CHAPTER 9

“I am afraid I cannot allow this to pass. You will have to explain yourself, Victoria.” Edward’s usually cheerful countenance was now sober, emphasizing how long and thin his face really was. “These men need to be found before they strike again at some other innocent person. And I would think you would realize that.”

Forced into a corner, Victoria resorted to lies in an effort to keep them all safe. “I realize it only too well, Edward. But not the authorities, please. Think of the scandal an investigation would cause. The police will ask all sorts of questions. How embarrassing to have all of our personal business in The Morning News. Why, everyone who is anyone reads it. And then we’d have to stay here overly long for an investigation and then a trial. All of that could take weeks, months. Don’t you wish to return to England sometime soon? And even if you don’t, think of Spencer. Shouldn’t we ask him how he would feel about the unwanted attention of being in the press?”

Edward stared at the carpet and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yes, I see your point. He wouldn’t be amused. Perhaps I can conduct an investigation on my own, then, and get to the bottom of this.”

Victoria again grabbed the eager earl by his arm. “Edward, no. For God’s sake, leave it be. Please. Talk to Spencer first. See what he wants you to do. I would hate for you to anger him over this.”

Victoria’s very real fear was that Edward should start asking questions in the wrong places and of the wrong people. He could innocently but easily upset the delicate balance that so far existed because Victoria had responded to the letter’s dictates and returned immediately to Savannah without telling anyone why. What she needed now was time—unimpeded by Edward’s snooping—to see this situation to its end … without getting herself or anyone else killed.

Edward scratched absently at his clean-shaven cheek and frowned. “I suppose you’re right. This didn’t happen to me. It happened to Spencer. His wishes should prevail.”

Intense relief coursed through Victoria. She felt certain Spencer would tell his cousin he did not want reporters or police snooping into his reasons for being here … or Victoria’s. Smiling, exhaling, forcing herself to be a good actress, she said, “Excellent thinking, Edward.”

He nodded his agreement. “Yes. Even so, it frightens one to think how differently it could have turned out. It’s a good thing the windows were open to catch the breeze, or we inside the house might not have heard a thing and come running so quickly when the gun was fired.”

His words recalled the awful memory to her, and Victoria pointed at him. “The gun! You swore to me Spencer wasn’t wounded.”

His expression earnest, Edward took her by her arms and looked into her eyes. “He wasn’t, I swear it.”

“Then who was? Whose blood was all over him?”

“I’ll tell you. But for you to understand, I’ll have to start at the beginning, Victoria. Bear with me.” He let go of her and settled on the balls of his feet, resting his forearms atop his knees. “Spencer said he was engaged in a serious bout of fisticuffs when one of the ruffians stepped back, pulled a weapon, and aimed it at him.”

Victoria clamped a hand over her mouth, feeling queasy. This attack had been meant as a warning to her. But who knew she had left River’s End and was back in Savannah proper? Who knew who could so quickly use that knowledge to hire those awful men and send them around? A face popped into her mind, robbing Victoria of her will. Dear God. Jefferson. My own brother.

No. She refused to believe it. She couldn’t. Victoria suddenly realized that Edward was asking her something. She blinked, forcing herself to listen to him. “Does this sort of thing happen often in your fair city of Savannah?”

She shook her head. “Not in this part. Perhaps a little more northeast, toward Pirates House or the docks, but not here.”

Edward’s mouth worked as he apparently digested something she’d said. “Pirates House … intriguing name. What is that?”

“A tavern and a meeting house, among other things. A very rough one at times.”

“Really?” Edward brightened. “I must go see it for myself.”

“I’m certain you will.” She waited, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Oh, yes. Spencer and the ruffians. I was saying that one of the scofflaws pulled a gun. Spencer says he saw this and quickly grabbed the other fellow, a rather portly gentleman, apparently, and tugged him in front of him. In the end, the blackguard shot his own man.”

Victoria shook her head. “Oh, my word, Edward.”

He nodded. “So much for honor amongst thieves and all that. But, continuing on. Luckily, since Spencer was right behind the wounded fellow, the bullet did not pass all the way through him. Or if it did, it was at an angle that did not include your husband.”

Her husband. Victoria could only stare. Spencer had come within inches of being killed. What had she done by coming here but put their lives, and her unborn child’s, in mortal danger?

“It gets a bit murky here,” Edward went on, “but the portly wounded ruffian jerked and spun and ended up toppling face-first onto Spencer, who couldn’t support his weight and they fell together to the ground. That explains the blood on Spencer. The impact, though, knocked Spencer’s breath out of him. Apparently, too, a rather large rock lay embedded in the muddy lane and Spencer managed to hit his head on that. He was a bit dazed—quite understandable, really—but remembers the armed chap struggling to pull his wounded friend off him. Once he’d done that, the blackguard punched Spencer. He has the bruised and swollen jaw and foul humor to prove it, too. But that’s the last he remembers before he lost consciousness.”

Victoria pressed her hands to her too-hot cheeks. “My word, Edward, he’s lucky to be alive. And though I shudder even to think the words, I have to wonder what kept them from shooting him at that point and putting an end to him.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing. Of course, like you, I’m glad they didn’t finish him off.” He arched an eyebrow, sending her a speculative look. “Victoria, I still find it curious that you believe you are somehow responsible for this attack.”

Victoria stared into his accusing eyes and wished she could tell him what she feared and suspected about her brother. But she just couldn’t. It would be such a betrayal, and it might not be true at all. “Now, Edward,” she said, taking a humoring tack, “I told you I didn’t mean it literally. You can’t possibly believe I’d wish any harm to Spencer, or take any actions that would bring harm to him.”

Edward’s smile was apologetic. “Actually, and I’m sorry to say it, Victoria, because I like you very much … but I can believe it of you. Forgive me, but you stand to benefit tremendously should Spencer die.”

Victoria’s gasp of shock was genuine. “Edward! Do you actually believe I somehow masterminded this attack on Spencer?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” He spoke so sadly, as if it hurt him more to ask than it did for her to hear him say such a thing.

And well he could ask, even without knowing about the baby. She was the duchess. She would be Spencer’s widow. Everything would be hers. But what Edward didn’t know—and Victoria hated herself for even thinking—was with Spencer dead, and no one to question her unborn child’s paternity, it would be declared the heir. Suddenly she realized she’d been quiet overlong. “When would I have arranged for such an awful thing, Edward?” She heard how drained of emotion her voice sounded. “You’re assuming I would know how to go about finding men like those two and dealing with them. I assure you I do not. And for another thing, I didn’t even know you were in Savannah until you both showed up at River’s End. Since then, I haven’t been out of your or Spencer’s sight.”

Edward’s brown eyes warmed with sympathy and kindness, so at odds with what he was saying and with what he was accusing her. “But you were. You said yourself you weren’t where you told Spencer you would be. He had to hunt for you, and there you were outside. He, of course, followed you.”

Stunned, Victoria could only shake her head. “I did not lure Spencer outside. I can see how it could look that way to you. But I never told him I saw something suspicious in the alley. I didn’t send him out there. He went himself. And I have already told you I wanted to go with him. You have only to ask him.” She rubbed at her forehead and fought tears. “I am so hurt by your accusations, Edward. You can’t believe I’d want Spencer dead. You simply can’t.”

“I certainly do not want to, Victoria. I like you very much. But Spencer is my cousin, and I have to be sure. You must understand, too, that I, uh, know.”

Her tears dried up. She pulled back and stared at Edward. It was there in his soft, brown eyes. He knew about her scandal and about the baby. What else could he mean?

Shamed, Victoria lowered her gaze, settling it on her hands in her lap. Spencer had almost been killed. Nothing she did could keep him or Edward safe or uninvolved. She could no longer fight this thing alone. She needed help. So there was only one thing to do: confess. And then enlist their aid. What choice did she have? Just by being here, they were in danger, and they should be aware that they were.

Her mind made up, Victoria said: “I think the attack was meant for me, Edward. If Spencer hadn’t come outside when he did, I would have been—”

“Victoria!” Edward clutched her hands in his. “What are you saying? Why would someone wish to harm you?”

Though he ducked his head down low, trying to get her to look at him, Victoria simply couldn’t. She swallowed past a painful lump in her throat. This was so terribly difficult. “How much do you know?”

“About what exactly?”

“About … me.” Shame burned her cheeks and kept her gaze on their joined hands. “And the circumstances of our marriage.”

“I know what Spencer has told me.”

His reply had Victoria wincing, yet she believed she’d heard a kind and sympathetic note in Edward’s voice. She raised her head and was relieved to see the kind slant in his brown eyes. “I see.”

Edward shrugged. “Blame the long Atlantic crossing. All that enforced closeness and the ample liquor. If I cannot make someone talk, even if only in self-defense, then no one can.”

Victoria’s laugh was shaky, emotional. “I’m beginning to see the truth in that.” She felt her chin quivering and her eyes filling with tears. “You must think me a wanton, Edward.”

He smiled and released her hands. “You dear, sweet thing. I think no such thing. I think you’re the most beautiful and exciting woman I’ve ever met. With your sweet Southern drawl, I could listen to you talk all day. In fact, I will swear to you now that if my cousin isn’t smart enough to keep you by his side forever, I intend fully to sweep you off your feet and carry you and your baby away to my castle where we will live happily ever after.”

Victoria smiled gratefully. “You’re very kind. And I bet you say that to all the women.”

“I do. But with you I mean it. So, lovely lady, can you tell me now what it was that brought you to America?” He mugged a droll expression. “And please don’t say a steamship brought you. It’s such an old joke.”

To her surprise, Victoria found she could chuckle. “You are incorrigible, Edward. Actually, it was a letter.”

“Ah, yes. I heard about it when I was with Spencer at Wetherington’s Point.”

Victoria crinkled her expression into one of apology. “That could not have been pleasant. I am so sorry.”

“And you should be. It was awful. I will say that Fredericks did his best for as long as he could not to tell what he knew or what you’d told him not to tell. He’s a very loyal old chap. But Spencer can be … persuasive.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve had a taste of that myself.”

Edward nodded. “My cousin is an imperious ass, isn’t he? And please do not tell him I said that.”

Again, he’d wrung a laugh from her. “I won’t.” She inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled, knowing there was no turning back from this point. “The letter, then. I must tell you what it said.”

Edward held a hand up to stop her talking. “And I want to hear every word, believe me. There’s been tremendous speculation in the past several weeks regarding the content of that letter and its sender. But, my dear sweet Victoria, and on second thought, it’s not me you need to tell your story to. It’s Spencer.”

“I know. He asked me about it out in the garden. But … I’m afraid.”

“Of Spencer? Nonsense. Imperious ass aside, the man’s your husband. And a pussycat where you’re concerned.”

Victoria seriously doubted that, but Edward gave her no time to gainsay him as, with nimble grace, he came to his feet and held a hand out to her. “Well, Duchess? Do you feel up to seeing your husband now?”

Though she placed her hand in Edward’s long-fingered and elegant one, she did not come to her feet. “I don’t think I have the strength. Really. I can’t face this now. There’s so much—”

“There’s so much you need to talk about? I agree.” His expression sobered. “You must, Victoria. He was nearly killed today. He deserves to know why.”

“But I don’t really know why.”

“Of course you do. Come on, off you go. Believe me, I know how Spencer feels about you, even if the humorless jackanapes won’t show it. You have no reason to be afraid of him.”

Though Edward’s revelation regarding Spencer’s feelings for her sparked a flare of … was it hope?… in Victoria’s heart, she refused to believe it. She couldn’t afford to do so. Too much stood in the way. “I think you overstate your case, Edward. But I do appreciate it—”

“Overstate? Me? Nonsense. It’s very simple, really. Why do you think he came after you?”

Victoria sat back. “I don’t know. Pride? The baby’s possibly being his heir?”

“Certainly those. But he didn’t have to come himself, did he? He could have sent his agent. Or hired detectives. Or not have done a thing to find you. But what he did was quickly rearrange his entire life so he could come himself. Now, why would he do that?”

“For the reasons I’ve already given. His pride. And the possibility this baby represents. Nothing more.”

His eyes glinted with humor as Edward shook his head. “Stubborn girl. Why do you think I came along to America with Spencer? Let me tell you: to get the two of you back together.”

Embarrassed, too afraid to be hopeful, Victoria demurred. “We are together. We’re even in the same house.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Now she squeezed Edward’s hand in an effort to impart her seriousness to him. “I want you to tell me about the Whitfield birthmark.”

Confusion, whether genuine or contrived, Victoria could not tell, gathered up Edward’s features. “What Whitfield birthmark?”

Victoria narrowed her eyes. “There isn’t one, is there?”

Edward laughed out loud. “My dear lady, I assure you that you are in a much better position to find that answer than I am.”

“And so I am.” With Edward’s assistance, Victoria stood. “I’m ready to see Spencer now.”

*   *   *

Unsteady on his feet, Spencer stood in the small, airless dressing room adjoining his second-floor bedroom and, with stiff, painful motions, stuffed his shirttail into his britches. His sour expression alone could have doused the same fire and brimstone of hell that more than one person in his life had told him awaited him at the end of his days. He refused to think how close he’d been, only a matter of hours ago, to finding out if they were right. And here he’d thought it sufficient for the day that he’d suffered the humiliation of being set upon by two bullies in an alley and soundly thrashed by them. But apparently he’d been wrong. The crowning moment had been when Edward brought Victoria up to him with no prior warning.

How humiliating. He’d been in bed, dozing, no doubt snoring. And in a nightshirt. With pillows propped behind him. There he’d reclined: his jaw swollen and slack, his knuckles cut and scraped from connecting with teeth, and his entire body bruised and beaten. Spencer rubbed gingerly at his side. One of those bastards had kicked him in his ribs when he was down. So, all in all, what a heroic picture he must have made in bed. His wife had taken one look at him and burst into tears.

After Edward led her to a chair and made her sit, that coward had beat a hasty retreat and closed the door behind him. And then, they’d been alone, he and Victoria. They had simply stared at each other. After enough of that, Spencer recalled, he’d … weakly … thrown his covers back and, under his own power, accepting no help or support, and telling her to stay put, he’d stalked … limped … into this very room where he now stood and was losing a battle royal with his own clothing.

Sweating with his pain-producing efforts, Spencer silently cursed everything he could think of, whether it deserved cursing or not. At last, he cursed today and the weather. When would this blasted day be over? Did the sun never set here, was that it? Could it truly be that only this morning he’d rolled off a ship, suffered the long, humid ride out to River’s End, argued with his in-laws, retrieved his defiant wife, endured the long ride back to Savannah, and promptly had the hell beat out of him? All of that in one—he pressed his lips together to stop the word but to no avail; it got past him—fucking day?

His teeth clenched together in pain, Spencer continued his silent tirade as he closed his pants. I feel as though I’d been run over by a train and then tossed into a pit of rabid dogs, where I was torn to shreds and finally put back together by a demented three-year-old who used me as his rag doll. However, Spencer assured himself, he would be damned if he’d have this or any conversation with his wife while in his nightshirt and under the covers of his bed—their bed. No, his bed. She’d made that very clear upon their arrival here by promptly directing the placement of his traveling trunks in this bedroom and hers in another.

Though he had been irate about that, he hadn’t felt he had much recourse, beyond an all-out pitched battle with her, but to allow it to happen. For him to raise a fuss about having been denied his wife’s bed would have terribly amused Edward and the servants, all of whom seemed to be milling about at that point. And so, under those circumstances, Spencer had wisely conceded her the moment.

However, he would soon disavow her of any notion she might have regarding separate sleeping quarters for the two of them. She would, by damn, sleep with him tonight and every night because only with her in his bed could he be instantly alerted should she try to sneak away for whatever reason, if any, she may have. He suspected she had many. And, as he was damned tired already of chasing her across continents and oceans, her being in his bed was simply a matter of expediency.

He was lying, and his conscience knew it. Closer to the truth, it howled, was he missed the feel of her warm, sweet body next to his at night.

A scowl claimed Spencer’s features. Like bloody hell I do. The woman is nothing but trouble and up to something at every turn. With that, he pronounced himself as dressed as he intended to get. Defiantly barefooted, Spencer stalked … proceeded slowly … for the door that led into his bedroom. Poking his aching jaw out pugnaciously, he silently threatened that if Victoria knew what was good for her, she would be sitting exactly where he’d left her while he’d come in here to dress because if she wasn’t there, he—

Spencer stopped in his tracks, looking around. He refused to believe this. Absolutely refused. And yet, there he stood in the doorway between the dressing room and his large and airy, very masculine bedroom … alone. He stared across the room at the closed bedroom door. He hadn’t heard it open and close. What had she done—wafted through the wood like a ghost? He focused now on the chair, an exquisite example of expert craftsmanship, which was empty of its occupant.

Frowning like a thundercloud, Spencer clamped his hands to his waist. “By damn, she has made off again.” He couldn’t decide if he should be in a rage or simply admit he had no idea how to proceed with his own wife. “I have never seen a woman who has less of an idea about how to stay put than she does. Enough is enough.”

Galvanized by a lightning bolt of temper, he stormed … limped … across the room, hung a toe on the fringed end of the Persian area rug next to the bed, staggered but caught himself by cursing and clutching at the narrow nightstand table. Righting himself and standing there a moment, simply breathing, he finally and carefully—he was done with any thought of stalking—made his way over to the closed door that opened onto the second-floor hallway. Though his knuckles were grazed and his fingers ached from hitting those bastards who’d attacked him, Spencer jerked open the door to the bedroom, swung it in toward him and—

Collided with Victoria, who let out a loud squawk of surprise. Standing in the hallway, she’d obviously been in the act of turning the doorknob from her side. She held a full glass of very cold water in her hand, which was no longer full. In fact, it was empty. He knew this—and exactly how cold the water was in Georgia—because all of it, every drop, was now spilled down the front of his trousers.

Shocked, clutching desperately at the door’s opposing jambs, much like Hercules chained, Spencer stood there, gasping, unable to move.

“Oh, Spencer, I’m so sorry,” Victoria cried, stumbling back, her eyes wide with surprise as she looked from his face to his watered-down crotch. She held up the offending glass to him. “We have an icebox.”

He nodded. “I daresay I am fully aware of that already, madam.”

Her smile faltered. “Yes, I suppose you are. I went to get you a drink. I thought you might like a … glass of water.”

“Thank you,” was his frozen reply. “I think I’ve had plenty now.” He let go of the doorjamb and held, as best he could, his dripping pants away from his skin. “If you will excuse me, I will just go change.” Smiling, deadly, he politely indicated the chair he’d expected to find her sitting in a moment ago. “Please. Have a seat.”

“Certainly,” she said a bit breathlessly, perhaps fearfully, as she quickly sidled past him.

Like a brooding madman, though completely aware of exactly how ridiculous, and possibly obscene, he looked standing there holding the crotch of his wet pants, Spencer turned to watch her go. With her full skirt scurrying out behind her and her long mahogany curls swaying to and fro, she hurried to the chair, turned, and sat down with an elegant flourish. Under any other circumstances, he might have found her appearance and her actions adorable. But not this circumstance.

Her spine stiff, her posture perfect, Victoria held the empty glass in both hands in her lap. Then, suddenly, as though holding on to it convicted her of a crime, she plunked it onto a round decorative table, which boasted a green potted plant atop it and was next to her chair. She folded her hands in her lap and looked to him, blue eyes wide and innocent, for approval or perhaps further instructions.

Spencer steadfastly refused to be taken in by her beauty or her obedience. He did not believe her sweet little pose for one moment. To prove it, he let go of his pants long enough to point threateningly at her. “Don’t. Move. Do you understand the concept, Victoria, of ‘don’t move’? Do you really?”

“Yes.” Suspiciously cooperative, she settled herself comfortably on her chair. “I won’t move.”

He remained unconvinced. “Swear it.”

Disbelief widened her eyes. “You wish me to swear it?”

“No, I do not wish you to swear it. I require that you do.”

“But I’ve only just said I would stay—”

“Madam, I chased you across England and an entire ocean because you did not stay where you were told to. And twice, since we’ve been in this most lovely and gracious home, you have disappeared. And both times, when I found you, I suffered terribly. The first time, I was set upon by ruffians and very nearly killed. And now I have had an iceberg dumped in my pants.” He suspected the pained sound she made was to stifle a laugh and was not an expression of pity or remorse. “So, yes, I do, Victoria. I require you to swear it.”

She’d clamped a hand over her mouth and now stared bright-eyed at him above it. As he arched an eyebrow in warning, she quickly lowered her hand to her lap and, very seriously, said, “As you wish. I swear—”

“On your mother’s grave.”

“My mother, not being dead, as you very well know, has no grave.”

Spencer actually felt a vein in his forehead swell and throb. “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth, which did nothing to alleviate the pain in his jaw, “who is dead that you loved and cherished?”

Victoria poked her bottom lip out and frowned, obviously thinking about it. “My grandmother,” she suddenly chirped. “My dear, cherished grandmother is dead. Will she do?”

“Nicely. Swear on her grave.”

Victoria exhaled a sigh. “This is so very unnecessary, but if you require it, I swear on my sainted grandmother’s grave”—in a very singsong voice—“that I will not move from this chair until you tell me I may do so.” She gestured with both hands. “There. I’ve sworn. Now, go change your pants before you catch your death of cold.”

He now had no choice but to trust that she would do as she’d sworn. After all, a man—a woman—was only as good as her word. Spencer determinedly set himself in motion, trying to maintain what dignity he could as he walked stiffly across the room and ignored the cold, soggy feel of the wet fabric that viciously rubbed his thighs and man parts. Given his luck today, the damned underused member and its two close companions would fall off when he stripped out of his clothes. Right now, though, he could honestly say he wouldn’t give a tinker’s damn if they did. What would it matter? At this rate, he wouldn’t be using any of them again, anyway.

Once in his dressing room, Spencer repeated the painful chore of stripping out of his clothes, down to his naked skin. It was with relief, despite his fatalistic thought only moments ago, that he noted he’d lost no vital parts to the cold water. They were a bit shriveled and disgruntled at the moment, but none the worse for having been doused. He rubbed himself dry with his shirt as best he could, tossed it aside, and then carefully reached for suitable replacements out of drawers and off hangers. As quickly as possible, given that he could only move like a creaky-jointed ninety-year-old, he re-dressed and, once again, with his jaw squared, exited the dressing room and stepped into the bedroom.

The chair was empty. He was again alone in the room. This time, the bedroom’s door was open to the hallway. He could not believe the woman. When he realized a welling and uncontrollable shout of frustration was imminent, Spencer pressed a supporting hand to his sore and swollen jaw. “Son of a bitch!”

Making him instantly sorry, and teaching him a resounding lesson, was the shooting pain from chin to ear that had him grimacing.

Far from defeated, Spencer made his way to the door, intent on finding his wife straightaway. The only explanation he would accept for her not being where she’d sworn to stay was the damned house itself was on fire. And he could honestly say he didn’t smell any smoke. For another thing, if the house was on fire, why hadn’t she alerted him? More and more out of sorts, once he was at the door, he changed his mind about chasing after her. Why should he? Instead, he’d make his point by slamming the damned door off its hinges and thereby announce his displeasure.

He grabbed the door and flung it closed with as much force as he could muster. The door did not come off its hinges, but the resounding bang of sharp noise it made brought some gratification. Spencer stood there a moment, watching the door and listening, thinking that, by God, this would bring them running. But it didn’t. Not the first startled cry or sound of hurrying footsteps did he hear. This was outrageous. What if he’d been on fire?

Suddenly tired and not giving a damn if he was on fire, Spencer turned to make his way to his bed. Right now all he wanted was the comfort of that soft bed, his supper, a dose of strong medication, and hours upon hours of soothing sleep. At this moment, he didn’t care where his wife had gone or what she was doing or even what her game was. If she wished to converse with him, she bloody well knew where he was.

Spencer’s stomach growled, reminding him that the supper hour approached and he’d sent Hornsby to bring a tray up to him. Certainly, given his condition, no one here expected him to dress for supper. And it was too damned bad for them if they did. Because, for the rest of this day, he meant to remain in his room with the door solidly, pointedly closed. With his luck, Spencer fumed, the roof would fall in on him. Well, if his jaw and ribs didn’t soon stop hurting so badly, he might welcome such a course of relief.

At the bed’s side now, and barefooted, Spencer shed his collarless shirt and his britches. He left his clothes pooled on the treacherous rug, the same one that had earlier caught his toe and nearly made him fall—no doubt, to his death, had he. Then, and admitting he was all done in, he gratefully crawled into bed, lay back, and pulled a sheet up and over him to his chest. Only then did he exhale a sigh of contentment and relief … and close his eyes.

He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but he was more than half asleep when he became aware of the door to the bedroom being softly opened. Instantly wide awake, his eyes open, he lay very still, listening, as he stared up at the high ceiling. The shadows in the room, he noted, were longer, but not by much. And whoever entered on cat’s paws obviously meant to do so without his knowing it. Maybe this was Hornsby with that supper tray. Or maybe this was some kind soul who meant to check on him without disturbing him. Or kill him without waking him.

Well, aren’t I the bloody calm victim? Spencer marveled. But what the hell was he supposed to do? Scream? Not very likely, given his ribs, his jaw, and his masculine pride. Fight? Certainly. But not very effectively, he would imagine. Never had he felt so helpless. Where the hell was his pistol? Would he have to resort to sleeping with the damned thing beside his bed?

Just then, he detected a soft rustling of skirts that relaxed him and brought a quick grin to his face. He had identified his visitor. Only one woman who resided in this house would have a reason to enter his bedroom with him in it. Wondering what she was about, but still too mentally tired, as well as physically spent, to deal well with her, even if she meant to kill him, Spencer decided to close his eyes and feign sleep. If she intended to explain her behavior or apologize to him for vanishing again, she could jolly well wait until tomorrow.

No sooner had he closed his eyes than he felt her press up against the bed. He could hear her soft breathing … and feel her body’s warmth. Reason told him she was gazing down at him. For one second, and despite his ribs, Spencer considered grabbing her and tossing her onto the bed with him. He liked the mental image he got of them tussling about under the covers, until it changed to a more realistic picture of his diminutive wife screaming and hitting him and bringing the entire household on the run to witness a woman finishing him off.

Fatalistic to the very end, Spencer forced himself to lie still. What the devil was she doing? Measuring him for his coffin? He wasn’t certain he could stand much more of this mystery. Perhaps he could pretend he was awakening just now—

“Oh, Spencer,” she whispered, nearly startling him into giving himself away. Amazingly, he’d managed not to move a muscle. It was just as well. They were all sore. Then, to his utter shock, he felt her hand on his uninjured cheek. His eyelids fluttered. If she noticed, she gave no sign. Her touch was warm, soft, comforting, and a shiver of reaction sent chills over Spencer’s body. He fought it, knowing that was exactly the last thing he needed to do at this moment—raise the sheet like a circus tent going up. And still she continued her torture … softly caressing his face, her fingers now moving lightly over his bruised and swollen jaw. Sighing softly, she smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

And then, leaning over him—he could tell she did by the shifting of the mattress and also because the sweet scent of her skin suddenly filled his nostrils—she lightly kissed him on his forehead. “I am so sorry,” she added, still whispering.

She pulled away, straightening up and … Spencer strained to detect any sound … apparently moved away from the bed. She had to have tiptoed across the room because he heard no footfalls, only the soft closing of the door behind her.

At last, Spencer sat up, struggling to do so. Frowning, he stared at the same door she’d only just closed. She’d said she was sorry. Sorry for what?