked up an urn from a small table near the door and hurled it at his head. He ducked. The urn hit the bed post and exploded. A shard of porcelain hit his cheek. He barely winced.

She grabbed it, turning it palm up. Across the pad of his thumb was a livid red scar. She pushed his hand away then rounded on him, slapping his face, the side of his neck, his shoulder. He let her do it until her hands hurt, until he was covered in red weal marks. Until she was horrified at herself. Almost sorry.

" You want her money, don't you. So you can marry my cousin and have it all. And maybe if she doesn't work out, you thought you'd have me? What you steal in jewels is not enough. Who are you? Why have you done this? Why have you poisoned her? "

His eyes blazed green fire. " Why in God's name are you talking about poison? Nikita, I do not blame you for your anger, but what the hell do you mean? Who was poisoned? I have hurt no one. "

" Someone has been poisoning her. The Dutchess. Nurse has been dismissed. She insisted that the tea was not her idea. The doctor had given it to her straight from the chemist, so she said. She would not blame Madeline and so I though it might be you.

" No. I know you want this place, her money. You are such a phony bastard. So kind to poor Dutchy. You are nothing but a thief. To think I was so stupid and romantic. To think that you might actually love me."

" I don't care. I do not love you. I bloody don't. I never did. I loved a dream. A stupid dream, a stupid made up, foolish girl's dream of a handsome thief who came in the night to steal my empty heart. You filled it with lies. Oh, you do have a black heart. I think mine is just as black now."

" I shall tell O'Brien everything and they'll hang you." As soon as the words were out she regretted them. She had this picture of his body, broken, swinging.

His hair was hanging around his handsome face. He looked boyish. So innocent. His eyes were soft and sad reflecting the jade hangings around the bed. God, what a sweet liar he was.

Her eyes widened as he came closer. She could hardly breathe. She could smell him. It was almost as if he still carried the essence of their coupling. He slipped his robe on. Over the lovely wide shoulders and chest she'd only recently touched and kissed.

" I know. You hate me. Just let me finish what I have to do. Then I will go. You'll never see me again. I'll hurt no one you love. I can't bear that I've hurt you."

She stepped away from him. Her body was trembling, her legs barely holding her. She nodded, turned her back and shut the doors to his room behind her.

It turned out to be a bad day for one the maid had announced as lovely. She did not meet Michael again. She found out he had left from one of the grooms. Nikita told herself firmly that what she felt was not disappointment.

Nikita shuddered when she thought about the way she had thrown the urn at him. Another inch and that shard of porcelain may have blinded him. He'd allowed her to hit him as if he deserved it.

The element of danger. Well, she'd learned her lesson. Mild little fellows like Percy Snow might be boring but they did not lie or break one's heart.

That afternoon, to add to her misery, Lord Claridge's carriage pulled up in the drive. Nikita watched as her relatives and the balding, florid earl exited.

If Madeline was disappointed to see Nikita, she did not show it. Madeline welcomed Nikita in a hug redolent of Shalimar Her eyes were cold but her modulated voice was welcoming, her smile sweet. She hugged Dutchy as well and made happy noises about her return of health.

The Dutchess informed her daughter at nuncheon that Nurse had been dismissed for drinking. Paul Northwood was the one who seemed to sit up and frown. Nikita reminded herself to keep an eye on him. Nikita had already told the old woman that she should not let on about her suspicions and that she should not ingest anything unless it came directly from the chef from the same food source as the others ate from. When the old woman had scoffed at that, Nikita had sighed. She didn't want to hurt her grandmother just yet by inferring that the poisoning was not merely the result of a bumbling, drunken nurse.

Abby acted as if Nikita did not exist. At least until they were alone and then she waylaid her in the hall and began to pepper her with insulting questions. The girl was dressed in the latest fashions but the look on her face would have soured milk. Nikita just said; " I want nothing to do with your "count". I wish you luck."

It was by accident and partly because she was hiding, that Nikita happened to be in the library that afternoon. She had found a seat in the corner window, pulling her legs up into the window seat and drawing the curtains. Dutchy was safe, napping and Nikita felt restless, so reading had seemed a good idea.

Actually she'd been about to fall asleep when Madeline and Perry Bauer came into the room. Nikita could hear the rustle of clothes, Bauer's disgusting guttural moans and terrible slurping noises. She wanted to cover her ears and run screaming out the room but she did not dare.

The hackles on the back of Nikita's neck rose. God! How disgusting, she thought. She pictured Bauer. She could not imagine touching such a revolting pig like him that way. He was horrible. Yet, if it were Michael's body. If he had asked

" I will drape furs over your naked body when we are together. Darling, put the pearls on. Lower your bodice so I might see those luscious breasts. Have you ever heard of the other kind of pearl necklace? "

" Sometimes you're a bloody pig, Perry. I need to talk. You told me that Michel was ill. The rheumatism in his hands. How long will he be able to keep the supplies maintained."

" Rodney will never be the sorcerer or the artist that Michel Coeurnoir is. Have you considered this thief of Mayfair? What interest he might have in all this? It seems too much a coincidence to me that he only strikes those customers to whom our phony broker has sold the fake pieces. It is far too much of a coincidence. I think I am right in believing that this thief knows our secret. That these jewels are just amazing fakes cooked up by a master alchemist. Do you know ? I sometimes do not believe that Coeurnoir's son died that night at all."

" And Coeurnoir has worked like a slave for you all these years under the threat of knowing that his darling son Michel is alive and vulnerable to attack by you if he should try to escape."

" Little? I hardly think so. I'd like to see what he has between his thighs. And don't say you wouldn't either. I know you have those desires. A prize stud like that." Madeline sighed. " That bloody count is going to take that little bitch of a daughter off my hands. Has your man come up with the forgeries of dear Mama's will yet? "

Perry laughed. " Soon. First we have to find another way of bumping the old duck off. I told you that bloody, drunken cow couldn't do a decent job of it. I think we should see to getting rid of Paul first, don't you? That's the plan I had in the beginning. "

" Maybe that would be better. We should leave some time between the deaths. It would seen more natural that way. " Nikita supposed that Madeline had smiled at this point.

Much later Madeline said: " These are perfect, darling. Thank you. I shall wear them to your masked ball next Friday. It shall be so much fun. I think Paul might meet with a little accident? What do you think? "

Nikita smiled at her. " Do you love Michael? This is what he wants. Trust me, Dutchy. He'll want you to wait in Cornwall until he can come for you. You'll be safe there."

That's why we could tell no one of this, not even Madeline." Nikita reached out and gripped the dutchess' frail hands. " Do you know where Michael stays when he is in Mayfair? "

On her return to the house in Mayfair, Nikita received hugs and felicitations from the entire staff. It was like returning home. Strange, how she'd suddenly found people to love and to love her in the midst of this turmoil.

She sat wearily down at the table. Nikita was still choked up with tears from saying goodbye to her grandmother, but at least she knew that she would be safe. She didn't know why but she felt it was not the time to bring the Bow Street runners into this. Whatever the Thief of Mayfair was trying to accomplish, Nikita didn't think that dragging the law into it would help.

She looked down at the bowl of soup and the heaping pile of bread that Walter set down. She didn't think she could eat but at Belinda's urging the bowl was soon empty.

Nikita asked Mick and the footman, Seymour, if they could help her find out where the count stayed when he was in town. Belinda went upstairs with Nikita, drawing her a bath, helping her to settle.

The next morning Nikita came down to the kitchen feeling little better. Her dreams had been strange. He had appeared throughout them. She could remember only snatches of the dreams, his smiling mouth descending on hers, his warm hands tangled in her hair. And then he'd just disappeared into thin air and she'd been searching frantically for him, her heart pounding in fear.

" Oy," said Mick. " No luck in findin' the count's residence for you yet, though I've got some acquaintances lookin' for him. Don't worry, love. We'll find the toff. But we did find out some excitin' news this morn."

" The thief broke in to Lord Claridge's townhouse in Mayfair last night. One of Claridge's men shot him as he was going out. Said he got 'im right in the back. He was gone before they could get outside, but to my mind he's a goner. Leastwise that's what Claridge's driver said when he saw all the blood on the window ledge. Poor young bloke. I wish 'im Godspeed. I rather liked hearin' bout his adventures."

It was all he could do not to cry like a baby, the pain was that bad. He could see the puckered place in the front of his side where the bullet had exited his flesh. The skin around it was hot and livid red, smeared with dried blood, looking burnt and crimped black at the edges. After he'd taken a few deep breaths, he'd been able to pull the protruding bullet out with his fingers. That wasn't such a good thing after all.

All he could do now was sit on the hard, narrow bed and rest his head back against the wall holding the pad of towelling hard against his side, waiting for his blood to ebb away. As it was the towel was crimson and dripping with blood. He should have passed out hours ago.

He kept seeing her face, the black scarf tied over her eyes as he made love to her. My God, how he had longed to see her eyes. Waiting for him. Wanting him. Darkened to the blue of a stormy sky, reflecting his own passion. Had there been love there? Had he come that close to finding it with her?

He's been so close to finding his father, too. It had taken him ten years to find out the devil's name. Five years of struggle to get the blunt just to come here to England. Fifteen years in all to find Perry Bauer. What a bloody waste.

The Earl of Claridge was the man who had murdered his mother, Simone. He was the man who had taken his little sister, Josephine. He'd almost taken Michael's own life in that fire. His father had been taken right out of his laboratory on that cold day in April when Michael was sixteen, a corpse burnt in his place. Michael had believed him dead in that fire for years until copies of his father's treasures had begun to show up on the necks of women Michael had seen at Parisian parties.

He just hadn't expected to fall in love because of it. He'd thought himself immune to that emotion. Another wave of pain assaulted him. He groaned, pressing his cheek against the rough stucco wall of the garret he stayed in when he was not pretending to be the count.

Belinda took Nikita's cold hand in hers. " If anyone can find him, Mick can. He knows everyone in Mayfair. Say a name and Mick will have heard of it."

" I feel numb, " Nikita said. " Like I'm lost or my heart is gone. I don't know. I keep thinking that I let him down. That I should have known he was in trouble. Needing my help. I should have trusted him more."

" He is a good man. Damn it. I know a good man when I see one. There are so few. I don't care what he's done. I know what he is. Dutchy knows what he is."

" I don't want to lose him, Belinda. The minute I told him I didn't love him I knew I'd made the biggest mistake of my life. I feel as if that's what compelled him to take such a huge chance in going to Bauer's mansion." Nikita tugged the ribbons of her bonnet into an untidy bow, which the impeccable Belinda quickly fixed and puffed out under her small chin. " He doesn't care what happens to him any more."

Walter was there with a handkerchief, pressing it into her hand. " You be careful of that bastard earl. He's got men everywhere working for him. Some of them are looking for the boy, right as we speak. Not to mention the Runners. They'll want him for their own glory."

Belinda shook her head. "My God, what a strange story. Fake antique jewellery sold to the greedy toffs to line Bauer's pockets. It's funny, while I was living there I'd heard rumours of some strange chemist Bauer had working for him. Holed up in the basement or something. Do you know that a man once accused that bastard Bauer with selling chemicals that created poisonous fumes to Napoleon? So that he could use 'em to burn the British lads. No one could ever prove it, mind. And later the accuser was found dead. Can you imagine someone even thinking of such terror and mayhem? Tis insanity."

" Remember that explosion rigged in that mine in Cornwall? The one doin' so much better than Bauer's own mine? They always said he had something to do with it." Gail put in. " Oh, do be careful. I'll pray that you find him. I'll pray for him, Miss Nikita. Don't worry."

" She's right. Be careful. I'd not put it past the bastard to hurt you," growled George. It was so unlike him to swear. " Where are you going to look, Belinda ?"

" Nikita and I will take all the inns and boarding houses on the other side of Rotten Row. You never know, he might have holed himself somewhere there. It's worth a try. Greg and Seymour have gone off looking in the other direction. Wish us luck, love? " She gave Walter a smacking kiss. She kissed George as well.

Nikita's feet ached almost as badly as her heart. It was near dark by the time she and Belinda trudged up the stairs. They'd knocked on more doors than they could count, spoken to so many people, her voice was raw. No one had seen a man of his description. No one. A few were mightily suspicious, however.

Seymour and Greg were at table eating. They looked up at her over their soup bowls, shaking their heads. She tried to smile but nothing would come to her lips.

She had just removed her bonnet and dug out some of the pins that had abraded her scalp, and was setting her bun back to rights, when Mick pulled open the door.

" Walter, George, lads. Come on. I've got him. He's a right heavy one. He's weak as a lamb. He had to walk to the carriage and pretend like there was nothing wrong. Don't know how he found the strength to do it, but he passed out cold the minute I laid him on the bloody seat. Jesus, it took me a bloody half hour to convince him to come with me. Said he was ready to die and all. "

But he was alive! Michael was alive! Nikita dropped the handful of pins. Her hair spilled over her shoulders. She ran over to Mick and hugged him. " Thank you, Mick. Oh, thank you."

Mick was grinning from ear to ear, his shrewd eyes close to tears. " I'm pleased to bring 'im home to you, miss. Don't want 'im to die out there in the hack while you're smothering me with kisses."

Nikita stood on the hearth rug, shaking to the depths of her soul. The four of them managed to carry his limp form up the stairs as George turned down the bed and Belinda and Gail scurried get the kettle and bandages. All she could really see of him was his dark, auburn tinged hair and the way the back of his black shirt had been stained deep purple with clouts of dried blood. One of his beautiful hands, the fingers etched with blood, dragged on the floor.

George and Seymour stripped Michael of his clothes while Mick and Greg went down to see to the carriage and the horses. When Nikita came into the small bare room in the servant's wing she saw him laid out naked on the bed. He looked so utterly still the way they'd arranged him on his side, she thought for a moment that he was dead. She went to him and kneeled down beside the bed, brushing sweat-stiff locks of hair back from his face. The cut under his eye from the shattered urn stood in stark relief against his parlour.

All she could think about was how beautiful he was, how he had looked only days ago while she'd been hurling cruel words and pottery at his head. She'd never wanted this to happen. She'd never meant to say that she wished they would hang him.

" Oh, aye. I saw some wounds like this in the war, lass. If infection didn't get 'em, they recovered. I'm not saying that'll be the case. This one doesn't look putrid yet and this is a good sign. I don't think the bullet nicked the bowel, but I can't be sure."

" Yes." She covered him gently with the quilt. His body was covered in gooseflesh, yet his skin was hot to the touch. " Please. We have to save him."

In the end she wished she had not been there. She had held him along with Seymour and Mick, she at his head with Seymour, while Mick and George held his feet. When Walter had done the first wound he had shuddered and gasped despite his near delirium. His fingers wrapped around hers so tightly he almost broke the bones of her hand. His jade eyes had opened for just a moment, fixing her with a strange and empty look before he fainted with the cauterizing of the exit wound.

All they could do now was to watch him and wait. Nikita insisted upon sitting with him all night long although two other women had indicated they would do so.

Belinda came in and out bring fresh water to with which to wipe him down. He was feverish, mumbling about his father and his mother, other names, some that she knew and some she did not.

Occasionally he would seem to wake up and just stare at something on the ceiling or turn his head and look right into her eyes as if he were looking through her, perhaps seeing someone else. She would say something to him in a soft voice and he would go back to his incoherent mumbling.

He was like that for two days. Belinda and Gail sat with him during the times when Nikita felt she might fall off of the stiff backed chair from exhaustion. When she did try to sleep, she would be awakened by phantom cries of her name, each time sitting up and waiting for more.

It was late one night when he reached a crisis point. He'd been restless and hot, kicking off the blankets, not letting her wash him down with the cool cloths she had wrung out until her hands felt like old peeling leather. He grabbed her hand and jerked her toward him. His eyes burned fever-bright. He spoke in French. She had enough of the language to understand parts of it. There was something he kept repeating. " Why did you do it? " he gritted. " Why, Maman.. Why? Why couldn't you have loved us more? Josephine is dead because of you, Maman. Why? "

She soothed him by rubbing his shoulder with her hand. Finally he fell into an agitated sleep still holding her hand to his chest. Nikita laid her cheek against his shoulder and sobbed.. He wasn't going to live. She would lose him.

She awoke sometime later, her cheek still pressed against the clammy skin of his bare shoulder. She sat up, horrified at herself, fumbling for the pan of water that had left on the bed beside him. By some miracle it hadn't soaked the bed.

" You're at Lady Chloe's house in Mayfair. How do you feel? " She touched his cheek with the palm of her hand. He was cooler. He closed his eyes slowly for a moment. She though he'd passed out again and her heart lurched.

She pushed the hair back from his face. He closed his eyes slowly at her touch, long lashes feathering his pallid cheeks. There was a three or four days growth of beard on his face. She hadn't realised his skin was so finely textured, almost like cream, such a contrast to the darkness of his beard. He was amazingly beautiful. She could have looked at him all day. The only scar that marred his face would be the small, deep nick that she herself had inflicted.

" An hour, maybe. I was trying to get a look at your face. I knew the scent and the hair, but I couldn't be quite sure it was you. You were sleeping very soundly. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven when you lifted your head and looked at me with those blue eyes." He gave her a small grin. She hadn't been aware of the slight dimple that showed in the crease of his cheek until now either. " My mouth tastes terrible. "

" I'll get you fresh water in a moment. Here," She helped him lift his head, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. She held a cup to his lips. He drank some and grimaced. " Walter's been making you this tea. You've been spitting it at me, but I've managed to get some of it down you. I assure you it isn't poisonous. He says it will build back your strength."

" Three days." She told him how they had looked all day for him, about Mick's bringing him home, how they all had looked after him. He seemed amazed. He only said: " Tell them I'm in their debt." Then he asked if he might take care of certain needs, making her blush. It wasn't as if she hadn't done just such things for him already.

Michael woke from another deep, troubled sleep. All he did was sleep. Lately she was not there whenever he woke up. It would be one of the other women or one of the young footmen. He was glad of it in a way, sorry in another. He liked to see her there, the patch of sunlight from the window lighting her blonde hair like a halo around her head. She was always reading or scribbling things in a book or staring off into space thinking. She seemed to do that a lot. He'd never seen a woman think so much. It made his head ache watching her.

Michael knew he was in love with her. He had never loved anyone before, never put his heart in another's keeping. He knew he'd probably never feel like this again. It didn't mean he was going to stay. After he found his father, and he was still determined to do that, he would leave. For America maybe.

He had thought, once upon a time, to use his father's talents to get ahead in the world. His ideas of how he and his father might sell the fake jewels and live off the proceeds had been patently dishonest, but he'd done a lot in his life that was dishonest just to survive. He'd once thought that money was the ultimate goal in life. But that was when he'd not had a taste of it.

He didn't care about all that any more. He just wanted his father to live his last years as a free man. He wanted to see that Lord Claridge paid with his life for what he had done. Michael thought that he would just disappear, try to make his living honestly, in the new world. There were opportunities there. He thought that he'd try New Orleans. Failing that there were the diamond and opal mines of Australia.

He looked up as Nikita came in with a bowl of water and some shaving things. " Do you want to get that scruffy beard off, Michael ? " she asked. She had a bright smile on her lovely face.

Seeing her in her sprigged muslin day dress, her blonde hair in a simple coiled braid twisted with blue ribbon set something off in him. She was so lovely she took his breath away.

He'd been laying here for a day or so doing nothing but regretting and feeling sorry for himself. Regret that things had not been different for him. It had been better when she had hated him. He knew that they could not be together now given what he had done.

What she had done in finding him was out of kindness, not because she saw some sort of future with him. She could not hope to redeem him. He did not have a future that he could see and hers was now set, being that she would most likely inherit much of Dutchy's fortune. She could have any man she wanted and he had not doubt they would soon come in droves.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. " I know that you're having trouble lifting the right arm because of the wounds in your side. Let me do this for you. You'll feel better for it. Freddy left lots of things here. I'm certain he will not mind your using them."

He frowned as she released the deadly looking straight razor from its case. " Just how many men have you shaved and what makes you think I'd let you near me with a straight razor. You'd likely slit my throat."

She grinned. She wrung out a cloth in the hot water and passed it to him. With his left hand he wiped down his face while she rubbed a boar's hair shaving brush into a container of soap. " I had to shave my grandfather after his hand got a palsy one winter. The hand used to shake like the devil. At first I cut him a few times but I soon got very good at it. I hardly ever cut him after a few weeks."

" Of course the divot under his nose was not quite so strong as yours, nor were his lips and sculpted and there was no cleft in his chin." She scooted a little towards him and began to scrub his face with the brush, raising a good lather. He could hear the scrabble sound of the bristles against his beard. As she moved her arm he could smell the sweet perfume of her fair, freckled skin.

" You have a very dark beard and brows and lashes for one with such fair skin," she mused. " I think that when they made you, Michael, the angels must have patted each other on the back for a job well done."

" Thank you." He closed his eyes as she brought the razor to his cheek, a little out of fear and partly because he did not want her to see his reaction as she tipped his head back with her hand. Having her touch him was bliss. He was glad of the layer of blankets that obscured his sudden and obvious condition.

She was right. She was very good at this. After a time he opened her eyes and stared at her face, her ripe pink mouth, the slightly crossed teeth on the bottom row. At one point, while scraping his chin her tongue had come out to touch her top lip. As she did his sideburns on the side furthest from her, Nikita's soft breast brushed his shoulder.

" Of course he did. George thinks you've been terribly crabby today. He was sure you'd throw your pillow at me or something. Does he not look positively handsome, not to mention chipper ?"

" I'll not say he looks more chipper, but possibly slightly less dangerous." He bent to take the bowl and the paraphernalia from the bed with a wink at Nikita.

George did not know how dangerous he was. If he knew, and Michael doubted it, what Michael had taken from this beautiful young woman he and the other servants seemed to admire so greatly, he might have taken that razor from the bowl and sliced through Michael's throat like he was no more than a pork chop.

" Thank you," Michael said to Nikita. He had wanted much more than to merely thank her. Before George had interrupted he had considered taking her into his arms and kissing her until her breath came as unsteadily as his own.

" Walter said we could bring you some real food today. Maybe a bit of beefsteak and ale to build the blood. Think you can manage that, lad? " George said.

George left the room. Nikita smiled at Michael and started to straighten the bedclothes. He watched her for a moment and when he could take no more, stilled her hand. " Sit down, will you? "

She took a deep breath. " You spoke a lot of gibberish about Paris. A lot was in French. I'm not so good at French. My Latin is far better. I think you talked about someone called Josephine. And your parents."

He jerked his body so hard he pulled at his wound. Little stars burst in his head as pain stabbed up and down his back. " How did you know about the fire that killed my mother? "

She bit her full lower lip. " Are you prepared for a rather long tale, Michael? I overheard some things when I was hiding in the library the day you left." She told him about the encounter between the Earl of Claridge and her aunt, sparing no details in the interest of delicacy. He had almost to yell at her when she asked him to explain about fellatio to her.

He finally got her back on track, knowing that he was blushing. She started to tell him about the poisonings. He was remembering that they'd discussed that when he was stark naked just before she winged the vase at his head. She seemed to discuss a lot with him when he was stark naked., he thought. She told him how she had sent Dutchy off safely for Cornwall and how she had out two and two together and decided to find him.

" It isn't a lark, you know. Claridge is dangerous and deadly. A man of very sick and strange appetites. It was my mother who took up with him. I had not idea who he was at the time. I never saw him. My mother took many lovers. Any one of those men may have been my young sister's father. For God's sake I don't even know that Michel Coeurnoir is my father. My mother was in on the whole thing with Bauer, to kidnap my father for his talents and then murder my sister and I in our beds so that she'd be free to run away with him. He turned the tables on her."

" It just so happened that my mother had another young lover at the time. She'd been scheming with him, as well, against Bauer. I will never know all that happened that day. All I know is that the men who killed her and burned down the house and my father's lab found four people in that fire. My mother, a young man and a little girl and the corpse of a man they had dressed to look like my father. I was not there. They assumed I was the young man they found. I ran away from that place and never went back, otherwise I might have been blamed for it. It wasn't until I was twenty that my father's work began showing up on necks all over Europe. I knew the designs. I had drawn many of them for him."

He really wasn't the sort of man a girl who'd been raise by a vicar ought to be attracted to. Maybe that was why she was attracted to him. He was exactly the opposite of every man she'd ever been steered toward by her well meaning grandfather. He was every fallen hero she'd ever dreamed of come to life.

She knew he still wanted her. She could feel it when she'd shaved him. He ached for her touch and she could see him fidgeting. He'd, for some dim-witted reason, believed her when she'd called him those nasty things and hit him that morning. Didn't he know it was only because he hadn't told her the truth? She'd wanted honesty. Not tricks.

Now that he had told her the truth, or a reasonable form of it, she was quite ready to face and forgive the fact that this handsome man, Michael Blackheart, had not lived the most pristine of lives. That meant little to her. What was important was that he had the qualities of a fine man. The most important thing to her was his intrinsic kindness. He'd gone through all this hell just to set his father free and to see a terrible man brought to justice. He'd been so very kind to the dutchess. She could forgive that he hadn't realized that the old lady was being poisoned by Madeline, because he'd doubtless had a million other things to worry about.

Well, even if not kind, extremely accommodating in other ways. She could forgive him anything when she closed her eyes and thought about the things that he'd done to her that night. He was a little controlling, but she could manage with that.

She loved the way he wore his clothes. His body. Oh, especially that sinfully made body. Oh, yes, he was indeed perfect for her. If only he'd accept that. What gorgeous children they'd have. Dutchy would be in seventh heaven.

She pushed her spectacles up her nose and frowned at him. " You know, I believe that. You are a such a proud, silly man. What about Abby? Did you actually like her? " Her heart was hammering in anticipation of his answer.

" I felt sorry for her. It had been my intention to use her until I realized that would hurt Dutchy. I never really decided what I was going to do about Abby. I don't think she'll have hard time finding anyone else. She is a beauty. She has none of your brains or esprit de corps, but she has looks in spades." His green eyes fell to look at her breasts as he said that. She supposed he was thinking her a beauty, too. It gave her a little hope.

He went on. " She was innocent in all of it. Abby does love Dutchy in her way. She can't help that her mother is a scheming cow and her stepfather's as dense as a wood plank."

" The man needs his valet to tell him if his trousers are on the right way. Paul Northwood is interested in gambling, drinking and high debauchery, not necessarily in that order."

He flopped down on his back with a groan and closed his eyes. His hand lay palm up over his forehead. She supposed she had given him another headache. Nikita looked at his face, thinking that if she couldn't kiss him again she was going to die.

She had this very bad feeling he'd written himself out of her life, and for just the reasons she found so very enticing. She knew he was most capable of being steadfast and noble. He had all the makings of a true hero. It was just that no one had even showed him what that entailed. No one had ever told him he could be a wonderful man. And with very little effort.

She knew that he was pretending to be asleep, just so that she'd leave. She stayed there for a moment, looking down at his comely face, his beautiful, slightly pouting lips. Before she left, she bent and pressed her mouth to his, breathing in the scent of shaving soap and man.

She raised her head and stared down at him. His eyes moved under his lids. The corner of his beautiful mouth twitched. Would he be smiling, she wondered, if he knew what she and Belinda were planning to do tonight?

She doubted it. He's probably want to wring her neck if he knew that she was going to Perry Bauer's debauched masked ball dressed as a lightskirt. Nikita was quite determined to find Michael's father for him and to expose the devil earl and his paramour, Madeline for the fiends they truly were.

Nikita yanked the hood of her blue velvet domino a little lower over her face. " There, Belinda," she said to the tall, strawberry blonde. " Do we look the part? "

" The earl's men will all be wearing Harlequin masks and dominoes with white diamonds on the back. That's how we'll know them." Belinda led Nikita though a crush of ton bodies, mostly males, all at the ball because it was known to be quite scandalous. " I have to find a man called Richard. He's the earl's right hand man. I guess you could call him in charge of security. He was after me every minute I worked here. If we promise him a threesome, he'll be putty in our hands. I think he knows everything that goes on here."

" No!" Belinda hissed. " That's why we have the gun. We make him think we want him and then point the gun at his head and tell us to take him to Michael's father. I thought you were the creative one. Do you really know how to use the pistol ? "

" George has several ladybirds. Well, then. Here goes. Richard is a large man with a huge head. I doubt you could miss him. We'll circle the room and meet in the middle."

George came into Michael's room with a tray containing a small glass of ale, followed by Seymour with water and towel. Michael felt foolish for the attention he was receiving. He could not understand their kindness to him beyond the fact that they adored Nikita.

" I have a hell of a lot of blood to build back up. But, thank you, George. And there is no need for the, sir. I'm not deserving of the title. Is Nikita busy? I was wondering if she could speak to me for a moment if she has not retired ? "

Oh, my God. Percival Snow. The man from the coach. She might have known by the stench. His domino was the most hideous shade of purple. " I'm so sorry. I'm not she." She was wearing a mask! How could he tell it was her?

" I am not the woman you seek." She frantically turned her head and peered above the heads of the crowd. She was so awfully glad to be tall. Her eyes found Belinda. She was gesturing to her. Beside her was a towering man in a harlequin mask. Nikita's heart flipped over with excitement.

Walter straightened his shoulders. He looked worried. " Belinda does pretty much as she pleases. If she hadn't gone, Nikita was determined to do it by herself."

Michael heaved himself up and into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. The pain was intense and his head was spinning. " Call the Runners, George. Send them to Claridge's. Otherwise something terrible could happen."

" She's more important than that, man. I'm not so stupid as to think that I can do this on my own, Walter, go and get this O'Brien fellow if you can find him. And find me my clothes."

Nikita might have known from the books she'd read that there was never a perfect plan. Just when the heroine or the hero was feeling good about things, something terrible happened. She and Belinda had just about convinced Richard that would have a roll in the hay with two women. She'd even given him a feel of her breasts. She was still cringing over it.

The something terrible came in the form of a heavy man in green velvet and a slender, attractive woman in aubergine satin. She was carrying the gun. Nikita did not doubt that Madeline would use it.

" Come, Madeline," Perry Bauer said, with a laugh. " As much fun as this is, I'll have Richard take the ladies elsewhere. We'll deal with them later. We have guests to entertain. Richard, tie them up in the storage closet for now. You and the other boys might have a little fun with them later."

Richard picked up Nikita's pistol and yanked her roughly towards him. She tried to get in a few good kicks but the man was just too huge. He grabbed Belinda and Nikita by the hoods of their dominoes and began to shove them to a door in the back of the room. They had just entered the small side room when the sound of two gunshots exploded behind the door.

Richard pushed them both to the ground. " Stay there, if you know what's good for you." He ran back out the door they'd entered by leaving the two women in the small windowless room..

" I'm sorry, Belinda. I thought it would be easy. It's always easy in books." She thought about Michael. And then she tried not to think about him because it was going to make her cry.

They were in the small room waiting for a terribly long while. There were an awful lot of voices out there. A lot of shadows seemed to be passing across the space at the bottom of the door.

Nikita got to her feet and threw herself into his arms. She hugged him tightly. It wasn't until he sucked in a painful breath that she realised she'd hurt his wound.

He was livid. Enraged and deathly pale. He shook her by her shoulders." You know, if I'd have thought I might get to Bauer by being a total bumbling ass, I might have tried a stupid stunt just like this. I was trying a more subtle approach, not that you'd understand that. I should have just walked into the party waving a pistol, demanding that he take me to my father."

" He's dead. As dead as a bloody coffin nail. Paul Northwood just walked in and shot them both. He said he'd had quite enough and then he started laughing like a madman. They say she might live."

" Not particularly. Bauer was a very secretive man. He shared no plans with his employees. " Michael was a little unsteady on his feet. " I had planned kidnap him that night, to force him to take me to where he was keeping my father, but I got shot for it. Now that Bauer's dead I might never find my father. Did you actually think he had the man locked up in a laboratory in the basement of his London house? "

" You're such a wigeon. Don't you think I've tried to find out through his employees? It took me ten years to find out who he was and where he lives. Ten years, Nikita."

" Why do you think I stole the jewels? I was looking for clues, not just taking them to sell to support me, though I will admit to doing that. The man is a fiend. I have never found any kind of clue as to where the lab or my father is. I've been here in London for two years and nothing. I knew Bauer, that even if I did get to him, he might never tell me where it was. He'd have let my father rot there. None of his employees know where the place is except the ones who guard him now."

Michael let out a huge sigh. Before Nikita could say anything else O'Brien came into the small room. He gave Nikita an apologetic look. " I have to take you with me, Blackheart."

" They'll transport him to hard labour in Australia, most likely. Otherwise there'll be a hue and cry. It seems that the ladies have taken a shine to the romantic story. He's damned lucky he's so pretty. That's what usually happens in the case of these types of criminals."

Nikita rose to her feet and paced the room. " Have you seen him today, Marcus? He won't see me. He refuses to see me. He told Walter it's because he loves me. Can you imagine anything so ridiculous. He wants me to go live with my grandmother and find a good man. I think deep down he despises me for being a silly chit."

" It's not such a bad idea that you find yourself a good man. He can't ask you to wait ten years. I hope he doesn't try something stupid like trying to escape the penal colony."

She'd been to Newgate ten times in the last two months and every time he had turned her away. He must hate her. He wouldn't even speak to her. He'd seen George and Walter, even Abby, but not her. Abby had told her that he had a supply of blunt that allowed him to live fairly decently in Newgate. He'd been able, even, to hire a valet of sorts to look after his needs. Abby's stepfather and mother were not faring quite so well.

Nikita was living with her grandmother now, along with Abby. Abby had changed a lot since the incident. Not enough that she and Nikita would ever be great friends but there was now civility between them.

It was the oddest thing, too. Marcus O'Brien had seemed to catch Abby's fancy. The runner came often to her grandmother's London home, escorting Abby for long walks on the grounds. She talked to him for hours on the bench in front of the rose garden. Sometimes he would take her hand. Nikita would never have believed that in a million years but they made a rather handsome couple. Nikita thought that Marcus would be rather good at handling Abby's displays of temper. He was a lot older than she but that was nothing new and Gran seemed not to care a wit that the young man was not ton.

Nikita had nearly fallen into a swoon when O'Brien came one morning with word that the judge had given Michael seven years of labour in Australia for his crimes. She'd been too numb and stunned to cry. It was as if a pall had fallen over her. Abby had burst into tears and hugged Nikita In a way it had been Nikita who had comforted Abby and her gran. She had saved the tears for later when she lay in her bed alone.

It wasn't until the following day that it had really hit her. Michael had sent a letter to Adrienne thanking her for her kindness to him and asking her to look after Nikita, to see that she didn't do anything so foolish as to wait for him.

" The lad doesn't really believe in love. At least he doesn't believe himself worthy of it. One cannot have had a mother like his and really believe that a woman might be willing to wait for seven years."

" He won't even see me. And then he writes you this fine letter. There's no letter to me." Oh, how petty that sounded, but it was true. It cut her to the quick to know he had sent no word to her.

" He's ashamed, gel. What do you think? A proud, resourceful lad like him laid low? He doesn't want you to see him like that. He wants you to think that he has gone on without you to show you that you can do the same. "

" You only tried to help. He knows that. He knows that nothing you did that night in trying to save his father put him there. Nikita, I think that is part of what he loves about you. You are the sort of girl to leap into things feet first for the sake of another. I was always that way. Maybe that's why I love you so very much." Lady Adrienne smiled. " I do have an idea. It would take a rather daring sort of lass to pull it off. The sort of lass who'd drink poison to save her old gran."

Nikita was sitting on her bed trying to decide what to do when her cousin came into the room. " Do you mind? I've asked Alice to bring us some chocolate to drink."

Nikita shook her head. " No. Thank you, Abby. I'd like that." She smiled back at her cousin. It was amazing how lovely Abby was when she smiled. They'd talked a good deal of late. Nikita had heard, with great relief that the dog stomping rumour had been started by a jealous friend who had feared her beau was in love with Abby.

" No, not yet. He's too upright at this point. He says I'm a little too young and silly. I love him, you know. I've never felt like this before. I always felt so jealous of the way that Michael looked at you. I never saw him once look at me that way. And now I know how it feels. If it were Marc being transported, I would do it."

Michael looked down at the red, chaffed spots on his wrist. It was too dark to see them really, but he could feel the burn in the flesh. He told himself that it could have been worse. He could be swinging from a gibbet. He'd always known his life might come to something like this. Funny how he'd mused on going to the Australian diamond mines with his father. Now he was going there with a chain gang.

He thought of her and then quickly, by force of sheer will, put her to the back of his mind. There was no sense thinking about her, the way she looked, the way she smelled, the way her tall, supple body fit so miraculously against his. He knew that a day would never go by that he would not think of his Kita.

Out of the blue the transportation wagon came to a sudden halt, such a screeching halt that several of the other prisoners were tossed about the interior like flotsam.

Michael looked up. There were several black clad men on horseback, shrouded by the cold, curling mist. All had pistols. One of them, a tall, slender fellow, no more than a lad, led an extra horse, saddled and packed. The faint light of a full moon silvered the black silk clothing of this last of the riders, reflecting off his tricorn hat and shiny boots. Michael could not see any of the faces for the heavy, bright red scarves tied round them

" Don't be bloody daft, lad. Bleedin' hell," said the man with the deep gravelly voice. " Some people don't know what's good fer 'em." He waited for the guard to unshackle Michael.

" If you botch this, it could give me twenty more years," he muttered when the slender young man walked over and held a pistol at Michael's head. Was his hand trembling a little? Michael tried to look into the slit where the lad's mask met his low brimmed hat. The lad took the pistol and waved it upwards, indicating that he should mount.

Michael mounted. The lad took a cape from the back of his horse and tossed it up to Michael. It smelled oddly of lavender but its warmth on his shoulders was a decided comfort.

Michael was right. From his voice he was no more than a boy. What the bloody hell was this? If he'd have known better, he'd have thought it was her. But even she would not be so audacious as to think she could pull this off.

" Godspeed to you, too. Remember me. As I will remember you. All of you," came the low, muffled voice. It seemed to hover close to tears. The slender highwayman held the pistol up and pointed it at Michael. " Ride west. And no tricks, mind."

They watched Nikita ride off with the Frenchman until they were a speck in the distance. Mick called from his place at the reins of the prison wagon he had commandeered. " Tie these guards up, lads. Oy," he said, pointing at George, "You stand guard with the pistols. They'll be fine from here." His voice was breaking a little.

Michael and his companion rode for hours not a word passing between them. Sometime near dawn they reached a small coastal town. The lad led Michael to a fine sailing ship docked in the port.

His captor disappeared and a small redheaded lad took him to a well appointed cabin and fed him some bread and cheese and wine. He ate half and pushed it way.

The lad told him to strip off and to get in a brass hip tub, then disappeared. Steam was rising off the water. He wasn't going to argue. He felt mired in filth. He stripped and eased his aching body into the tub. He scrubbed his hair, dunked his head and erased the prison muck, then closed his eyes. Too exhausted any longer to care what had happened to him, he promptly fell asleep, thinking that this was probably a dream and he'd awaken quite soon in the prison ship bound for Australia.

He did awaken sometime later. The ship was moving. He sat up with a start. The water was cold and a pair of hands were tying a silken scarf around his eyes.

Nikita handed him a towel. She looked at his body. He was a lot thinner, paler, but lean with muscle and tensile strength. His hair curled almost to his shoulders in the back and he was in dire need of a shave. The growth of beard gave him a slightly devilish look. Despite the bruises on his body and the chafe marks on his wrists and ankles, he was the same. Those things would heal.

She hoped that she could heal his heart, that he would forgive her for what she had done, for doing this? She watched him towel himself. She drank in his long, smooth back with the deep clefts of muscle that ran beside his spine, the moulded curve of hip, concave dip at the side of his rear, the strong curve of his thigh. He was so beautiful she couldn't help but groan low in her throat. Then he dropped the towel at his feet.

" Don't say a word," she whispered. She moved toward him, standing close, her fingers skittering down the length of his spine, stopping at the two sweet dimples that bracketed it at the small of his back. She pressed her lips to his wide, damp shoulder. She let her tongue lap a few of the droplets that beaded on his skin. She took a wet reddish curl in her mouth a tugged gently at it. With the gentlest of teeth she prodded the soft flesh of his earlobe. She had to reach up on tip toe to do that.

" Never mind. Don't answer that." She led him by the hand and pushed him gently down to his back the downy feather mattress. It was a big bed which took up half the room. It took her a little time to shed her clothes. Her hands were shaking. Her knees had tremors.

Thunk. One boot hit the floor plank floor. Thunk. The other. Tight breeches were pushed impatiently down her thighs. She was shaking so much she couldn't get her blouse off, her fingers knotting the ties. She swore under her breath and heard him chuckle.

She climbed on top of his body with the shirt still on. He was so ready for her. She looked at him and almost gasped. She had to bite her lip. Well, she decided, either it had been one hell of a long time or he really did want her. She was so ready for him, she ached.

She looked down at him as he reclined beneath her, her heart melting in her chest. She loved him. She'd never love anyone else this way. She drank him in; the way his curls contrasted with the fat, white pillow; the width of his shoulders, the way his firmly, sculpted chest rose and fell with his breathing. She studied the angry scar at his side where he had taken the bullet. It moved her to tears. She was glad he could not see her shedding silent tears above him.

She bent and kissed the puckered scar, laved it with her tongue. She could feel him, hard and male against her inner thigh where the saddle had rubbed her. When she raised her head he was breathing hard, like he'd run a mile or so, his ribs expanding and contracting, the muscles of his flat, almost concave belly rippling.

She bent and covered his mouth with hers, still holding his wrists. His mouth was firm and hot and sweet with wine. She had not forgotten his unique taste, his texture.

His short beard was soft and prickly at the same time. She released his mouth reluctantly, wishing that she could see his eyes. She imagined them, thick lashed, clear green, ringed with a deeper hue, the little flecks of blue and gold, the thick fringe of his lashes.

She hoped her children inherited such fine eyes. She kissed his noble nose, trailing her lips down his cheek, nipping down his chin to the tight cords of his neck. She kissed him there, biting a little with gentle teeth, letting go his hands. They stayed above his head on the pillow, the elegant, slender fingers curled inwards to his palms.

The skin that covered his collar bone was as fine and smooth as a babe's. She tasted each flat, male nipple, felt him groan deeply and raise his hips a little in reaction. She kissed him down the deep indentation of his sternum and down to his belly button.

Finally her mouth found the heat of him. He was shuddering so hard by the time her tongue and mouth touched him, she was a little scared she had done something wrong and hurt him. He let her do it a little longer and then it seemed he could take no more.

He jerked her body upwards almost violently, then took the scarf from his eyes. " No more games," he rasped. His passion-dark, heavy lidded eyes searched hers before he took his hands and broke open the knotted ties at her throat, pulling the garment over her head. He stared at her for a long time, just watching her as he touched her thighs with the roughened tips of his fingers. She felt her breasts tauten, ache under his scrutiny.

He swallowed hard and touched her breasts, trailing his fingers down her ribs to grasp her waist. His mouth was parted, his eyes half closed in longing. His beauty made her shiver. She hoped she moved him the same way.

She gasped as he raised her, then brought her hips down onto his heat, his hardness. It was shocking. Perfect. She had to bite her lip. His hips came up to meet hers in a rhythm that soon became magical, intense, wild.

Later Nikita raised her head to smile at him. His hair was wild on the pillow, his eyes half closed, his sinfully, beautiful lips parted in pleasure. He looked to her like a tawny cat. A very satisfied cat.

She swallowed hard, thinking of her small family and her very beloved friends. Her voice was thick but steady. She had made her decision. " My only home is with you, Michael Blackheart."

" Ah, Kita," he said, pulling her up and hugging her tightly. " I have never heard such splendid words as those. I will do my best to make ours a home that is full of love. How does that sound to you? "

The captain, a fine gentleman, who had known Adrienne's husband, Nikita's grandfather, married them aboard his ship. He had come out of retirement to see that Adrienne's granddaughter and the man she couldn't have loved more had he been her own son, made it safely to America at Adrienne's request.

The wedding was simple. The bride and groom were not surrounded by their old friends, but the new ones they had made of the crew and captain toasted their future. A bevy of bright stars shone down like a million twinkling candles as they danced that night on the deck.

There was just something about his kiss and the way her had lifted her up against him afterwards so that she could gaze down into his clear green eyes, spinning her around and around in a circle, that made her dizzy with love and laughter. The crew had clapped and laughed, sharing his obvious joy.

After being in New York several months a letter came from Adrienne. O'Brien, who was now married to Abby and working on his own as a private detective had found Michael's father on an island off the coast of Scotland. He had been very ill, but Adrienne had taken him home with her to see that he recovered his strength. She was convinced that all would be well. They were getting along famously and she pronounced him a flirt even if he was ten years her junior.

Michael opened his own business that winter, providing rich people and businesses with security plans. After a year he was doing marvellously well. There were rumours that he'd once been a French jewel thief but that only added to his aura of mystery. The women especially wanted his advise on how to protect themselves from intruders.

His wife was too busy writing her second novel, a sequel to her highly touted first, to be jealous. He was the most attentive of husbands and she trusted him implicitly. He was perfect and beautiful and very soon to be the father of their first child. Their love for one another seemed to compound daily, though they were not without their skirmishes. He was still a little controlling and she was still a bit strong-willed, too, at times.