Yet something nagged at him, a brief image of her crying out, as if shewere in pain. Could he have been rough with the girl in his inebriated state?He didn't like the possibility.

He prided himself on pleasuring women. The more they enjoyed it, the morehe enjoyed it. Had he done something to her that made her run away?

He needed to find her.

Nicholas sought out Pudgy the Proprietor, who, in a gloating manner, toldNicholas the girl had left hours earlier--with another man.

Anger roiled inside Nicholas as he wondered if, for the first time in hislife, the tables had been turned and he had been the seducee and not theseducer.

Worse was the realization that he wanted to find the girl's lover, rip outthe man's heart, and stuff it down his throat.

Why did the thought of her as a common trollop grate on him so? Nicholas had had his share of flings of the married and unmarried variety, but this wasdifferent. This girl was different. Or so he had believed. When he'd lookedinto her eyes, he'd seen something there, a connection, a gut feeling thatmade him think she could be...

"Don't be an ass," he cut himself off. The girl was no better than hismother. Sex was a game to be played. And damn it, he'd played it all his life!But he hadn't wanted to play it with this one tart-tongued, pixie-faced Irishlass.

Nicholas consoled himself with the reminder that he didn't have time for a tryst with a new female, let alone a wildcat with a mean right hook, not whenhe had to woo Jessica Reardon.

Lady Jessica would give him the respectability he desired and would befaithful. He had it from good sources that she was chaste and would notconsider playing bedroom roulette, as he suspected his Celtic goddess oftendid.

Jessica's main ambition in life was to be a devoted wife and mother. That's exactly the type of woman Nicholas wanted, not a lavender-eyed hellion with anadorable lilt whose tongue could flay the flesh from a man's hide and just asquickly soothe it... and whose body could make him vow he'd swallow nails ifhe could have her.

He didn't need any distractions.

And if he kept telling himself that, he might just forget her.

*Chapter Seven*

"This is the end, I tell ye," Aunt Aggie claimed in a gasping voice. "M'final sunrise. I'm goin' fast to meet me Maker."

Sighing inwardly, Sheridan clasped her aunt's hand-- the one that wasn'tclutched to her heart--and prayed for strength.

For two long weeks, Sheridan and her aunt had waited to discover UncleFinny's fate. During that time, Aunt Aggie had been on the verge of passing onto the great beyond more times than Sheridan could ever recall.

Now, as they stood in the bleak courtroom awaiting the verdict, her aunt'shistrionics were finally beginning to wear Sheridan down.

Yet she knew her aunt's endless love affair with death was not the onlyreason she felt out of sorts. Night after night, she had tossed fitfully anddreamed of her dark angel.

She had returned to the inn only once since she'd left in the predawnhours, and that singular visit had been horrible.

Fearful of being tossed bodily out the door, yet refusing to show thatfear, she had pressed her shoulders back, held her head high, and breezed intothe inn as if she owned the place.

"You!" the proprietor spat, heaving his bulk around the edge of the bar, arolling pin clutched in his meaty grasp. He thumped toward her, his eyesnarrowed to black dots.

"Don't ye dare touch me!"

"Get out!"

Sheridan took two steps back so that she stood outside the front door. "I'mout--and I didn't want to come inside in the first place. I only wanted to..." Inquire about the sweet stranger who stole my heart as soon as I lookedinto his green eyes.

"I know what you came for, you dockside tart!" he snarled. "Did your loverleave without paying you?"

For a moment, his words didn't register. When they did, shame flushedSheridan's cheeks. "Ye're a vile creature."

He snorted. "As if I care what you think, trash. Now get out of here. If Isee you again, you'll be sharing a dank cell with your rummy uncle."

Heavyhearted, Sheridan left without learning anything about the man withwhom she'd shared such passion-filled hours. She ached, knowing she mightnever see him again.

"Och now, here they come." Her aunt's tremulous voice brought Sheridan backto the present. "Oh, the cup of Ireland's misery is surely overflowin' today."

" 'Twill be all right, Aunt. Certainly they'll let Uncle Finny go." ButSheridan didn't feel as hopeful as she sounded. Her uncle had a number ofstrikes against him.

He was Irish, unrepentant, and meaner than a prodded bag of snakes withoutthe mellowing aspects of alcohol. As well, since his incarceration, he had notbeen a model prisoner.

The two dour-faced brutes who had hauled her uncle to the gaol stood at thebench with the judge, speaking in low tones. Sheridan strained to hear whatthey were saying, catching only a few words.

Shanty bastard.

Guilty.

Beating.

The first word made her temper soar. The next two lanced her heart.

There would be no fair trial for Finnegan Delaney.

In came the prisoner, shackled like a murderer. Tears formed in Sheridan'seyes at her uncle's haggard appearance. His cheeks were hollow, his eyessunken, his usually ruddy complexion ashen. Sweet Saint Catherine, what hadthey done to him?

"Finnegan Delaney," the judge intoned, the tenor of those two words alreadyboding ill for her uncle, "you have been charged with the crime of molestationand thievery. What say you about these charges?"

Please, Uncle, Sheridan silently beseeched, behave just this once.

Yet she knew her prayers were futile before her uncle spoke. Drunk orsober, sane or insane, her uncle bowed to neither man nor beast.

Leveling an insolent gaze at the judge, he replied, "May all the birdsflock together an' leave their callin' cards upon yer blighted head."

Bang! The gavel cracked like a bolt of lightning signaling the end ofmankind.

"Oh, Uncle," Sheridan murmured in despair while her aunt babbled aboutseeing a white light and her dead mother at the end of a tunnel.

The judge, his face a mask of rage, pointed the gavel at her uncle. "Oneyear in the gaol or five hundred pounds. This is my verdict."

Bang!

"I simply don't know where she could be."

Nicholas glanced at his cousin's worried visage as he stood at his mirrortrying to tie his cravat. Loop, over, under, around, he repeated like alitany, yet the bloody piece of material continued to best him. His sour moodhad been escalating for two long weeks.

Ever since that night.

Two souls entwined. Like hell.

Whose soul was the girl entwined with tonight? Nicholas wondered, and thenasked himself for the nine hundredth time why it mattered. It wasn't as if shewere the only beautiful, vibrant, exciting, captivating woman around--even ifshe might be the only one with an emasculating uppercut.

Nevertheless, London abounded with women and, he thought with a satyr'sgrin, he had always enjoyed a certain degree of popularity among the fairersex. He was a Sinclair, after all. Besides, it wasn't as if he was awart-nosed old man and couldn't have his pick.

Right?

Nicholas peered closer at his image. Was that a gray hair? Certainly he wastoo young to be graying. He studied the offending strand and discovered it wasjust a spot of that ridiculous powder Emery liked to sprinkle on his baldingpate, claiming it had thickening properties.

Every time the man sneezed, white particles like fairy dust sprayed throughthe air, clinging like tenacious little bastards wherever theylanded--normally on Nicholas's pristine black jacket or his newly shinedshoes.

Really. What was the matter with him? He wasn't losing his sex appeal. Itwas a ridiculous notion, just like thinking that little crease around his lefteye was a wrinkle. It wasn't, of course.

Certain something itched his stomach, Nicholas pulled his shirt from hiswaistband and scrutinized his torso.

Nope. No itch. No redness. No flab. Still taut. Well-muscled. He turned tohis side to check that angle.

"What are you doing?"

Nicholas's gaze snapped back to the mirror to see Jules staring at him, hereyebrow raised questioningly. Hell and damnation, caught in the act ofstupidity. "Huh? Oh. Something was scratching me."

Hurriedly, he tucked his shirt in and resumed trying to tie his blastedcravat, avoiding his cousin's curious regard. A dim recollection streakedthrough his brain that she had been telling him something. Since he hadn't thefoggiest notion what it was, he decided a nod and a smile were the best courseof action.

However, his thoughts quickly filtered back to their original path,beginning with his plans for that evening. He would escort Lady Jessica to thetheatre. He'd seen her three times this week, and things were progressingquite well. He had worked hard to get her father to see him as an acceptablesuitor, considering the fact that Nicholas was untitled.

And a Sinclair.

To Nicholas, being a Sinclair was a great gift. He had two older brotherswho were his best friends. They had sheltered him from an uncaring mother anda father who fell further into despair with each passing year, eventuallydying a broken man.

Damien and Gray were the reasons Nicholas had a happy childhood--althoughto their faces he would declare them blighted pains in the posterior, to whichthey would reply that they had wanted a dog instead of a baby brother.Translated, it meant they loved one another without the gushy sentiment.

However, to other people, being a Sinclair meant husbands should hide theirwives, fathers guard their daughters, and people remove themselves from thevicinity if a brawl broke out--they wouldn't be responsible for injuriessustained by innocent bystanders.

Nevertheless, Nicholas had managed to work his way around his reputationwith Lord Harrington, Jessica's father. Their mutual love of horses hadeventually built a bridge, allowing Nicholas to court Jessica.

Nicholas suspected the viscount had designs on not only a possible unionbetween Nicholas and his daughter, of which the man had four, but a unionbetween one of the viscount's mares and one of Nicholas's pure-blooded studs,which suited him well enough. Once they were family, such a union wouldbenefit him.

"Are you listening to me?"

Nicholas discovered his cousin frowning at him. Good Christ, he had steppedinto it again. What had she been saying? He searched his mind for the threadof conversation, then took in concerned visage and figured he could probablymake a fairly accurate guess.

"Of course, I am. You were telling me about your missing friend," What washer name? Something Gil-hooly. All he needed were more females hovering aboutto grate on a man's nerves.

"I'm worried. She should have been here by now."

Saved from female pique, Nicholas resumed fussing with his cravat. "Youknow these ships are rarely on time, puss, what with the usual congestion andjockeying for quay space." He finally managed to get his cravat in somesemblance of order. Turning, he asked, "How do I look?"

Jules spared him a brief glance. "The same."

Nothing like a female to prick a man's pride. "Well, that's saying a lot,"he muttered, reaching past her to swipe up his jacket.

With a push, she hauled herself to her feet. "I'm sorry. It's just that I'mworried about Sheridan. She's never been to England before, and my mind has grown fertile with pictures of various catastrophes."

"Fertility is clearly something you excel at." Nicholas smiled and pattedher swollen stomach.

"Cad." She stuck her tongue out at him.

He chuckled softly. "Save that expression for William. I'm sure hisresponse will differ greatly from mine."

The reminder of her husband made her smile turn wistful. "If he ever forgives me for coming to London without him."

Nicholas struggled to keep from informing his hard-headed cousin that inhis office at that very moment were at least twenty missives from her equallyhardheaded husband.

Nicholas had received one every day since Jules arrived--all of themasking, in different ways, how his wife was faring. Did she miss him? Was sheeating well? Sleeping enough? And, inevitably, wrapping up the letter byasking yet again if she missed him.

Nicholas had been so busy replying to William's correspondence that he wasbarely getting any work done, and this was foaling season. As well, his colt,Grayfriar, would be put to stud for the first time in less than a month.

Ah, what a fine animal--clean lines, regal bearing-- just like his sire,Narcissus, aptly named because the black loved to prance and gaze at hisreflection in puddles.

Gently, Nicholas clasped his cousin's hands. "William adores you, my girl.Who wouldn't, after all? Give it another week and he'll be pounding down mydoor, ready to sweep you off your feet--or attempting to sweep you off yourfeet, at least." He glanced pointedly at her stomach, which earned him agentle slap and a smile. "Now, about your friend, Suzanne--" Jules poked himin the chest. "It's Sheridan." "Yes. Well, I'm sure everything is all rightwith Sharon and she'll arrive before you can say John the Baptist. You knowthese Yanks get easily confused, don't know a bum from a backside. As wespeak, she's probably driving some poor, hapless man crazy."

A sweet peal of laughter poured from his cousin's lips. She gave him a lookthat said she had a secret she was dying to tell--but not to him. "That, dearhapless cousin, was never in question."

"Five hundred pounds!" Aunt Aggie wailed, pulling her flask from her skirtpocket. "We barely have five pounds to our name!"

Sheridan grabbed her aunt's wrist before she tipped the bottle to her lips."If ye're not wantin' to be sittin' next to Uncle Finny," she said in a hushedvoice, "then I would put that away. As ye can plainly see, we're surrounded bythe law." And Sheridan didn't doubt for a moment the constables were lookingfor a reason to toss all of them in the gaol and rid themselves of the Irish menace.

Taking her aunt in a gentle but unyielding grip, Sheridan left the small,dank building. Out on the bustling street, she looked about and wondered whytrouble dogged her like an unwanted shadow.

"Give yer old auntie back her medicine, lass."

Sheridan glanced down to find she still held her aunt's flask. How temptedshe was to pour out the contents, toss the container in the gutter, and jumpup and down on it.

She contemplated doing that very thing when a sharp tug on her arm swungher around. She gasped, coming face to face with a grimy lad trying to rip hersmall pouch off her wrist. The pouch contained the few pounds they had left,and she would not relinquish it without a fight.

"Leave it be, ye spineless little squint!"-She smashed her boot down on hisfoot. He yowled and cursed foully but did not release his grip on her purse.

Sheridan nearly wrested her purse from the thief's mean little grip whenthe cord securing it around her wrist snapped. She stumbled back, her fingersloosening for only a moment, but that was all it took. Her attacker sprintedoff, rapidly disappearing into the crowd.

"Our money!" her aunt cried. "He's gettin' away!"

Sheridan didn't think twice. Hoisting her skirts, she took off after thebandit. No one stole from a Delaney and lived to breathe another day!