"Well, there we shall have to disagree, because if she hadn't, I would never have found you again."

She stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"I would have thought it was perfectly obvious."

"You can't still be thinking of marrying me," she told him. "I'm a fallen woman!"

"What rubbish, of course you're not. And of course I'm still going to marry you."

"Even though I've had a baby?"

"Yes. I want you to have babies. I want a family."

"But what about Torie?"

"We'll start looking for her as soon as we get to London."

"I won't give her up."

He frowned. "I wouldn't ask you to."

"But she's a-you know-illegitimate. Most men would never even think of taking a child like that into their home."

"I'm not most men. She'll live with us, of course."

She stared at him, unable to think of a thing to say. Her mouth wobbled. Tears slowly filled her eyes and fell, unchecked.

He pulled out a handkerchief and started drying her cheeks. "In my experience it makes no difference if you are or if you aren't illegitimate. My brother Gabe was born in wedlock. His father got some maggot into his head, decided Gabe wasn't his son, and refused to have him in the house. Gabe grew up the spitting image of him. Made no difference. Father never relented. Called him a bastard till the day he died."

"That's terrible," she whispered in a choked voice.

"I was born to the same father, but my mother was a maidservant. As soon as she discovered she was pregnant, he married her off to the the village blacksmith and I was born in wedlock. Legally legitimate. But you know what people call me."

He finished drying her tears and held the handkerchief to her nose. "Blow" he said, and like a small child she blew. She was exhausted.

He put the handkerchief away, then said, "Now that we've got that all cleared up, you'd better go upstairs.

Wash your face and take a nice long nap. I'll wake you for luncheon and we'll leave for London after that."

She stared at him unable to take in such generosity of spirit. "I don't understand; why would you want someone like me when you could have your pick of fresh young girls with no stain on their past?"

"You haven't worked it out yet?"

She shook her head, mystified.

"Because of this," he said and kissed her.

It wasn't the kind of burning kiss of before; it was just a simple kiss, tender and gentle. A promise, an affirmation. And it moved her unbearably.

Harry released her and stepped back. They had their lives to organize. He rang the bell and sent for his aunt's housekeeper to usher Nell upstairs. He hoped she would take his advice about napping. She looked exhausted. He was partially responsible for that but at least now he could ensure she was properly taken care of instead of being run ragged.

Two bloody months!

He forced himself to focus on the task in hand: there was much to do if they were to leave for London today. Normally he would ride, but for this trip he'd hire a post chaise for himself and Nell. He wanted a little privacy. His aunt would follow in her own traveling carriage with her dresser, Bragge. She wouldn't mind.

But first, he had a few letters to write. He fetched a small writing desk from the sideboard and took out a pen, ink, and several sheets of paper.

He trimmed the nib, dipped it in ink, and stared at the blank white paper, his mind filled with questions.

A child. He had to admit it was a shock. He hadn't expected anything like that.

Who the hell was the father? Why wouldn't she say? Did she love him? She sounded as though she hated him, but love very easily turned to hate, he knew. Why hadn't she told the fellow about the baby? He must be married, otherwise he would have married her, surely?

He'd find out, he vowed. The main thing was that he had Nell under his roof. His aunt's roof, he amended, but it was the next best thing. He wasn't going to let her get away from him again.

All he had to do now was find her baby, marry her, and take them both home to Firmin Court. They would be a family. He dipped the pen in the ink and started to write.

He wrote to Rafe and Luke first, asking them to meet him in London. They could help in the search for Nell's baby, instead of racing around the countryside risking their fool necks.

He wrote to Barrow and Mrs. Barrow, telling them he was getting married. The Barrows were the closest thing he had to parents.

Mrs. Barrow would cry, he knew. She always did at weddings, and for Harry's she'd probably weep buckets. She would get a new dress and hat, too. Especially for a fancy London wedding, which it was bound to be with Aunt Maude at the helm. Harry didn't care. He would just as soon do it quickly by special license, but women were different.

Having trapped Nell into marriage, he wanted her to have the wedding she wanted.

He sealed the letter to the Barrows, and then penned a quick note to Ethan, apologizing for leaving things in his hands for so long and explaining that he was getting married. He also asked Ethan to carry out a couple of personal requests.

He smiled as he pictured Ethan's face when he learned that Firmin Court would have a mistress before the month was out and who that mistress was. Harry dusted the letter with sand and wondered how Ethan's own courtship was progressing.

Ethan picked up Tibby's latest letter for the third time. Such fine, elegant script-he could never learn to write so beautifully, not if he practiced for the rest of his life. He read it through slowly, his lips moving as he read.

I think I told you that when I first came here, my dear Kitty-cat was something of a novelty, ginger cats being uncommon in Zindaria. I am embarrassed to report that they are much more common these days, Kitty-cat having made the acquaintance of several of the palace kitchen cats. He also makes up shamelessly to the cook, who feeds him tidbits. It is very fine to live in a palace, but I must confess that there are days I miss my own dear little cottage. But I must not repine. I am a very fortunate woman.

Callie has been very kind and employed me as her private secretary. The job is not very demanding and not at all worthy of the substantial salary I am paid, but it is interesting. I am now acquainted, through my letter writing on her behalf, with half the royalty of Europe, and I understand much more these days of the intricacies of court etiquette.

Ethan swallowed. Court etiquette-he hadn't even known what the word meant until he'd asked the vicar. He was dreaming, hoping a woman who was on letter-writing terms with half the royalty of Europe would look at a battered Irishman.

I am still teaching the boys for some of the time-Jim has almost caught up with Nicky. So gratifying to have such a quick and able pupil. You would not believe what a little gentleman he has become, though still with that open, mischievous spirit about him that I so enjoy.

Aye, Ethan thought gloomily, not like the great thickheaded lummox who'd started his lessons the same time as Jim.

Tibby's writing was like herself, he thought; small, elegant, firm, and resolute. No fancy flourishes or unnecessary curls, every letter precise and crystal clear and not a blot or a scratching out in sight.

Lord, whatever must she think of his own letters? Even after getting the vicar to correct his spelling, Ethan made mistakes on the fair copy he made.

And when he read over his own letters-for he kept the ones the vicar had written on to check on what he'd told her and to get the correct spelling of some words-he was embarrassed at how clumsy they sounded.

But he couldn't stop himself from trying. Ethan dipped his quill in the ink again and labored on . . .

I have bort a four room cottage on the western edge of the estate. Three bedrooms so tis biger than you myte think. To big for one single man like meself but I have someone in mynde to joyne me there Im hopeful she will anyway. I been whitewashing the walls and tidying it up and its coming up a treat.

He looked at the letter and sighed. He could describe the cottage so easy if he was talking; the words were in his head, fine and bright and shiny. But when it came to writing those same words down and wrestling with pen and ink and the spelling getting in the way, in the end his words came out all scratchy and wooden and dead.

There was a pencil in the box with the pens and ink, so Ethan picked it up. He'd heard people say a picture was worth a thousand words. He didn't know about that, but it would take him forever to find words he could spell that would describe the cottage, but he could draw it in a minute.

He'd always been good at drawing, from the time he was a small boy, scratching out a picture in the dirt or with a piece of charcoal. The more he drew, the better he got. In the army he'd been able to draw quick, neat maps and drawings of fortresses and had been promoted as a result. Nobody ever realized he couldn't read. Ethan was very good at finding ways around any reading he had to do.

And nobody dreamed that a man who was so quick with a pencil could be such a dunce with a pen.

With access to paper, pencils, and charcoal he'd done a few drawings of some of his mates and their surroundings. Word spread and Ethan was soon in demand for small sketches to send home to sweethearts or mothers. They even paid him to do it. A picture was better than a letter when folks couldn't read.

And every little bit earned added to Ethan's nest egg. He'd been determined that if he survived the war, he'd make something of himself.

And look where he'd ended up, a partner in a solid horse-breeding enterprise with a fine gentleman like Harry Morant, who was also his friend. And now Ethan had a house of his own.

Pretty good for a man born in a mud-floored hut who'd grown up with hunger gnawing at his belly.

All he needed now was to educate himself to a level where a fine, educated lady like Tibby might consider wedding him, despite his lowly background.

It was like baying at the moon, he sometimes felt. But despite their differences, despite the fact that many in society would disapprove of such an unequal match, Tibby was the lady he'd set his heart on.

He glanced at the sketchbook that sat on the table beside him. It was open to a full-page sketch of Tibby as he remembered her. He hadn't fallen for her straightaway . . .

He grinned, remembering the way she'd glared at him when he'd been so slow at responding to her silent message that she was being held hostage. What a big stupid he'd sounded like, and how cross she was.

But when he'd snatched her away and galloped off with her . . . thinking she'd go all female and hysterical on him, she'd been thrilled. What was that name she'd called him. Loch-in-something. Scottish, not Irish. Lochinvar, that's who.

And then after he'd carried her to safety, what must she do but come back to help him, armed with a spade.

That's when it had started for him. Such a little bit of a thing she was: her eyes spitting defiance, her cheeks all pink, and her hair coming out of its neat little bun. Ready to defend him-a man twice her size-against the very men who'd held her hostage. A wee lion of a lady. She'd stormed into his heart that day, sure enough, spade and all. And stayed there.

He must find out about that Lochinvar fellow someday. But first he'd finish this sketch.

He quickly drew the cottage he was getting ready for her, with the windows all cleared of ivy and a couple of roses flowering at the door. He hesitated, then with a few quick lines drew the shape of a woman standing looking out, one arm lifted to shade her eyes.

The roses were just sticks now, but come summer, he hoped they'd be blooming. And come summer, he hoped Tibby would be standing there, shading her eyes and waiting for Ethan to come home.

He'd be off to Zindaria in spring to pick out his next seven horses, and he'd pop the question to her then. In the meantime, his letters had to do the courting . . .

He picked up the pen and wrote the final words: I'm hoping the lady I'm corting wont think it a terible cheek when I ask her but she's so fine and educated she myte not look at a clod like me but a man can only dream.

Respectfuly yours, Ethan Delaney

Nine.

Nell was woken by a soft knock on the door. Good heavens, she really had slept. She'd lain on the bed because there was nothing else to do-and besides, she needed to think about all that had happened this morning-and somehow, she'd drifted off.

She stretched, sat up, and called, "Come in."