A murmur so low, so restrained, he'd nearly missed it. He went back to the washroom door and listened again. And heard exactly what he didn't want to hear.

His fearless bride who had declared war on him, on injustice, on the entire male population of the world, was quietly weeping, alone, trying not to let him hear.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l.

Elizabeth had barely shut the washroom door before she collapsed against the paneled wall, bending over to force her sobs into her ba ll ed-up ap.r.o.n.

But they just kept coming and coming and coming. Rolling out of her chest.

In a single stroke of a pen she'd lost everything she had worked so hard for.

Her ladies' club.

Her bookstore.

Her friends.

Her freedom.

I'm so sorry Aunt Tibbs! Oh, Aunt Clarice! I've lost it all.

But that's what came of reckless impatience. Of taking foolish chances with the lives of others.

Now they would all be forced to rely on the conceits of the Earl of Blakestone. Her husband. Her jailer. What would he do about dear Jessica and Skye and Ca.s.sie? She'd promised them a home for as long as they needed.

Blakestone would doubtless close down the Adams and the bookstore and then watch her like a hawk for the rest of her days.

And what about Lydia? How would she get the poor woman safely away from that despicable husband of hers? Or the next woman who knocked on her door?

There must be more than one way to divert Blake-stone's attention from her most clandestine activities. She might have to go deeper underground. Apply more cunning and guile. Take fewer but more significant risks.

Perhaps things wouldn't change so much after all.

What had Aunt Clarice always added to all that talk of independence and determination? Something about there being many roads to a single goal, about taking time to reconnoiter the b.u.mps and ruts along the way.

Well, there could hardly be anything in the world more b.u.mpy than Ross Carrington, the Earl of Blakestone.

As for the man being rutt y - w ell, wasn't that just another word for l.u.s.ty?

And wasn't her husband simply shimmering hot with l.u.s.t? Steaming with heat. Smoldering with something else that seemed to spark from his eyes when he looked at her. That arched from his fingertips when he touched her, and played in the corners of his deeply sculpted mouth.

In his voice.

In the sultry way he said her name.

"Elizabeth?" A soft rap hit the door just inches from her.

She leaped to her feet and landed in the center of the room. "What?"

There was a pause on the other side of the panel, and a gentleness that gripped her stomach. "Are you all right?"

No, Ross. I'm terrified. I'm angry. I'm lost.

"I'm fine, my lord. Thank you."Or she would be fine as soon as she could reconnoiter the man's b.u.mps and ruts."How's the water? Warm enough?""Thank you. Yes.""If you need to warm it further, just turn the tap with the red cap. Oh, and pull the plug when you're finished." She heard the firmness of his footsteps as he walked away toward the bedchamber.

Toward the beginning of a marriage that she had feared might happen all her life.

A shadowy cliffside with a precipitous drop-off and a crumbling footing.

Was there such a thing as an independent wife? If not, she would just have to make up her own rules as she went along.

Teach her husband to follow them, without him noticing.

Mr. Pembridge's bathwater was perfect; warm as an exotic ocean current, the enamel tub itself huge enough for her to float in. Right-sized for a ta l l man with shoulders as broad as her husband's.

Which brought forth a sudden image of Blakestone standing naked in front of her. At least the way she envisioned him to be.

Bronze and dark and well-endowed with masculine vigor. In full rut. That fabulous rod of flesh doing whatever it did when it rutted.

Not frightening in the least.

Exciting.

A dangerous venture. But something she could definitely do to distract her husband whenever he came too close to her intrigues.

Her skin was tingling as she dried off; her nose sensitive to the faint scent of him caught up in the nightshirt he'd tossed to her.

Which made her wonder what he was wearing, or wasn't wearing, just beyond the door.

"Ready... or not, my lord," she whispered. Exactly the tumbled state of her mind. Ready. Not ready.

But she certainly wasn't ready for the sudden shiver of nerves when she found the sitting room empty and dark, with nothing but the soft light from the window powdering the paisley of the carpet. The only other light gleamed from the bedchamber beyond.

The lair of a wolf. Her wolf, whether she liked it or not.

Her husband was just dousing a globe lamp on the bedside table when she found him, his hair mussed and overlong. He was larger than she had ever realized, wearing a dark, silken robe that flowed to his ankles and was belted too casually at the waist, revealing a striking slice of his bare chest.

He was surely naked under there.

The very thought made her smile and blush to her bones as she draped her clothes over the back of a chair.

"What are you smiling at, my dear?"

Caught. "You, my lord. You look very... domestic." Very rutty.

He canted an eyebrow, the picture of a pillaging pirate. "And you, madam, look far too tempting for a man to get a good night's sleep on his wedding night." "What do you mean?" Surely he wasn't going to leave her alone tonight. That suddenly didn't feel at all right.

"Only that it's going to be a long night."

"Why, because I'll be in your bed? I don't think I snore."

"Because you'll be in our bed, wife." He started past her toward the door to the sitting room. "And I've promised not to touch you."

"Ever?"

"Tonight."

"Does that mean you're leaving me alone here?" She took hold of his silky sleeve, catching a hint of his warmth beneath.

He looked down his aquiline nose at her, a quizzical slant to his brow. "Do you want me to leave?"

What a trap of a question that was! " After all, this is your room."

"And yours."

"But you shouldn't have to give up your bed just because you..."

"Because I stole myself a wife tonight."

"You didn't steal me."

"I carried you bodily to the registrar."

"You swept me off my feet."

He laughed and cupped her chin in the palm of his hand. "Now, there's a good one to tell our children."

Children. Dear Lord, she'd never allowed herself to imagine herself a mother. A family of her own. A real one.

"Then you will tell them that I went with you, because I agreed to it." And his hand was so warm against her throat, her nape. "Because, my lord, I won't have anyone feel sorry for me. Especially not you. I wouldn't have said yes or signed the papers if I hadn't wanted to."

"Very well, then." He gestured toward the huge bed with its inviting pile of bedclothes. "Now, if you know what's good for you, for us, wife, you'll get yourself to sleep before I come back."

"From where?"

She wondered if he knew just how devilishly seductive his smile was. "The bath."

Then her husband was gone, disappearing into the darkness of the next room, taking his warmth with him.

Another glance at the bed took her up the step stool and under the sheet and the silky counterpane. She plumped herself up against the cushiony wall of pillows and settled back to wait for his lordship.

Blakestone.

Ross.

Her husband.

Which made her, irrevocably, a wife.

A lover.

Responsible for making a success of a marriage she hadn't wanted.

Now, if she could only remember what she'd so innocently written in Unbridled Embraces. Something about practice and desire...

"Ah, yes! 'Put into practice what makes him cry out with desire for you and he will come back for more.' For more."

She could easily see a man like Blakestone coming back for more. And more.

" 'Be creative.'" Now that was still a puzzle. Since she hadn't really seen him close up, hadn't had the nerve to part his robe for a good look.

" 'Explore his body... '" she whispered to herself, yawning as she snuggled more deeply into the silken covers.

" 'Praise hi in... '" She closed her eyes, but couldn't get them to open again.

Feed him grapes.

Laugh with him.

Let him know.

Love him.

Elizabeth dreamed of a shimmering, silver-sanded beach. Of nuzzling sunlight. And murmured embraces.

Dreamed of her handsome husband, her excellently attentive lover wrapping her in his arms, keeping her safe.

But she woke in a cold, empty bed, in a masculine room she'd never seen in the daylight.

She sat up and looked over the top of the pile of covers. "Blakestone?"

Silence.

" Husband? Are you here?" She climbed down the bed steps and padded into the sitting room. "Ross?"

Nothing. No one.

Deserted before her wedding breakfast!

"Excuse me, madam!" Pembridge was calling to her from the corridor, knocking politely.

Not knowing what to expect, Elizabeth ran to the door and opened it a modest crack. "Have you seen his lordship this morning?"

"Left early for a place called the Adams."

"The Adams?" Dear G.o.d, the man was possessive! Gone to claim his new property already.