Dreaming of You

Lady Ashby’s face was taut, her eyes brilliant with madness and hatred.

Sara was the first to speak, hearing her own calm voice with a sense of amazement. “You must have come through the hidden passages.”

“I knew about them long before you ever met him,” Joyce sneered, her gaze darting to the huge gilded bed. “I was with him in that bed too many times to count. We were magnificent together. We invented things that had never been done before. Don’t move.” Her grip on the gun was steady.

Sara took a quick, shallow breath. “What do you want?”

“I want to have a look at the woman he’s taken as his wife.” Joyce smiled contemptuously. “Covered in velvet and jewels…as if that might fool others into thinking you’re a lady of consequence.”

“A lady such as yourself?”

Joyce ignored the jab, staring mesmerized at the necklace that glittered against Sara’s pale skin. “Those emeralds are the exact color of his eyes. No one else has eyes like that.” She glared at Sara in crackling fury. “I said don’t move!”

Sara froze, having begun to inch toward the long tasseled rope that would ring the servants’ bell.

“You must be pleased with yourself,” Joyce said, “admiring yourself in your fine gown, with his ring on your finger. You think you have what I covet most. You think he belongs to you. But your marriage means nothing. He belongs to me. I put my mark on him.”

“He doesn’t want you,” Sara whispered, her eyes locked on Joyce’s vindictive face.

“You country simpleton! Do you actually think you’ve had any more of him than a hundred women could claim? I know him every bit as well as you do. I know the pattern of hair on his chest, the smell of his skin. I’ve felt his scars beneath my hands, and the muscles moving on his back. I know what it is to have him inside me…the way he moves…slow and deep…just before he finds his release.” Joyce’s eyes half-closed. “A gifted lover, your bastard husband. No other man on earth understands a woman’s body as he does. A big, sensual beast, with no conscience and no scruples. He is my perfect counterpart—and he knows it.”

Swiftly Sara darted to the bellpull and gave it a frantic jerk, expecting to hear the explosion of the pistol. But Joyce didn’t fire. Trembling and white, Sara faced her. “The servants will be up here right away. I suggest that you leave, Lady Ashby.”

Joyce regarded her with contempt. “What a ridiculous creature you are.” Deliberately she reached over and knocked the lit oil lamp from the dresser.

Sara gave a cry of horror as the globe broke and the puddle of oil ignited. Immediately the pool of fire spread outward, flames licking hungrily at the carpet, woodwork, and draperies. “Oh, God!”

Joyce’s face was painted gold and red by the rearing, malevolent light. “You can die by smoke and fire,” she said in a guttural voice, “or a bullet. Or…you can choose to do exactly as I tell you.”

Derek and Alex were several streets from St. James when they realized something was terribly wrong. Bells were tolling. Carriages, horses and pedestrians clogged the area. The sky was filled with a dull red glow that came from a blaze somewhere on the horizon. “Fire,” Alex said tersely, staring out the window of the carriage.

“Where?” A cold feeling settled over Derek, collecting in the pit of his stomach. The carriage progressed with excruciating slowness while the outriders did their best to forge a way through the crowded streets. His sixth sense, always accurate, warned of disaster. “It’s the club,” he heard himself say.

“I can’t say for certain.” Alex’s voice was calm, betraying none of the anxiety he was feeling. But one of his hands was gripped around the curtain at the window, exerting so much tension that the stitches in the fabric began to pop.

With a muffled curse Derek opened the door of the carriage and leapt out. The vehicle moved so slowly that it was faster to walk. He shouldered his way through the mob that was gathering to watch the fire. “Craven!” He heard Alex behind him, following at a distance. He didn’t pause. The insistent tolling of the bells filled his ears, reverberating in thunderous crashes. It couldn’t be his club. Not after he’d spent years of his life working, stealing, suffering for it. He’d built it with his own sweat and blood, with pieces of his soul. God, to watch it all disappear into smoke and ashes…

Derek turned the corner and made an incoherent sound. The gambling palace was roaring. The growl of fire was everywhere; the sky, the air, even the ground seemed to tremble. Derek staggered to the scene and watched as his dreams burned in an unholy blaze. He was mute, breathing and swallowing, trying to understand what was happening. Gradually he became aware of familiar faces in the awestruck crowd. Monsieur Labarge sat on the side of the pavement, numbly holding a copper pot he must have carried from the kitchen, too panicked to set it down. Gill was standing with the house wenches, some of them angry, some crying.

Worthy was nearby, the flames reflected in his spectacles. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. He turned and saw Derek. His face twitched convulsively. He tottered forward, his voice unrecognizable as he spoke. “Mr. Craven…it spread too quickly. There was nothing they could do. It’s all gone.”

“How did it start?” Derek asked hoarsely.

Worthy removed his spectacles and mopped his face with a handkerchief. He took a long time to answer, having to choke the words forth. “It began on the top floor. The private apartments.”

Derek stared at him blankly.

Two police officers rushed by them, a snatch of hasty conversation floating in the air behind them.

“…knock down the next building…make a fire gap…”

“Sara,” Derek heard himself say.

Worthy bent his head and shivered.

Derek drew close to Worthy, gripping the factotum’s shirtfront. “Where is she? Where is my wife?”

“I’ve questioned the employees,” Worthy answered, gasping as if it were painful to talk “Several of them…confirmed she was in the club.”

“Where is she now?”

“Sir…” Worthy shook his head and began to make an odd gulping sound.

Derek let go of him and reeled back a few steps, staring at him dazedly. “I have to find her.”

“It happened too quickly,” Worthy said, trying to control his tears. “She was in the apartments when it started. She couldn’t have gotten out.”

There was jangling confusion in his head. Disoriented, Derek swerved in a half-circle. He felt very strange, all his skin prickling. “No, I…No. She’s somewhere…I have to find her.”

“Mr. Craven?” Worthy followed him as he made his way into the street. “You mustn’t go in there. Mr. Craven, wait!” He took hold of Derek’s arm.

Derek shook him off impatiently, his purposeful strides gaining momentum.

In a sudden panic, the factotum flung himself at Derek, using his slight weight and wiry strength to hold him back. “Help me stop him!” Worthy screamed. “He’ll run straight into the middle of it!”

Derek growled and shoved him away, but other hands descended on him, shoving him down to the ground. He cursed and tried to rise again, only to find himself surrounded by a crowd of men intent on restraining him. Enraged, he began to fight like a rabid animal, roaring and struggling to break free. Distantly he heard Alex Raiford’s voice. “Derek…for God’s sake, man…”

“Sara! Sara—”

Someone clubbed him, a violent blow to his skull. Derek arched against the pain with an animal whimper. “My…wife,” he gasped, his brain on fire, his thoughts collapsing like a house of cards. He gave a quiet groan and plummeted into blackness.

Lady Ashby had taken Sara to the underground wine cellar at gunpoint. They left the club through one of the hidden doorways. It had been designed to allow patrons an easy escape route to avoid the embarrassment of being caught in the club during a police raid. As she emerged from the cellar to the fresh outside air, Sara was surprised to see a hired carriage waiting for them. “Get in,” Joyce muttered, jabbing her in the back with the muzzle of the pistol. “And don’t try to appeal to the driver. He’s being paid well to keep his mouth shut and do as I bid him.”

Once inside, they sat on opposite seats. Joyce kept the pistol pointed at Sara, relishing the power of life and death over her prisoner. The carriage began to move.

Sara clasped her trembling hands in her lap. “Where are we going?”

“To an Ashby holding in the country. An old medieval house.” Now that her plan was progressing exactly as she’d intended, Joyce was casual, even conversational. “Most of it has crumbled over the centuries, except for the central core and the tower. No one ever goes there.”

“How far is it?”

“We’ll travel a good hour and a half. Perhaps two.” She smiled mockingly. “Would you like to know why I’m taking you there? I’m not going to tell you. I’m saving it as a surprise.”

Sara wondered if the fire had spread throughout the club, or if by some miracle the employees had been able to contain it. Soon Derek would return from his errand with Alex. She felt ill at the thought of what he might face. He would discover that she was missing…He might be injured in the attempt to find her. Suddenly she was terrified for his sake, wondering if he would be in danger, if he would think she was dead…Agitatedly she touched the heavy necklace at her throat, worrying the smooth emeralds between her fingers.

“Give that to me,” Joyce said sharply, watching her.

“The necklace?”

“Yes, take it off.” Joyce watched as Sara unhooked the glittering treasure from her neck. “A peasant woman with a necklace fit for a queen,” she sneered. “You don’t have the grace or bearing to wear it properly. Give it to me.” Her eager fingers wrapped around the necklace, and she snatched it away. Setting it on the seat beside her, she toyed lovingly with the web of emeralds and diamonds. “He gave me presents…a bracelet, a necklace, jeweled combs for my hair…but nothing as fine as this.” She smiled at Sara tauntingly. “The day he gave me the combs, he said that he’d imagined making love to me wearing jewels in my golden hair and nothing else. He much prefers blond hair to dark, did you know that?”

Sara kept her face blank, refusing to let the other woman see that her remark stung. Joyce began another sneering litany of insults and boasted about Derek’s sexual prowess until anger and jealousy roiled unpleasantly in Sara’s stomach.

* * *

A woman’s voice touched Derek gently, luring him from the welter of darkness. Something was wrong…Some strange coldness was all around him, inside him, a sinister shadow that had soaked through every inch of his body. He stirred groggily, wanting comfort. “Sara…”

“I’m here, darling.” It was Lily’s voice, sounding thick and odd.

Derek shook himself awake and groaned at the throbbing pain in his head. “Jesus.” He blinked and sat up clumsily, squinting at his surroundings. He was in the Raifords’ carriage, pulled to a halt in front of Swans’ Court. Alex was next to him, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. Derek’s chest hurt. He felt as if he’d been beaten. “What happened?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Lily stood at the door of the carriage, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the side lamps. Her eyes were swollen. “Come into the house with us, Derek. Careful—let Alex help you.”

Derek obeyed without thinking, discovering as he stumbled out of the carriage that he wasn’t steady on his feet. Standing next to the vehicle, he braced a hand against the smooth lacquered side and tried to clear his head. Alex and Lily were on either side of him. Both of them looked at him strangely. He began to remember…the fire, the club…Sara.

“Where is she?” he asked. He was infuriated by the glance they gave each other. “Damn the both of you, answer me!”

Alex’s gray eyes were compassionate. He replied in a quiet voice, “She’s nowhere to be found, Derek. She was caught in the fire. She couldn’t have survived.”

Derek made a rough sound, backing away from them. The nightmare was upon him again. He began to tremble.

“Derek,” Lily said softly, her eyes glistening, “you’re not alone. We’ll help each other through this. Come inside. Come, we’ll get a drink.”

He stared at her without expression.

“Derek—” she coaxed, but suddenly he had vanished, moving swiftly into the night until it swallowed him whole.

Startled, Lily called out after him, and then turned to Alex. “You must follow him,” she said urgently. “Alex, bring him back!”

He slid his arms around her. “And then what? Short of knocking him unconscious, I can’t make him stay.” Lifting her chin, he stared into her eyes. “He’ll come back,” he reassured her gently. “He has nowhere else to go.”

Exhausted by her own frantic thoughts, Sara was wearily surprised when the pace of the carriage eased and then stopped. It had seemed as if the wheels would never cease turning, taking her farther away from London with every torturous minute that passed. Midway through the journey Joyce had lapsed into silence, fumbling awkwardly to clasp the emerald necklace around her throat while retaining possession of the gun.

Sara had contemplated her quietly, pondering the woman’s obsession with Derek. Joyce Ashby was insane, or at the very least mentally unbalanced. She seemed like a cruel, selfish child in an adult body. She valued no life but her own, and felt no sense of remorse for her actions. In her mind there would be no consequences for anything she did.

Why had Joyce been allowed to go about unhindered and cause such harm? Surely Lord Ashby must be aware of his wife’s actions. Sara wondered what kind of man he was, and why he hadn’t taken Joyce in hand long before now.

The driver opened the door of the carriage and looked inside. The strange young-old look about him defied any accurate guess of his age. He had a thin, whiskery rat face. His colorless eyes shifted nervously from the pistol to Joyce’s face. “M’lady?” he questioned.

“We’re getting out,” Joyce said. “Stay here until I return.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

Sara spoke swiftly, staring hard at the driver. “You can’t allow this. Don’t be a fool. The law will hold you responsible for what happens to me here—and if not, then my husband will!”

The man flinched and ducked away, ignoring her.

“Get out,” Joyce sneered, gesturing with the pistol.

Sara climbed to the ground, her legs cramped from the long ride. She shot a glance at the driver, who had gone to the front of the carriage with the horses. Since he apparently had no conscience to appeal to, she tried threats. “My husband is Derek Craven, and when he finds out about this, he won’t rest until he’s made you pay—”

“He won’t do anything to help you,” Joyce said, prodding Sara with the pistol. “Start walking.”

The path was illuminated by the carriage lantern Joyce carried. They approached the medieval structure, little more than a mutilated shell of stonework. The windows and doors had crumbled, giving the fortified house the appearance of a jaw with gaps of missing teeth. Slowly Sara entered the central hall. Mice and vermin scuttled in all directions, alerted to the presence of intruders.

Annoyed by Sara’s hesitant pace, Joyce brandished the gun and pushed her toward the broken stone steps that led up to the tower. “Up there,” she said brusquely.

Slowly Sara mounted the first step. Her mouth was dry with fear. She broke out into a heavy sweat, liquid fear seeping from her pores. “Why?”

“There’s a room at the top with a bar across the door. I’m going to keep you there. You’ll be my own private pet. From time to time I’ll come and visit you, and tell you all about your husband. We’ll find out how long he grieves for you, and how long it takes before he comes back to my bed.” Joyce paused and added smugly, “Perhaps I’ll even show you ways to pleasure me, and you’ll show me exactly what your husband finds so compelling about you.”

“You’re disgusting,” Sara said in outrage.

“You might say that now, but after a few days you’ll do whatever I want in return for food and water.”

Sara’s nerves twitched rebelliously, demanding action. She would rather die at this moment than be at the mercy of a madwoman for some indefinite length of time. She had to do something now, before they reached the tower room. After another few steps she pretended to stumble on the landing. Swiftly she turned and grabbed for Joyce’s arm.

Joyce reacted with a hiss of rage, fighting to keep hold of the pistol. She dropped the carriage lantern and tried to claw Sara’s face. Feeling the bite of long nails on her neck, Sara screamed and tried to twist the gun away. They grappled desperately and rolled down the steps together. The painful impact of the stone stairs on her head and back dazed Sara, but she didn’t let go of Joyce’s arm, even as she felt it come down between their writhing bodies.

All at once her ears rang with an explosion.

Sara’s first thought was that she had been shot. She had felt a hard, bruising blow against her breast that she gradually identified as the backward kick of the pistol. Slowly she stirred and sat up, holding a hand to the throbbing side of her head.

Joyce lay a foot or two away, moaning. A patch of crimson blood welled over her shoulder. “Help me,” she wheezed.

“Help you?” Sara repeated, staggering to her feet. Somehow she managed to collect her wits. The discarded carriage lantern was still intact, the tiny flame sputtering as the lamp rolled lazily across a step. After picking up the lamp, she went to Joyce, who was clutching her injured shoulder. I should leave you here, she thought. She was unaware she had said the words aloud until Joyce replied.

“You can’t let me die!”

“You’re not going to die.” Disgusted, terrified, Sara removed her own petticoat, wadded it up, and pressed it firmly against the wound to staunch the blood. Joyce screamed like an enraged cat, her eyes slitted and demonic. Sara’s ears rang from the piercing cry.

“Be quiet, you bitch!” Sara snapped. “Not another sound!” Suddenly her entire body was filled with furious energy. She felt strong enough to push down a stone wall with her bare hands. She went to the crumbling entrance of the castle and saw that the hack driver was still waiting, craning his neck curiously. “You!” she shouted. “Come here right away, or you won’t get a bloody shilling of what she promised!” She turned back to Joyce, her blue eyes blazing. “And you…give me back my necklace.”

As Alex had predicted, Derek returned to Swans’ Court, disheveled and dirty, smelling of charred wood. His face was tearless and cold, scraped from his earlier scuffles. Lily had been waiting up for him, drinking countless cups of tea. Henry, her brother-in-law, had gone out to roam with his friends in London, seeking trouble as high-spirited young men were wont to do. Alex stayed home, pacing edgily from room to room.

As the butler admitted Derek into the house, Lily rushed to the entrance hall and took his arm. She questioned him anxiously as she led him into the parlor. “Derek, where have you been? Are you all right? Would you like something to eat? A drink?”

“Brandy,” Derek said curtly, sitting down on the parlor sofa.

Lily sent maidservants scurrying for hot water, towels, and brandy. All of it arrived in short order. Derek was strangely passive as Lilly dabbed at the dirty scrapes with a moistened towel. He cupped the brandy snifter in his hands without bothering to taste it. “Drink some of that,” Lily said in the firm, motherly voice that the children never dared to disobey. Derek took a swallow and set the snifter down, not looking at her as she hovered about him. “Are you tired?” she asked. “Would you like to lay your head down?”

Derek rubbed the lower half of his jaw, his green eyes flat and blank. He appeared not to have heard her.

Carefully Lily smoothed a lock of his hair. “I’ll be close by. Tell me if there’s anything you want.” She went to Alex, who had been watching from the doorway. Their eyes met. “I hope he’ll be all right,” she whispered. “I’ve never seen him like this. He lost everything…the club…and Sara…”

Reading the worry in her gaze, Alex pulled her close and rocked her gently. In the years since their marriage they had shared a life of companionship, passion, and incomparable joy. Times like this served as a brutal reminder that they should never take their happiness for granted. He held his wife protectively. “He’ll survive,” he answered her. “Just as he’s survived everything else in his life. But he’ll never be the same.”

Lily shifted in his arms to glance miserably at Derek’s motionless form.

Someone used the brass knocker at the front door. The sharp sound echoed in the entrance hall. Alex and Lily looked at each other in silent question, then watched as the butler went to answer. They heard a thick cockney voice arguing with Burton’s well-modulated tones. “If Crawen’s ’ere, I bloody well ’as to see ’im!”

The man’s voice wasn’t familiar to Alex, but Lily recognized it immediately. “Ivo Jenner!” she exclaimed. “Why the hell would he come here? Unless…” Her dark eyes widened. “Alex, he’s the one who started the kitchen fire at Craven’s last year. It was just a prank…but perhaps he pulled another prank tonight that got out of hand! Do you think—” She stopped as she felt a sudden breeze rush by her, caused by Derek’s form as he shot past them to the entrance hall, lithe as a striking panther.

Alex followed him in a flash, but not before Derek had fastened his hands around Jenner’s throat, knocking him to the marble floor. Swearing obscenely, Jenner used his heavy pugilist’s fists to batter Derek’s sides. It took the combined strength of Alex, the butler, and Lily to pry Derek away. The entrance hall was filled with their combined bellowing. Only Derek was quiet, busily engaged in murder.

“Stop it!” Lily was screeching.

Alex had one powerful arm locked around Derek’s neck. “Damn you, Craven—”

“I didn’t do it!” Jenner protested loudly “That’s why I came ’ere, so as to tell you I didn’t do it!”

Gagging from the hard pressure on his throat, Derek was finally forced to subside. “I’ll kill you,” he gasped, staring at Jenner with bloodlust.

“You ’ammer’eaded madman!” Jenner exclaimed, standing up and shaking himself off. He yanked the hem of his coat back into place.

“Don’t you dare call Derek names!” Lily said hotly. “And don’t insult me by protesting your innocence under my own roof, when we all know there’s reason to believe you’re responsible for the fire!”

“I didn’t do it,” Jenner said vehemently.

“You were behind the kitchen fire at Craven’s last year!” Lily accused.

“Aye, I admit to that, but I ’ad nofing to do with this. I came ’ere to do Crawen a frigging favor, damn ’is eyes!”

“What favor?” Derek asked in a low, ugly voice. Alex had to tighten his restraining hold once more.

Composing himself, Jenner smoothed his red hair and cleared his throat “My affidavit man came to me tonight at my club, and ’e ’appened to be walking by Crawen’s just as the blaze started, an’ saw two women leaving the place. Looked odd, ’e said, since it wasn’t ’ouse wenches, but ladies dressed in fine gowns. One was blond, the other dark with green jewels all around ’er neck. They took a public coach away from the club…an’ it was then the place started to burn like the bowels of ’ell.” Jenner shrugged and added a touch sheepishly, “I thought…maybe the dark one was Mrs. Crawen.”

“And maybe I’ll find a giant beanstalk in my garden tomorrow morning,” Lily said sarcastically. “You’re a fiend, Jenner, for coming here and tormenting Derek with this tale!”

“It’s the truf,” Jenner said indignantly. “Dammit, I want you to find ’er! It’s all ower London—my own blasted club—that I’m the man what set the fire that killed bloody Mathilda! Bad for my reputation, an’ my business, and besides…I’ve a liking for the little wench.” He gave Derek a disdainful look. “Deserves better than this black’earted bastard, she does.”

“You’ve said your piece,” Alex murmured. “Now leave. I’m getting tired of holding him back.” He didn’t let go of Derek until Jenner was safely gone, the front door closed behind him. Derek shook him off and retreated several steps, giving him a baleful glare.

Lily released an explosive sigh. “That blustering idiot Jenner! I discount every word he said as nonsense.”

Derek had turned his attention to the closed door. His large, rawboned body was very still. The Raifords waited for him to voice his thoughts. His voice was strained and barely audible. “Sara has a green necklace. She was going to wear it tonight.”

Alex watched Derek alertly. “Craven…would Sara have had any reason to leave the club tonight?”

“With a blond woman?” Lily asked skeptically. “I don’t think any of Sara’s friends are blond except my sister Penelope, and she certainly wouldn’t have—” She broke off at Derek’s quiet exclamation. “Derek, what is it?”

“Joyce,” he muttered. “It could have been Joyce.”

“Lady Ashby?” Lily bit her lip and asked gently, “Derek, are you certain you’re not trying to convince yourself of something you want desperately to believe?”

Derek was silent, concentrating on his own thoughts.

Alex frowned as he turned the possibilities over in his mind. “Perhaps we should pay a visit to Ashby House,” he conceded. “At this point it wouldn’t do any harm. But Craven, don’t rest your hopes on discovering anyth—” He turned with surprise to find Derek already striding out the door. Raising his tawny brows, he looked at Lily.

“I’ll stay here,” she muttered, pushing him after Derek. “Go and keep him safe.”

After Sara and the driver helped Joyce into the coach, they began the long journey back to London. Joyce curled in a miserable huddle, groaning and cursing whenever the wheels of the vehicle jostled over a deep rut. Her endless complaining was finally too much for Sara to take. “Oh, good Lord, that’s enough,” she exclaimed impatiently.

“I’m going to die,” Joyce moaned.

“Unfortunately that’s not the case. The bullet passed cleanly through your shoulder, the bleeding’s stopped, and whatever discomfort you feel isn’t nearly enough to make up for all you’ve done,” Sara continued with growing exasperation. “The first time I met Derek was on the night you had his face slashed, and ever since then you’ve harassed and tormented us both. You brought this on yourself!”

“You’re enjoying my suffering,” Joyce whined.

“Somehow I can’t dredge up much sympathy for a woman who’s just tried to kill me! And when I think of the cruel, callous way you destroyed Derek’s club…”

“He’ll always hate me for that,” Joyce whispered in satisfaction. “I’ll always have that part of him, at least.”

“No,” Sara said firmly. “I’m going to fill his life with such happiness that he’ll have no room to hate anyone. He won’t spare you a thought. You’ll be nothing to him.”

“You’re wrong,” Joyce hissed.

They fell into a seething silence that lasted the rest of the journey. Eventually the carriage stopped in front of Ashby House, a magnificent stucco-fronted mansion frescoed in a rich shade of umber. Sara bid the driver to assist her in bringing Joyce into the building. They had to ascend a short flight of steps. Mewling in discomfort, Joyce leaned heavily against Sara, digging her nails punishingly into her shoulder and arm. Grimly Sara resisted the urge to throw her down the stairs. As they reached the front door, an astonished butler admitted them. Sara spoke to the butler tersely. “Pay the driver whatever he was promised, and show us to Lord Ashby. Quickly.”

Bewildered, the butler stared at Lady Ashby’s bloodstained gown. “Go on,” Sara encouraged, and he complied with her orders. After he was paid, the driver scurried back to his coach and left with all due haste.

“What are you going to tell Lord Ashby?” Joyce murmured.

Sara regarded her with cool blue eyes. “The truth, my lady.”

Joyce gave a faint cackle, looking like a wild golden witch. “He won’t punish me. He lets me do whatever I want.”

“Not this time. I’m going to make certain you answer for what you’ve done tonight.”

“Try it,” Joyce invited, cackling again.

The butler led them to a nearby sitting room, magnificently fitted in red and black. Since Sara no longer offered her support, Joyce clung to the butler’s arm, becoming pale and dizzy as they reached their destination. “Send for a physician,” Joyce commanded thinly, holding her shoulder as she eased into a chair. “I require immediate attention.”

The butler left, and the heavy rumble of a voice came from the corner of the room. “I’ve been waiting for you, Lady Ashby. It appears you’ve been about some mischief tonight.”

Joyce glanced at her husband and didn’t reply. Cautiously Sara approached Lord Ashby. He was seated in a chair near the fireplace, his knees spread comfortably. A stocky, thick-throated old man with flapping jowls and moist, bulging eyes, he looked like a imperious frog. She felt like an unlucky fly trespassing in his territory. In spite of his fine clothes and his aristocratic heritage, he possessed a grubby, all-engulfing quality that unnerved Sara.

“Explain this,” he said, staring at Sara. His broad hand gestured impatiently.

Sara met his eyes and made her tone as crisp as possible. “I wouldn’t exactly describe Lady Ashby’s actions as ‘mischief,’ my lord. Tonight your wife set fire to my husband’s club, threatened my life, abducted me, and tried to lock me away in your deserted castle to keep me as her own private pet! I’m inclined to have her charged with attempted murder.”

Joyce interrupted eagerly. “She’s lying, my lord! This…this peasant creature attacked me without provocation—”

“Quiet!” Ashby thundered. His reptilian gaze returned to Sara. “You don’t intend to go to the authorities, Mrs. Craven, or you wouldn’t have brought Lady Ashby to me. You and I would rather not expose the distasteful details of this situation in the courts. Your husband, after all, is as much a culprit as my wife.”

“I don’t agree—”

“Oh? Then what are you doing now, if not trying to protect him from the consequences of his past mistakes? Although you would like to argue the point, Mrs. Craven, you are well aware that your husband should never have taken Lady Ashby to his bed, out of respect for me if for no other reason. Although…I will concede that Lady Ashby must have been a potent temptation.”

Sara glanced at the feral, bloodstained woman with disdain. “Whatever his taste was in the past, my husband has no interest in anyone but me now.”

A slight smile came to Lord Ashby’s face. His pendulous jowls twitched. “I do not doubt that in the slightest, Mrs. Craven. And I will consider myself indebted to you—solely you, not your husband—if you will allow me to handle my wife in the way I see fit.”

The two women spoke at the same time.

“My lord?” Joyce asked sharply.

“What will you do with her?” Sara said.

“I will keep her at a remote location in Scotland,” Lord Ashby answered Sara, “away from all society. Clearly she presents a danger to all those she associates with. I would isolate her in relative comfort rather than confine her to an lunatic hospital, where she might be subjected to cruel treatment and also prove an embarrassment to the family.”

“Nooo!” Joyce erupted in an inhuman howl. “I won’t be sent away! I won’t be caged like an animal!”

Sara kept her attention on Lord Ashby. “I only wonder why you haven’t done it before, my lord.”

“My wife has always been a source of amusement for me, Mrs. Craven. Until now she has never caused real harm to anyone.”

“My husband’s face—” Sara began hotly, thinking of the slashing.

“A punishment he deserved,” Lord Ashby declared. “In the past Craven cuckolded many powerful men. He’s fortunate that none of them ever decided to make a gelding of him.”

He had a point, much as she disliked to admit it. “Your ‘source of amusement’ nearly cost me my life,” Sara said under her breath.

Ashby frowned impatiently. “Mrs. Craven, I see no reason to go over the same ground yet again. I give you my word of honor that the problem will be addressed in the way I have described. Lady Ashby will never set foot in England again. That should be enough to satisfy you.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course I trust your word.” Sara lowered her gaze deferentially. “If you’ll excuse me, I must find my husband now.”

“Craven was here with Lord Raiford,” Lord Ashby informed her.

Sara was disconcerted by the news. “Here? But how—”

“They suspect that Joyce might have had something to do with your disappearance. I told them I had no knowledge of her whereabouts. They left not ten minutes before your arrival.”

“Where did they go?”

“I did not ask. It was of no consequence to me.”

Sara was relieved that Derek hadn’t been injured. But he must be distraught, even frantic, not knowing what had happened to her. She bit her lip in consternation. “Well, at least they know there’s a chance I’m all right.”

“They don’t have much hope,” Ashby said dryly. “I must say, your husband seemed quite indifferent to the entire situation.”

Sara’s heart thumped anxiously. She knew it wasn’t indifference at all, but a surfeit of emotions Derek couldn’t handle. He was keeping it all inside, denying his grief and fear to everyone, even himself. She had to find him. Perhaps the best place to begin her search was the club. With dawn arriving soon, surely the men would want to survey the damaged building by the light of day and comb through the ruins. “My lord,” she said urgently, “I would ask that one of your carriages convey me to St. James Street.”

Ashby nodded. “With all expediency.”

Sara left the room, while Joyce screamed madly after her, “I won’t be locked away forever…I’ll come back! You’ll never be safe!”

Sara’s breath was knocked from her at the first sight of the club. Or rather, the place where the club had been. Thieves and beggars were poking through the rubble in search of fire-damaged goods. Slowly Sara descended from the Ashby carriage. She stood at the side of the street, staring. “Dear God,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with tears.

All Derek’s dreams, the monument to his ambition…razed to the ground. Nothing remained but the marble columns and staircases, sticking up like the exposed skeleton of a once-proud beast. Pieces of the stone facade were scattered on the ground like giant scales. The extent of the destruction was difficult to comprehend. For years the club had been the center of Derek’s life. She couldn’t imagine how he must be reacting to the loss.

The lavender light of daybreak fell gently over the scene. Sara made her way to the charred ruins at a snail’s pace, her thoughts disconnected. Her manuscript had burned, she realized sadly. It had almost been finished. The art collection was gone too. Was Worthy all right? Had anyone perished in the fire? There were hot embers on the ground, and small patches of flame. Tufts of smoke rose from blackened timbers that had fallen at odd angles. What had once been the huge chandelier in the domed hall was a mass of melted crystal lumps.

Reaching what had once been the grand central staircase, now exposed to the open sky, Sara stopped and dragged her sleeve over her face. She gave an aching sigh. “Oh, Derek,” she murmured. “What am I going to say to you?”

A breeze rustled past her, stirring ashes around her skirts, making her cough.

Suddenly an odd feeling came over her, a slight shock as if she’d been touched by invisible hands. She rubbed her arms and turned around, somehow knowing Derek would be there.

And he was. He stared at her from a face that was stark-white, paler than the scorched marble columns rising from the ground. His lips formed her name, but he didn’t make a sound. The breeze swept over them both, clearing away the wisps of smoke from the ground. Sara was startled by his gauntness, the torment that pulled at his features until he looked like a stranger. His eyes were searing, as if he were flooded with uncontainable rage…but suddenly the depths of green overflowed, and she realized with astonishment that it was not rage…It was soul-deep terror. He didn’t move, or even blink, afraid she would disappear.

“Derek?” she said uncertainly.

His throat worked violently. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

Sara went to him, picking up her skirts, stumbling in her haste. “I’m all right. Oh, please don’t look like that!” Reaching him, she threw her arms around him and held on with all her strength. “Everything’s all right.”

A fierce tremor went through him. Suddenly he clutched her in an embrace that hurt, until her ribs ached from the pressure. His hands slid over her body in a frantic search, while his breath shuddered in her ear. “You said you’d never leave me.” He held her as if he feared she would be ripped away from him.

“I’m here now,” she soothed. “I’m right here.”

“Oh, God…Sara…I couldn’t find you…”

She brushed her palms over his cold, wet cheeks. He was off-balance, his considerable weight swaying against her. “Have you been drinking?” she murmured, pulling back to look at him. He shook his head, staring at her if she were a ghost. She wondered how to take away the shattered look in his eyes. “Let’s find a place to sit down.” As she stepped away toward the marble stairs, his arms tightened. “Derek,” she urged. He went with her like a sleepwalker. They settled on a step and he hunched over her tightly, his arms fast around her.

“I love you,” he told her, wiping impatiently at the tears that kept trickling down his face. “I couldn’t say it before. I couldn’t—” He clenched his trembling jaw, trying to control the hot flow of tears. It only made them worse. Giving up, he buried his face in her hair. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

Sara had never seen him so undone, had never imagined it possible. Stroking his dark head, she whispered meaningless words, trying to give him comfort.

“I love you,” he repeated hoarsely, burrowing against her. “I would have given my life to have one more day with you, and tell you that.”

Watching the reunion from across the street, Alex sighed with tremendous relief. “Thank God,” he muttered, and went to his carriage. He couldn’t wait to tell Lily the good news. In fact, he might decide never to let Lily out of his sight again. He rubbed his tired eyes and spoke to the coachman. “Well, Craven’s got his second chance. As for me…I’m going home to my wife now. Step lively about it.”

“It’s like that, is it, m’lord?” the coachman asked cheekily, and Alex gave him a wry grin.

“Let’s go.”

Murmuring quietly, Sara kissed her husband’s rumpled hair and his neck. He held her for a long time while the shaking in his limbs gradually subsided.

“Is Worthy all right?” Sara asked. “Was anyone hurt?”

“They’re all fine.”

“Derek, we’ll build another club. We’ll do it all again, I promise—”

“No.” He said it with such vehemence that she was quiet for a few minutes, continuing to stroke his hair. He lifted his head and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “It’ll never be what it was. I’d rather remember the place as it was than build an imitation. I…I want something different now.”

“What is that?” she asked, her brow wreathed in tender concern.

“I don’t know yet.” Derek gave a short laugh and hauled her close again. “Don’t ask a man questions…when he’s had the scare of his life.” Uncaring of anyone who might see them, he cupped his hands around her head and kissed her. Her mouth was bruised from his desperate, punishing ardor. Sara winced and murmured softly, trying to gentle him. She wasn’t aware of the exact moment when he returned to himself, but suddenly his skin was warm and his mouth was once again familiar as it moved tenderly over hers.

After a while Derek ended the kiss and laid his cheek against hers, breathing deeply. His fingers traced the moist curve of her face, the fragile juncture between ear and jaw. “When they said you were dead…” He paused while a tremor took hold of him and forced himself to go on. “I thought I was being punished for my past. I knew I wasn’t meant to have you, but I couldn’t stop myself. In my whole life you were what I wanted most. All along I’ve been afraid you’d be taken from me.”

Sara didn’t move or make a sound, but she was amazed. For him to admit he’d been afraid…She would have thought no power on earth or beyond could have elicited such a confession.

“And because of that I tried to protect myself,” he continued raspily. “I didn’t want to give you the one last part of myself that I couldn’t take back. And then you were gone…and I realized it was already yours. It had been since the very beginning. Except that I hadn’t told you. It drove me mad, the thought that you would never know.”

“But I’m not gone. I’m here, and we still have a life together.”

He kissed her cheek, his stubble scratching her tender skin. “I still couldn’t bear to lose you.” Suddenly there was a smile in his voice. “But I won’t let the thought of it keep me from loving you with everything I have…heart, and body…and whatever else I can find to throw into the offer.”

Sara laughed. “Do you actually think you could get rid of me? I’m afraid I’m a permanent part of your life, Mr. Craven…no matter how many ex-mistresses you send after me.”

He didn’t share her amusement. “Tell me what happened.”

She gave him her account of all that had transpired, while Derek grew increasingly tense. His face turned ruddy with anger, and his hands tightened into punishing fists. When she finished the description of her visit with Lord Ashby, Derek dumped her from his lap and stood up with a savage curse.

“What are you doing?” Sara asked, disgruntled, as she picked herself up off the ground.

“I’m going to strangle that gotch-gutted bastard and his bitch of a wife—”

“No, you’re not,” Sara interrupted stubbornly. “Lord Ashby gave his word that he would lock his wife away where she could do no harm to anyone. Let it be, Derek. You can’t go storming off in a temper and create more scandal-fodder just to satisfy your sense of vengeance, and besides…” She paused, seeing that her words were having little effect. With feminine shrewdness, she realized there was only one way to dissuade him. “Besides,” she continued in a softer tone, “I’ve endured all I can for one day. I need a few hours of peace. I need to rest.” It was the truth, actually. Her bones ached from weariness. “Couldn’t you forget the Ashbys for now and take me home?”

Disarmed, his anger overrun by concern, Derek put his arms around her. “Home,” he repeated, knowing she meant the mansion they hadn’t yet spent a night in. “But it isn’t finished yet.”

Sara leaned against him, nuzzling against his chest. “I’m certain we can find a bed somewhere. If not, I’ll be glad to sleep on the floor.”

Derek relented and held her tightly. “All right,” he murmured against her hair. “We’ll go home. We’ll find someplace to sleep.”

“And you’ll stay next to me?”

“Always,” he whispered, kissing her again.