A man leapt into the room, and Becky's breath caught in her throat. She'd expected the running feet to belong to her brother. Garrett wasn't the man who'd burst through the door, though.

Jack.

Tom Wortingham didn't even have a chance to get a good aim at Jack before Jack kicked the gun out of his hands. The gun went flying past Becky's legs and slid under the bed. Wortingham lunged out of the chair as if to retrieve it, but Jack was on him.

It was no contest. In less than five seconds, Jack had him down and was throwing punches at his face. Holding his injured right arm tight against his body, he pounded the other man with his left fist.

Blood flew out in a spray from Wortingham's mouth, and he moaned loudly, now completely defenseless against Jack's onslaught.

Oh, God. Jack was going to kill him.

"No!" Becky leapt toward the two men and grabbed Jack around his waist. He tried to throw her off, but she wouldn't let go. She clung to him, refusing to release him,pulling with all her might until they half rolled off Wortingham. "No, Jack! Please, stop!"

Suddenly, he clutched her shoulder and stared into her face, his light brown eyes wild with rage, with fear. For her, she realized with a jolt. He'd been afraid for her.

"Did he hurt you?" He shook her. "Did he hurt you, Becky?"

"No," she gasped out. "No. He didn't hurt me."

Some of the pressure released from her shoulder, and Jack wrapped his good arm around her and yanked her against him. "Oh, God," he said brokenly. "He had a gun... he might have..."

"No," she soothed, burying her face in the curve of his neck. "No, he didn't touch me."

Tom Wortingham, his face bleeding, was trying to crawl around them, his long arm reaching beneath the bed. Slipping his arm from around Becky, Jack thrust him away. Tom crashed against the chair, and a chair leg snapped as man and furniture went down in a flailing heap.

Jack retrieved the gun. His face took on a grayish hue when he pulled it from underneath the bed.

He turned his gaze to Wortingham. "So this is what you've been threatening me with? My father's pistol?"

Tom struggled to a seated position on the floor. "You know I retrieved it from the alley that night. I meant to hand it in as evidence against you, Jack, but I had enough evidence for a prosecution without it. And it's all I've got now, really." He waved his hand around the tiny, gray room. "You see I haven't got much."

"And you believe that's my fault."

Pressing his fist to his bloodied mouth, Tom stared at Jack, his shoulders shaking. "You're not supposed to be here. You sailed away on the tide. I saw you go."

"I didn't go anywhere." Jack looked at Becky. "The moment I boarded the Gloriana, I knew I couldn't leave England without being sure... I knew he might come after you. I couldn't... leave you."

Before she could respond, he turned back to Tom, rage inflating his shoulders. Tom cowered on the floor, staring at Jack with true fear in his gray eyes.

Becky laid a hand on Jack's arm. "Jack?"

"What is it?"

"I don't want to hurt him."

He sighed, long and low. "Nor do I." His eyes were sad, and weary. Still holding the gun, he pressed his injured arm closer against his chest, wincing as he did so. "I know what we must do."

Chapter Twenty-four.

All three of them looked up at the sound of shouts and footsteps in the corridor. Jack's good hand tightened around the gun. He hoped it wasn't one of Tom's agents. He hoped he wouldn't have to shoot anyone. He didn't even know if he could shoot a gun left-handed.

They all looked through the doorway, past the sagging door, which was now beyond repair.

"It's Garrett," Becky whispered two seconds before her brother burst into the room. Jack lowered his weapon as the duke reeled to a halt, looked from Becky to Tom to Jack.

"What...?"

Becky rushed to him and grabbed his shoulder. "Garrett... is Josie all right? Where is she?"

"She's at home."

Becky released an audible breath of relief. "What happened?"

Still keeping a wary eye on Jack and Tom, the duke explained. "She ran into the house, wheezing for lack of breath, and said you'd been abducted from the street. She followed you and the man-" he narrowed his eyes at Tom, "-him?-as far as this building. She was able to describe exactly where he had brought you. I rode out here immediately. Once I was able to get inside, it wasn't difficult to find you."

Jack shook his head. Tom Wortingham was completely lacking in common sense. He hadn't even considered the fact that a lady would always bring a companion with her when she went for a walk.

"We have this situation under control," he told the duke.

"Fulton." Calton's voice was dry, and his gaze rested on the sling holding up Jack's injured arm, telling Jack he knew exactly how that injury had come to be there. "Thought you were en route to the West Indies."

"No."

The duke's cool gaze slid to Tom. "And you are...?"

A bead of sweat rolled down Tom's cheek. He looked frantically from Jack to Becky, unable to meet the duke's cold eyes, much less answer him.

Jack glanced at Becky, and she gave him a subtle nod. The small gesture of trust flooded him with hope. "This is Tom Wortingham, an old friend of mine. He has unfortunately found himself in desperate circumstances and has been on the verge of taking desperate measures."

Understanding dawned on the Duke of Calton's face. Tom made a strangled noise. Jack's old friend had no idea what he was about to do. He probably thought Jack would throw him to the wolves.

Well, that was exactly what he was going to do. But certainly not in the way Tom expected.

"Fortunately, we have a solution. He needs to get out of London immediately, you see," Jack continued, "and Becky and I have a plan to help him."

"Is this true, Rebecca?" the duke asked.

Becky gave her brother a grave nod.

"However, we are in need of your assistance, Your Grace," Jack said.

The duke's brow creased. "Oh?"

"Yes. The use of a carriage, perhaps? And one or two burly men to ensure Mr. Wortingham arrives safely at Gravesend."

In anticipation of poor weather tonight, Captain Calow planned to anchor the Gloriana at the bottom of the Thames. As soon as the weather promised to hold fair, the captain would haul anchor and be on his way. Calow was a strict disciplinarian, and always in need of more men. He especially enjoyed reforming weaklings into strong, resilient sailors, as he'd done once upon a time with a downtrodden eighteen-year-old Jack Fulton.

Tom would join the crew of the Gloriana. The experience would either kill him or save him from himself. Either way, Tom would be given the choice. If he proved strong enough, he could begin anew.

The duke studied them all. Jack, who met his icy blue gaze head-on. Tom, who shifted from foot to foot and mopped blood and sweat from his face with a dirty linen handkerchief. Last of all, Becky, who didn't speak, but moved to stand at Jack's side in a clear gesture of solidarity.

Tom Wortingham spoke little beyond the necessities. He went without complaint, packing a sheaf of paper and his pen and ink into a sack, along with a shirt, pairof trousers, and nightshirt. They left Wortingham's lodgings together and took a hackney coach back to Mayfair.

They went directly to the stables at Garrett's house and arranged for the carriage and men to escort Wortingham to Gravesend. Garrett retired into the house as one of the men nudged Wortingham inside the carriage. He sat, staring grimly at the rear-facing seat, as the man climbed in beside him and slammed the door shut.

Becky stood at Jack's side at the Curzon Street gate and watched the carriage carrying Tom Wortingham disappear around a bend in the road.

Becky turned to Jack. The streetlamp cast a pale glow over his long, dark coat and the black hat he wore low over his forehead. Yet she knew his eyes were latched on to her. She could feel them.

They gazed at each other, not touching, not saying a word.

It was really Jack, in the flesh. He was here, in London. He hadn't sailed away. His handsome face stared down at her, his eyes dark. For the first time since he'd burst back into her life today, she soaked him in.

He'd come back for her.

Finally, she blurted, "When you were sick... I tried to pay Mr. Wortingham. I sent my servant to London with a letter authorizing the delivery of the funds."

He gazed at her, his lips parted.

"But I didn't know you had only until the fifteenth of December. I was too late. I'm so sorry."

"I am the one who is sorry." His voice, low and smooth, soothed the lump of emotion welling in her throat.

The world narrowed to a tiny capsule of space surrounding them. There were no pedestrians annoyed by them taking up space on the pavement. There were no rattling wheels or clomps of horses' hooves. The city tang of London disappeared to be replaced by Jack's salty, masculine scent.

There was only Jack and her. And Becky never wanted it to be any other way.

"I thought you had gone," she whispered, staring into his deep brown eyes. "Sailed away."

"I couldn't go. Not... not without seeing you one more time. To be sure-" He stopped abruptly.

Becky clenched her fists at her sides. "To be sure of what?"

"To be sure that there was no chance of your forgiving me. No chance for us. To be together."

"I was so angry with you," she said. "I thought I could never forgive you. But... oh, God, I have forgiven you, Jack."

"I'm not the man I was when I first met you."

"I know."

"I love you. So much."

She suddenly felt shy. It was hard to say, to admit to it after so many days of anger and hurt, and guilt. "I love you, too."

Once the words escaped her mouth, she felt light. Lighter than she had in years.

Slowly, a smile curved his wicked, handsome lips. She glanced at his arm, which he held protectively against his torso. "Is your arm-?"

"It is better."

"Did you hurt it when you fought Mr. Wortingham?"

"No."

"I'm so sorry I shot you."

"I was never angry at you for it, Becky."

"I know." She tried to smile, but her lips wobbled, and the expression disintegrated before it could take shape.

Ever so slightly, his face darkened. "I must leave England. I must leave this place-my homeland-forever."

Fear for him flared in her chest. "Every moment you spend here increases your danger." Truly cognizant of their surroundings for the first time, she glanced up and down the street, then to the gate, where one of Garrett's men watched them.

She turned up to the twilight sky, and a snowflake fell on her eyelash, clinging for a second before it melted away. "Look, it's snowing."

He tilted his face upward. "So it is."

She took hold of his good arm. "Come inside with us. It's safe and warm in the house."

This would be Becky's last Christmas in London. And she wanted nothing more than to say a proper good-bye to her family, with Jack at her side.

Becky's family welcomed him into the house warily, but within moments it was as if Jack wasn't a fugitive from the law who'd deceived their beloved sister, who'd tried to swindle them of their money, who'd hurt and betrayed them all. Amazingly, miraculously, they treated him as a member of the family. As a brother.

Becky sent for Lady Devore to join them for Christmas dinner, for the lady possessed no family in London, and Becky wanted to say good-bye. The ever-thoughtful duchess pulled Jack aside to ask after Stratford, and hearing he would be spending the holiday alone, she hastened to send him an invitation as well.

After dinner, the Duke of Calton's family and their guests assembled in the drawing room. The duke and duchess reigned over the proceedings. Lord Westcliff and his wife, Sophie, were there, and Gary, Westcliff's son by his first marriage. Lady Bertrice was present as well, dressed in a green gown reminiscent of the enormous tree that brushed the ceiling. Lady Devore had arrived just before dinner, and Stratford had arrived as they were eating the turkey with sage and onion stuffing and mince pie.

Jack remained at Becky's side as if he were glued there. When she went to the wassail bowl, he followed her and fetched himself a glass as well. When she leaned toward the fire to warm her hands, he did the same. When she looked out the window to gaze out at the streetlamps casting a golden glow over the snow-covered street, he stood beside her. During dinner, at which the whole family was present, even the children, Jack asked Lord Westcliff to change seats with him so he could be near Becky. The viscount had agreed with a smile.

His sitting beside Becky had been against protocol, of course, but Jack had learned by now that this family cared very little for protocol. He rather thought they approved of his desire to sit beside the woman he loved.

After they'd retired to the drawing room, his gaze kept wandering toward the fir tree standing in the center of the room. It was brilliantly lit with tiny tapers and small wrapped gifts tied to all its branches. Becky, noticing his stare, chuckled. "Do you like it?"

"Well, yes, I do." He turned to her. "But... why?"

"When Tristan and Garrett were boys, they spent a Christmas at court. They did not have very happy childhoods, either of them, but that Christmas, Queen Charlotte had a tree erected at Windsor Castle. It was tied all round with strings of almonds and raisins, lit with candles, and each of the children who visited was given one of the toys from its branches. Ever since, Garrett has erected a tree of his own at Christmas, to make the day special for everyone, but most of all, I think, to delight the children as he was once delighted." She grinned. "And I think you are delighted as well."

"I think I am," he said, turning to her. He was delighted. By the tree, by the smell of plum pudding, by the smiles on the faces of the children. But mostly by the fact that Becky was at his side. And she showed no intention-or desire-to leave it.

She wouldn't leave him. Not now. Finally, there were no secrets between them.