"Only for the man," Grace argued. "Women lose their financial independence when they marry."

"Exactly, which is why I've never been able to understand why so many women so willingly give that up for the sake of being married."

Grace was surprised. She'd never heard a man take that point of view. "They probably believe love is more important that financial independence."

"More fool they."

Grace was inclined to agree with him. It was the way she felt herself-but only for herself. Most women didn't see things her way at all. She thought of Melly. "Most women want children."

He nodded. 'True enough. The maternal instinct will out. And men want heirs. Property and heirs, that's what the institution of marriage is for."

Grace thought of Aunt Gussie's second marriage, to her beloved Argentine husband. "No, not always."

She'd never forgotten Aunt Gussie telling her about it: "He could have married a stunning young virgin-he had the pick of Argentine society." Aunt Gussie had smiled like the cat who ate the cream. "But he wanted me. A short, plump, childless English widow in her third decade. Now that was a grand romantic adventure, I tell you. That man taught me the meaning of passion! We sizzled, my dear, positively sizzled!" And Aunt Gussie had sighed dreamily.

At the time, Grace hadn't been able to imagine any man making her sizzle. She knew differently now.

The way Lord D'Acre had made her feel felt a lot like... sizzle.

Then again, he could probably make any female sizzle, the rat! She had to remember he was a lord and he thought her a paid companion. Gentlemen always dallied with servants, careless of their feelings, as if servants didn't have feelings, didn't have hearts that broke. No matter how much he sizzled and made her sizzle, she couldn't take him seriously. He didn't even believe in marriage.

She thought of her sisters, who had all found loving, passionate, loyal husbands. "Some marriages are wonderful, full of love, and happiness, and warmth.

Lord D'Acre snorted. "I'd never have thought a girl who carried a knife in her boot would believe in such fairy tales, Greyst-what the devil is your first name, anyway? You don't want me to call you Bright Eyes, and I can't keep calling you Greystoke..." He smiled like a self-satisfied tiger. "Not after all we've shared."

"I don't have a first name. Just Greystoke." She took a determined step away from him and said lightly, "What do you imagine we've shared, Lord D'Acre? You know nothing about me. You are betrothed to Miss Pettifer and even if you know nothing about loyalty-and, and love-I do! Now go away and do whatever you were planning to do before I interrupted you!" She shooed him away.

"You're wrong, Little Miss No-first-name. I know a great deal about-what did you call it?-oh, yes, love." The sultry, drawn-out way he said the word was almost indecent! "But if you want to instruct me further-"

"Out!" She pointed at the door. Hands on hips, she waited for him to leave. She could not believe she'd just ordered a man out of his own kitchen.

And naturally he wasn't about to obey her.

He grinned, as if her imperious demeanor amused him, and for a moment she thought he was going to grab her again and kiss her senseless, so when he finally moved, she jumped, expecting him to lunge.

Instead, he fetched a few more loads of wood and stacked them beside the hearth, just to show her who was lord of this castle. And who was the paid companion.

She watched. She wanted to kick him for his obtuse-ness. And for lighting her fire. And for kissing her. And worst of all, for making her want to kiss him back.

It had all seemed so simple; disguise herself as a companion, and be there to give Melly the courage to tell her father she didn't want a cold-blooded marriage with a cold-blooded lord.

We sizzled, my dear, positively sizzled!

This lord was far from cold-blooded. She watched him stacking more wood on the fire. He was just stubborn, thick-headed, and idiotic! Marriage is a cold-blooded institution-indeed!

He made a few last-minute adjustments to the fire. "That should last the rest of the night." He straightened. "Well, I'm off."

He strolled past her. She held her breath and locked her knees. His coat brushed against her and she caught a faint whiff of his scent. He smelled the same as he tasted. Exotic. Forbidden. Wicked. Irresistible.

She wiped her mouth again, as if it could remove the taste of him from her consciousness. My taste is in your mouth forever. It was not. It was not]

His hand was on the doorknob of the outside door when she remembered to ask, "Where are you going?"

He turned, a sardonic look on his face. "The village tavern does excellent meat pies, I'm told. And after all that wood chopping I've worked up a fine appetite.

Good evening."

Meat pies? Grace's stomach rumbled as he closed the door behind him. She looked at the carrots bobbing unsinkably in green-flecked dishwater. Meat pies?

Lord D'Acre, spawn of the Devil!

"So this is where you are. I have searched and searched and I couldn't find a soul." Melly entered the kitchen. "The doctor has gone. He said he wouldn't wait for the tea, after all."

"How is your father?"

"Oh, Grace, I'm so worried about him. He looks so ill and he keeps asking for a... for a m-minister." Her face crumpled.

"Oh, Melly." Grace put down the knife and hugged her friend.

'The doctor has bled him and bled him and-" She broke off, wiping her eyes. "I cannot believe it is doing Papa any good. He's sleeping now, but he's so weak- much weaker than he was before."

Grace frowned. Great-Uncle Oswald had strong opinions about doctors and he was scathing on the subject of those who bled patients at every opportunity. "Have you asked the doctor not to bleed him anymore?"

Melly nodded. "Yes, but he took no notice. You know how it is."

Grace did know how it was. "Well, let us see how your papa is in the morning. And perhaps there is another doctor in the vicinity-we could get a second opinion." She picked up the knife and resumed chopping vegetables.

"The doctor said he'd be back in the morning. Perhaps we could talk to him together." Melly frowned as she became aware of the carnage on the table. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Making soup." Grace hacked at a turnip. It was a very old, very tough turnip. Her injured hand throbbed and her stomach kept rumbling. The thought of hot meat pies had set it off. Blast him!

Melly peered at the array of old vegetables dubiously. "I didn't know you could cook."

"Anyone can cook," Grace declared, hoping it was true. "Beside, we have no choice."

"Why not? Is there nothing else to eat? Are there truly no servants? And where is our host?"

The innocent questions made Grace's blood want to boil.

But she couldn't let it boil over poor Melly. She chopped savagely at a hapless turnip. "Our host"-chop, chop, chop!-"the unmitigated, scoundrelly, callous wretch, has left us to fend for ourselves." Chop, chop, chop! "He just leapt onto his horse and rode off! To the village inn!" She hurled the turnip pieces into the pot. "Where they make excellent meat pies."

Tne turnip bobbed woodily with the carrots among flecks of green herbs. It looked nothing like any soup she'd ever eaten.

"How very peculiar," Melly declared.

"Yes, I think the vegetables are too old."

"I meant Lord D'Acre. It's very peculiar of him to go off like that." She gave Grace a half-embarrassed look. "He's not as bad as I expected, you know. Spending hours out in that terrible storm looking for the doctor for Papa- even if you actually fetched him. And helping the doctor get Papa changed. He even told me not to worry, that everything would be all right."

Grace stared at her in incredulity. How could Melly swallow such bland assurances? The same man had just spoken of marriage as a cold-blooded business affair-not that Melly knew that. But she did know that the wretch had just walked out on them to feed his own face while they starved.

Misreading the reason for Grace's incredulity, Melly nodded. "Yes, it was nice of him, wasn't it?"

"Nice of him?" Grace snapped. "There's nothing nice about a man who goes off to eat delicious meat pies leaving his guests to make their own-" She looked at the pot with loathing. "Disgusting soup!"

As she spoke there was a knock on the kitchen door. Bemused, Grace went to open it. Outside stood a boy with a large wicker basket. "Please, miss, would you be Mistress Greystoke?"

"I would."

"Then m'lord sent this up for you and the others." He shoved the basket into Grace's hands and gave her a huge grin. "Gave me a shillin' an all, he did, just for bringin' it up here!" he confided joyfully and ran off.

"What is it?" Melly asked trom behind. She took the basket from Grace's hands and carried it to the table. The contents were covered by a clean blue-and-white-checked cloth. She pulled it back and the scent of freshly baked meat pies filled the room.

"Mmmmh." Melly inhaled ecstatically. "They must be the ones he told you about -you obviously misunderstood his intentions. And look, there's fresh bread, and cheese and apples and a bottle of port-not that Papa is up to drinking port, but still, it's a thoughtful inclusion." She beamed at Grace. "See, I told you he was a nice man."

Grace smiled and nodded back, but inside she was seething. She hadn't misunderstood-he'd deliberately misled her, the rat! The scent of the pies tantalized her nostrils and her stomach rumbled. The fiend! How could she possibly stay angry with a man who sent her hot pies?

But she had to. Melly was starting to like him, so more than ever, Grace had to keep him at arms' length. Or further.

Only what if Melly fell for him? And he only saw Melly as a cold-blooded business arrangement? It wasn't just her own heart Grace had to protect, it seemed. She sighed and reached for a pie. It was all getting horribly complicated.

Dominic sat on a bench outside the Wolf's Head Inn, nursing a mug of ale. Sheba lay sprawled at his feet, her chin on his boot, her eyes watchful. It was a lovely evening and the scent of fresh, damp earth and leaves rose all around him like perfume. He watched the moon rise over the valley. The valley of his forbears. His despised, unknown forebears.

God, but they'd left things in a state.

He'd never intended to set foot on Wolfestone property, but now he had, it would be some time before he'd be able to leave.

He'd given two letters to the landlord of the inn to go off on the first available post; one to Podmore, the family lawyer and executor of his father's will, and the other to Abdul, his-what would you call Abdul-majordomo? Agent d'affaires? There wasn't a word big enough. There was simply nothing that Abdul could not- or would not-do.

He found himself grinning. What would the villagers make of Abdul? They'd really have something to whisper about then!

Each time he'd entered the inn, the taproom had fallen silent. Dominic didn't care. He'd never really belonged anywhere and he had no interest in the villagers' opinion of him. He hadn't intended to know them in the first place, and now, after he'd gotten to the bottom of the situation he'd found here and sorted it out, he'd leave and never clap eyes on them again.

But furtive whispers all around him were irritating, so, since it was a fine evening he sat outside.

He took a sip and grimaced. English ale was not to his taste, yet the innkeeper had been unable to provide him with any decent wine, other than a port that was mellow, but too sweet for his taste. The ale, on the other hand, was heavy and bitter and dark. It suited Dominic's mood exactly.

He'd been angry with Sir John Pettifer and his daughter for forcing him to come here, but in retrospect, it was a good thing he had. How long had Eades been playing out his little scheme? He must have run off as soon as Podmore had instructed him to present himself in Bristol to meet the new heir. He hadn't been warned that Dominic had found anomolies in the estate books. Lucky he had a head for figures, otherwise Eades's embezzlement might not have been discovered.

The estate had been paying for half a castle full of servants for God knows how long. Most of it hadn't been cleaned for years. Eades was the villain, but Dominic knew whose was the real responsibility. His father. He should never have left this place to rot.

Dominic didn't understand him at all. When had he ever? Wolfestone was everything to his father and yet he'd let it rot. What sort of mentality would glory in six hundred years of ownership, and yet think that all that was needed to continue the tradition was a male heir?

Now, having seen the dire state of the estate close up, the mess left by his neglectful father and exploited by his estate mismanager, Eades. Dominic had no choice but to sort it out. He had to get it in a state fit to sell. He hated waste. When you'd started your life with nothing and everything you owned was hard earned, you valued things more, he supposed.

He looked across the valley with a dispassionate eye, at the patchwork fields and rolling hills, golden in the setting sun. It was hard to believe it all belonged to him- after he married Miss Pettifer. This was beautiful country, good, rich land. It would take a great deal of work to bring the estate back to productivity again, but whoever bought it would be well rewarded. The sale of Wolfestone would give him a fine profit.

In the meantime he'd have to live here, for a time at least, in that wreck of a house. The last place on earth he'd wanted to be.

The thought pierced him unexpectedly as it had the first time he'd clapped eyes on his ancestral home, and innumerable times since. A wreck of a house. What an irony! What a thrice-damned and blasted irony.

How many times in his life had he sworn to wipe Wolfe-stone from the face of the earth? And now, here he was, actually planning for a certain amount of rebuilding of the estate...

Only until it was in a fit state to sell, he promised himself. For the sake of his mother's memory, he needed to wipe the name of Wolfestone from the face of the earth. How often had he found her weeping, when he was a boy. She never would explain, never would speak of this place, except to say, "You'll understand when you go to Wolfestone."

He understood now, all right. This place was the site and source of all her woes. For Wolfestone, an innocent, unworldly seventeen-year-old heiress had been sold in marriage to a man nearly thirty years her senior. For the getting of Wolfestone heirs his father had forced a young girl to his bed and beaten her when she failed to conceive. For Wolfestone she had been made to suffer most of her young life, and for that her son would destroy it.

Dominic drank some more ale. The inn's pies had been as good as promised, only rather salty. Deliberate, he was sure; salty food meant that patrons drank more.

A faint breeze stirred the leaves of the overhanging beech trees. Autumn was coming, dappling the ground with leaves of gold and russet, like freckles on the earth, like bright new pennies. He smiled.

Thank God for the bright new penny in his life, he thought, his spirits lightening.

Who'd have thought he would find her at Wolfestone, of all places, covered in freckles and dressed in an ugly gray gown.

Sheba sat up suddenly and Dominic glanced at the bridge. But there was no sign of anyone. Young Billy Finn wasn't back yet. The boy had earned himself a shilling this evening.

His mouth quirked. He would have loved to see her face when the boy arrived with the basket.

"How on earth did she come to be a hired companion?" he asked Sheba. "Bold as brass and twice as bright. Hired companions are invariably meek and self-effacing. I doubt she even knows the meaning of the words." Sheba thumped a lazy tail in agreement.

Her background intrigued him more than ever: her armed-to-the-teeth female relatives sounded like streetwalkers or something of the ilk. And yet in some ways she was so innocent. He grinned, recalling the way she had stared at his chest, nearly going cross-eyed with the effort of not staring, determined he should not see she was as interested in him as he was in her.

A fascinating mix, his Bright Eyes with no first name.

As a hired companion, she had much to learn. She had much to learn about men, too. And Dominic was just the man to teach her.

She had no opinion of lords-that much was clear! He smiled to himself. She'd shown the same amount of respect to him as Lord D'Acre as she had when she thought him nothing but a gypsy groom-little or none! She'd told him what she thought of him in no uncertain terms, those brilliant blue eyes sparking with anger.

Magnificent eyes. His hand wrapped around the mug reminiscently. He could still taste her in his mouth: sweet, warm, fire in his blood. And the feel of her soft young body against his. Her silky smooth skin.

She hadn't so much as squeaked when he'd pulled that jagged great splinter out.

His jaw tightened. Who or what had taught her to deal with pain like that? She was no stranger to pain, to mistreatment. You didn't develop that degree of self-mastery without a reason.

Dominic sipped the bitter brew. And yet her spirit remained undaunted. He thought of how she'd faced him down, again and again with a cheeky air of defiance. Thank God.

"Bold and bright and beautiful," he told Sheba. The dog sat up, pricking her ears, then scrambled to her feet and rushed off into the tangled vegetation opposite.

Paid companion was no life for a woman of Greystoke's mettle. She deserved more. She deserved the world. And Dominic would give it to her.

His mouth quirked. That look on her face when he'd said he was going to eat pie at the inn-Lord, if looks could kill!

Her spirit delighted him. She would not come to him easily. But come she would, he vowed silently.

Greystoke would be his.

A few minutes later Sheba returned, panting, her fur covered in grass seeds and twigs. She laid a dead rat at his feet, her tail a swaying plume of pride. Dominic thanked her gravely. It was not every day one was presented with a rat, after all.