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  She would have to make her escape soon, or she'd end up floating all the way to the sea.

  She braced her feet beneath her, flexed her arms, and made a lunge for the bank.

  Her fingers scrabbled and slid over loose rocks and clumps of turf. The stream's current tugged at her skirts, tangling them into a knot about her legs. She kicked to little avail, struggling for the leverage to push herself out.

  She dug her fingernails into the dirt.

  Come on then, Charlotte.

  A large, gloved hand gripped her wrist.

  The hand's owner pulled her out.

  She emerged from the water slowly. Not by choice, but by necessity. The sparkling green velvet had become a choking mat of seaweed. Her hair was plastered to her face in stringy clumps, obscuring her vision.

  And it made perfect, tragic sense when she made her ungainly collapse on the grassy bank, parted the slimy curtains of her hair, and blinked away the remaining river water to take a look at her rescuer to find--

  Piers.

  "Of course," she muttered between labored breaths. "Of course it's you."

  "You don't seem happy about it."

  She looked down at herself. There was no fetching mermaid or selkie to be found in this scene. No painted Ophelia, clasping her hands at her breast as the waters claimed her with poetic dignity. Charlotte looked as though she'd been tied to the keel of a ship, dredged up and down the Thames a few times, and then left to the eels and barnacles for a year or two.

  And he was gorgeous, naturally. Not a knight in shining armor, but as close as a modern girl could find to it. He practically gleamed in his fitted black riding coat, buckskin breeches, polished Hessian boots, and a cravat of crisp white.

  His hair was perfect.

  It all made her suddenly, irrationally vexed.

  "Are you injured at all?"

  "I'm fine."

  He offered a hand. "Let me help you stand."

  "I don't need help. Just leave me be."

  "I will not leave you be. You were thrown from a horse and nearly drowned. You're chilled, alone, possibly injured, and your mount is on the other side of the stream."

  "Thank you, my lord, for recounting every facet of my mortification so efficiently."

  She pushed herself to her feet, plucking clumps of moss from her riding habit.

  His tone gentled, and he put a hand to her waist. "Charlotte. Allow me to--"

  She bristled way from him. "I can't. It's what she expects, don't you see?"

  "What who expects?"

  "Frances. She hates me. She gave me that demonic horse."

  Charlotte flung an arm in the direction of Lady. The dappled gray mare was currently chewing clover in a picture of rustic tranquillity.

  "Well, she looks harmless now. But I tell you, she's possessed."

  "Yes, I saw," he said.

  "I know you did." She disentangled a dead leaf from her hair.

  Charlotte knew she was being churlish, but she couldn't help it. Everything had gone all wrong. She'd abandoned Delia. She'd discovered a critical error in her investigating. She'd made unwanted romantic advances toward a local widow. Now she had little hope of ever finding the mystery lovers, and even if she could--it wouldn't matter how long she traveled the world. Women like Frances would never let her live down the Desperate Debutante. They would keep needling, keep whispering about her, even if--no, especially if--she appeared in London married to Piers. Charlotte told herself she shouldn't care about gossips, but it was all so demoralizing.

  "Let's return to the manor. We can both ride on my gelding."

  "I'll walk." She set about wringing the excess water from her skirt. "I can just imagine Frances's ire if she thinks I landed shrieking at your feet and forced you to come to my aid."

  "No one forces me to do anything."

  "They don't need to. You do it to yourself." She huffed a sigh, exasperated. "Piers, I'm not accomplished. My dowry is small. My connections are fathoms beneath yours. You've never needed to treat me like a respectable lady. Look around you. No one else does."

  "You," he said, taking her by the shoulders, "will be a lady. My lady. I will treat you with the respect that title deserves. As will Miss Frances Parkhurst, her friends, the entirety of the ton, the Royal Court, and anyone else who wishes to avoid my extreme displeasure."

  By the hint of barely concealed violence in his voice, Charlotte wondered if his "extreme displeasure" involved sharp edges or blunt objects.

  "Why?" She searched his face. "And don't answer me with that nonsense about wanting and desire. At the moment, I must look about as desirable as pile of wet rags."

  He glanced down at her body and raised a brow. "You'd be surprised."

  She gave him a damp, ineffective thump in the shin and tried to wriggle away.

  His grip tightened on her arms.

  "Let me go," she insisted, almost shouting.

  His reply was every bit as angry. "I can't."

  She looked up at him, breathing hard.

  "I can't let you go, Charlotte. I couldn't that first night in the library. I most assuredly as hell won't let you walk away from me now."

  His hands framed her face. Not tenderly, but with impatient force. She couldn't have turned away if she'd wanted to.

  He searched her face with a penetrating gaze. "It wasn't enough for you to invade my thoughts, was it? Oh, no. You had to get under my skin, as well. Sometimes I think you've found a way into my blood."

  The dark note of anger in his voice intrigued and aroused her. His gloved thumbs pressed against her cheeks.

  "And now you have the temerity to demand I let you go. It's too late for that, darling. It's done." He released her face. "And I'm done discussing it."

  Without another word, he plucked her off her feet--heavy, waterlogged velvet and all--and lifted her up on his horse. Then he mounted behind her, lashed one arm around her waist, and spurred his mount into a canter, carrying her off into the countryside. As if they were characters in some demented fairy tale.

  The Prince and the Sea Monster.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Charlotte clung to him, resigned.

  She had no warmth left in her body to fight it, no wits remaining to find a path out.

  If Piers Brandon, the Marquess of Granville, in all his proud, decisive, muscular handsomeness, had made up his mind to be her champion . . . ?

  Very well, then.

  It would take a stronger woman than Charlotte to refuse.

  She fell against him, sinking into the romance of the moment. It hit her all at once, the effort she'd expended resisting this sensation all along. Like a swimmer who'd spent hours thrashing against the current, only to surrender from fatigue.

  She was, in every sense, swept away.

  He held her in a tight, possessive embrace against his chest as they set a course for the woods. His presence behind her was so strong, so warm, so safe.

  And he smelled like a dream. The kind of dream that left a woman short of breath and damp between the thighs. Woodsy, spicy, entirely masculine.

  She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his waistcoat, breathing him in.

  He slowed as they entered the woods, guiding the horse to a secluded, sunny clearing.

  There, they paused.

  Piers dismounted, then took her by the waist and helped her down.

  "Why are we stopping?"

  "I want to see for myself that you're well and unharmed. I can't do this once we've returned to the manor."

  He settled her on a freshly hewn tree stump. First, he divested himself of his coat and riding gloves, hanging them over a convenient branch. Then, working in brisk, businesslike motions, he unbuttoned the jacket of her riding habit before easing the sleeves down her arms. She shivered a little, hugging herself. Her white, thin chemisette was painted to her torso with river water and nearly translucent.

  If Piers noticed, his gaze didn't linger. Having laid her jacket in a sunny patch of grass
, he went on one knee before her. He took her right foot and propped it on his knee. After wrestling with the wet knots of her bootlaces for a few moments, he reached into his own boot for a knife and sliced them clean down the middle. Then he slipped the boot from her foot and set it beside the stump before reaching under her petticoats to untie her garter and peel the wet, clinging stocking from her leg. His hand passed from her ankle to her thigh, not groping or caressing--merely making an assessment. He satisfied himself that her toes still wiggled, and her ankle still bent in all the proper directions, and confirmed that she didn't yelp in pain when he pressed there, or there, or there . . . or there.

  Then he set her foot gently in the grass, propped her left boot on his right knee, and began the same process anew.

  As she watched him from her perch on the stump, Charlotte warmed inside. The afternoon sun had begun to dry her hair and revive her spirits. She didn't feel so monstrous anymore.

  As Piers swept his touch from her ankle to her thigh, she bit her lip.

  "Did that hurt?" he asked, looking grave.

  "No. It only took me by surprise."

  She looked at the ground, where he'd set her boot directly to the side of its mate and even folded her stockings into neat, matching bundles. So orderly. So very Piers. The same habit that would have irritated her a week ago now landed in an altogether different way. It struck her as endearing. Sweet.

  Possibly the best thing anyone had ever done for her.

  Good heavens. From the fount of tenderness welling in her heart, one would think those two bedraggled stockings had been baskets of flowers, or ropes of diamonds. They were lumps of useless, itchy wool. Not even her best pair. And yet, as she stared at them . . . She wanted to cry.

  What was wrong with her? Something must be. The possibilities unspooled in her mind, each worse than the last.

  She was nearing her monthly courses.

  She'd incurred an injury to her skull.

  She'd inherited Mama's nervous complaint, or perhaps . . .

  Or perhaps she was falling in love.

  Oh, no. Oh, Lord. That had to be it.

  She was in love.

  On instinct, she curled her fingers around the edges of the tree stump. As though if she didn't hold tight, she might slip off. Or float away.

  Piers returned her foot to the ground and leaned forward.

  She clutched the stump for dear life.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  He was so close. So close and so handsome.

  Well, he'd always been handsome, but now . . . looking at him hurt. That small, perfect cleft in his chin reached inside her somehow, and squeezed. Her head spun. Her heart pounded so hard it would burst.

  No one had warned her it would be like this. Love was supposed to feel good. Wasn't it? Not terrifying.

  Perhaps this wasn't love after all, but malaria.

  His hands encircled her waist. "Your ribs feel all of a piece."

  Did they? A small miracle, considering how her heart was battering them from the inside.

  He felt her crown for lumps and pushed her hair back from her face. "No headache?"

  "No."

  "Any trouble breathing?" he asked. "Do you feel faint or dizzy?"

  "A little," she answered, honestly.

  And who could fault her? She'd fallen in a stream. She'd fallen for this man. Headfirst, both times, with no warning.

  It was all too much.

  "When we're back at the manor, I'll call for the local physici--"

  Charlotte kissed him.

  She couldn't help it. She needed to touch him, desperately, and her hands weren't going to cooperate. Her fingers were so fused to the stump at this point, they might have grown roots.

  She pressed her lips to his, haltingly. Once, and then again. Silently begging him to kiss her back.

  Please.

  For a horrible moment, she doubted. Not him, never him. Only herself.

  Then he banished all doubt--every cold, lonely question--claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss.

  Yes. Yes.

  Here was the Piers she craved. The one that danger brought forth from the diplomat. The man who was possessive, impatient, more than a bit wild.

  And not to be denied.

  They kissed openmouthed, with tongues and lips and teeth. Struggling not to vanquish each other, but the space between them.

  Kissing wasn't enough. Not this time. She wanted--no, needed--more.

  She needed to touch him, hold him, be as close to him as two people could possibly be.

  She worked her hands between them and pried at the stubborn, prudish buttons of her chemisette, then abandoned them for the equally maddening buttons of his waistcoat. They resisted her, too.

  Frustrated, she finally tugged his shirt free from his breeches, then thrust her hands beneath it.

  He sucked in his breath. The chill of her fingers against his abdomen seemed to shock him to awareness.

  Undaunted, Charlotte stroked her hands over the tensed muscles of his torso. Caressing, soothing. Tempting him to touch her, too.

  As his gaze wandered her face, a debate raged behind his cool, blue eyes. The proper gentleman inside him was putting up one last fight. She could sense him balanced on the razor-thin edge between duty and desire.

  "I'm cold," she whispered.

  And that was all it took.

  I'm cold.

  Those two quiet, simple words were all Piers needed to hear.

  To her, they were a plea. Perhaps an invitation.

  To him, they were a call to action.

  She was cold. His blood was on fire.

  The rest was logic.

  He would bare her. Hold her, skin to skin. Warm her in every way, with every part of him God had fashioned for the purpose.

  Not merely because he wanted it--and bloody hell, he wanted it. But because she was his to care for, now and always.

  And she was cold.

  He went into ruthless action, dispatching every button that had dared disobey her chilled fingers. The skirt and petticoats gave way easily enough. He peeled the wet chemisette from her body, stripping her down to her shift and stays, then reached behind her to untie the laces of her corset with one swift tug.

  She gasped as the air rushed into her lungs.

  The sound inflamed him.

  He counted in his mind as he slipped the corset laces from their eyelets.

  One, two, three . . .

  Her sweet, pink lip folded under her teeth.

  Four, five . . .

  Still not too late. Turn back. Tell me to stop.

  Six.

  That was it. Persephone was his.

  He took her by the arms and pulled her to him, kissing her deeply, without any reserve. As he'd never kissed any woman, holding nothing of himself back. Not his desire, not his yearning . . .

  Not his heart.

  His heart?

  Damn. He couldn't grapple with that idea now. Not when his hands were full of Charlotte. Her tangled hair, her wet chemise, her chilled, trembling body beneath.

  He lifted her off her feet, and she gave a startled laugh. The sound danced over his skin like a cascade of golden sparks, singeing and teasing him. Making him feel alive.

  He made a bed of his coat for her, spreading it in a sunny patch of grass, and she reclined on her elbows, watching intently as he stripped off the unbuttoned waistcoat and moved to yank his shirt over his head.

  "Wait," she said. "Go more slowly. I'd like to watch."

  As she wished.

  Gathering the hem in his crossed hands, he leisurely lifted the garment over his head and shook it down his arms.

  He stood on his knees before her, torso bared to the full midday sun.

  She stared at him, rapt. "I changed my mind. Be quick."

  It was his turn to laugh. He removed his boots and breeches as quickly as he could manage, joining her in the grass before the wide-eyed curiosity on her face could transform to alarm.

>   She was a virgin, and he was exceedingly . . . ready. Hard, aching, and primed by a week's worth of frustrated lust. He wanted to make this good for her, but he didn't know if he could.

  "Charlotte." He ran his hand from her breast to her hip. "I want you. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything. I am aching to get inside you. I don't wish to hurt you, but I suspect I will. I fear I must."

  "Goodness, don't be so solemn." She stroked his brow. "I know it will be a little painful. I'm not afraid. You don't need to be afraid, either."

  Afraid.

  He wanted to shrug off the word in a show of manly bluster. But he couldn't--not convincingly. His breath was shaky, and his hand trembled as he drew a caress down her thigh. Unlike Charlotte, he couldn't blame it on the chill.

  He needed to get her out of that shift. The linen was thin enough that it had already begun to dry--but he wanted her bare. He slipped a hand beneath the hem and drew the shift upward, peeling the milky gauze from her body and revealing everything she was beneath.

  She didn't hide herself from his gaze. He drank it in--the sight of her body bathed in sunshine. So beautiful, it rendered him speechless. Judging by the shy smile gracing her lips, she intuited his admiration well enough, even without words.

  Her fingernails teased the hair on his chest and raked over his flat nipples. He slid a palm over the smooth, silky planes of her back and nuzzled the softness of her breasts.

  Nestled in the tickling grass, breathing the green and burnt-orange scents of autumn . . . They might have been the first man and woman in Creation, discovering one another in the Garden of Eden. Exploring all the parts that made them different. Sharing all the desires that made them the same.

  He kissed his way down her body, worshipping every inch of her. She bucked and gasped as he nudged her thighs apart and ran his tongue along her crease.

  "Let me do this for you," he murmured, in between light passes of his tongue. "I'll make it better. I'll make it so good."

  He framed her waist in his hands and reached toward her center with his thumbs, spreading her wide. After exploring every pink, secret petal of her sex, he centered his efforts on the swollen bud at the crest.

  Her hand tangled in his hair, and all he heard was the shallow rasp of her breath. She began to writhe beneath him, twisting her hips to seek more contact, more pleasure.

  He held her in place, never ceasing the gentle flicks of his tongue. Once she'd resigned herself to the pleasure, he moved a hand between her thighs and pushed two fingers inside her, thrusting them in and out as he kept up his kisses and tender suckling.