“I could pull you down with me,” she said in a cold little voice, feeling the first stirrings of anger.

“No, my dear, you could not. I’m a great deal stronger than you are.” He patted her numb hand again. “Come along, Elinor. I’d hope to be back home in time for tea.”

Madness, she thought. This was real madness, not the crazy joyousness of falling in love. “If you’re not my cousin then who are you?” she asked.

His smirk was most unpleasant. “Haven’t you guessed? I must confess you’ve been surprisingly slow about all this. I’m afraid our relationship is much closer. In fact, I’m your half brother—unable to inherit by English law, while your sister, with her unknown father, has more right to this place. Surely you can see how wrong this all is? I had to do something about it. By all rights this place should be mine, not yours.”

The shock of his words was enough to give her the strength to pull away. “You married me!” she said in horror. “You touched me…”

“And I would have happily bedded you. I’m not at all picky about such things. You spread your legs for Rohan, you could do the same for me. But since you were willing to come out here it seemed wiser to simply have done with it.” He looked over his shoulder and frowned. “It looks as if we’re about to have guests. We’d best hurry this up.” He moved toward her, but he’d underestimated her.

She didn’t want to die. It was simple, clear, and she wasn’t going to simply let him kill her. She held very still, and then at the last minute she moved, slamming her reticule against the side of his head. There wasn’t much inside, but it gave her the element of surprise. She ducked under his arm and began to run down the pathway toward the old ruins. There were a thousand places to hide back there. Pray God she could find at least one.

Francis Rohan had never been so terrified in his entire life. Not when he followed his father and brother into battle at the age of seventeen, facing almost certain defeat. Not when he’d cradled his dying brother in his arms and looked up to see one of Butcher Cumberland’s men bearing down on him with a pike.

Not during the long, endless night he’d escaped across the channel, curled up in the bow of a small boat, determined not to cry, trying very hard not to wet himself.

They’d been moving nonstop, racing across the southern coast. They’d lost Jacobs outside of Dover, but by then he’d told them all they needed of the layout of Dunnet and the great house. He only would have slowed them down, and Rohan had given him money and sent him back to Paris to watch out for Lydia, assuring him that they would bring Miss Elinor home safely.

He and Charles went directly to the registry office, only to find out they were mere hours late. Harriman had already married her. Which meant that Elinor would be a dead in a few short hours…or, if they reached her in time, merely a widow.

The local inn was just as helpful. The happy couple had headed toward the cliffs for a walk before returning to the Harriman estate—if they hurried they could reach them and offer their felicitations. Rohan hadn’t waited for Charles—he’d leaped onto his horse and taken off in the direction of the cliffs.

He could see the figure of a woman up ahead on the bluffs, racing across the grass with someone close on her heels, and his blood froze. They were almost too late.

He spurred his horse just as Charles caught up with him. He had no idea whether Harriman was planning on raping her or murdering her, and it didn’t matter. He was going to cut his heart out and make him eat it.

Rohan barely waited for his horse to stop before jumping down. They’d disappeared into the ruins, and he started after them, sword drawn, Charles close behind him. And deep inside his cold, black heart, he prayed.

Marcus was fast behind her, too close, and Elinor was sobbing with fear. In the distance she saw a dead branch lying on the ground and she allowed herself just enough time to snatch it up, whirling around as Marcus overtook her and smashing it across his face.

He let out a howl of pain, momentarily blinded, and she ran. The foundation of the old refectory was on the right, and she’d hidden down there any number of times. Lydia had never wanted to venture down there to find her—she firmly believed it was haunted by all the dead monks that King Henry had burned alive. She raced down the ancient corridor and found the small well she’d once used as a hiding place.

Climbing over it, she ducked down, crouching in the shadows, pulling the hood of her cloak over her face so that he wouldn’t see her fair skin in the darkness. It was smaller than she remembered, or more likely she was larger. She waited, listening to the hammering of her heart.

She heard his booted footsteps first, ringing on the old stone. “You’re down here, aren’t you, sister mine?” he called out in that smooth voice of his. “It’s useless to run—you may as well make it easier on yourself and come out now.” The footsteps faded for a moment, but she didn’t dare move. And then they approached once more. “You know, you were very unwise to run down here, though I do thank you for it. I’ll simply break your neck and leave your body until the place is once more deserted, and then I’ll toss you over the cliffs. If the witnesses are produced and they ask where we disappeared to I can always tell them we were consummating our wedding vows.”

The faint nausea that had been plaguing her for the last few days grew worse. She clapped a hand over her mouth and waited, praying, wordless prayers winging up. She had the errant thought that she must believe in God after all, no matter how ill-used she felt. Perhaps this time, when she most needed it, help would be forthcoming.

Closer, closer. He had a particularly heavy footfall, and Elinor shut her eyes in despair. He was coming closer, and there was nothing she could do. No ornate pistols in this dim place, nothing like the one she’d threatened Rohan with. Nothing to defend herself with but her hands.

She had a brooch on her cloak, a large, ugly thing that her…brother had given her as an engagement present. With shaking hands she unfastened it. If nothing else she could try to jab it in his eyes, anything to slow him down.

And then there was no more waiting. He stood over the small place where she hid, and she knew he’d have that affable smile on his thick lips. “There you are, wife,” he said genially, and put his ugly hands down to haul her up.

Rohan, she thought, clutching the pin, the sharp side out. If she were to die, the last thing she wanted to see in her mind’s eye was Rohan. Marcus drew her up, out of the small well, and she lashed out with the pin, aiming for his eyes.

He howled with pain, dropping her, and she went down hard on the ancient stone floor, the pin flung from her grasp. She looked up, and saw him—saw Rohan, and she wanted to cry. Death was merciful, and he would truly be the last thing she’d see. A vision or a dream, it didn’t matter.

“Get away from her.”

The voice was low, deadly and very real. She lifted her head. He was there, he really was, with Charles Reading behind him. Rohan looked like the wrath of God, and she tried to get to her feet, to run to him.

Marcus’s meaty hand caught the edge of her hood and hauled her back. “I don’t think so,” he said.

“You can’t get away with it, Harriman,” Rohan said.

“Lord Tolliver to you,” he said stiffly. “And I certainly can. If anyone finds out you’re in this country you’ll be executed as a traitor. And who’s going to believe a scoundrel like Reading when it’s his word against a peer of the realm?”

“The title’s stolen,” Reading said. “It belongs to Elinor’s son.”

Marcus had a thick arm around her throat, choking her, and she struggled, fighting him. Elinor’s son, he said, and she knew, with sudden blind, crazy certainty, that she was carrying a son. Rohan’s son.

She felt a surge of fury, and she slammed her elbow into his soft stomach. Marcus grunted in pain, but his hold didn’t loosen. She struggled, kicking back at him, and his grip tightened until she felt the blackness beginning to close in. She reached up to claw at his hands, raking her fingernails into his skin, but he was impervious.

“Don’t be a fool,” Rohan said in his lazy, elegant drawl. “You really can’t hope this will work. If you hurt her I’ll disembowel you while you watch, and Reading will help me. I’ll be on my way back to France before they even find your body. But I’m prepared to treat you like the gentleman you profess to be.” His voice dripped contempt. “You do fancy yourself a gentleman, do you not? I’m willing to fight you for her. Surely you wouldn’t refuse a challenge.”

“So you can skewer me like you did that poor fat bastard?” Marcus laughed. “I’m no fool—I’m a better swordsman than Sir Christopher Spatts, but I’m no match for the likes of you. I…”

The sound of that hated name shocked her, her response so visceral that she kicked back, somehow managed to connect with something sensitive. He let out a yelp of pain, releasing her, and she scrambled away, running toward Rohan, needing him.

But Charles moved in front of her, grabbing her arms and pulling her out of the way, and Rohan’s hard blue eyes didn’t even glance at her. “You’ll fight me, Harriman,” he said. “Or I’ll kill you anyway. This way you have a chance.”

There was silence from the end of the ancient hallway. And then Marcus spoke, his voice full of bravado. “I’m afraid I don’t have a sword.”

“Charles, be good enough to lend this man your sword,” Rohan said lazily. There was murder in his eyes, deliberation in his movements. “And then remove your sister-in-law.”

Charles withdrew his sword, still managing a restraining hold on Elinor, and handed it to Rohan, who tested it. “A good blade, Harriman. More than you deserve.”

“Come with me, Elinor,” Charles said, pulling her away.

She tried to fight him. “No,” she cried. “What if something happens—”