Could he have given her reason to run away? He remembered the drops ofblood on the sheet. Perhaps he had hurt her, been rough. That would explainher flight. He'd been drunk, after all, and couldn't remember anything aftershe had lain down next to him on the bed. He could have lost control.

Rape.

No, damn it! He couldn't believe himself capable of forcing himself on awoman. People might think him a first-class reprobate, and he hadn't doneanything to dissuade them, but he was a deuced phony, attempting to keep up with his brothers' scandals, yet doing so in word more often than in deed.

After all, hadn't Damien always said the three of them put the "sin" in"Sinclair"? The only solid thing in Nicholas's life were his brothers; hisonly comfort was knowing he was part of a whole.

Nevertheless, he had acted rash with the girl, his behavioruncharacteristic and disturbing. He hadn't allotted her a chance to speak. Hisirrational anger had overwhelmed him.

Now calmer, he recalled how she'd greeted him with a happy smile. Thenagain, he imagined anyone who had spent more than five minutes in a putridcell in Southwark would be happy as hell to be released.

A noise outside halted Nicholas's pacing.

Extinguishing the candle, he eased behind the door and listened. He heard alow, muffled voice and the sound of someone shuffling about. A burglar wasexactly what he needed at that moment. A good brawl might relieve his tension.

His hand poised on the doorknob just as he felt it wiggle, confirming thefact that whoever stood outside was up to no good.

Quietly, Nicholas slid the lock back, then wrenched the door open so fastthe pictures on the walls rattled. He heard a startled gasp before a bodytumbled into the foyer and fell rather ignobly onto the floor.

In the darkness, Nicholas lunged after the squirming figure. He managed tosnatch a handful of material and yanked. Buttons flew and the material rippedin his hands, followed by a female cry of alarm.

He immediately let go. Mistake. A small fist slugged him in the jaw and anequally small but powerfully determined foot slammed down on his toes. Thenshe made a dash for the door.

He grabbed the edge of her skirt, but she fought him like a wildcat, a kneedriving into his gut, sharp nails scoring his chest.

A white beam from the hunter's moon overhead slanted through the door, andNicholas saw the intruder intent on changing him from a stallion to a gelding.

Sheridan.

"You!" she gasped as if this was her house and he the trespasser.

Clearly she was not happy to see him; the elbow she rammed into his bruisedribs brought that point home conclusively.

Reflexively, Nicholas released her. She bolted across the threshold, buthis arm whipped about her waist, hauling her back against his chest.

"Let me go!"

"Ssh," he breathed in her ear. "Stop fighting me. I'm not going to hurtyou."

"Liar!"

She tried to get him in the knees, stomp on his toes again, aimed anotherelbow at his ribs. Quite amazingly, he remained unscathed.

"I promise I won't hurt you. Cross my heart and hope to ..." Hmm. Perhapsin this instance it would not be wise to hope to die. The she-cat mightwillingly oblige.

She wriggled impotently within his embrace. "I'll not believe a spalpeenlike ye! Ye're tongue could fertilize thirty acres!" Then she regaled him withwords he didn't understand but which he imagined condemned him to a slow,painful death in the pits of Hades. "Let me go, I say!"

"Not until you relax."

God, it felt good to hold her again, even if she had sunk her sharp talonsinto his hide and apparently would give anything to pluck out his eyeballs andserve them with his heart.

"You always want to beat on me." He pulled her a little closer. The scentof hyacinths tickled his nostrils. "That's not nice, you know."

" 'Tis exactly what ye deserve, ye arrogant, no-good--"

"Preening rooster?" he supplied, smiling at the remembrance.

Those must have been magic words, because some of the fight left her."Aye," she returned with her usual defiance. "The king cock."

Ah, the images such a remark produced. Nicholas pressed his cheek againstthe soft mass of her hair and desire swirled to life inside him. As much as he wanted to deny the passion he felt for the girl, his body would not allow him to forget.

"Let me go," she said again, but with less ferocity.

"In a moment." He should release her, but she fit so perfectly against himthat it seemed criminal to yield to her demand--although he imagined she'dlike nothing better than to see him slathered in honey and buried in ananthill. "Why did you run away?"

Mutiny lifted her delicate chin.

"Not speaking, are we?"

No response.

"I looked for you."

She snorted.

"For at least an hour."

Louder snort.

"Where did you go? And how did you find me?"

That got her. "As if I was lookin' for ye, ye arrogant, no-good--"

He held up his hand. "Let me guess. Preening rooster? We traveled down thatroad already."

She shot him a glare that could have frozen a hot spring. "Nay ...bastard!"

Ouch. "Why do you persist in hurting my pride? It is so fragile, afterall." Apparently, she was not in a humorous mood. He sighed and muttered,"Laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Cry and you cry alone."

"Ye make no sense."

"Excuse me if my wits are addled. I've been sorely abused tonight."

She muttered something about his wits being permanently scrambled and notto fool himself to the contrary. Clearly he was making headway.

Nicholas searched for the ire that had sustained him when he'd seen her at the jail and wondered why it deserted him now. The girl had a way of casting aspell over him unless he kept her at arm's length, and sometimes not eventhen.

Perhaps her fragrance bewitched him. Flowers battled to smell like her, toachieve that special blend of hyacinth and something else unique and elusive,a druid potion with the power to make him forget his name and turn him tostone--or certain parts of him, at least.

Chemistry appeared to have worked on her as well, because she no longerinsisted he release her. For a moment, he couldn't help but wonder why fatekept throwing them together. This time, however, he realized it had not beenfate, but his cousin.

"You came looking for Jules."

She deigned to glance his way, her tough veneer cracking for the briefestmoment. She appeared utterly vulnerable and heartbreakingly beautiful. "Aye.Is she here?"

"She is."

Her relief was audible. "I must see her."

"You will. In the morning. Now you must deal with me."

He waited for a stinging retort, something to the effect that she'd ratherpitch him headfirst into the Thames. Instead, she stared at him mutinously andfolded her arms beneath her breasts, which, unfortunately, brought his gaze tothe soft flesh revealed by her torn shirt. Obviously, she didn't know she wasin such a lovely state of dishabille.

A gentleman would tell her.

Who said I'm a gentleman?

Don't be an ass.

Hell.

Without releasing his hold about her waist, Nicholas slid around to faceher. Ever the mule, she refused to meet his gaze.

"You're trembling." Was she chilled, or was he affecting her? Certainly shehad affected him.

Leisurely, his hands moved from her waist to capture the front of her shirt and pull it together.

"What are ye ..." she began, and then noticed the condition of her attire.With lightning speed, she clutched her hands around the material and draggedit closed. "How dare ye!" she fumed, her eyes branding him a lecher.

"I was just--"

"Aye, ye were just tryin' to put yer rovin' fingers on me, and I'll nothave it."

Silent laughter shook Nicholas. "Can you blame my roving fingers? When theysee something they like, they have a mind of their own."

"Sure, and 'tis not their mind that should be worryin' ye. It should bepickin' the stumps off the ground when I'm through with ye."

The girl was a pistol.

"I'm sorry," he said. Sorry for himself. The lure of her beautiful body wasa temptation Nicholas doubted even the most pious could resist. He checked hislip to make sure he wasn't drooling.

"Tch! Sorry. And I'm Saint Patrick."

"I don't believe Saint Patrick had--"

"Don't ye dare say it!"

"Red hair," he finished, suppressing a chuckle. "What did you think I wasgoing to say?"

Nicholas was glad Sheridan wasn't partial to carrying weapons. Bleeding todeath on one's doorstep was such an ignoble way to die.

His conscience prodded: Give her your jacket.

I'm not wearing one.

Well, then, give her your shirt.

Hmm. My shirt.

Every now and again his conscience came up with a good idea.

"What are ye doin'?"

"Giving you my shirt."

"I don't want it."

And Sheridan really didn't, not if it meant looking at him naked to thewaist. She might hate him for his callous treatment, for taking the specialgift of her virginity, but her traitorous body still responded to him.

She remembered the subtleties of his flesh, hard where she was soft,straight where she was rounded, the cool texture of his hair running throughher fingertips, the heat of his body scorching her lips as she tasted hisneck, his chest, those silky brown nipples that now peeked at her, tauntingher, making her want to reach out and trace their velvety smoothness with afinger.

"Here," he said, his voice deep and alluring as the night. "Slip your armsin."

Sheridan hesitated, battling the need to throw the shirt in his face andthe desire to wrap herself in it like a cocoon.

He came up behind her and she relented. The large shirt slipped easily overher shredded one, the soft material caressing her throat. A scent sheremembered vividly coiled about her, triggering memories best forgotten.

With shaky fingers, she buttoned the shirt. Nicholas shifted in front ofher, laying his hands over hers, sending sparks along her nerve endings.

His hands mesmerized her. They were so large compared to her baby-sizedhands, so dark to her light coloring, so filled with strength ... yet soeminently gentle.

Tension curled around her. Visions of his hands skimming her body,exploring, evocative, expert in pressure, feather light when sweeping over anipple, bolder when cupping her breast.

What was the matter with her? This man didn't care for her. She was nothingmore than an object to warm his bed. How many countless others had come beforeher? How many had he enchanted with hungry gazes and sweet, whispered words?Why did she never learn from her mistakes?

And why did she still want him with a yearning that could not be dispelled?

The soul 'tis a wondrous thing to recognize what the eyes cannot.

Nay, this man was not her destiny. But he would be her downfall.

Sheridan turned away. "Tell Jules I'll come back in the mornin'."

He took hold of her arm. "Where are you going?"

She flicked a glance at the hand wrapped around her upper arm and then athis face." " 'Tis none of yer business, so I'll thank ye to let go of me."

He released her and slid his hands into his pockets. Yet he didn't need hishands to hold her captive. His gaze ensnared her, and her feet refused tomove. Sheridan shook her head to defuse the strange spell he cast over her.