Gareth ran the pad of his thumb over her mouth, moving his open hand upward to caress the curve of her cheek against his chest. She didn't move or respond in any way. Her eyes remained open, but they were not looking at him.

"All I said to your friends was that I didn't believe you could substitute for Maude with proper conviction while they remained in London and you were likely to run off and join them whenever the mood took you." He spoke firmly. "I explained that it was difficult for you to have divided loyalties, and while you felt that you could help them, then you would want to be doing that and would find it hard to concentrate on playing the very different part you play here."

Miranda listened to the quiet, level tones, feeling his breath rustling across the top of her head. His hand continued to caress her mouth and cheek. The bare skin of his chest pressed warm through the thin material of her dress.

"Mama Gertrude and Bertrand both agreed that it would be easier for you if they left town."

"They decided that for themselves?" She spoke and looked up at him for the first time.

Gareth nodded and moved his caressing thumb to her eyelids, stroking delicately. "After I'd pointed the situation out to them."

"But why didn't they say goodbye? Where are they going? Where will I find them again?"

"Everything will be all right," he whispered, tilting her face further. His mouth hovered over hers, and when her lips parted on another question, he closed them with his own.

His hand moved down her throat and he raised his mouth from hers just long enough to murmur," Trust me, little one. That's all you have to do."

Miranda's eyes closed involuntarily as she tried to fight her body's insidious yielding to the practiced caresses. Her mind told her that his explanation was logical, but the less rational part of her brain screamed that something still wasn't right. She wanted to trust him, wanted to believe in him, wanted to surrender to the deft fingers unlacing her bodice, the hard assertion of his mouth on hers. But deep inside her the darkness of hurt still stirred.

She tried to push away, to turn her jaw against the fingers that held her face to his, but his free hand now globed one bared breast and its crown rose hard, totally independent of wish or will, against his palm. Prickles of arousal jumped across her skin and her belly jolted with the now-familiar current of lust. But still she struggled to resist, holding her mouth closed against him as if somehow it would protect her from this slow, sensuous assault on her hurt and her anger and her mistrust. But he explored the curve of her mouth with the tip of his tongue, not forcing entrance, but simply tasting the sweetness of her lips, even while his fingers on her jaw held her immobile.

Throughout the long, lonely reaches of the night she had ached for just this and now slowly her body was betraying her, refusing to acknowledge anything but its own hungry need. Her mind's protests grew ever fainter until they were little more than a vague and incoherent echo.

As he sensed this, the gentleness of his kiss changed, became a searing, insistent invasion that forced her lips apart. Her breasts were flattened against his chest and she could feel his heart beating hard almost in rhythm with her own. He lifted her, turned her sideways on his lap, and now she could feel the hard shaft of flesh pressing against her hip. With one last effort, she tried to push away again, but his hand had slid up beneath her skirt and now gripped her bottom tightly, clamping her against him as his tongue continued to plunder her mouth.

And Miranda was aware of a glorious sweetness in this captivity. The deep, instinctive knowledge that the very force that was battering against her defenses would bring her peace and the dark hurt would die in the light.

Gareth felt her surrender, her overpowering need for his strength and his loving. Her skin was hot to his touch, almost feverish, and her eyes were huge, luminous with desire, as they rested on his face. He released his hold on her jaw but his other hand remained firm and warm on her bottom. He pushed the unlaced gown from her shoulders, moving his mouth to the hollow of her throat, pressing his lips against the beating pulse before they burned a tantalizing path to her breasts. His tongue painted the soft curves, teased the small, hard nipples, and a soft moan escaped her.

He let her fall backward on his lap, the orange gown twisted beneath her, her body open and still in offering. He drew the gown away from her, tossing it to the floor, then spanned the slender indentation of her waist with his hands.

"Do you trust me, little one?"

For answer, she reached up to touch his face, cupping his cheek as he had done hers, tracing the taut angle of his jaw, the strong column of his neck. The urgency of his own passion was clear in the dark pools of his eyes, in the tendons that stood out in his neck, and yet she knew he was in complete control… in control of both of them. And Miranda knew she could yield her own defenses and he would not take advantage of her surrender. She could trust him to bring her joy and peace. In this, she could trust him.

He began to move over her body with delicate, sweeping caresses, whispering softly his delight in the sensuous glories he unfolded. He drew from her the murmured responses he required, obliging her to reveal for him the places and caresses that gave her greatest pleasure. She was adrift in enchantment, no longer alone with her hurt and her confusion, and she embraced the glorious obliteration of her body, her soul, her mind, with a cry of joy.

She was still lost on the shores of delight when Gareth lifted her and laid her on the bed. He stripped off his britches with rough haste and came down on the bed. He knelt between her widespread thighs, drawing her legs onto his shoulders, slipping his hands beneath her bottom to lift her to meet the slow, sure thrust of his entry. She was penetrated to her very core, filled with a sweet anguish that she could barely contain yet couldn't bear to lose.

This time they shared the wild, escalating spiral of glory, the tornado that caught them and swept them into the void, and when it was over Miranda lay awash in languor, limbs sprawled around his body just as they had fallen, aware of nothing but the ephemeral bliss of that joining. Gareth's head was on her shoulder, his body heavy on hers, pressing her into the feather mattress.

Sun fell in a dust-laden arc across Gareth's back and he came to his senses with a groan. "Christ and his saints!" he muttered, rolling away from her. His hand rested on her damp belly as he looked down at her, shaking his head with a rueful little smile. "You're keeping me from my guests, wicked one." He sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, one hand massaging the back of his neck. "How are we going to get you out of here without being seen?" He stood up and began to dress swiftly.

Miranda sat up. The magic was over, shattered by his words. And with it went her peace. After that wondrous loving, all Gareth could think about was how to ensure that she wasn't seen leaving his chamber. He had healed her… «he had believed he could heal her hurt… but he hadn't. Nothing had really changed. Nothing mattered to him but his ambition. And why had she ever thought it could be otherwise?

She remembered so clearly the moment on the barge when he'd confessed to the driving power of his ambition. His mouth had taken the cynical, bitter curve that she always shrank from. She was a fool not to have taken heed then. He had made no promises, he had freely admitted that he wanted to use her. And she had surrendered her soul in exchange for a few moments of physical pleasure.

She had only herself to blame for the hurt. "Don't worry, no one will see me leave." She picked up her orange dress, hauling it over her head, and went to the window.

"Hey! Where are you going?" He stepped quickly toward her, reaching for her.

"Out… this a-way." She gestured to the window.

"Don't be ridiculous, sweeting." He laughed at her, gently tipped her chin to kiss her, but his eyes were distracted. "Leave by the door. I'll check that the coast is clear."

"This is safer," she said stubbornly.

Gareth stared in half-laughing disbelief as Miranda flung her leg over the sill. Chip, with an eager jabber, leaped onto the sill beside her.

"Miranda, get back in here!" But she had gone, swinging herself over the sill. Gareth lunged for the window, knowing he was too late. Chip was already clambering sideways along the wall in the ivy, heading for Miranda's bedchamber window. Miranda, clinging to the wall like a fly, edged her way along until she could hook her fingers over her own windowsill. The bright orange splash against the lush green ivy disappeared.

Gareth drew his head back into the chamber. He finished dressing, reflecting that he would never have expected such an extreme reaction from Miranda to the troupe's departure. She was such a rational, pragmatic soul. So ready to flow with the tide, to laugh at inconveniences; so quick to search out the benefit to be found in apparent setbacks. He had expected her to be a little hurt when she found her friends had gone, just as she'd been in Dover. But he'd assumed she would decide that they had good and sufficient reason. Of course, he hadn't expected her to discover that he'd had a hand in it. Stupid of him not to expect the cobbler to let something slip.

It was to be hoped he'd settled the business now. Reassured her, regained her trust. He couldn't bear her distress. And even more, he couldn't bear her accusations of betrayal.