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  Then something happened. Something swift and hot as lightning streaked through her limbs. It made her curl her hands into fists and draw her breath in sharply. It set the muscles along the tops of her thighs to quivering and clenched the secret places between her legs. She could not help herself. The need to taste more of him and heighten this fiery sensation drove her to suck at his tongue.

  Startled, he froze, then locked his tongue with hers. Remembering belatedly that they were not alone, he turned her so that his body shielded hers. His other hand sought and found her breast covering it gently, warming it through the prickly wool. A wave of unsought passion swept over him. Anger at his father, disgust at the scene faded. Suddenly, there was nothing but the sweetness and warmth of her mouth. Without removing his lips from hers, he shifted his grasp to her shoulder to lift her toward him. The feel of her smooth skin stimulated by her compliance excited him unbear­ably. His kiss deepened.

  The earl's hoarse laugh rang out, destroying the moment between them. Vivian's passion turned to remembrance and rage. How dare he laugh at her helplessness in the hands of his horrible drunken son. She brought her jaw champing down.

  "My God!" With an exclamation of pain and rage, Piers jerked away from her, clapping his hand to his mouth. Incredulously, he stared as she blazed her rage and momentary triumph.

  The earl laughed. And this time Mrs. Felders allowed herself a small smile.

  Piers heard and saw them both. His own hair-trigger temper exploded. He pushed her from him and she stumbled, falling clumsily to the floor. She sprawled helplessly on her side, her senses fainting.

  He stared down aghast at his own bad temper. The sight sobered him instantly. He went down on one knee, to touch her shoulder.

  Witness to the tableau, the earl shook his head. "Nasty tempers both of you. Not a good thing for my heirs. Not a good thing. But at least you both give as good as you get." He signaled to Mrs. Felders. "Open the door and let Jack Beddoes take me to bed. Take Miss Marleigh back to her bed she vacated so impulsively. By the look of her, she could lie here, but the fire will die down and she might take a chill."

  When Piers hesitated over her, the earl clapped him on the shoulder. "Help yourself, my boy, to the brandy. We’ll have the minister in tomorrow. I took the trouble of procuring a special license shortly after I saw her." He looked down at Vivian's prone body. "She’ll be a fine breeder. A lady of spirit."

  "I'll not marry her," Piers murmured.

  The old man laughed. "You'll marry her and consummate the marriage. You can't fool me. I saw what happened between you. You kindled a blaze. You won't be able to keep your hands off her. Nor she you."

  They were the last words Vivian heard before her head sank to the cold stones of the hearth.

  Chapter 6

  Piers waved Felders back when she came to rouse Vivian. "I’ll see to her. You take care of your master." As he stooped to the unconscious girl, his eyes met those of the housekeeper. Low and vicious, his voice reached only her ears. "I'm surprised he can find his way to bed without you."

  Felders stiffened in midstride. Her nostrils pinched and angry mottling darkened her neck as she absorbed the insult.

  "Just ring for Watkins on your way out the door."

  When her black skirts had swished around the corner, Piers slipped his arms under Vivian's body and gathered her up in his arms. Her head tipped back and her silver-gilt hair swung like a banner as he climbed to his feet. His eyes slid over the graceful line of her white throat. He caught his breath.

  Watkins appeared in the door. "Milord?"

  "Make up the room next to mine."

  "Milord?" The valet hesitated, his eyes on the rusty black habit. "Perhaps the other wing—”

  "Don't object, Watkins. That miserable priest hole Felders had her stored in won't do. She at least needs something more comfortable than a cot."

  "Very well, milord."

  "And bring the brandy. She’ll need a restorative when she comes to herself." He shifted her head to his shoulder. "And so will I."

  ************************************

  When Piers lowered Vivian to the feather bed, she did not stir. While Watkins built a fire, the viscount lifted her wrists one at a time. His jaw tightened. A band of dark purple encircled each where Beddoes's straps had left bruises. Piers's thumb was not broad enough to cover the width. A soft curse slipped from his lips causing the valet to throw an inquiring glance over his shoulder. "It's a wonder her hands didn’t turn black and drop off."

  His task complete, Watkins rose and came to the bedside. He shook his head at the sight. "Only if he'd wanted them to, milord. Beddoes knows his trade. Knows just how tight to make them. Probably the lady fought them all the way from London."

  Piers nodded solemnly. "Probably so. I would have. But somehow one doesn’t expect a female to do so. Maybe weep and wail, but not hurt herself like this!" He gently touched the bruise with his index finger.

  "No, sir." The valet hesitated. "Will that be all, sir?"

  "Yes."

  Piers raked his fingers through his wine-dark hair. He had sent Mrs. Felders and Watkins away. He now faced the problem of making the woman comfortable. A year ago, even six months, he would not have given such a thing a thought. But as his mother's illness had grown in virulence, as her pain and discomfort had increased, he had learned to perform kind offices for her-acts that none other had been there to perform because his mother would not have Mrs. Felders in her rooms.

  The female body was no stranger to him. With a shrug he sat on the edge of the bed, rolled the unconscious girl onto her side, and began to undress her. He dropped the bedraggled white cloth to the floor. Efficiently, he unfastened the neck and tugged the habit up over her body, replacing its covering with a sheet and blanket. As he bared her torso, he shook his head in wonder. Why would any woman become a nun? The coarse wool had chafed the tender skin on her neck and the inside of her elbows.

  While he undressed her, he became aware that she was altogether too thin. Her breasts were spare mounds with no more than a pale shadow of nipple beneath the linen shift. Still the shape was altogether womanly. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. He covered her quickly.

  Sliding his hands beneath the covers, he pulled off her stockings, arranged her limbs, and then straightened. When the covers were tucked up around her chin, he stood beside the bed looking down at her.

  His future bride.

  The irony of the situation brought a self-mocking grin to his lips. He-of all people-to wed a woman whom he had never seen dressed any way except in a nun's habit. He laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. She felt a little warm to the touch; perhaps she might be running a slight fever. However, except for the circles under her eyes and the dark eyebrows and eyelashes, her face was as pale as the sheet. He grinned a little wearily. Many more patients to nurse, and he could open a physician's practice.

  As he watched her, she moved. A frown knitted her eyebrows together. She turned her head in negation on the pillow. One hand fought its way up to clutch the sheet, then relaxed.

  His grin changed to an amazingly tender smile. Probably she was trying to escape in her sleep. What a rude entry into society she had endured! From the quiet haven of the nunnery, she had moved into a company of villains the likes of which she had never dreamed. She had found treachery and lawlessness, pain and death. And no love at all. He stroked the small hand and tucked it back under the cover. No love at all, he reminded himself.

  ************************************

  Vivian awoke to pain; her wrists, arms, and shoulders ached abominably when she stirred. Denying her struggle to orient herself, her mind refused to form intelligent thoughts. She stared blankly at the canopy above her. She had never seen the dingy draperies before.

  A gusty wind rattled a window. She turned her head in time to see another dingy drapery billow outward. Beneath her cheek, the pillow smelled musty. She lifted the edge of the sheet and stared first at th
e material and then beneath it. A slow flush crept up in her face as she saw her body clad only in her shift. Someone had undressed her before putting her in this bed.

  She raised her head as far as her aching back would allow and stared downward at the thick mattress pressing up on either side of her. This was not her bed in her almost forgotten room at Stone Glenn. Nor was this the barren hospital at the abbey. The bed, unlike her hospital cot with its thin mattress, was big, warm and very comfortable, albeit the linens were dreadfully stale as if they had been made up months ago.

  The curtains of the bed were tied back giving her a good view of the room. A lamp turned low on the bedside table and a flickering fire in the fireplace drove the shadows back into the corners. The furniture was oak, heavy and ornamented. The legs of the table and chairs were ornately carved relics from a bygone era.

  Only then did she remember where she was. Her breath slipped out of her chest as she sank back on the pillows. Could she keep herself from drawing it again? Could she will herself to die? Death seemed the single control she maintained over her existence. Otherwise, she was shuttled from place to place like a poor relation.

  The leaden panes rattled again. The fire flamed briefly then began to die. Her chest ached until she could not help but breathe. With weary acceptance of life, she stared at the flickering red tongues until they rose no more- from the glowing heart of the coal.

  ************************************

  Woozily, Piers tilted the brandy decanter over his glass, then tilted it up until it was perpendicular to the table. "God," he whispered. "Empty and I'm still upright and sensible."

  He set the decanter down and wove his way toward the door. "Can't let this happen," he murmured. "Can't go to bed sober."

  The hall outside his door was fifty degrees colder than his room. A gusty draught blew down it fit to freeze any uncovered part of a body. It drove him back inside with a shiver and a curse. He would never be able to make his way downstairs without sobering still more. Clearly he was caught. Trapped. Doomed to stare unhappily into the fire, his thoughts moiling around in his brain.

  Suddenly, he remembered himself telling Watkins to bring the brandy. Where? To the room next to his. Easy enough to slip in there and retrieve it. He opened his door again and sprinted for the next room.

  Vivian shot straight up in bed as her door swung open. The fire flared up and the curtains billowed. The viscount stood on the threshold in his shirtsheeves and woolen stockings. Instantly, she jerked the covers up to her chin.

  "I beg pardon, madam." He bowed unsteadily. "But I left something in your room."

  Her eyes widened impossibly. She clutched the coverlet tighter.

  He closed the door against the draught puffing at his back and started for the bedside table.

  She all but vaulted from the bed. The instant that her foot touched the floor, she fell back. Piers had removed her stockings, and the icy polished oak sent its shock throughout her system.

  "Cold, eh?" He grinned as he picked up the decanter, holding it up to the light, and noting its contents with satisfaction. "My room's none too warm. And the hall—” He made a mock shuddering noise. "It doesn't bear contemplating."

  Vivian stared at him, common sense warring with terror. Obviously, he had come for the brandy, but had he come for something more?

  She had her answer when he moved closer until his thighs touched the edge of her bed. One long arm slid along its head, the hand with the bottle knocking against the carved wood. "Just settle down now under the covers." He leaned over her, interest kindling in his eyes as they scanned her face and hair. "Damme, if I can recall your name. And you my bride-to-be."

  She hesitated, then reached for his free hand.

  He allowed her to take it all the time grinning with satisfaction. "Please feel free with my person. Maybe I'm not so drunk as I thought. The night may not be so long after all." He leered suggestively at her. "Were you lonesome, er, Mary. No Elizabeth."

  She gave him a disgusted look, then stabbed the hand firmly down on the coverlet. Turning it palm up, she began to trace letters upon it with her index finger.

  "What the deuce are you up to?" He tried to pull it from her.

  She grasped it tighter and began again.

  He looked from her face to his hand, then back again. Then leaned over his own hand staring at it. "V-I-V-I-A-N. Vivian." She released his hand, but he did not remove it. "So that's how you carry on a conversation." Their faces were very close.

  Too late she was aware of him, his arm behind her shoulder, his hand in her lap, the scent of him.

  "Vivian," he murmured persuasively. "Tell me more."

  She tried to slide away, but the arm behind her settled on her shoulders drawing her back. Her eyes searched his face, struggling with her fear and something else-the strange heat that contact with him seemed to generate.

  "Ah, Vivian." His mouth came down on hers. His tongue slipped between her parted lips.

  Her fists struck at his shoulders, as the bed sagged beneath the weight of his knee. He bore her back onto the pillows. She was locked in his embrace before she could draw breath. Alarm streaked through her. She pounded on his back, but he paid no attention, only went on kissing her, his mouth moving over and over hers. His tongue filled her, thrusting in and pulling out rhythmically.

  His hand shaped her hip, her narrow waist, the curve of her ribs, her breast. Wherever he touched, she burned. Her body burned and quickened. She drew up one of her legs involuntarily, and when it fell, it no longer lay tight against the other. A strange weakness invaded her muscles. Her heart beat faster.

  "Vivian," he murmured again against her mouth. He trailed kisses down the side of her face to her ear. His thumb and finger found her breast, the nipple hardened into a nub. "Such a responsive bride."

  At the word, light flooded her mind. Clear as crystal she could recall a scene as she had seen it from the stable loft not two years ago. The big Shire stallion lumbering into the paddock. The mare squealing. The kicks and bites. The blood trickling down the mare's thrashing neck as the stallion held her between his yellow teeth. And then his grunting while the mare shuddered and braced her legs beneath his weight.

  With the memory came determination. Her fists unclenched; her fingers arched into talons that she brought raking down across his back. Her nails had grown in the past week. She used them, ripping at the linen of his shirt, hooking her hands in the back of the neck and pulling with all her strength.

  He swallowed and gasped as his air was cut off. "Damme!" His hand left off fondling her, to pull at the front of his shirt.

  She bucked up and twisted beneath him, succeeding in shifting halfway out from under him. When he tried to follow and hold her, she hit him in the jaw with her doubled fist. It was a short blow that really hurt her more than it hurt him, but he cursed and drew back.

  They stared at each other warily.

  After a couple of seconds, he grinned placatingly. "Now, Vivian, don’t get so upset over a little kiss."

  The remark galvanized her into action. She twisted around in the bed and kicked and pushed at him with her feet.

  He sat up, too, rubbed his jaw, and held up his hand. "No more. I’ll leave. I can tell when I'm not appreciated." He adopted an aggrieved tone though a devil was dancing in his eyes. "I was just giving you a little goodnight kiss. After all, we're going to be married."

  She drew both knees up to her chest and let fly. Her heels thudded against his chest.

  He slid off the bed and came to his feet, a mocking grin on his face. "No need to get so violent. I'm leaving." He waved the brandy bottle at her. "I only came for this after all." He backed away from the bed. -But later, Vivian, I shall expect a warmer welcome." He paused at the door to stare at her consideringly. -You have lovely legs, my dear. And lovely breasts."

  Her mouth dropped open. Her face flamed. She clapped her arms across her chest.

  With a mocking laugh and a bow, he was gone.
<
br />   Defying the cold, she sprang from the bed and ran to the door. Opening it a crack, she watched him lope down the hall and enter his room. As he closed his door, she closed hers and pushed herself against it.

  Dear God in Heaven! His room was the next one to hers

  ************************************ .

  Vivian's stomach growled. She patted it comfortingly, but it only growled louder. With a sigh she realized she could bear the gnawing ache no longer. She held no hope that someone would come in and light a fire, bring her chocolate, and hold her robe. Those days seemed gone forever. Her breath fogged in the air as she sighed.

  Despite the protest of her back and shoulder muscles, she pushed herself to a sitting position. The cold air rushed in around her lightly clad body. One shivering hand pulled the covers up to her throat. Her head swam dizzily, and she almost sank back against the pillows in weakness. The temptation to do so was strong, but her stomach growled again.

  Steeling herself and gritting her teeth, she thrust her slender feet out of the bed and gingerly touched the floor. The shock of the cold polished wood beneath her soles made her shiver and draw back. Drawing a deep breath, she resolutely gathered the sheet around her and stood up. Dragging it from the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders, she hurried to the thick fur rug thrown down in front of the hearth. A coal shuttle stood by the fender. Clumsily she tipped its contents onto the grate. A cloud of gray ash shot up, but beneath it live coals glowed red.