"After your hasty departure, I tried to find you." His voice rippled overher like warm honey.

Sheridan blinked, surprised to hear such a confession. "Ye did?"

He nodded. "When my search bore no fruit--no pun intended--I returned tothe lockup to question the officer about you."

"Me?"

"Mmm-hmm." The sound vibrated along her nerves. "After some arm-twistingand thumbscrews, I found out about your uncle."

"But his fine--"

"Was quite hefty, and suspicion tells me it was also unwarranted. But I'lldeal with that issue at a later date."

Sheridan shook her head. "I don't understand."

"What is there to understand?"

"Why would ye do such a thing?"

Nicholas opened his mouth to reply, but Ho-Sing answered for him. "Boss-manlike Missy, that why."

Nicholas clenched his jaw and glared at his manservant, as Ho-Singpreferred to be called. Ho-Sing gave Nicholas one of his practicedI-good-Oriental-man smiles.

Ho-Sing, like Emery, had been an outcast. He'd worked as a slop boy on amerchant ship and had been cruelly treated by the crew. Injustice had alwaysrankled Nicholas, perhaps because he had been judged on his family'sreputation and not his own, making him an outcast of sorts, as well.

Nicholas noticed Sheridan's flushed cheeks and the way she averted hergaze. If he didn't know better, he might think his nearness flustered her, andif bloody Ho-Sing would do him the favor of dropping off the face of theearth, Nicholas would have proceeded to test his theory.

Since that wasn't likely to happen, he held out his arm for her as if heweren't naked to the waist, dirty, scratched, and his pride bruised.

"Jules is anxious to see you, and it appears the rest of your entourage is safely tucked away in bed. So you see, you have no reason to leave--unlessthere is something else holding you back."

Nicholas studied her face, wondering if her reluctance had to do with aman. Maybe she had another rendezvous with the chap she'd deserted him for.

Or perhaps someone else waited for her. Many a man would sacrifice an organto hold this girl in his arms, gaze down at that guileless face, and stareinto those deceptively innocent eyes.

"I--I need me things."

Inwardly, Nicholas heaved a relieved sigh. Although Sheridan hadn'tverbally relented, he knew he'd won, and the small victory was sweet.

"We can get them in the morning." Once more, he offered her his arm.

Once more, she ignored it.

She looked to Ho-Sing, as if asking him what she should do.

"Ho-Sing see to Missy personally. I let no harm come to you."

By the glint in his manservant's eyes, Nicholas knew exactly to what 'harm'Ho-Sing referred, the one that walked upright and paid his wages--and the onewho was greatly tempted to put the man's little bamboo suitcase out on thecurb.

Ho-Sing, reading Nicholas's mind, as the bloody man often did, snickeredbehind his hand and then held out his arm to Sheridan, who, to Nicholas'sgrowing annoyance, took it without hesitation, leaving him standing at thebottom of the steps like a disgraced court jester.

He sighed, wondering about the explosion to come while he marveled at thesensual way Danny walked. She put her whole body into each step, creating aharmony of form that had a hypnotic effect. Nicholas felt like a dim-wittedcanine with his tongue dragging on the ground waiting for another kick as hefollowed on her heels.

"Here Missy room," Ho-Sing said, opening the door.

Nicholas stood back and watched. Sheridan hesitated on the threshold,gazing into the room. He could see only her profile, but it was an expressiveone, a hint of a smile, a trace of color in her cheeks, her gaze touching hereand there on the furnishings.

"This is ... my room?" Disbelief echoed in her tone.

Nicholas stepped behind her. He sensed that underneath her tough-as-nailsveneer was five kinds of passion just waiting for a trigger to set it off. Hewanted to be that trigger.

"Is it all right?" he murmured.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, and for a moment, the angerdissipated from her eyes. " 'Tis lovely altogether. Thank ye."

"You're welcome."

Such little things made her happy. Nicholas's mind ruminated on otherthings she might enjoy--an odd concept, considering she had a tendency toassault him and had caused him a considerable amount of trouble. Yet somethingabout her warmed him, soothed him. Eased the restless ache in him.

He gazed at her lips, so soft, so full. Lips meant to be kissed, often andvigorously. He wanted to explore their contour, savor their shape, renew theiracquaintance, to know if her mouth tasted as sweet as it looked.

He bent toward her ...

And bloody Ho-Sing cleared his throat.

"Very late, Boss-man. Missy need sleep so she can pummel you againtomorrow."

With a muted growl, Nicholas glared at the man, having to restrain himselffrom hammering Ho-Sing into the floor.

When Nicholas returned his gaze to Sheridan, the look in her eyes told himto step back or lose a limb. He wondered if perhaps she found him morecharming when he was embalmed in bourbon, a thought that required furtherexploration at a later date.

Sighing inwardly, he trudged across the hallway. "If you need me, I'll bein here hiding from insanity." He opened the door to his bedroom.

"Ye said yer room was away from mine."

"No, I said your room wasn't on the same side of the hallway as mine. Andas you can plainly see, it is not." Nicholas pointed to the closed doorfurther down the corridor. "I also said I'd put you in the room next to Jules.Another promise kept."

Behind those glorious eyes, Nicholas could see she was planning his demise.He imagined only Ho-Sing's presence kept her claws retracted.

With a muffled screech, she spun on her heel, her hair flying out like along red whip as she stormed into the room. The last thing he saw was hergloriously angry face promising retribution as her door closed with acontained click instead of feisty slam.

Shaking his head, Nicholas headed into his bedroom, knowing only one thingconclusively.

His time with Sheridan Delaney, of the fighting Delaneys, would not be aholiday on the sea of tranquility.

*Chapter Eleven*

"Eight a.m. and all is hell," Nicholas muttered as the shrill voice of hishousekeeper raised in a cry of alarm pierced the early morning stillness andtwanged a nerve in his spine. He jerked involuntarily, sending his papersshooting off his desk in all directions.

The most important document, the one that dealt with the transfer of anestate from his brother, Damien, the current earl of Blackstone, to him,floated in the air out of reach, and headed straight for the fireplace andcertain destruction.

Nicholas lunged for it, his hand swiping through the flames as a corner ofthe paper started to sizzle--and his flesh along with it. He tossed theparchment to the floor and stomped on it while shaking away the pain in hishand.

"God bloody damn it!" he swore through clenched teeth, wondering why he wasnot surprised that mayhem had already broken out even though the sun hadbarely crested the horizon.

Grimacing, Nicholas reached for the charred paper that now bore dirt fromhis Hessians. He imagined he should be thankful he had his boots on, otherwisethe sole of his foot, along with his hand, would currently be throbbing.

Whatever the fracas outside his door, somehow it had the name Delaneywritten all over it. Ever since Danny had barreled into his life, Nicholas hadbeen one big bruise.

He had begun to hope the shriek that had shot him from his chair like acannonball had merely been a hallucination when the distinctive voice of hishousekeeper rang out, "We've been robbed!"

"Ah, an ill wind that blows no good," Nicholas grumbled, pinching thebridge of his nose.

Tossing the scorched document onto his desk, he strode to the door, swungit open, and nearly collided with his housekeeper--Mrs. Dora Dimshingle, theterminally righteous.

She was a little sparrow of a woman who always clutched the top of herblouse as if expecting him to ravish her at any moment--which just mighthappen should he some day develop a craving for pigeon-chested females who hadbeen swaddled in ashes and sackcloth.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he could call her Dora, but she had piouslyinformed him when he hired her that she wished to keep their relationship on astrictly professional level.

Therefore, she preferred to be addressed as Mrs. Dimshingle. She had provenquite good at her job, so Nicholas couldn't complain, but that didn't mean hecouldn't grimace.

"What's the matter Mrs. Dimshingle?"

"Oh, sir," she squawked like a hen who'd lost her eggs, "we've been thevictims of a heinous act of thievery."

"Thievery?" Who would be foolish enough to break into his home? "What's been stolen?"

She fidgeted with the button at the top of her blouse. "Well, there is thecandelabra from the dining room table and what was left of last night's roastduck."

Last night's roast duck? Nicholas frowned. Who the hell would want ahalf-eaten fowl? And what kind of thief would take an old pewter candelabrawhen there were other, more valuable items to filch?

Mrs. Dimshingle added, "And that portrait of your mother that she gave youlast year that you stowed behind the sideboard and only took out when she cameto visit is missing."

Now Nicholas was worried. Clearly the thief was demented to want thepicture of his mother.

"Oh, and one of those old crossed swords in the study is gone, too."Another unlikely item of booty, but one whose disappearance hurt far worsethan the other pilfered goods.

Nicholas noticed the distaste on his housekeeper's face at the mention ofthe sword. He knew she didn't like the various pieces of armament he hadcollected over the years. She said they reminded her of things better leftdead and buried.

For Nicholas, the hauberk, battle shield, lances, and chain mail--claimedto have been worn during the time of King Arthur--brought back days of mythand legend, days when a lady gave her favorite knight a token to take intobattle.

Days, he thought, glancing up the stairs and catching sight of Sheridan,when a lady looked as this one did.

He forgot about the half-eaten roast duck and candelabra. He even forgothis name as he watched Sheridan descend with regal aplomb.

Attired in a simple navy blue skirt and white blouse, Sheridan'sunderstated beauty set her apart from other women who needed maids and hoursof primping to look their best.

Her hair crackled with life. She left it loose and flowing, cascading overher shoulders and down her back like a river of fire.

Nicholas found his voice when she reached the bottom step. "Good morning,"he murmured.

"Good mornin'," she returned, her head high, pride and defiance gleaming inher eyes.

She bore not a trace of fatigue from her incarceration. Another woman wouldhave stayed abed for the remainder of the day, servants running ragged to doher bidding, smelling salts at the ready as she swooned at each and everyremembrance of the horrid affair--if one could believe another woman could getherself into such a predicament, that is.

But Sheridan appeared as bright as a pence in water and as full of life aswhen she'd danced on the deck of the ship and riveted his attention, a memorythat had yet to ebb.

She greeted his housekeeper. "Hello," she said courteously, introducingherself, since Nicholas had lost his tongue.

Mrs. Dimshingle sniffed. "How do you do."

Nicholas caught a hint of something he didn't like in his housekeeper'sregard, a glimmer of disdain quickly hooded. He cast a sideways glance atSheridan, whose face gave nothing away, but whose eyes gave everything away.

Ignoring their guest, Mrs. Dimshingle queried, "Should I call the constableabout the incident, sir?"

"No," Nicholas replied more curtly than he intended. "That will be all."

Clearly affronted by his brusque manner, she nodded stiffly, twirled on herlittle bird feet, and marched away.

"She doesn't like me."

Nicholas's gaze swiveled to Sheridan, who stared straight ahead. He felt atwinge of hurt for her even as he recognized such cutting behavior could notbe new to her. Yet, clearly, she wasn't immune to it. But how could anyone whopossessed as much heart and soul as this girl did ever be immune to human suffering?

He had never paid much attention to the plight of the Irish, wrapped up ashe was in his horses and problems closer to home, but he knew the cruelty hisfellow man was capable of inflicting. Perhaps his innate sense of outrage overinjustice had failed him on this account.

Yet on the other hand, he wondered if his feelings for Sheridan weren'tborn out of that same sense of injustice, a need to help the underdog, as hehad with Emery and Nash and Ho-Sing, and, to some degree, even Mrs.Dim-shingle.

No. This was different.

The answer came from somewhere, and he did not dispute it.

"Does it matter if she likes you?" he quietly asked.

He had thought to challenge Sheridan's assessment, tell her she imaginedhis housekeeper's scorn, yet he would be lying, and he knew she would seethrough him. He wanted her trust, and dishonesty was not the way to get it.

But why did he care if she trusted him or not? Why did he care aboutanything regarding this wild Irish lass? She'd run out on him, not the otherway around. If anyone should be angry, it was he. Which made him curious. Whywas she angry, anyway?

She peered at him with clear, sad eyes that allowed him a moment to glimpseinside her. Then she blinked. "What?"

Nicholas figured she hadn't meant him to hear her remark. She had beenspeaking to herself again. "I asked if it matters if the housekeeper likesyou."

Her eyes shuttered. "It would make things easier, I suppose."