LITMIR.BIZ

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couldn’t see much else wrong with her. Horror clenched his gut as he imagined what might have happened if he hadn’t arrived.

      Inky eyelashes fluttered against pale cheeks, but she didn’t wake. What shocked him wasn’t her sensuous beauty. What shocked him was that she still contrived to look innocent.

      His gaze fell to her lips, parted slightly as she inhaled. Something that felt disconcertingly like lust shuddered through him. As he pulled her torn bodice over her shift, he struggled not to notice the satiny skin under the tattered dress. He was a scoundrel to think of her as a desirable woman, rather than as a duty to hand off as soon as possible.

      Blast it to hell. The moment his eyes dropped to her breasts, she stirred.

      “Have you seen enough?” she asked in English.

      The Duke of Sedgemoor was famous for his self-assurance. Nobody made him blush. But heat prickled along his cheekbones as he straightened and regarded Penelope with what he hoped was his usual detachment.

      “You don’t appear seriously hurt.” He flung away his cloak and set his sword and rifle on a table. He was prepared for this lawless corner of the world even if Pen wasn’t.

      “Not on my bosom at any rate.” Clutching at her bodice, she struggled to sit.

      He stifled a quelling response. After all, he had been ogling her. “What in heaven’s name brought you to choose this hovel?”

      One slender hand brushed her tumble of hair back from her face. To his dismay, he saw that she was shaking.

      “Try the weather.” Her tone was sharper than his sword. “I know you could barge through an avalanche without creasing your neckcloth, but we lesser mortals must seek shelter when snow blocks the roads.”

      She was a fool to travel through the mountains in February, but her pallor silenced his scolding. The landlord bustled in, carrying a tray.

      “Mi dispiace, mi dispiace …” The fellow burst into an emotive explanation from which Cam gathered that the brigands had locked him in the cellars.

      Cam seized the tray, pleased to see a bottle of brandy and two glasses. After the last half hour, he deserved a drink. Once the landlord assured them that he’d arranged for some stout villagers to guard the hostelry—a matter of civic honor apparently—Cam reserved a bedroom and sent him away.

      Pen had remained quiet through the innkeeper’s recitation. So quiet that when they were alone, Cam tilted an eyebrow in her direction. Unless she’d changed beyond all recognition, quiet wasn’t her natural state. “Are you all right?”

      He had a sinking feeling that the answer was “no,” but typically, she lifted her chin and glared at him. He wondered what she saw. Nothing she liked, if he read her expression right.

      “Perfectly.”

      He’d believe that if her gaze hadn’t skittered away from the blood on the floor. A girl carrying a bucket crept into the room and kneeled to clean up the mess. The strain on Pen’s face eased.

      These flashes of understanding were odd. Cam thought she’d be a stranger after all this time. Yet she wasn’t. In many ways, she was still as familiar as his sister.

      Peter had given Cam all Pen’s recent letters so he had an idea of where to seek her. It was how he’d tracked her to this backwater. He’d struggled against falling under the spell of the woman who wrote with such humor and vitality. She hadn’t mentioned any amorous intrigues. But then, she’d been writing to her brother.

      She swallowed and stared at him, he suspected in preference to the bloodstains. “What a coincidence that you turned up.”

      “A lucky coincidence,” he said drily, lifting the brandy bottle.

      “I hope you’re pouring me one.”

      Another reminder that she wasn’t the innocent he’d proposed to. “As you wish.”

      “I wish.”

      He passed her a brandy and tried to hide his surprise when she took a confident swig. In his world, unmarried ladies of good family didn’t indulge in strong spirits. But of course, Pen no longer belonged to his world.

      He thought of Lady Marianne Seaton, the woman he’d chosen to marry. Lady Marianne wouldn’t drink brandy. But then he couldn’t imagine Lady Marianne having the fortitude to shoot a bandit either.

      He’d never seen Lady Marianne less than perfectly turned out. Pen sat before him completely disheveled. Her bodice sagged, revealing the lacy edge of her shift. It seemed a betrayal to acknowledge that of the two women, Pen struck him as considerably more beddable.

      The devil of it was that the years hadn’t diminished his reluctant sexual interest. The moment he’d seen Pen again, he’d wanted her. And now he was stuck with her until he got her safely back to England. What a hellish situation.

      No matter what she’d got up to over here, she was his childhood companion and his friend’s sister. She deserved courtesy and respect. If he took Pen for one night, he was honor-bound to take her for life. He’d grown up enough to recognize his foolishness in offering for her all those years ago. The last thing he needed was a permanent entanglement with a notorious Thorne.

      Empty glass dangling from one hand, Pen slumped against the wall. The brandy had restored some color to her cheeks.

      “It isn’t a coincidence, is it?” Pen’s voice was flat. The maid slipped from the room.

      “No.”

      “Why are you here, Cam?”

      Like a coward, he reached for the brandy bottle and refilled his glass. And hers. “Peter sent me. He was worried about you after Lady Bradford passed away.” He paused. “I’m sorry about that.”

      Something that might have been grief flashed in the remarkable black eyes. She’d learned to guard her thoughts.

      “Thank you.” A hint of warmth entered her voice. “I miss her. She was excellent company.”

      As a boy, Cam had met Isabel, Lady Bradford. She’d possessed a vast fortune, and after a short, disastrous marriage, no interest in a second husband. Cam had liked her. She’d been eccentric and funny and opinionated. But nobody would consider her a suitable companion for an impressionable girl.

      “Pen, I’ve got sad news.” His gut cramped with regret and pity. Pen loved her brother dearly. “I’m so sorry, but Peter died a month ago in Calais.”

      Pen sucked in a breath. Her eyes went blank. What color she’d regained faded to ash.

      Curse him, he was a bumbling idiot. He should have broken the news more gently.

      Cam sat beside her on the bench, curling his arm around her shoulders. She was as stiff as a corpse. He firmed his grip, worried at her rigidity.

      “Pen?” He hadn’t thought about her seriously in years, except as the woman with the temerity to refuse him. This enforced intimacy revived older, sweeter memories of comforting her as a child. “Pen? Speak to me.”

      Slowly, she turned, blinking as though waking from bad dreams. “I was meeting him in Paris.” Her voice was thready and raw. He wished he could do something to help instead of feeling so confounded helpless. “That’s why I’m traveling at this ridiculous time of year.” She sucked in a breath as if she needed to make a conscious choice to take in air. “What happened?”

      “He collapsed on the quay.”

      “Oh, dear God.” She started to tremble. “I didn’t know he was ill. He should have told me.”

      “You know Peter.”

      “He wouldn’t want to burden anyone.” Tears thickened her voice as her unnatural composure cracked.

      “He was a brave man.” Peter might have been a numbskull in worldly terms, but at heart, he was as true

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