"What will the arrangements entail?"

Groaning, he shook his head. "I can't think clearly right now, Catherine."

She wrapped her hand around his upper arm as though to steady him. "You're in a great deal of pain."

"It's never been this bad." It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. He was still baffled by how he knew about the pa.s.sage, but concentrating only made his headache worse and he thought if it got much more painful that he might actually lose consciousness. Instead he focused on Catherine's hand on his arm. He thought about her silky body beneath his and the pain eased a little. He concentrated on remembering how wonderful it had felt to sink into her. The pain in his head eased a little more, but he began to ache elsewhere.

Better to simply concentrate on walking.

Eventually they reached the manor. It appeared undamaged until they went around to the wing where the library had been. A portion had collapsed and little remained except charred remnants.

"My lord!" His butler rushed over. "We feared the worst."

Claybourne dropped Avendale onto the ground. "What's the damage?"

"We were fortunate. Only this wing sustained any real damage. The other wing and the main portion of the house are unscathed and habitable."

"Good." Luke stepped over what remained of the wall near the chimney that had withstood the a.s.sault. The secret door was gone. A gaping hole revealed the stairs leading down into the pa.s.sage. "Were you aware this pa.s.sage existed?"

"No, my lord," the butler said. "I'm sorry. Where does it lead?"

"To the sea. Ask the other servants."

"Pardon?"

Luke pressed his fingers to his forehead. "Ask the servants if anyone knew about this pa.s.sage. I need to know who told me about it."

"Yes, my lord." He hurried off.

Luke looked around. The old gent had taken such joy in his books and now they were destroyed. Luke felt an irrational anger at the useless destruction. The charred stench on the air was nauseating.

A sound caught his attention and he turned just in time to see Catherine stumble. Reaching out, he grabbed her and kept her from falling.

"So much lost," she murmured, and he heard the sorrow in her voice.

"It could have been worse. I'll see that Marcus Langdon has the funds to rebuild all this to its former glory."

"You may not be the true Earl of Claybourne, but it's obvious you care about this place."

He couldn't deny that he had come to care for it. Giving it up would be more difficult than he'd realized, but it was because he'd come to care for it that he was determined to see it returned to the rightful owner. A good many things would change with his decision-including the fact that Frannie would no longer have an excuse not to marry him.

Someone had set tall torches in the ground. Their burning flames illuminated Catherine, and Luke could see the soot and dirt covering her face. No, it wasn't all dirt. A bruise was forming from where Avendale had struck her. Luke had a strong urge to kill him for that alone. Tenderly he touched her cheek. Strangely he found himself thinking about the man who would have the honor of touching her cheek when she was old. He hoped the man would appreciate that her strength and beauty would never age.

"Our chambers are supposedly habitable. I could use a hot bath."

She smiled at him, stunning him that after all they'd been through, she could still smile.

"I would like that very much," she said.

And he realized she was granting permission for him to have one more night with her.

As the water lapped around her, Catherine thought she would be forever spoiled when it came to bathing. It was simply delicious to be immersed in warm water while snuggling against a man, especially when that man was Claybourne. Fortunately the tub was large. Legend had it that it had been made especially for the men of the family, because they tended to be tall and they liked room to move about. She also suspected that they liked not taking baths alone.

They'd locked Avendale in the cellar, with two guards to keep watch. Portions of the library continued to smolder, but the few servants he'd not sent away when he and Catherine had first arrived were keeping watch there as well, putting out any small fires that erupted. It was strange to suddenly have so few worries, yet Catherine relished the peace. She just wished that Claybourne's head would stop hurting.

He wasn't complaining, but his furrowed brow and tightened jaw told the tale of his discomfort. He'd been unable to find any servant who knew of the secret pa.s.sage. He was bothered by the fact that he'd known about it, but Catherine was convinced that the previous earl had shown it to him at some point and Claybourne had simply forgotten. It was the only explanation that made sense.

With his hand, he lazily stroked her arm while she skimmed her fingers over his chest. She wished she could wash away the scars, the evidence of his harsh life, yet his life had shaped him into a man who stood strong for others. Even if he weren't a lord, he'd still be a man to be admired.

Selfishly she wished they could delay their leaving, because once they began their journey back to London, everything between them would change, would come to an end. Unselfishly, she was anxious to see Winnie and her father. She knew they were being well cared for, but the knowledge didn't make her miss them any less, didn't make her not want to do what she could to bring them comfort.

"What are you thinking?" she asked Claybourne.

"I'm trying not to think."

With the water splashing around her, she eased up; and not finding room enough along the side of the tub, she straddled him. His body reacted immediately. With a groan and a smile, he opened his eyes. "I think you found the cure for my head pains. Send the ache elsewhere."

"They can't have gone away that quickly."

"Not completely, no, but I'm not going to let them stop me from having what I want."

She gave him what she hoped was a seductive smile. "And what is that?"

His eyes darkened. "You."

He threaded his fingers through her damp hair and brought her nearer. She leveraged herself so she could welcome his kiss. The hunger of his mouth on hers sent desire spiraling down to her toes. He eased her back, took the soap, slicked up his hands, and began rubbing them over her body, coming back to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s over and over as though they were the center of her being, the city from which all roads led and returned.

In his eyes she saw appreciation and pleasure.

Reaching for the soap, she imitated his actions, enjoying the feel of silkiness on velvet. Dropping her head back, she moaned from the incredible sensations created by his touching her, the joy of touching him.

His hands dug into her hips and he lifted her.

"If this water weren't so filthy, I'd take you right here," he said. Instead he moved her aside, stood, and pulled her to her feet. Pitchers of water surrounded them. He lifted one and poured the water over her, removing the soap and any lingering dirt. Another pitcher, another dunking. Then he did the same for himself.

"Stay," he ordered as he stepped out of the tub.

"I'm not a dog to be commanded about."

Chuckling low, he grabbed a towel and vigorously dried himself off. "Must you always be so difficult?"

"You're not acting as though you truly find me difficult."

He flung the towel around her and lifted her into his arms. "I find you adorable."

He carried her to his bed and very gently dried her off, then he flung the towel aside. With one smooth motion, he sank into her and stilled. "When I saw him strike you, when you fell-" His voice was rough with emotion.

"Don't think about it," she urged.

"Why do you have to be so d.a.m.ned courageous?" he asked as he kissed her neck, her ear, her throat, her chin.

She wondered if he'd want her if she weren't, but she wasn't brave enough to ask, so perhaps she wasn't as courageous after all.

"Don't talk," she murmured as she kissed his temples.

He took her slowly, as though he realized this would be the last time, savoring each thrust, creating memories with each touch. There was nothing frenzied about their joining. Rather it was simply an appreciation that they'd escaped the fire, a celebration of survival, and perhaps in a way, a farewell.

As the pleasure peaked, she shivered in his arms, he shuddered in hers. Breathing heavily, he pressed a kiss to her temple before rolling off her and drawing her near. Nestled up against him, she fell into a deep sleep.

"Mummy!"

"Shh, darling, shh, we have to be quiet. We're playing a game. We're going to hide from Papa."

"Scared."

"Shh. Don't be frightened, darling. Shh. Mummy will never let anything bad happen. We're going to have fun. Do you see the magical lever? It's our little secret."

Catherine awoke to an agonized groaning. At first she thought it was the thunder, but then she became aware of being in the bed alone, of harsh breathing in the room. Reaching out to the bedside table, she turned up the flame in the lamp.

It chased back the shadows to reveal Claybourne, naked, kneeling on the floor, rocking, his arms wrapped around his stomach as though he were suffering intense pain. She scrambled out of bed and crouched before him. "Luke, Luke, whatever's wrong?"

He lifted his face, and she saw the tears trailing down his cheeks.

"I remember," he rasped. "Dear G.o.d, I remember."

Feeling powerless to stop his agony, she touched his shoulders, his face. "Remember what?"

She heard him swallow, felt him shudder beneath her fingers. "My parents. Ah, it hurts!"

"Your head?"

"No, my heart. It was my uncle."

"Luke, darling, I don't understand."

"They took me to a menagerie. So many animals. A lion. And a giraffe. And a striped horse. I didn't want to leave. But it was growing dark and the crowds were thinning-there had been so many people that the carriage was parked far away. I grew tired of walking. My father lifted me onto his shoulders. And then the boy..."

His voice trailed off, but she was still confused. What was he saying?

"What about the boy?" she asked.

"A street urchin. Said his mother was dying in the alley, needed help. My father took me off his shoulders and hurried after the boy. My mother grabbed my hand and rushed after them. But my father's legs were so long, mine so short that we couldn't keep up. When we turned the corner, we saw my father being attacked by men-it looked as though they were savage animals. Clubs and knives. And my uncle standing off to the side laughing, as though it was his favorite prank. My mother screamed for me to run, and I did. But I was still near enough to hear her cries as they descended on her."

Catherine cradled his face between her hands. "I'm so sorry, Luke, but I don't understand what you're trying to tell me, I don't understand what it means."

Her heart ached at the devastation in his eyes.

"It means I'm Claybourne. I knew about the secret pa.s.sage because my mother and I used it to play a game-we'd hide from my father, but he was always there, waiting at the entrance." He gave her a heart-wrenching smile. "He'd sweep her into his arms, and they'd laugh. Then we'd play in the sea as though we hadn't a care in the world."

He took a deep breath, and swiped at his tears.

"Why would your uncle kill them?"

"Why else? For the t.i.tle and all that came with it."

She sat back on her heels. "And you're remembering it all now?"

"Just s.n.a.t.c.hes of the past. I remember the secret pa.s.sage, the menagerie, the alley. I remember my uncle and his hideous face. And I remember running like a coward."

"You were a child."

He rubbed his hands up and down his face. "I couldn't save them."

"They didn't expect you to. Saving yourself was your greatest gift to them."

"Why couldn't I remember any of it?"

"Why would you want to? It sounds horrendous."

He held her gaze. "I've longed to know the truth of my past, and now I want nothing more than to forget it."

He forged his mouth to hers as though she had the power to return to him the innocence he had lost. For even though he'd grown up on the streets, had seen the worst of men, it was clear to Catherine that until tonight, he'd not truly known the worst of his family. He'd killed his uncle, his uncle had killed his parents. Deception, hatred, betrayal, greed...all the elements for family scandal and destruction had resided within the bosom of Claybourne's family. His life on the streets-in spite of the crimes he'd committed-had been more honest, and those with whom he lived more trustworthy.

Somehow, they managed to get back into bed, mouths locked, arms and legs in a tangle. He wanted to forget what she thought it was crucial he remember. Yet, she couldn't deny him a few moments of solace. If she could, she'd give him a lifetime of comfort in her arms.

His mouth was hot, desperate, eager. She was more than ready for him when he drove himself into her, like a man possessed, a man running from his past, a man unable to see his future. He pumped fast and furious. She met his eagerness with her own, digging her fingers into his firm b.u.t.tocks, riding him as he rode her.

His powerful thrusts had the headboard knocking the wall, the pleasure rippling through her in undulating waves. There was madness here, and she didn't care. She cared only about him losing himself in her, and her losing herself in him.

She expected each time they came together for it to be the last-each time was a gift: a giving, a joining, a receiving, a taking. They were equals. If she could have given him more, she would have. Instead she rode the waves until they crested, calling out his name, aware of him growling hers, aware of his violent shudders, his face buried in the curve of her shoulder.

Holding him close while their breathing slowed, she relished the weight of his body. She'd wanted to know what it was to lie with him. Now she had to find the strength to give him up, to give him to another, to give him to Frannie.

She felt the tears sting her eyes because she wouldn't be the one to share his joys or his troubles. She wouldn't bear his children. She wouldn't be the one who stood beside him as he left his mark on the world. And she had no doubt that he was a man capable of leaving behind a magnificent legacy. He'd been forged in the fires of h.e.l.l-and the man emerging, all of London would soon learn, was one to be reckoned with.

It was dark when the coach finally reached London. Catherine was still dressed in the clothes of a servant, and Luke didn't look much better. He knew he should go home first, make himself presentable, but he had a matter that he needed to see to-urgently. He'd told his driver where to go, and as he recognized the buildings signaling that they were nearing their destination, he felt the fury raging within him.

"Aren't we going home?" Catherine asked.

The coach came to a halt.

"Stay here," Luke ordered. He opened the door and leapt out of the coach before his footman could a.s.sist him. He strode into Dodger's, a man with a purpose. He spotted Jack straightaway.

The man known as the Dodger turned away from a gaming table and smiled brightly. "Ah, there you are. Have you put matters-"

Luke smashed his balled fist into Jack's face, sending him tumbling to the floor, overturning the table in the process. There were gasps from the gentlemen customers, squeals from the ladies who were trying to entice them up to their rooms.

"Get up!" Luke demanded.