His hand closed over hers. "Dixie, we have to stop. I need time to rest." She sat up. How thoughtless of her! He was injured, bruised at the very least and here she was, jumping his bones. "Go back to Emily's and stay there. Don't try any heroics over the house. It's safe for tonight. Promise?"

She agreed but waited until the door closed behind him. She would have stopped by her house but she'd given her word. She couldn't break a promise made after a kiss like that.

Undressing in the room under the eaves, Dixie glanced at her watch. The whole incident with Christopher, her house and the maniac intruder had lasted less than a half-hour. She stifled a s.h.i.+ver. It was over. She didn't need to worry. She was too worn to worry. Repulsing amorous swains, chasing robbers and aiding the wounded had worn her out. She tossed her clothes on the chair and fell into bed without even brus.h.i.+ng her teeth. Emily's linen sheets felt like cool, soothing balm to her worn body but nothing eased the turmoil in her brain. What had she done? Acted like a crazy wanton. Thrown herself on a man, an injured man at that, just because her hormones went into overdrive through a bit of stress. She still tasted his lips on hers, felt his tongue in her mouth and what the rest of her body was doing didn't bear examining. Tomorrow he was coming to go through her books. What had she started?

Sebastian ignored six rings, shrill above Emily's sighs. He slipped his hand over her breast as the answering machine clicked on.

"Uncle, you have to be there. Talk to me!"

Sebastian wanted to spit. Couldn't James manage anything? He'd had all evening with that troublesome woman out of the way.

He'd better be calling to announce success. Sebastian leaned over Emily and picked up the phone. "You found everything, I hope."

"No way. This makes three times I've scoured that room. Nothing's there."

"You'll find it on the fourth. Go back and don't come home without it."

"Not on your Nellie! You can't make me go back. That place is haunted. Not just noises. Tonight I saw a white face at the window. You're not telling me that was a local yokel."

"Get back there!"

"Never!"

Sebastian cussed as James hung up. He turned back to Emily.

She sat up on the desk, slowly pulled her skirts down and tucked in her blouse. "If he didn't find their records, we're in trouble."

"Not yet. We'll find them. If they're that well hidden, Miss LePage isn't likely to stumble across them. They have to be in that book room. I've gone through every other paper with a fine-tooth comb. Nothing's in the bank. I checked. Being executor has its advantages." He tucked in his s.h.i.+rt and zipped his pants.

Emily stood up. "What do we do if we can't find them?"

"Win time. Delay things. Inconvenience our Miss LePage. Maybe James needs a helper."

"Who?" Emily stopped. Her eyes widened as they met his. She shook her head. "Not me. Not in a million years.""You have a lot to lose if the truth comes out. The bank wouldn't be too happy at the idea of a witch among their staff. Rather spoils the image."

"It's not illegal anymore. I don't have to worry."

"No?" One hand grasped her neck as the other stroked her chin. He kissed her, pressing his mouth down to part her lips. He kissed her long enough to release a sigh then drew back, his hand still firm on her neck. "You'll do what I ask, Emily. Because I want it."

"What shall I do?" What a mess she looked with her rumpled hair, smudged lipstick and creased skirt.

"Give me two days. Fix a nice Sunday breakfast for our Dixie and make sure it keeps her in bed for a couple of days."

Her eyes widened as his meaning dawned. "I can't do that!"

His hand trailed around her neck to her breast. "You will. Why be a skilled herbalist if you deny your skills to the coven?"

"This isn't for the coven. It's for you."

"It's the same thing. The old women are gone. I'm not letting an inconvenient American ruin everything. All you have to do is give her the collywobbles for a couple of days. She's a healthy young woman. Nothing can go wrong. Marlowe is poking into things. We're all set to take care of him. You get our Dixie out of action."

Color drained from her face. "Sebby, that's going too far."

Sebastian turned her face up to his again. "I'm counting on you, Emily." She nodded and he let her kiss him again. He watched her find her shoes, gather up her handbag and let herself out.

He needed her to come through.

He wondered what she'd use. Bryony root? Rhubarb leaf? He didn't want to know. If it went wrong, he preferred ignorance.

He hoped it wouldn't. He still fancied a go at Dixie.

Dixie looked up at the uneven ceiling beams over her bed. It took a couple of sleep-muddled minutes to place the sound-rain drumming on the pitched roof. Pulling herself from under the duvet, she padded over to open the chintz curtains. Rain wasn't the word. A steady downpour beat a tattoo on the roof, gutters and street. Orchard House was half-obscured and a lone car drove down the lane, spraying water from every puddle. She'd heard about English rain and this was it. So much for a nice stroll up to church and a morning reading the paper on the Green.

Change in weather, change in plans. She'd spend the day going through her book room. She had all the time in the world. She only hoped that Agathing hadn't burned the house down.

Coming out of the shower, she smelled cooking.

"Good morning." Emily's round cheeks spread in a wide smile. "I thought I heard you up. I thought we could have a nice chat over breakfast. Sunday is such a nice, leisurely day, isn't it?"

"Perhaps a cup of coffee..." Dixie began. She tried to place the smell. It wasn't sausage or bacon.

Emily pressed down the toaster, turning on another smile for Dixie. "No, I insist you must have something to eat. I fixed something special: veal kidneys."

Kidneys! Dixie felt the bile rise from the lowest point in her innards. She could drink coffee while the woman munched on bacon but watch while she chewed kidneys? Never!

"Thanks, but I've got to go out early." She squelched her guilt at Emily's disappointment. She didn't stay for toast or cereal either. She had instant coffee in her kitchen and a packet of cookies. She'd make do with that.

The Aga hadn't gone out. In fact, the kitchen offered a warm welcome after the damp outside. Nothing like breakfast in her own house-but the milk had gone sour in the pantry. Mug of black coffee in hand, Dixie added "refrigerator" to her shopping list. Her handwriting jumped back at her. She was crazy. A refrigerator wasn't a purchase for a month's stay. How about staying longer? No way. Not with traffic on the wrong side of the road, unfamiliar currency, and no telephone.

She made another cup of coffee and carried it upstairs.

The repeated ringing of the doorbell broke Dixie's concentration. For over three hours, she'd lost herself among the books.

Resisting the temptation to ignore the bell, she pushed the dusty volumes aside. Halfway downstairs, she paused. Who was it?

Christopher? Comments about vandals and teenage intruders flashed through her mind.

The mahogany mirror in the hall showed the angle of the front door. Dixie paused to glimpse the reflection-nothing but steady rain. Pranksters ringing and running away? Yobs, as Emma called them. Dixie was ready. She'd dealt with teenagers for a living.

Hand on the bra.s.s k.n.o.b, Dixie waited for another ring and peered through the window beside the door. Christopher! "Come on in, you're getting soaked!" She flung the door open.

Better than he'd ever imagined, she didn't just invite him in, she grasped his hand and pulled him over the threshold. After all these months, he was inside the house. Now he could come and go as he pleased, but Dixie's welcome triggered misgivings in the heart he didn't possess. "I got Alf to pack us lunch. A fair exchange for a look at your library."

Her warm hand brushed his as she took the basket. "For lunch you can have more than a look. All I have in the house is a pack of cookies... Sorry, biscuits. I'm famished for something more."

So was he. A smile as warm as her skin could lead them both to disaster.

Dixie unpacked asparagus quiche, a Greek salad with olives and Feta cheese, something that looked like meatb.a.l.l.s but Alf had promised wasn't, and a tub of fresh fruit.

"This is enough to feed a family," Dixie said, taking plates and knives from the oak dresser.

"You eat, I'll skip. I have severe food allergies and have to be careful what I eat." The practiced lie slid out. For the first time in his long life, it stung.

"I feel guilty pigging out while you watch. Could I at least make you coffee?"

She felt guilty? What was he supposed to feel after she'd rushed to his rescue last night? He'd better stop feeling at all if this was going to work. "Coffee would be great." His metabolism could handle liquids. "Sit down and eat." The sooner she ate, the sooner he could go through that room.

She insisted on making his coffee first. "Sure I can't tempt you?" she asked, looking at the food on the table.

Temptation? Sweet Abel! For over three years, he'd had no desire to feed from humans. Now it came in great smas.h.i.+ng waves and he had a whole afternoon to survive.

"Wonderful." She closed her eyes as she bit into a "meatball."

"These are fantastic, I'm sorry I can't share with you.""What are they?"

"Falafel-chick pea flour, garlic, herbs and something extra I can't place." She smiled up at him. "I can see vegetarianism isn't your choice."

No. He fed on smooth flesh and warm pulsing blood. He wanted hers and he'd never take it. Need like this made him vulnerable and he couldn't afford any risks. Not here. Not now. Not after her embrace last night. To business. "Let's take the coffee upstairs."

"You want to see the books? Fair enough."

She packed the leftover food into the walk-in pantry. "Hope it keeps. I was thinking about buying a fridge, but wonder whether it's worth it. I won't be here more than a month."

A month! Could he really be that lucky? "Didn't realize you were staying that long. Caughleigh said something about your leaving next week."

"Sebastian doesn't make my decisions for me. I need a holiday and this is as good a place as any-and rent free."

"I'm very glad you're staying."

The blood rose up her neck. Her eyes flickered and looked away. "Upstairs," she said, "I've something to show you."

She'd pulled back the shutters and turned on the lights. It did little for the decor. Ninety years' acc.u.mulation of books was stacked on shelves, heaped in corners and piled on the tables and chairs. "Someone went through everything," she said through a clenched jaw. "There's dust all over the floor and shelves but the books have been moved."

"You knew that already." Had she forgotten last night?

"Yes." Her dark eyebrows curled together. "I was pretty sure that first night and certain yesterday, but I'd only glanced in here before this morning. I thought they might have been going through the whole house."

"They haven't?"

"The other upstairs rooms haven't been touched since Sebastian closed the house. This one had footsteps in the dust and the books had been moved. Why?"

He let the question stay rhetorical. Answering it would trigger a dozen more. The less she knew, the safer.

"Anything missing?"

She chuckled, a warm sound from deep in her belly. "How would I know? It'll take me ages to check and then I'll never be sure if it wasn't gone before. I'll just make sure our visitor never gets in again. Tonight I'll leave the blinds and drapes open and every light on. Tomorrow I'm putting on dead-bolt locks, and a security system and after then, I'll be here."

"You're moving in?" This was wonderful, or terrible. She'd be closer but in danger. Why did he care? All he wanted was a few books. Mortals didn't concern him unless they got in his way.

"Don't look so shocked. It is my house after all. I'd rather be here than in Emily Reade's spare room."

"You're not worried about being here alone?"

"I've gotten used to being alone."The words cut deep where he never felt. How could she be so beautiful and alive and alone? "Should you be here alone?"

She ran her hand over her forehead and through her auburn hair as if brus.h.i.+ng away a hard memory or an old hurt. "I can look after myself. There's Emma just a few yards away, and I'll have good locks to keep intruders out."

They wouldn't keep him out. Not now she'd invited him in. What about the others?

"Look what I found this morning." She crossed to the shelves and reached for a book. When she turned back to him, her eyes glowed with excitement. "I'm sure you get cracks about this all the time but I can't help that." She pressed the book against her chest, holding it close. "You must see this." She held out the worn calfskin bound volume.

He took it with both hands, his thumb feeling the warmth where her b.r.e.a.s.t.s had pressed against the leather. He opened the book with care-rough handling could split the old binding apart-and stared at the t.i.tle page. Had she guessed? How?

"The Jew of Malta. I found it an hour or so ago." He nodded, his cool fingertips smoothing the musty pages. Then he read the date, but he hadn't the heart to tell her. He looked up from the worn pages to her bright eyes. "It's old," she went on. "Probably a nineteenth-century forgery and worth something because of that, but the date says 1587 and I think that's wrong."

"It is. It came out in 1589." He should have bitten off his own tongue.

Her eyes widened. "You have studied him then?"

"My namesake? Why not? Yes, I know all about Kit Marlowe." He sighed. The past hovered like a crouching animal. He knew everything.

She perched on the edge of the oak table, watching him. "I read him some in college. I majored in English before I went on to train as a librarian. Marlowe fascinated me. So talented and mysterious. Who was he? Did he write Shakespeare? What really happened in the tavern at Deptford? It's as good as a soap opera."

"Will Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare. Kit Marlowe wrote Marlowe. And there's nothing fine about betrayal and treachery."

She started at his sharp words. "You have studied him then."

He forced his shoulders into a shrug. "You could say so."

She wasn't finished. "It just seems like a mystery novel. So young and talented and dying in a brawl and such an odd injury..."

She chopped her sentence off and bit her lip, looking at his face, then turning scarlet. "I'm sorry that was tactless."

He laid the book on the dusty tabletop and took her shoulders in his hands. "Dixie," he whispered, "it doesn't matter. It was a long time ago."

Her teeth worried her lower lip. "I didn't think. I was just running on. It's such a coincidence." She paused, her face tight with remorse. "I'm so tactless. I just..."

"Forget it. People have called me a lot worse. The kids in the village call me 'Pirate' behind my back. It doesn't matter."

"What happened?"

She wasn't asking about the inn at Deptford. But she was. And she'd never believe the truth. "It happened a long time ago- when I was young and playing dangerously. With one good eye, I have eighty percent of my vision. It's little more than an inconvenience."

Her white teeth still pulled at her soft lip. In a minute she'd draw blood. He couldn't let her. The scent of her blood would drive him crazy. He traced a finger over each curved eyebrow, smoothed her cheeks, tilted her chin, bent his mouth to hers and eased her lips away from her teeth.

Warmth and sweetness. She tasted like honeysuckle nectar on a June night. She curved warm into him like suns.h.i.+ne on marble.

Her tongue met his and she moaned like aspen trees sighing in an afternoon breeze. She was everything that life had to offer and he was four hundred years dead. He pulled away gently, brus.h.i.+ng his lips on her heated forehead. With her, he almost felt like a man again, and that would be dangerous for both of them.