LEXANDRA STARED MINDLESSLY at the embroidery frame in her lap, her long fingers still, her heart as dark and bleak as the sky beyond the open curtains at the drawing-room windows. For three days and nights, Jordan had been a stranger to her, a cold, forbidding man who looked at her with icy blatant disinterest or contempt, on those rare occasions when he looked at her at all. It was as if someone else now inhabited his body—someone she did not know, someone she sometimes saw watching her with a expression in his eyes that was so malign it made her shiver.

Not even Uncle Monty's unexpected arrival and bluff presence had any effect on lightening the heavy atmosphere at Hawthorne. He had come to Alexandra's rescue—he explained to her privately after settling into his rooms yesterday and critically surveying the plump bottom of the upstairs maid who was turning down his bed—because he'd heard belatedly in London that "Hawthorne had looked like the wrath of God," when he discovered her wager in the book at White's.

But all of Uncle Monty's dogged, transparently obvious attempts to engage Jordan in friendly conversation yielded nothing but scrupulously courteous, extremely brief responses. And Alexandra's attempts to pretend that was normal and natural fooled no one, including the servants, into believing they were a happily married couple. The entire household, from Higgins the butler to Henry the dog, were vibrantly, nervously aware of the strained atmosphere.

In the oppressive silence of the drawing room, Uncle Monty's hearty voice boomed out like a thunderclap, making Alexandra jump: "I say, Hawthorne, capital weather we're having!" Lifting his white brows in an inquiring expression, hoping for an answer that might lead to further conversation, Uncle Monty waited.

Jordan raised his eyes from the book he was reading and replied, "Indeed."

"Not a bit wet," Uncle Monty persevered, his cheeks rosy from the wine he'd imbibed.

"Not wet at all," agreed Jordan, his face and voice devoid of expression.

Unnerved but undaunted, Uncle Monty said, "Warm, too. Good weather for crops."

"Is it?" Jordan replied in a tone that positively discouraged any additional attempt at conversation.

"Er… quite," Uncle Monty replied, retreating farther back in his chair and shooting Alexandra a desperate look.

"Do you have the time?" Alexandra asked, longing to retire.

Jordan looked up at her and said with deliberate cruelty, "No."

"Ought to have a watch, Hawthorne," Uncle Monty suggested, as if he thought the idea a wonderfully original one. "They're the very thing to keep abreast of the time!"

Alexandra quickly averted her face to hide her hurt that Jordan had for the second time accepted her grandfather's watch and then cast it aside.

"It's eleven o'clock," Uncle Monty provided helpfully, pointing to his own watch and chain. "I always wear a watch," he boasted. "Never need to wonder about the hour. Wondrous things, watches," he rhapsodized. "One can't help conjecturing about how they work, can one?"

Jordan slammed his book shut. "Yes," he said bluntly, "one can."

Having failed utterly in his attempt to draw the duke into an animated discussion about watchmaking, Uncle Monty sent another pleading look to Alexandra, but it was Sir Henry who responded. The huge English sheepdog, while utterly nonchalant about his duty to protect people, was deeply cognizant of his duty to console them, lavish them with affection, and generally be underfoot in case they had need of his attention. Seeing the unhappy expression on Sir Montague's face, he roused himself from the hearth and trotted over to the distressed knight, whereupon he delivered two extremely wet licks to his hand. "Ye gods!" burst out Uncle Monty, leaping to his feet with more energy than he'd displayed in a quarter century and vigorously wiping the back of his hand against his trousers. "That animal has a tongue like a wet mop!"

Offended, Sir Henry cast a mournful look upon his disgruntled victim, then turned and flopped down on the hearth.

"If you don't mind, I think I'll retire," Alexandra said, unable to bear the atmosphere another moment.

"Is everything in readiness at the grove, Filbert?" Alexandra asked the next afternoon, when her faithful old footman answered her summons and appeared in her bedchamber.

"It is," the footman announced bitterly. "Not that yer husband deserves a birthday party. After the way 'e's been treatin' ye, 'e deserves a kick in the arse!"

Alexandra tucked a wayward curl beneath the brim of her sky-blue bonnet and did not argue the issue. She'd conceived the idea for a surprise party in honor of Jordan's birthday the day they'd strolled out to the pavilion—the happiest day of what was apparently a short-lived period of bliss.

After days of enduring Jordan's frigid, unexplainable disdain, her face was pale, and she was forever on the verge of tears. Her chest ached from holding them back, and her heart ached because she couldn't find a reason for Jordan's behavior. But as the hour for her surprise approached, she couldn't quell the burgeoning hope that perhaps when Jordan saw what she had planned with Tony and Melanie's help, he might either become the man he had been when they were together at the stream, or at least tell her what was bothering him.

"The whole staffs talkin' bout the way he's actin' t' ye," Filbert continued angrily. "Hardly speakin' t' ye and lockin' himself away in his study night and day, never doin' his husbandly—"

"Filbert, please!" Alexandra cried. "Don't spoil today for me with all that."

Contrite, but still determined to vent his spleen against the man who was causing the dark shadows beneath Alexandra's eyes, Filbert said, "Don't need to spoil it fer ye, he'll do that if'n he can. Surprised he even agreed to go wit ye to the grove when you tolt him you had somethin' to show 'im."

"So was I," Alexandra said with an attempt at a smile that immediately became a puzzled little frown. She had confronted Jordan in his study this morning when he was meeting with Fawkes, the new assistant bailiff, and she had fully expected to have to plead with him to accompany her for a carriage ride. At first, Jordan started to refuse her request, but then he hesitated, glanced at the bailiff, and then abruptly agreed.

"Everything is in readiness," Fawkes was assuring Jordan in the master bedchamber. "My men are stationed in the trees along the route to the grove and around the grove itself. They've been there for three hours—since twenty minutes after your wife suggested your little jaunt. I instructed my men to remain there, out of sight, until the assassin or assassins reveal themselves. Since they can't leave their positions without being seen, they can't report back to me, and I don't know what they're seeing. God knows why your cousin chose the grove instead of a cottage or somewhere more private."

"I do not believe this is happening," Jordan bit out, shrugging into a fresh shirt. He stopped, momentarily struck by the absurdity of putting on a fresh shirt so that he would look nice when his wife led him into a trap meant to kill him.

"It's happening," Fawkes said with the deadly calm of a seasoned soldier. "And it's a trap. I could tell it from the sound of your wife's voice and the look in her eyes when she asked you to ride out with her this afternoon. She was nervous and she was lying. I watched her eyes. Eyes don't lie."

Jordan regarded the investigator with bitter derision, remembering how deceptively, radiantly innocent Alexandra's eyes had once seemed to him. "That's a myth," he said contemptuously. "A myth I used to believe."

The note we intercepted from Lord Townsende an hour ago is no myth," Fawkes reminded Jordan with quiet conviction. "They're so confident we're ignorant of their plans that they're becoming careless."

At the mention of Tony's note, Jordan's face became as expressionless as a stone mask. As instructed, Higgins had brought Tony's note to Jordan before carrying it up to Alexandra, and the words seared into Jordan's brain:

Everything is ready at the grove. All you have to do is get him there.

An hour ago, the pain of reading that had nearly sent him to his knees, but now he felt—nothing. He was past the point of feeling anything, even a sense of betrayal or fear as he prepared to face his own beloved assassins. Now all he wanted was to have the thing over with, so he could somehow begin blotting Alexandra out of his heart and mind.

Last night he had lain awake in his bed, fighting the stupid urge to go to her and hold her, to give her money and warn her to flee—for whether or not she and Tony succeeded in killing him today, Fawkes already had enough evidence to ensure that she and Tony would spend the rest of their lives in a dungeon. The image of Alexandra clad in filthy rags, living out her life in a dark, rat-infested cell, was almost more than Jordan could bear, even now—when he was about to become her target in open country.

Alexandra was waiting for him in the hallway, looking as bright and innocent as spring in a blue muslin gown trimmed with wide cream ribbon at the full sleeves and hem. She turned and watched him walk down the staircase, her smile bright and eager. She was smiling, Jordan realized with a nearly uncontrollable surge of fury, because his beautiful young wife intended to rid herself of him for good.

"Ready to go?" she asked brightly.

Wordlessly he nodded, and they walked out to the carriage that was waiting for them in the drive.

Beneath the fringe of her lashes, Alexandra stole another sideways peek at Jordan's profile as their carriage swayed gently down the path through the trees that would soon open up into a wide, lush field that bordered the orchards. Despite Jordan's outwardly relaxed pose as he lounged back against the squabs, his hands light on the horses' reins, she saw his gaze move restlessly over the trees bordering the path—as if he were watching for something, waiting for it.

In fact, she had just started to wonder if he had somehow found out about her "surprise" and was expecting the revelers to burst out of the trees, when their carriage broke into the field, and Jordan's open shock at the spectacle that greeted him removed any possibility that he was forewarned.

"What the—?" Jordan breathed in amazement as he gazed at the incredible sight before him: Colorful banners were waving in the breeze, and all his tenants and their children were gathered in the fields, dressed in their best clothing, grinning at him. Off to his left, he saw Tony, his mother, and his brother standing with Jordan's grandmother. Melanie and John Camden had come with Roddy Carstairs and a half-dozen other Londoners of Jordan's acquaintance. On his right, at the far side of the clearing, a large raised platform had been set up, with two thronelike chairs and a half-dozen other, less elaborate chairs upon it A canopy stretched above the platform, protecting it from the sun, and the Hawthorne pennants were flying from poles atop the canopy, displaying the Hawthorne crest—a hawk with its wings outspread.

Jordan's carriage moved toward the center of the field, and four enthusiastic trumpeters officially announced their duke's arrival—as arranged—with loud, emphatic blasts upon their horns, followed by a prolonged cheer that went up from the crowd.

Drawing the horses up short, Jordan turned sharply to Alexandra. "What is this all about?" he demanded.

The eyes she raised to his were full of love and uncertainty and hope. "Happy birthday," she said tenderly.

Jordan simply looked at her, his jaw tight, and said absolutely nothing. Smiling uncertainly, she explained, "It's a Morsham-style celebration, only more elaborate than the ones we used to have to celebrate birthdays." When he continued to stare at her, she laid her hand on his arm and explained eagerly, "It's a combination tournament and country fair—to celebrate the birthday of a duke. And to help you get to know your tenants a little, too."

Jordan looked around at the crowd in angry bewilderment. Could this whole elaborate setting actually be a backdrop for murder? he wondered. Was his wife an angel or a she-devil? Before the day was out, he would know. Turning, he helped her down from the carriage. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Well let's see," she said brightly, trying not to let him see how foolish she felt or how hurt "Do you see the livestock in the pens?"

Jordan glanced around at the half-dozen pens scattered about the field. "Yes."

"Well, the livestock belongs to your cottagers, and you're to select the best from each pen, and to give the owner a prize from the ones I've purchased in the village. Over there, where the ropes created lanes, there'll be a jousting contest, and over there—where the target is—an archery contest, and—"

"I think I have the gist of it," Jordan interrupted shortly.

"It would also be rather nice if you'd compete in some of the contests," Alexandra added a little hesitantly, not certain how willing her husband might be to mingle with his inferiors.

"Fine," he said, and without another word he escorted her to her chair on the platform and left her there.

After greeting his friends from London, he, Lord Camden, and Tony helped themselves to some of the ale the cottagers were already enjoying and began strolling around the fairgrounds, pausing to watch the squire's fourteen-year-old perform as an amateur juggler.

"So, my dear," Roddy Carstairs said, leaning toward her, "is he madly in love with you yet? Shall I win our wagers?"

"Behave yourself, Roddy," Melanie said from beside Alexandra.

"Do not dare to mention that dreadful wager in my presence!" snapped the dowager duchess.

Eager to watch Jordan from closer range, Alexandra stepped down from her chair and descended the steps from the platform, with Melanie right behind her. "It isn't that I'm not pleased to see him, but why is Roddy here? And the others?"

Melanie chuckled. "The others came with him for the same reason. Roddy is here. Our proximity to Hawthorne is suddenly making us quite popular with people who would normally not set foot in the country for weeks yet—they arrived yesterday, determined to have a look at how things were going with you and the duke. You know Roddy—he prides himself on knowing the gossip before everyone else does. I've missed you so much," Melanie added, abruptly giving Alexandra a swift, affectionate hug, then she stood back, studying Alexandra's face. "Are you happy with him?"

"I—yes," Alexandra lied.

"I knew it!" Melanie said, squeezing Alexandra's hand, so delighted that her prophecy was coming true that Alexandra didn't have the heart to explain that she was married to a man whose moods were so unpredictable that she felt sometimes as if she were going quite mad. And so she held her silence and watched with bittersweet yearning as Jordan strolled around the livestock pens with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression suitably grave as he solemnly judged the plumpest poultry, the most promising pig, the best-trained dog, handing out prizes to their awed owners.

By the time the sun began to sink beneath the treetops, and the torches had been lit, the tenants and the nobles alike were all in rare high spirits, laughing and drinking ale together, while competing in every sort of contest from the serious to the silly. Jordan, Lord Camden, and even Roddy Carstairs, had joined in the archery contests, jousts, fencing and shooting matches. With quiet pride, Alexandra had stood on the sidelines, her heart swelling with tenderness while she watched Jordan deliberately miss his last shot in a shooting contest so that the thirteen-year-old son of one of his tenants would win. "The award goes to the best man," Jordan had declared untruthfully as he presented the awed youngster with a gold sovereign. Then he threw off all pretense of dignity by strolling over to the turtle races, choosing a turtle from the basket, and insisting that his friends do the same. But he never once turned to glance at Alexandra. It was as if he was exerting himself to participate solely for the sake of his guests. Side by side with the children, three of London's most illustrious nobles stood at the starting line, cheering their individual entrants, extolling them to run faster and then calling out in disgust when the turtles ignored their royal commands and retreated beneath their shells.

"I never liked turtles except in soup," Tony joked, nudging John Camden in the ribs, "but that turtle of mine showed some mettle there for a moment. I'll wager a pound yours stays under his shell longer than mine."

"Done!" John Camden agreed unhesitatingly and began extolling his laggard turtle to remove his head from his shell.

Jordan watched them, his expression closed, and then he turned and walked over to a table where mugs of ale were being served by some of his kitchen maids.

"What the devil's gotten into your illustrious cousin?" Roddy Carstairs inquired of Tony. "When the two of you were fencing, he looked like he was trying to draw your blood. Can it be he's still jealous because his wife nearly married you?"

Deliberately keeping his attention on his turtle, Tony shrugged lightly. "What gives you the idea Hawk was ever jealous?"

"My dear boy, don't forget I was at the Lindworthy ball the night he swooped down upon us like an avenging angel and ordered Alex home."

"Because of that outrageous wager which you coerced her into placing," Tony shot back, and pointedly turned all his attention to his turtle.

Helping himself to another glass of ale from the table, Jordan propped his shoulder against a tree, his expression thoughtful as he stood at the perimeter of the woods, watching Alexandra as her gaze searched the crowd, obviously looking for him. She'd been watching him all night, Jordan knew. So had Tony. And both of them were wearing the same baffled, uneasy expressions as if they expected him to be more overjoyed with his birthday celebration.

His gaze returned to Alexandra and he saw her laugh at something his grandmother said. He could almost hear the music of her laughter, and even in the encroaching dark he could almost see the way her eyes lit when she laughed. His wife. A murderess. Even as he thought it, his heart screamed a protest that his mind could no longer override. "I don't believe it!" he bit out in a soft, furious whisper. The girl who had planned all this could not be planning his murder. The girl who had held him to her in the night, and teased him while they fished at the stream, and shyly presented him with her grandfather's treasured watch could not possibly be trying to murder him.

"Your grace?" Fawkes' urgent voice stopped Jordan as he straightened, intending to walk over to the shooting contests, which had become more humorous than intense as the contestants squinted through ale-blurred eyes at the target nailed to a tree. "I must insist you leave at once," Fawkes whispered, falling into step beside Jordan.

"Don't be a fool," Jordan snapped, completely out of patience with Fawkes and his theories. "The meaning behind my cousin's note is obvious—they'd planned this party for me together, and that is undoubtedly why they met in secret those two times."

"There isn't time to argue about all that," Fawkes said angrily. "It will be dark in a few more minutes and my men aren't owls. They can't see in the dark. I've sent them ahead to position themselves along your route home."

"Since it's already too late to reach the house in daylight, I fail to see what difference it makes if I stay here for a while."

"I cannot be responsible for what happens if you don't leave here at once," Fawkes warned before he turned on his heel and stalked off.

"Can you believe those grown men are actually cheering their turtles on to victory?" Melanie chuckled, watching Tony and her husband. "I suppose I ought to go and remind them of the decorum required of men in their exalted positions," she said, and carefully descended from the platform with no such intention in mind. "Actually, I want to be there to see the winner cross the line," she confessed with a wink.

Alexandra nodded absently, scanning the open, cheerful faces of the cottagers, her gaze stopping on one disturbingly familiar face that wasn't cheerful at all. Suddenly, for no reason at all, she found herself recalling the night she met Jordan—a balmy night just like this one—when two cutthroats held Jordan at gunpoint.

"Grandmama," she said, turning to the duchess. "Who is that short man over there in the black shirt—the one with the red kerchief around his neck?"

The duchess followed her gaze and shrugged. "I'm sure I wouldn't have the vaguest idea who he is," she declared primly. "I've seen more of these cottagers today than I have in the entire thirty years I lived at Hawthorne. Not," she added a trifle reluctantly, "that I don't think your party was an excellent idea, my dear. Things have changed in England of late, and though I regret the necessity for pandering to those who serve us, it's wise for a landholder to be on good terms with his tenants these days. One hears talk of them demanding more and more and turning quite nasty…"

Alexandra's attention wandered, her mind returning to her dismal preoccupation with the night she met Jordan. Nervously, she glanced around the open field, looking for the man in the black shirt, who seemed to have vanished. A few minutes later, without realizing what she was doing, she began taking inventory of those she loved, watching to make certain they were safely within sight. She looked for Tony and could not see him, then she anxiously sought out Jordan and saw him standing at the perimeter of the woods, his shoulder propped casually against a tree, drinking ale and watching the festivities.

Jordan saw her looking at him, and he nodded slightly. The sweet tentative smile she sent him made him ache with uncertainty and regret. He raised his glass to her in a silent, sardonic toast, then froze at the sound of a vaguely familiar voice in the darkness beside him. "There's a gun pointing straight at yer head, milord, and another one pointing at yer wife over yonder. Make one sound and my partner will blow her head off. Now, move sideways toward the sound of my voice, right here in the woods."

Jordan tensed and slowly lowered the mug of ale. Relief, not fear, surged through his bloodstream as he turned toward the voice; he was ready for this long-awaited confrontation with his unknown enemy—eager for it. Not for an instant did he believe Alexandra was in any danger, that had merely been a ploy to make him obey.

Two paces brought him into the enfolding darkness of the dense woods, and another pace ahead he saw the deadly gleam of a pistol. "Where are we going?" he asked the shadow holding the gun.

"To a cozy little cottage down this path. Now get in front of me and start walkin'."

His body coiled like a tight spring now, Jordan moved another step forward onto the path, his right hand tightening on the heavy mug of ale. "What shall I do with this?" he inquired with feigned meekness, turning slightly and lifting his right hand.

The bandit glanced at the object in his hand for a split second, but that was all Jordan needed. He flung the contents of the mug in the startled bandit's eyes and simultaneously swung the heavy drinking vessel, bringing it crashing against his assailant's jaw and temple with a force that sent the surprised villain to his knees. Bending down, Jordan snatched the thug's gun from the ground, grabbed the stunned man's shoulders, and yanked him to his feet. "Start walking, you son of a bitch! We're going to take that little stroll you wanted."

The thug swayed slightly and Jordan gave him an impatient shove that sent him staggering down the path, with Jordan behind him. Reaching into his own pocket, Jordan felt for the small pistol he'd been carrying since he returned to England. Realizing that it must have fallen out of his coat when he bent over his captive, he tightened his grip on its replacement and followed his unfortunate prisoner down the path.

Five minutes later the dark shape of the old woodsman's cottage loomed up at the end of the path. "How many are inside?" Jordan demanded, even though there was no light showing through the slats of the closed shutters to indicate anyone was there, waiting.

"No one's there," the bandit grunted, then he gasped as he felt the cold kiss of the pistol's muzzle pressing against the back of his skull. "One or two. I don't know," he amended quickly.

Jordan's voice was as cold as death. "When we get to the door, tell them you've got me and to light a lamp. Say anything else, and I'll blow your head off." For emphasis, he shoved the pistol's muzzle harder against the frightened man's skull.

"Right!" he gasped, stumbling slightly as he rushed up the steps in his haste to escape the touch of the gun. "I've got him!" he called out in a low, frightened voice as he kicked at the door with his foot. It swung open on rusty, squeaking hinges. "Light a damn lamp, it's black as pitch in here," he added obediently, standing in the doorway.

There was the sound of tinder being struck, a shadow bent toward a lantern, light flickered— In one swift motion, Jordan struck his captive's skull with the butt of his pistol and sent him sprawling to the floor, unconscious, then he straightened his arm, leveling his pistol at the stunned figure bending over the flaring lantern.

The face staring back at him in the lantern's glow nearly sent him to his knees with shock and pain.

"Jordan!" his aunt said wildly. Her gaze flew toward the far corner and Jordan instinctively spun, crouching, and fired. Blood spurted from the chest of his aunt's other hired assassin, who clutched frantically at his wound and toppled to the floor, a gun dangling uselessly from his limp hand.

Jordan spared the man only a brief glance to ensure that he was dead, then he turned his head and looked at the woman he had loved better than his own mother until one minute ago. And he felt… nothing. A cold, hard core of empty nothingness was growing inside him, strangling every other emotion he'd ever felt, leaving him incapable of feeling anything—even anger. His voice devoid of all expression, he asked simply, "Why?"

His quiet, polite calm so unnerved his aunt that she stammered, "W-why are we going to k-kill you, you mean?"

The word "we" brought his head up sharply. Going swiftly to the dead man in the corner, he snatched the loaded gun from his hand and discarded the empty one he'd been holding. With the loaded gun ruthlessly trained on the woman he had once adored, Jordan walked to the doorway that opened off the room they were standing in and glanced into what appeared to be a small bedchamber. It was empty and yet his aunt still seemed to think he was going to be killed and, moreover, she had specifically said "we."

And then it dawned on him who she was probably waiting for, and he felt the first sparks of fury begin to ignite inside him: His cousin and possibly his wife were apparently expected here to see that he was properly finished off this time.

Walking back into the main room, he said in a cold, deadly voice, "Since you're obviously expecting reinforcements, why don't we both sit down and await their arrival."

Doubt and panic flickered in her eyes, and she sank slowly onto the crude wooden chair beside the table. With exaggerated courtesy, Jordan waited until she was seated before he casually perched his hip upon the table and waited, facing the closed door. "Now," he invited silkily, "suppose you answer some questions—quickly and briefly. The night I was waylaid outside Morsham was no random accident, was it?"

"I—I don't know what you mean."

Jordan glanced at the familiar face of the unconscious thug who had waylaid him that night and then at his aunt. Without a word, he lifted the gun he was holding in his crossed arms and pointed it at the terrified woman. "The truth, madam."

"It wasn't an accident!" she cried, her eyes riveted on the menacing pistol.

The gun lowered. "Go on."

"N-neither was your impressment, although you weren't supposed to be impressed, you were supposed to die, except you're—you're so very hard to kill!" she added in a tone of anguished accusation. "You always had the devil's own luck. You—with your money and your titles, and your strong, healthy legs, while poor Bertie is a cripple and my Tony a virtual pauper!"

Tears began spilling from her eyes and she whimpered furiously, "You had everything, including luck. You can't even be poisoned!" she cried, her shoulders shaking. "And we couldn't a-afford to hire more competent people to kill you, because you have all the money."

"How very thoughtless of me," Jordan drawled with bitter sarcasm. "Why didn't you simply ask me for money. I'd have given it to you, you know, had I dreamed you needed it. Not," he amended caustically, "to have me killed, however."

"Grandmama," Alexandra said a little desperately, "do you see Jordan anywhere? Or—or that man with the black shirt and red kerchief around his neck?"

"Alexandra, for goodness' sake," the duchess said in exasperation, "why are you constantly fidgeting and asking me to look about for people? Hawthorne is somewhere nearby, you may be sure of that. He was there by that tree, drinking a mug of that dreadful potion, but a moment ago."

Alexandra apologized, tried to sit still and remain calm, but a few minutes later she could no longer quell the unexplainable, rising panic she felt.

"Where are you going, dear?" the duchess asked when Alexandra abruptly arose and shook out her skirts.

"To look for my husband." With a rueful little laugh, Alexandra admitted, "I suppose I'm afraid he'll disappear again, the way he did a year ago. Silly of me, I know."

"Then you do care for him, don't you, child?" the duchess said fondly.

Alexandra nodded, too uneasy about Jordan's whereabouts to try to salvage her pride with a noncommittal answer. Her gaze shifted restlessly over the crowd as she picked up her skirts and began walking toward the place where she had last seen him. Tony was nowhere to be seen, but Melanie and John Camden were walking toward her, arm in arm.

"Wonderful party, Alexandra," John Camden admitted with an abashed grin. "I've never had as good a time at the fanciest affairs in the city."

"Thank you. H-have you seen my husband anywhere? Or Tony?"

"Not in the last fifteen minutes. Shall I look for them?"

"Yes please," Alexandra said, raking her hand through her hair. "I'm really in a sorry state tonight," she admitted, by way of an embarrassed apology. "I keep imagining things—earlier today I actually thought I saw a man up in one of the trees over there. And now Jordan seems to have vanished."

John Camden smiled and spoke in the soothing voice one might use with an overwrought child. "We were all together but a few minutes ago. I'll find them and send them to you."

Alexandra thanked him and hurried off toward the table where heavy pewter mugs of ale were being served. Passing it, she nodded at one of the scullery maids, and then walked over to the tree where Jordan had been standing. With a last glance at the milling partygoers in the clearing, she turned toward the woods and hesitantly began walking down the narrow path. Telling herself she was being fanciful and silly, she stopped after a few paces and looked about her, listening intently, but the sounds of laughter and fiddles from the clearing behind her drowned out the forest noises, and the thick branches overhead blotted out all the light, making her feel as if she were standing in an eerie void that contained only noise but no life.

"Jordan?" she called. When there was no answer, she bit her lip, her forehead furrowed into a worried frown. Intending to go back to the clearing, she started to turn, and it was then she saw the tankard lying in the path at her feet.

"Oh my God!" she whispered, snatching up the tankard and turning it over. A few drops of ale poured out of it. Wildly, she looked about her, expecting—hoping—to see Jordan lying in the path, perhaps passed out from too much drink, as Uncle Monty had occasionally done. Instead, she saw a small gleaming pistol on the side of the path.

Snatching it up, Alexandra whirled around and let out a stifled scream as she collided with a hard masculine body. "Tony! Thank God it's you," she cried.

"What the devil's wrong?" Tony said, gripping her shoulders hard in his anxiety as he steadied her. "Camden said Jordan's vanished and you saw a man hiding in the trees."

"I found Jordan's tankard of ale right here and a gun on the ground near it," Alexandra said, her voice and body trembling with terror. "And I saw a man I think was the same one who was trying to kill Jordan the night we met."

"Go back to the clearing and stay in the light!" Anthony said sharply. Snatching the gun from her hand, he turned and ran down the path, vanishing into the deep woods.

Stumbling over a thick root growing across the path, Alexandra raced back to the clearing, intending to get help rather than find safety. Wildly, she looked around for Roddy or John Camden, and seeing neither she ran straight toward one of the cottagers who had taken a brief respite from the shooting contest and was staggering toward the ale table in the same state of cheerful inebriation as the rest of his fellows. "Yer grace!" the man gasped, snatching off his cap and starting to execute a bow.

"Give me your gun!" Alexandra demanded breathlessly, and without waiting for him to hand it over, she snatched it out of the stunned man's hand. "Is it loaded?" she called over her shoulder, already racing toward the path.

"Shore is."

His breath labored from a long sprint down the path to the forester's cottage, Tony put his ear to the door, listening for sounds. Hearing none, he cautiously tried the latch, and when it stuck he reared back two paces and rammed his shoulder against the door with enough extra force to send it flying wide open. Off balance because the door had opened so easily, he staggered into the cabin, stumbled, and stopped short, his mouth falling open in shock. His mother was seated stiffly upon a chair in front of him. And beside her, sitting on the table, was Jordan. In his hand, Jordan was holding a gun.

It was pointing straight at Tony's heart.

"W-what the hell is going on?" Tony burst out, panting

Tony's arrival demolished the last slender hope Jordan had clung to that Alexandra and his cousin had not conspired to end his life at this party. In a soft voice of deadly menace, he said to Tony, "Welcome to my party, cousin. I believe we're still expecting another guest this evening to make the party complete, aren't we, Tony? My wife?" Before Tony could answer, Jordan added, "Don't be impatient—she's bound to come looking for you, thinking I've been safely disposed of, won't she? I'm sure of it." His silken drawl suddenly became clipped. "There's a bulge in your pocket which is undoubtedly a gun. Take off your coat and throw it on the floor."

"Jordan—"

"Do it!" Jordan bit out savagely, and Tony slowly obeyed.

When Tony had dropped his coat on the floor, the point of Jordan's gun shifted slightly to the left, indicating the chair lying on its side by the shuttered window. "Sit down. And if you move an inch," he warned with frightening calm, "I'll kill you."

"You're mad!" Anthony whispered. "You must be. Jordan, for God's sake, tell me what the hell is going on."

"Shut up!" Jordan snapped, his head tipped toward the sound of footsteps on the cabin step. More than anyone, his rage was directed at the girl he had been obsessed with for over a year—the scheming liar who had made him believe she loved him, the little bitch who had lain in his arms and surrendered her eager body to him; the beautiful, laughing, unforgettable barefoot girl who had made him believe that heaven was a stream with a picnic blanket beside it. And now, he thought, with a wrath he could barely contain, she was about to fall into his clutches.

The door creaked open, slowly, a few inches; a familiar lock of mahogany hair peeked through the opening, then a pair of blue eyes that widened like saucers as her gaze riveted on the gun in his hand.

"Don't be shy, darling," Jordan said in a voice so low it was a deadly whisper. "Come inside. We've been waiting for you."

Expelling her breath on a rush of relief, Alexandra pushed the door wide open, stared at the fallen thug, then rushed forward as Jordan stood up. Tears of fright streaming down her face, she wrapped her arms around him, the gun in her hand forgotten. "I knew it was him—I knew it! I—"

She cried out in surprised pain as Jordan wrapped his hand in her hair and viciously yanked her head back. His face only inches from hers, he bit out, "Of course you knew it was him, you murderous little bitch!" and with a cruel jerk of his wrist, he flung her sprawling onto the floor, her hip landing painfully on the gun in her hand.

For a moment, Alexandra simply sat there, staring at him through fear-widened eyes, unable to assimilate what was happening.

"Are you afraid, sweetheart?" he jeered smoothly. "You should be. Where you're going, there are no windows, no lovely gowns, no men—other than a few jailers who'll avail themselves of your delectable little body until it becomes too gaunt to interest them. Hopefully, it will hold their interest longer than it held mine," he added with deliberate cruelty.

"Don't look so surprised," he said, misinterpreting the reason for her shock. "I've bedded you because it was necessary to keep up the sham of the unsuspecting husband—not because I wanted you," he lied, feeling an almost uncontrollable urge to murder her for her treachery.

"Jordan, why are you doing this?" Alexandra cried, then recoiled in terror from the blaze in his eyes when she called him by his given name.

"I want answers, not questions," Jordan snapped. Estimating that it might be another ten minutes before Fawkes realized he was missing and last seen heading in this direction, Jordan relaxed against the table again, his weight braced on one foot, the other swinging idly as he turned toward Tony. "While we're waiting," he invited smoothly, pointing the gun at him, "suppose you fill in some details for me. What else has been poisoned in my house?"

Tony's eyes lifted from the gun in Jordan's hand to his relentless features. "You're mad, Jordan."

"I wouldn't mind killing you," Jordan said thoughtfully, raising the gun higher as if he was about to do it

"Wait!" his aunt screamed, casting desperate glances at the empty doorway and beginning to babble. "Don't hurt Tony! H-he can't answer because he d-doesn't know about the poison."

"And I suppose my wife knows nothing about it either," Jordan inserted sarcastically. "Do you, my dear?" he asked, the barrel of the gun shifting toward Alexandra.

Disbelief and fury drove Alexandra slowly to her feet, clutching her gun in the folds of her skirts. "You think we've been trying to poison you?" she breathed, staring at him as if he had kicked her in the stomach.

"I know you have," he countered, enjoying the anguish he saw in her eyes.

"Actually—" Bertie Townsende drawled from the doorway, his gun pointing straight at Jordan's head, "you're wrong. As my hysterical mother is undoubtedly about to confess, I'm the one who conceived these effective—admittedly, not successful—plots to rid us of you. Tony hasn't the stomach for murder, and since I have the brains of the family, if not the legs, I've handled the planning and the details. You look surprised, cousin. Like everyone else, you assume a cripple can't pose a significant threat to anyone, don't you? Drop your gun, Jordan. I have to kill you anyway, but if you don't drop it, I'll kill your charming wife first, while you watch."

His body coiled like a tight spring, Jordan tossed his gun down and slowly came to his feet, but Alexandra suddenly sidled up against him as if she mistakenly believed there was safety there. "Move away!" he snapped under his breath, but she clasped his hand in an outward display of terror and simultaneously pressed a pistol into his palm.

"You'll have to kill me, too, Bertie," Tony said softly, standing up and starting forward.

"I suppose so," his brother agreed without hesitation. "I intended to eventually, anyway."

"Bertie!" his mother cried. "No! That's not what we planned—"

Alexandra's gaze riveted on the man on the floor, she saw him slide his arm toward Tony's coat and, behind him, another man stepping into the doorway, slowly raising a gun. "Jordan!" she screamed, and because there was no other way to protect him from three assailants, Alexandra threw herself in front of him at the exact moment two guns discharged.

Jordan's arms automatically clasped her to him as Bertie Townsende collapsed, shot by Fawkes from the doorway, and the bandit on the floor rolled over, clutching the wound in his arm inflicted by Jordan's gun. It happened so fast that it took a moment before Jordan realized that Alexandra was suddenly very heavy, a dead weight sliding down his body. Tightening his arms, he tipped his chin, intending to tease her about fainting aftereverything was over, but what he saw struck stark terror in his heart: Her head had fallen back, lolling limply on her shoulders, and blood was streaming from a wound at her temple. "Get a doctor!" he shouted at Tony, and lowered her to the floor.

His heart hammering with fear, he knelt beside her, ripped off his shirt, and tore it into strips, binding the ugly wound in her head. Before he'd half finished, blood had already soaked and spread around and through the white linen, and her color was rapidly turning an ashen grey.

"Oh my God!" he whispered. "Oh my God!" He had seen men die in battle countless times; he knew the signs of a hopelessly fatal wound, and even while his mind was recognizing that she would not live, Jordan was snatching her into his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he ran down the path, his heart hammering in frantic rhythm with the refrain pounding in his heart: Don't die… don't die … Don't die…

His chest heaving with exertion, Jordan burst into the clearing, carrying his limp, beloved burden. Oblivious to the stricken faces of the cottagers, who stood in quiet, watchful groups, Jordan laid her gently in the carriage Tony had evidently told someone to pull up at the edge of the woods.

An old woman, a midwife, took one look at the bloody bandage around Alexandra's head and the deathly pallor of her skin and, as Jordan raced around to climb into the seat, she quickly felt for Alexandra's pulse. When she turned back to the cottagers gathered around the carriage, she sadly shook her head.

The women whom Alexandra had helped and befriended a year ago gazed lovingly at her still form in the carriage and, as Jordan drove off, the soft sounds of weeping began to fill the clearing. Only ten minutes before, it had rung with the gaiety she had brought to them.