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Early October, 1805:

Today could either be the best or the worst day of my life, Mary Blackmore thought as she put on her best sprigged muslin gown. It all depended on how she looked at it. In her young life she had already known great happiness, and equally vivid periods of despair. Her instincts told her that today might very well be the day Sir John Addington asked her to be his wife.

Marriage to the baronet would mean no more scraping to make ends meet for her father and little Marguerite. No more sleepless nights, worrying about having enough money for food, fuel, candles and all the other necessities her household required. Hard experience had made her a sensible woman, and she knew a marriage prospect such as the one before her was a great opportunity.

If only she wasn't still in love with her husband.

Mary sighed, and continued dressing for today's trip to the village market. Searching through her scanty wardrobe, she selected her best chip straw bonnet and pinned a nosegay of violets to its crown. She'd been told the violets heightened the green color of her eyes, and hoped the delicate flowers would also divert Sir John's attention away from the tiny brown spots sprinkled like nutmeg across her face.

She put her hand to her cheek, as if to erase those unfashionable marks. Ever since she had moved to Rose Cottage, Mary had tried to keep her fair skin shielded. But she couldn't avoid the sun altogether as she toiled in her garden, tended her animals, or walked to the village.

Mary could only imagine the horror her aristocratic mother would have expressed, had she lived to see her daughter's delicate skin freckled. Mary couldn't remember her mother ever venturing out into the rare Scottish sunlight without at least a parasol for protection.

Putting her memories of her past life firmly aside, Mary tied a simple brown mantle over her muslin gown. Though it had stopped raining it was still muddy out, so she strapped on pattens onto her shoes to keep her worn slippers off the ground.

In a large basket she packed a few farm goods she planned to deliver to some regular customers while she was in the village. As she did so, mentally she reviewed the events leading her to believe today would be momentous.

For months now Sir John Addington, a baronet who lived in a fine stone manor house on a cliff overlooking the ocean, had been paying marked attention to her.

In July, he purchased tea and a plate of raspberry scones for her in the refreshment tent at the village fair.

In August, after the opening of the grouse season, he sent a brace of the birds to her cottage.

In September, he had begun offering her a ride home in his carriage following the Sunday service at the village church.

And earlier this week, Sir John pointedly asked Mary if she would be attending the market today. When she assented, he told her he particularly wished to speak with her on a matter of some importance. They agreed to meet in the inn-yard this very afternoon.

The evidence was overwhelming. Her hopes high, Mary covered the short distance to the village and headed for the inn. Admittedly, it was not the place she would have picked as an ideal site for a marriage proposal.

Dreamily she closed her eyes. Perhaps she would have chosen a secluded corner of a candlelit ballroom, or a moonlight walk in a fragrant garden, or a field of heather on a misty autumn morning.

A clink of glassware and a woman's raucous laugh broke her reverie. Certainly she would not have chosen the bustling yard of the Crown and Anchor Inn on market day.

Mary stifled a sigh. Romantic daydreams were foolish in the face of such serious business. She needed this marriage. She had dependents to support.

Sir John did not keep her waiting. She spotted him as soon as she entered the yard. A tall, spare man of some forty-odd years, he made his way through the crowd with the assurance of someone accustomed to deference.

"My dear Miss Blackmore. Lovely as always. May I order you some refreshment?"

"A glass of lemonade would be most welcome, Sir John."

"Innkeeper! Lemonade, here, at once! And another glass of your best ale. Look lively, man!"

He turned back to her. "Do you wish to sit down? There seems to be a shortage of chairs, but I can roust these fellows from their seats -"

"Oh, really, there is no need." Mary hated it when Sir John pulled rank. He never seemed to see, or care, about the resentment he created. "I much prefer standing."

"As you wish, my dear."

Sir John cleared his throat. He started to speak, then balled his left hand into a fist, held it up to his mouth and coughed. His thin chest rattled, like the rustle of dry leaves.

If only he would get on with it! Mary hid her impatience by cataloguing the contents of the wicker basket she held. Bunches of lavender, tied together at the stems. Fresh brown eggs, a jar of soothing ointment. All products of the little farm Mary ran, and all providing needed money to supplement a meager income.

"My dear Miss Blackmore--"

At last.

"--if indeed I may take the liberty to so address you."

Sir John bestowed on her a thin smile that looked more like a self-satisfied smirk to Mary. She felt the corners of her mouth curl downward in response, and she quickly re-schooled her expression.

"You must be aware that I have singled you out, among all the local misses, for the most particular attentions. And I flatter myself those attentions have not been unwelcome."

"No, Sir John." Mary cast her eyes downward in a display of maidenly modesty. As she looked at her basket, she wondered if the afternoon had grown too warm for the eggs to retain their best quality.

Sir John coughed again, sending a thin spittle of phlegm spiraling down towards his boots. He wiped the back of his hand on his breeches.

Mary stifled a quick stab of distaste. If he asked her, she would strive to make him a good wife. If gratitude could become love, than perhaps she could even learn to love Sir John.

A familiar ache mocked her resolution. There was no use trying to deceive herself. No matter how much time passed, her heart would always belong to Sebastian.

Not that it mattered. Sebastian was gone. She had not received one word from him since he went to join Colonel Wellesley's regiment in India, nearly seven years ago. Seven long years of unexpected hardship and privation.

All that was left now was to have her dear husband declared officially dead, so she could legally remarry.

Sir John clasped her small hand in his clammy one, and Mary squirmed just a bit. The baronet was well known for being a high stickler. Mary wasn't sure how he'd react if he knew she'd been married at seventeen to a soldier who'd vanished and whose family subsequently all but disowned her. She would, of course, have to explain it to him.

Someday.

"Miss Blackmore, is there any chance a young lady such as yourself could consider the suit of a crotchety old man?" He said it lightly, as if to suggest his supposed unworthiness was a private joke between them.

Mary tossed her chin, causing a lock of her auburn hair to tumble out of her bonnet. With her free hand she tucked the rebellious strand back in.

"Fie, Sir John! You are being unjust to describe yourself as old," she responded dutifully. "For aught I can observe, you are entering your prime. A man of your experience is so much more attractive than a younger man whose talents are yet unproved."

She paused, and gazed at him earnestly. She saw not a man, but a potential savior. Her next words were quite sincere.

"Indeed, if pressed, I would have to pronounce most younger men quite tedious. They have little social grace to recommend them, and are often appallingly self-absorbed."

Sir John was visibly gratified by her words. He preened, just like the rooster that sat on the fence outside her little cottage.

A single qualm disturbed the calm certainty of her conviction. She meant what she said. Every man she had encountered since Sebastian bored her. But Sebastian had always enthralled her. And she had loved his wild and reckless spirit as much as she loved his strong young body.

So much emotion. And all it had garnered her was a broken heart and a belly that all too frequently rumbled with hunger. For Mary always made sure her father and Marguerite were fed before she filled her plate.

Sir John reached for Mary's other hand, and clasped both her hands together tightly in his.

"Miss Blackmore, I would consider it a great honor, nay, an unexpected privilege if you would..."

There was a loud crash in the yard behind them. A woman screamed and a man swore. Sir John jumped, and turned his head.

"What the devil? Oh, beg pardon, Miss Blackmore, for my language."

She nodded her acceptance of his apology. "It is quite all right. You were saying, Sir John?"

"Eh, what?"

"Something about an honor and a privilege?"

"Yes, yes, my dear. Might as well do this thing properly."

Carefully he lowered his body to kneel on one knee. Some part of his skeleton emitted an audible crack. He removed his hat and after looking around awkwardly for a moment, placed it gingerly on a flagstone next to him.

He reached again for her hand, steadying himself with it.

"My dear Miss Blackmore, would you do me the inestimable honor of--"

"Hold, my good fellow! If you need a hand, I'll help you to your feet. That lass with the basket doesn't look as though she could haul a newborn foal upright without keeling over herself."

A young man, outrageously attired in a peacock blue waistcoat, bounded across the inn-yard. His sandy hair was pomaded to ridiculous perfection, and there was even a spot of rouge on his cheeks. His blue eyes held a devilish gleam, and he had a mischievous smile that died on his lips when he came face to face with Mary.

A roaring filled Mary's ears. As if from a distance, she watched the young man's face pale. For a moment his mobile features froze. Then he cocked one eyebrow and gave her a crooked smile.

A smile she remembered only too well.

No, it was impossible. It couldn't be. But it was. The silly clothes, the affected style, none of it could contradict what every fiber of Mary's being knew. This was Sebastian, her supposedly dead husband, come back to life.

Her heart leapt. She wanted to rush into his arms, but his strange appearance made her hesitate. Could she possibly be mistaken?

He gave her an insolent wink.

"Do I know you, my good woman? Or do you stare so boldly at every handsome young blade who crosses your path?"

His voice clinched it. Unmistakably Sebastian's. Here he stood before her, pretending not to recognize her. He was grinning, unrepentant, and seemingly unconcerned about the years of pain his desertion caused her.

Conflicting emotions tumbled inside her. Astonishment, joy, confusion, and finally, a dawning fury. "You!" She couldn't quite bring herself to utter his name aloud. "What are you doing here, after all this time?"

Sir John, goggle-eyed, struggled to his feet, knocking Mary's basket out of her hands. Her eggs splattered on the flagstones, making a sticky yellow mess.

The young man clicked his tongue. "Now look what you've done. Some poor hen went to a lot of trouble for nothing."

That insensitive comment spurred her to action. She ran towards him, stumbling in her haste. He had to catch her to keep her from falling.

"I know I'm irresistible," he drawled. "But please, dear woman, try to contain yourself."

"Oh, you, you popinjay!"

"Yes, I am rather fine, aren't I," he replied complacently, still holding her in his arms. "No wonder you're so drawn to me."

She struggled to disengage herself, and laughing he held on a moment longer. Impulsively, she kicked him in the shins, hoping the iron rings on her pattens would convince him to let go. With a howl he released her, and she took a step back and slapped him. She almost burst into tears.

"How dare you come back like this? I don't understand at all!"

Sir John was aghast. "Miss Blackmore, do you know this person?"

The innkeeper's voice cut through the confusion.

"Don't let that man get away. He owes me money, he does. He threw a bottle of my best beer through my window and broke it. Then I discovers he has no blunt, not for the drink nor the damage. I'm going to call the constable."

"If anyone has committed an offense, it is you, innkeeper. That beer you served me was a crime against drinkers everywhere. I would only aid and abet you were I to pay for it." Sebastian shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

With a war cry the portly innkeeper rushed up behind him and pinned Sebastian's arms back in a strong grip.

Expending a minimum of energy, Sebastian rotated his shoulder blades forward sharply, easily breaking the older man's grip and flicking him off like a bothersome insect. Sir John pulled Mary away just in time to keep her from being knocked to one side.

"You're a real wit, aren't you, my young buck?" Hands on his knees, the innkeeper puffed with exertion. "We'll see how funny the magistrate finds your jests."

"Take me where you please," said Sebastian, examining the cuticles on his long slender fingers. "But do have a care for my waistcoat. It would be a tragedy if it got soiled by your brutish handling of my person."

Mary's confusion receded, replaced by embarrassment. How could time have changed Sebastian so much? She remembered a dashing soldier, not a ridiculous, painted fop. A chiseling, penniless fop, to boot.

She allowed Sir John to lead her away from the inn-yard. Though Sir John tried to conceal it, Mary could tell he was deeply shocked.

Mary knew she'd acted badly. She would have to explain her actions to Sir John. But at the moment her thoughts were in too much of a whirl.

"Thank you, Sir John," she managed to say. "I have no explanation for my behavior. I really do not know what occurred back there."

"Hysteria, brought on by a strange humor. Must have temporarily affected your brain. Nothing lasting, I'll be bound."

He seemed to be talking more to himself than to her.

"Let me take you back to your cottage, Miss Blackmore. What you need now is a cup of tea and a lie-down. We can stop at the apothecary's for a calming remedy, if you wish. Yes, I believe that would be best."

Mary almost wept with frustration as Sir John handed her into his elegant carriage. By now she should have been Sir John's affianced bride, with the prospect of security before her.

An hour ago her only problem had been when and where to tell Sir John about her late husband.

Now she'd have to explain a live husband, a decided obstacle to contracting an advantageous marriage.

Mary lay back against the squabs, holding her suddenly aching head, while Sir John watched her apprehensively.

Everything was ruined. All her plans and dreams for the future lay in ashes.

Oh, why couldn't Sebastian have simply stayed dead?

* * *

It was as if he'd seen a ghost. Sebastian hadn't set eyes on Mary Blackmore since the morning after their wedding night, almost seven years back and a whole lifetime ago. Now here she was, the girl become a glorious woman, standing before him, hurt and confusion on her lovely face. It took all his self-control to pretend not to know her, to deny the physical recognition that tore through him when he touched her. If he'd known this would be a part of his job, he'd have refused.

She'd been so shy once, and so very young! Pink and white is how he remembered her. Pink skin, and yards and yards of white linen and lace. She'd been swathed in white linen up to her neck when he'd seen her waiting for him on the big canopied bed her father had installed in their wedding chamber.

Slightly tipsy from endless wedding toasts, he felt as though he was unwrapping an elaborately trimmed present when he tried to take her out of her night rail. She was as scared as a snared rabbit, and he was exhausted from the excitement of the wedding and the preparations for his departure the following day.

He didn't remember much of what followed, even if or how well he had performed his conjugal duty. He remembered dragging himself out of his bed at dawn the next morning with a blistering headache and setting out on his horse. He'd kissed his bride, who was still asleep, on her creamy white forehead. In the early morning light, once more swathed in all that white linen and lace, she'd looked like a fairy-tale maiden. Sleeping Beauty.

Little Mary Blackmore. She was his ticket into the army, for it was by his agreeing to marry her that his father had finally consented to Sebastian's joining Wellesley's forces in India. Sebastian hadn't thought about Mary for some time. Years even.

He'd had other things on his mind. Like how to survive prison, and then make his escape.

Now he'd have to deal with her, an unexpected complication. But first he had an angry innkeeper to placate.

Following the altercation in the yard, the innkeeper had dragged Sebastian back to a corner of the tap room. The innkeeper hadn't called for the constable, as he threatened, and Sebastian sensed the man hadn't quite decided just what he was going to do.

So Sebastian decided to be charming. It was his most potent weapon.

"My dear fellow, I pray you reconsider your actions. No good will come of your summoning the constable. My London friends would take it highly amiss when they come here only to discover I have been sadly used by the locals. Famous drinking fellows, they are, but such a circumstance would put them right off the bottle, I fear. Hammie could scarcely swallow his usual three bottles of port, and as for the Friar --"

"Hammie? The Friar? Just who are these friends of yours?"

"I beg your pardon. Perhaps you would know them better as Lord Hammersmith, and St. Clair, the Duke of--no, I'd better not say. His Grace does so prefer to travel incognito, to spare everyone the fuss. So humble he is, we call him the Friar."

"Are you telling me there are members of the quality traveling to our village?" The innkeeper's tone was a shade less belligerent.

"Why, certainly. Haven't I already said so? And they'll be needing lodging, of course. Unless you'd like me to spare you the trouble and direct them to the next hamlet?"

"Ho, now, there's no call for you to do that. I've plenty of room here at the inn." Sebastian could see the careful calculation in the innkeeper's beady black eyes. Then those eyes sharpened.

"How do I know you're telling me the truth? You don't look as though you have two shillings to rub together. How could the likes of you be friends with the quality?"

"I'm in disguise, of course," said Sebastian with a brilliant smile. "I made a bet in London that I could travel to any fishing village and learn enough in two weeks to pass as a fisherman. Maybe even get taken on as a crewman on a fishing boat."

"That's a rum sort of bet."

"Of course. That's the whole point, isn't it? It's even been entered in the betting book at White's, by the Du--, I mean, the Friar. But I am sure that you, as a man of the world, know about such things."

"Humph."

Sebastian hoped the man had heard something of the infamous betting book, where all sorts of frivolous wagers were recorded. Nothing was too trivial to bet on--club members had even bet on which of two raindrops would reach the bottom of a windowpane first. Impending deaths, marriages, the outcome of sporting events, anything which caught someone's fancy was fair game.

Either the innkeeper had indeed heard of White's betting book, or Sebastian's appeal to his vanity worked, for the innkeeper nodded knowledgeably.

"Well, well, perhaps you be quality after all."

"I'm gratified that's finally become apparent to you."

"And you'll be paying for the beer and my window?"

"How can you doubt it? Naturally I have no money on me, for it would destroy my purpose here to appear plump in the pocket. But when my friends come, they will gladly see to all my expenses."

"Humph," the innkeeper said again, this time a shade more positively. "So you'll be staying then, till they arrive?"

"That is my plan. I don't suppose you have a room available?"

"No, I do not, unless I sees the color of your coin."

"But I just explained--"

"I cannot pay my bills with words, Mr.--"

"Mallory. Sebastian Mallory." The first name was correct, though the last name was an invention. Sebastian believed in using as much truth as possible in his deceptions. More times than he cared to recall that policy had saved him from embarrassment, or worse.

"I'll be awaiting the arrival of your friends, Mr. Mallory."

"And you won't be calling the constable?"

"Don't see as I need to now. I'm willing to wait for your friends to help you settle your affairs. Till then, I wouldn't try to leave the area, if I were you."

"I have not the slightest intention of leaving, not till I win my bet. You won't mention our little wager to anyone, will you? Hammie and the Friar will be most disappointed if you do. Even more disappointed than I was by your beer."

"I can keep mum. For a price."

"You are a clever one, aren't you? We will settle our accounts later."

Sebastian got up, brushed the tails of his jacket, and donned his hat. He extended a gloved hand.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr.--"

"Bucket. Charlie Bucket."

"At your service, Mr. Bucket." Sebastian bowed. "By the way, that woman who was here, with the eggs. What is her name?"

"You mean Miss Mary Blackmore?"

The landlord looked suddenly wary, and Sebastian was bemused to note, protective.

"What would the likes of you be wanting with her? She's a virtuous girl, she is. Not the sort of companion a London dandy such as yourself would trifle with. Keeps half the village supplied with eggs, and vegetables, and other concoctions from her garden. Works hard to support her ailing father and her ward. Besides, everyone knows Sir John Addington is interested in our Miss Blackmore. Wouldn't be surprised to hear the banns called on those two."

"Is that a fact? Miss Blackmore, you say?"

So his long-ago bride wanted to keep their marriage a secret, too. He fought down the surprising irritation that knowledge prompted, while wondering what her motives were.

"Could you tell me where this paragon of virtue lives?"

"Why should I do that?"

"Because I believe Miss Blackmore and I are related."

Deep lines of suspicion etched Bucket's face. "She didn't seem to take very well to you just now. Kicked you, she did."

"Yes, she did." Sebastian resisted the urge to rub the burgeoning bruise on his shin. "But you must have remarked the affectionate way she did so. After all, a lady like Miss Blackmore would only kick her close friends or kinfolk."

Bucket crossed his arms over his barrel-shaped chest. "If you and Mary are kin, why didn't you know who she is? You treated her like a complete stranger."

"To tell you the truth, good Mr. Bucket, I haven't seen Mary in quite a while. I wasn't sure that was her. Last time I saw her, she was surrounded by servants and dressed in lace. I hardly recognized her in that brown cloak she wore."

Bucket emitted a low whistle. "Is that so? Can't say I'm surprised. I always thought she might have come down in the world. She's a different sort than most around here. Still, she's a good girl, and I won't have you bothering her."

"I wouldn't harass Mary for the world. She's like a sister to me." Sebastian struck his breast with his fist for added sincerity. "I just want to visit her, and apologize for my recent behavior. Especially since I recognize her now as one of the family."

"I suppose that's fair enough. You'll find Mary at Rose Cottage, at the west end of the village, near the cliffs."

"Thank you, Mr. Bucket. You have been most accommodating."

With a bow and a flourish, Sebastian headed for the threshold.

"Oy, now, Mr. Mallory, you never said what relation you are to Mary. Are you a first or second cousin, or what? My wife will be asking."

"Definitely the latter," Sebastian called over his shoulder. He was out the door before the puzzled innkeeper could ask him to explain.

Chapter Two

"Tante Marie! Are you going to lie down all afternoon?"

"No, my angel. I feel much better now."

"Good. The musty man has gone now, and he's the one who said you had to rest, so you can get up now, n'est-ce pas?"

Mary laughed. "Yes, indeed. But Marguerite, haven't I told you not to call Sir John 'the musty man?'"

Marguerite wrinkled her little nose. "But he is musty, Tante. He smells like tobacco, and stale wine. Bah!"

"Enough! Sir John has been a good friend to us. And in the future..." Mary paused, searching for the words to explain her hopes to the little girl. "...in the future, I hope he may become an even better friend."

"To you, Tante?"

"To all of us," Mary replied firmly.

Marguerite skipped in a circle. "Well, you can play with him if you wish. I will play with someone else."

"You will play with no one, young lady, until you have fed the chickens. Now, go outside, and be careful not to wake Grand-père."

"Wake me? Who said I was asleep?" The old man by the stone hearth stirred. He was seated in a wooden rocking chair, with a heavy blanket across his legs.

"There's no need for you to rouse yourself, Father. Marguerite is feeding the chickens, and dinner is in the kettle."

Mary's father, Angus Blackmore, looked at her with rheumy eyes. "You know very well, Mary, that I must ride out on the estate today. The tenants are expecting me."

He struggled to get up. With an inward sigh, Mary hastened to settle him back in his chair. Her father's increasing periods of disorientation worried her. He often forgot they now lived in a little cottage on the coast of Somerset. In his mind the bankruptcy never happened, and he was still lord of a grand estate.

Mary had tried connecting him to their current reality, but sometimes found it easier, and better for him, to let him dwell in the past.

"Your steward has attended to all your business, Father. The tenants are well satisfied. They want you to recover your health, so you must rest."

"A man must see to his own business. Stewards cannot do everything." Despite his words, Blackmore allowed his daughter to resettle him in the chair. "Tomorrow I shall set out."

"Yes, Father. I hope tomorrow is a better day for all of us."

But I don't see how it can be, she thought bitterly, now that Sebastian was alive and back in their lives. It was just a matter of time before he showed up at her cottage, wanting something. Or perhaps he would just disappear again. He was amazingly good at disappearing.

"Tante Marie! There is a man to see you. He is so funny, Tante! He can make the chickens dance with him!"

Sebastian. Just as she had predicted.

"Eh? Who is here?" Blackmore began to get agitated.

"Probably just the tinker, Father. You know how easily Marguerite is delighted. Do not concern yourself. I shall see what he wants." And send him on his way if I can, she added to herself. She would do everything in her power to keep him from turning her life upside down once again.

The afternoon light was waning as she stepped out among the herbs and flowers of her cottage garden. Sebastian was on his haunches, talking to the little girl.

Mary bit her lip. It made her nervous to see him so close to Marguerite. She hung back for a moment to observe the pair of them. Marguerite held a ladybug in her hand, and Sebastian was discussing it gravely with her. After a few moments, Marguerite opened her hand reluctantly, and allowed the bug to fly away.

Then Sebastian glanced up and saw Mary observing them. Straightening up, he gave her his heart-stopping grin. Mary's own heart lurched, and she had to stifle the impulse to run and throw herself in his arms.

She shook her head in disgust. How is it Sebastian could still affect her, after so much time and betrayal? Up until today she had remembered her husband with love and longing. Now she was profoundly hurt, and angry with him.

Her attitude towards Sebastian had changed. Once-tender feelings for him had hardened. Yes, her mind was made up.

But still her pulse raced and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Apparently no one had informed her treacherous body of the change of policy.

"Go into the house, Marguerite, and keep Grand-père company."

"But Tante--"

"Now."

Responding to Mary's firmness, Marguerite scampered back into the cottage. Sebastian stood up and dusted off the knees of his breeches.

"Where did you find such a charming little girl, Mary? And why does she address you as "Aunt Mary" in French?"

"So, now you remember me? Do you also recall a small event you attended some years back? Our wedding?"

"I seem to remember something of the sort. It was quite a while ago, and far away." He smiled his charming smile, the one that had always made her heart melt. "And you were quite different, Mary, my lass."

He said it casually, but his words still stung her unexpectedly. Her hands began to shake.

"I seem different, do I? Perhaps it's because I must work for my living now. No longer do I have maids to wait on me, a cook to prepare my meals, and dressmakers crowding round me with their bolts of fine cloth and papers of straight pins. I go to market instead of routs and assemblies, and I am up early to milk the cow instead of sleeping late after attending the theater."

He winced, as if she had struck him, and his eyes looked pained. But his next words made her think she had misinterpreted his expression.

"Sounds like good healthy exercise to me."

She drew a sharp breath.

"You bas--"

"I prefer Sebastian," he interjected smoothly. "Now, Mary, I know you were surprised to see me today, but I was surprised to see you, too. I thought you were in Scotland. You were supposed to wait for me there."

"I did wait, Sebastian. For almost a year. Then my father lost his estates."

"Lost them? Sounds deuced careless of him. How did he lose them?"

He sounded so nonchalant. Mary struggled to keep a rein on her temper.

"Gambling. How else? My mother always said he would bankrupt us someday. She was right. He couldn't help himself. At least she wasn't alive to see it."

Sebastian's bored façade slipped.

"But Mary, why didn't you go to Foxborough Hall? My father would surely have helped you. Why aren't you there now?"

She stared at him.

"You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"Your father is dead, Sebastian. So is your brother, Gerard. Your father died following a fit of apoplexy, and Gerard was thrown from his horse when he bungled a jump during a hunt. I suppose that makes you the new Earl of Foxborough. That will be sorry news to your cousin Rupert. He's all but taken over."

Sebastian blinked. Once. That was his only reaction to news that she suspected must have been a terrible shock. Unless he was faking his reaction, and he knew all along, and just hadn't cared enough to do anything about it. Her heart hardened again at the thought.

"I don't understand," Sebastian finally said. "Why are you here?"

"Your cousin Rupert threw us out. What with one delay and another--" Mary gulped "--due to illness and other circumstances, it took us over a year to journey down from Scotland. Winter overtook us, and my faithful servant Yvette died, leaving me with her child."

"Marguerite."

"Yes. Marguerite. Rupert didn't believe I was your wife when I came to Foxborough Hall. He asked for proof."

"Did he, by Jove," said Sebastian softly.

"Yes, he even said, well, I suppose it does not matter what he said--"

"What did he say, Mary? I'm persuaded it must have been compelling. Even as an unlicked cub, Rupert fancied himself a wit."

Mary took a breath. "He said he doubted I was your wife because he doubted whether you, like your brother, had ever done an honorable thing in your entire life. What did he mean by that, Sebastian? I have wondered for years."

For a moment Mary saw something cold and terrible in his eyes, but in a flash it was gone. "It means he's always been envious of Gerard and me. Nothing more. But if it will set your mind at ease, I will be certain to require a fuller explanation of that comment from my dear cousin if I ever clap eyes on him again."

"I could offer him no proof of our union, Sebastian," Mary said simply. "If you remember, we married hastily, because your ship was leaving sooner than you thought, and I didn't think to bring the marriage lines with me when we fled the bailiffs in Scotland."

She lowered her gaze. "I was responsible for a child, and an old man, my father, whose fragile wits, already strained by his terrible loss, were shattered by the news of your father's death. Rupert Edmunds treated me like an adventuress. He grudgingly granted us a small allowance, and this cottage, on the condition we importune him no further."

Instinctively she crossed her arms and wrapped them tightly around her shoulders. She willed herself not to cry, or show any weakness in front of this man.

Sebastian tentatively extended his hand, then allowed it drop and hang by his side. Mary couldn't read his expression. Was he moved by her story, or did he simply want her to change the subject? She rushed to finish her explanation.

"I had no choice, Sebastian. I couldn't go back to Scotland. There was nothing for us there. We knew no one else here in England. Only your family. They were gone. And you were dead. Or so I believed."

"You've been fending for yourself. Is that it?" His voice was rough, his words abrupt.

"Yes. I managed to make some profit off this little farm. Not much, but we get by. And for a while it looked as though our fortunes would improve."

"So I heard from the innkeeper. Sir John Addington. A local worthy. No doubt keeps hounds and horses and loves a good hunt."

"Mock him if you want, Sebastian, but he's here, he's alive, and he would have taken good care of us."

At that Sebastian took a step closer to her. His blue eyes burned intensely. "Did you tell him about me?" He was inches from her face.

"There was no need to. And I did not want to scare him off with my unusual past." She sighed. "All that is over now. You have returned from the dead, and I am once more your wife."

Gently, he tipped her chin in his hand.

"Is that so bad, Mary?"

"Yes, I fear it is." She sighed. "Look at you. You left a soldier, and have become an irresponsible dandy. You know nothing of what's become of your family, and you care even less. Where have you been all these years, Sebastian?"

He seemed to struggle for words. "Here and there, Mary. Wherever the wind took me. Bermuda. Jamaica. The things I have seen..."

"You broke your father's heart. And mine."

He had nothing to say to that. For a few moments he was silent. Idly he plucked the petals off a cabbage rose, twining along a low stone wall in front of the cottage.

"Walk with me, Mary," he said suddenly. "I may have a solution to this dilemma."

"But, Marguerite, dinner..."

"Just a few minutes. No one will miss us. I must talk to you."

He was so compelling. Mary wanted to refuse, just on principle, but found she couldn't. Besides, she was curious about what he had to say.

"I suppose I can spare you just a few minutes. We can walk along the cliff path. But we must be back before sundown."

She led him to the path behind the cottage. He stayed a few paces behind her, which she did nothing to correct. She didn't have to see him to be thoroughly aware of his presence. She kept her eyes fixed ahead, out to where an orange sun was melting into the blue horizon.

Mary felt as though she was moving in a dream. Sebastian, the love of her youth, and she once thought, her life, was walking, breathing, not two steps away. She didn't have to imagine the timbre of his voice, the luster of his skin, as she had for so many lonely days and nights. She could see him, feel him, right beside her.

For almost seven years she had only been able to see Sebastian in her dreams. Now he was tangible. Did he still have that little knot of golden hair at his throat? She stopped, and reached out her hand to touch him. His long slender fingers closed over hers. The distant roar of the ocean echoed the turmoil in her heart.

Sebastian cupped his mouth and leaned close to her ear. "Do you truly want to marry the local squire, Mary? He seems a dry old stick."

His breath warmed her neck. She had to close her eyes to focus on a response.

"He's a good man, who will take--would have taken--good care of us. He has no wish to join the army, or see the world."

"Which is fortunate, since I doubt he'd survive either experience."

"Jest if you must, Sebastian. You have no idea how desperate these last seven years have been."

"Desperate, indeed." For a moment his eyes held a faraway look which puzzled her. Then he grinned.

"Mary, it's true I do not remember much about our wedding, but I remember where it took place. Do you?"

"Scotland, of course. At my father's manor."

"And if I recall correctly, divorce is acceptable under Scottish marriage law, under certain circumstances."

Mary caught her breath. "Divorce! Are you serious?"

"Completely. So, you say you want to leg shackle yourself to this Sir John Addington. Can't see it myself. But I know I haven't been much of a husband, and if your heart is set on marrying the local squire, we can get divorced, on grounds of my desertion. Under Scottish law, you'll be free to marry again."

"But, what will Sir John say? The scandal..."

"Don't see how there'd have to be much of a scandal. I disappear for a while, you get yourself betrothed, and then I contact you, the dead husband come back to life. I let it be known I deserted you, and you become the injured party. Do it prettily enough, and Sir John will become your Knight Gallant. Even such as he could not resist such a romantic role. Sir John will never even have to see me. My solicitor can handle everything."

"I don't understand, Sebastian. Why would you do this for me?"

"It's the least I can do after making a pig's dinner of your life these past seven years. Besides, in return you can do something for me."

"I can?"

"Yes. I'm here to win a bet."

"A bet?" Surely she hadn't heard him correctly.

"A few of my nearest and dearest bet me I couldn't come to a seaside village and be taken seriously enough to apprentice as a seaman on a fishing vessel. Naturally, I disagreed, and a bet was entered at White's."

"You came here to learn how to fish?" She shook her head. "I don't understand you, Sebastian. Your life used to have meaning. You were serious once, full of enthusiasm and purpose."

"Haven't you heard, my dear? Life has no purpose. The most serious occupation we can undertake is to be frivolous." His words were light, but his tone was hard.

"I realize I can have little meaning to you, since our acquaintance was so brief. But what of your family? Have you no care for them?"

"From what you told me, they are beyond my care."

She had to fight the urge to shake him.

"And Rupert? Does it not anger you that he has usurped your rightful place? Or that he says such awful things about you? He's besmirched your honor. Does that mean nothing to you?"

Sebastian yawned.

"I'm afraid so, my dear. Oh, I suppose I shall have to deal with Rupert eventually. The money I made shipping rum in Barbados is almost gone, and perhaps one day I shall want a share of the family fortune. But jousting with Rupert is bound to be a tedious business, one best put off as long as possible."

He examined his cuticles. "Frankly, I haven't the stomach for the House of Lords, much less any boring duties to my illustrious name. Rupert is much more taken by it all. Let him play at being heir for the time being. When I am done here, I shall go in search of more adventures."

Mary held her hand to her mouth. "It isn't true, is it, Sebastian, what your cousin implied? You aren't a, a--"

"Coward? Is that the word you seek, Mary? Or are you referring to my elder brother's supposed misdeeds?"

"I always thought the reason you were willing to do anything to join the army, even marry me, a girl you hardly knew, was to uphold the Foxborough family honor."

"To redeem my brother Gerard's supposed cowardice on the field? Ancient history, my dear. The army wasn't for me, either. And I didn't spend much time there, as it happened. In truth, I have kept very much to myself. But people will talk. I pay them no heed. Foremost on my mind now is winning my bet."

"Your bet is that important to you?"

Mary was incredulous. She searched his face, trying to find a remnant of the man she once thought she knew. His eyes gave nothing away. They were loch-blue in their depths, and just as unfathomable.

"Of course it is important to me. My reputation is at stake." He seemed oblivious to any irony in his statement. "My bet is as important to me as marriage to your squire is to you. All you have to do, Mary, is help me win the wager, and the divorce is yours."

He must be mad. She'd heard dissolution and degeneracy could bring madness on. But Sebastian seemed serious enough, and he was offering her a tempting alternative to a life where she'd be dependent on such an irresponsible fop as he'd become.

"How can I help you win your bet?"

"By not revealing my true identity," Sebastian replied promptly. "Here people are to know me as Sebastian Mallory, not Edmunds. Oh, and I also told the innkeeper we are kin. I'm sure it's all over the village by now. I think we should be cousins, don't you?"

"Cousins!"

"Yes, and I will need to stay with you at your cottage, since Mr. Bucket is being disobliging enough not to extend me any credit at his inn."

"You cannot stay with me!"

He turned limpid eyes to her. "Why not?"

"Because, because..." She tried to form a coherent reason why the very thought of it panicked her so. "Because it's indecent, that's why."

"Don't see that, myself. We're married, aren't we?"

"Nobody's supposed to know that. We tell them we're cousins, and then what will people say later when they discover you're really my husband?"

"No one will see me later, Mary. Remember? I shall leave, and only after an interval will you let everyone know your missing husband has reappeared. You do plan on observing a reasonable engagement period, do you not?"

She nodded numbly.

"Six months should be plenty of time for people around here to forget the eccentric dandy who passed their way, don't you think?"

He paused, as another thought seemed to strike him.

"The villagers, and Sir John, do know you have a husband, don't they? No, that's right, the innkeeper called you Miss Blackmore. Well, that is another forceful reason for you to cooperate with my plan."

"Sebastian! You wouldn't tell anyone about our marriage, would you?"

"Of course not. I want to keep my identity a secret as much as you do. For my bet, of course. And as long as you are willing to help me, you have nothing to worry about."

"That's blackmail, you know."

He shrugged his shoulders. "Add it to my list of crimes."

He paused for a moment, and Mary could tell his nimble mind was working.

"There is the problem of your father, though. What if he recognizes me?"

"My father does not go out much. And no one pays much heed to him anymore. There are days he does not even recognize me, and on others he greets me as his own long-dead mother."

Sebastian's expression softened. "Life has not been kind to you, has it, Mary?"

"I do not want your pity, Sebastian. The best gift you can give me is the divorce you mentioned."

"Then you agree to my plan?"

"It seems it is my best chance for a better life." As I once thought you were, she added silently. "Come, let us go back. The sun is almost down."

She set off, back down the path towards the cottage, at a rapid pace. She needed to put a little distance between herself and him while she sorted out her thoughts.

Was she crazy? Could she bear to live with this man who was once her husband, in her tiny cottage, pretending to be his cousin? It would work only if her feelings for him were as dead as she thought he was just a few hours ago.

She turned around to look at him. He was following her at a slower pace. Was he limping? She stopped still in shock. Sebastian never had a limp before. When had that happened?

He halted when he saw her observing him. He struck a pose, one leg jutted out in front of the other, his left arm crooked with one hand on his hip. The other hand was turned upward, palm open, his fingers looking in need of a lace handkerchief to dangle.

The very picture of an affected dandy. All he needed was a snuff box and a quizzing glass.

"Go on ahead, Mary. Prepare your little family to accept a visit from your long-lost cousin."

"And what shall I say your name is?"

"Sebastian, of course. Sebastian Mallory. That's the name the innkeeper's wife has broadcast throughout the village by now, no doubt. I shall linger here, drinking in the evening, for a while longer. So very picturesque."

Shadows were beginning to pool around him. Sebastian stood unmoving, his profile silhouetted against the turbulent sea. Instinctively Mary understood he would stay there until she left.

Mary's uneasiness grew. She realized she didn't really know Sebastian. He was either very frivolous or quite complicated. Really, it was easier when he was just dead. Then she could imagine him any way she liked, and there was no living presence to contradict her.

Sebastian's plan could be brilliant, or merely hare-brained. Yet a Scottish divorce was a powerful inducement for her to cooperate with him. It put her dream of marrying the responsible Sir John still within her grasp.

True, if Sebastian was sane, and willing to make the effort, he could be the new Earl of Foxborough, and she could be his Countess. But his motivation to exert himself in that direction, along with his sanity, appeared doubtful.

Worse, he didn't seem to want her.

Let Sebastian win his bet. She had her whole future, and the future of those she loved, to worry about.

Sebastian could pretend to be the King of Egypt for all she cared. He had given her another chance at a solid, secure future, and she wasn't going to let this one slip through her fingers.

Marguerite met her at the door of the cottage.

"Tante Marie! Where were you?"

"Talking to that man who was here, Marguerite." She led the little girl back into the house.

"The funny man?"

"Yes, the funny man. He is my cousin, whom I haven't seen in a great while. He is going to be staying here with us."

Marguerite was fascinated.

"Where shall he sleep?"

"On a pallet by the hearth."

"Will he eat with us?"

"I suppose. I shall have to cook extra, now."

"What shall I call him?"

"So many questions, little one! You may call him Sebastian."

"Sebastian?" Mary's father stirred in his seat by the fire. "Sebastian's here?"

Mary held her breath. She had been counting on her father's not being able to remember him.

"Did he come back, Mary? Or is he a ghost?"

"I'm no ghost, Angus." Sebastian strode into the room, filling the cottage with his presence.

Blackmore started at the sound of his voice. He struggled among his blankets to sit up and get a closer look.

After a few moments' inspection, Angus sank back in his chair. "You're not Sebastian Edmunds. You're not the man who married my daughter."

Mary let out a sigh of relief. "This is not that Sebastian, Father. This is Sebastian Mallory. A cousin who's been out of our lives for a long time."

She swallowed hard. How she hated lying to her father, and resented Sebastian for making her do so! If it would help get Sebastian out of their lives, and herself safely married to Sir John, it just might be worth it, though.

Blackmore shook his head, his expression sad. "I don't remember. Like so many other things."

Sebastian walked over to lay a comforting hand on the old man's shoulder. "Don't fret, Angus. I remember you. You will remember me in time. Things are going to get better from now on. Trust me."

Sebastian's blue eyes twinkled as he grasped the old man's hand in a firm grip. Sebastian looked up from Angus to give Mary a wink, which Marguerite caught, causing the little girl to gasp with delight.

Blackmore smiled in response, the first smile Mary had seen from her father in many a month. A deep misgiving assailed her. What had she done, letting Sebastian back into their lives?

Trust him, indeed.

She'd have to be mad herself to trust him.

Sebastian shifted his weight and made himself comfortable on his pallet by the hearth. Used to the stone floor of his prison cell, he found the pallet no hardship. Mary's cottage was quiet now, save for the snoring of old Angus upstairs.

The warmth of the fire, and a full stomach, had a lulling effect. Supper had been a simple, nourishing stew, enriched with fresh vegetables Mary had grown in her garden. A loaf of whole meal bread and freshly churned butter accompanied the stew, and an apple tart finished the meal.

Sebastian knew this menu would be deemed humble fare in the London society he had once frequented, but in contrast to the thin, watery gruel that had passed for food during his long years of confinement, it was a sumptuous repast.

He watched the embers die in the grate. His life had certainly changed over the past seven years. He could scarcely remember the young man he was, so eager for his father's permission to join the Army that he was willing to marry a girl he scarcely knew to satisfy the old Earl.

Sebastian's fight was as much as for the family honor as for England. He had to do something to stop the slander being spread about his brother Gerard, who'd joined Colonel Wellesley in India in 1796.

Leading a scouting party, Gerard missed a fatal ambush of the soldiers behind him. As soon as he got back to camp the rumors began, that he'd cheated death by deserting his men. Though no formal accusations were made, Gerard returned to England in disgrace. Sebastian was determined to fight bravely and prove the Foxboroughs were no cowards.

But, as it happened, Sebastian never made it to India. Instead he was diverted to the Continent on a highly secret mission.

His job was to pose as an English gentleman making a Grand Tour of Europe with his supposed "tutor," another government agent Sebastian knew only as Mr. Davies. In reality, they were observing French troop movements in Italy. The English generals did not trust France's First Consul, Napoleon Bonaparte, and wanted to keep a close eye on him and his "Grande Armée" as they swept through Europe.

Sebastian was initially very successful at gathering information. But one evening in Rome his luck changed. He was arrested, charged with espionage, and eventually hauled to a prison high in the Pyrénées. Davies, his fellow spy, had miraculously eluded capture.

Because Sebastian's mission on the Continent had never been officially authorized, none of his superiors were willing to acknowledge his capture, much less negotiate his release. Sebastian had been entirely on his own.

Sebastian absentmindedly rubbed his sore leg. A prison guard's rough shove down a flight of stone steps had snapped the bone, and without proper medical attention it hadn't healed properly. Now it was a permanent souvenir.

He remembered the white-hot anger that had burned in him during his first days in prison. He was outraged by the brutish handling he received from the abusive guards, and their callous indifference to his requests for better treatment.

Sebastian was sure his commanding officers, or his father, or someone, anyone, would discover what had happened to him, and effect his release.

But days turned into months, and then into years. Gradually Sebastian realized no one knew or cared whether he lived or died. Self-pity became despair, as he had endless time to contemplate what had befallen him.

In his freezing, filthy cell, Sebastian grappled with how he had come to such a pass. He tried to discover what had happened to his tutor Davies, but his inquires were met with jeers and cuffing by the guards.

Sebastian had ample time to think, and his reasoning led him to believe Davies had betrayed him. The revelation, though bitter, proved to be a blessing, for it gave him a reason to live.

Sebastian vowed to survive this hellish experience, find Davies and make him suffer for his treachery. Davies would pay for robbing Sebastian of his freedom and the prime years of his life.

These grim thoughts so occupied Sebastian that he almost didn't hear the soft footfall sounded behind him. With the quick instinct of a trapped animal, he whirled and grabbed the intruder by the throat.

"Sebastian, what are you doing?" Mary managed to choke out between gasps for air.

He released her instantly. Damn his prison-honed reflexes.

"You startled me. I was asleep, and halfway to dreaming."

"What dreams you must have." Mary rubbed her throat, her eyes wide.

He said nothing, staring instead at the woman who was once his wife. Any other woman would have given way to hysterics by his sudden attack, Sebastian realized, but Mary stood her ground, refusing to show any fear.

Her auburn hair glinted in the flickering firelight. A silver chain encircled her neck, tapering to a point on her bosom intriguingly out of his view.

Sebastian saw the rise and fall of her chest as her breath began to race. She glowed in the room's shadows, her skin radiating light and warmth.

She smelled of fresh flowers, reminding him of the heather-covered hillsides of his innocent youth. The thin dressing gown Mary belatedly pulled close around her did little to conceal her womanly form. Sebastian felt his groin tighten.

"Come, Mary," he extended his arms to her. "You've yet to give me a proper wifely welcome. Why don't you give us a kiss?"

Her green eyes darkened to an emerald velvet. Sebastian knew he was toying with danger, risking emotions that could defeat his mission.

But Mary looked so irresistible in the firelight. He wanted to taste her lips, feel her body against his, and see if he could resurrect the passion he must have felt on his wedding night. He had to know what he might have missed during his long years of bitter solitude.

Mary was staring fixedly at him, almost as if she were hypnotized. She took a small step forward, and that was all the encouragement Sebastian needed. He pulled her into his arms, and covered her mouth with his in a kiss.

God, but it felt good to hold a woman again! He pressed her closer, kissing her even more deeply.

She seemed to melt in his arms. He felt her response, the quickening of her desire, and it nearly drove him wild. She parted her lips slightly, and he tasted her deeply with his tongue. For a brief moment they were almost as one, their bodies fusing.

Then Sebastian felt Mary tense, and she pulled away from him.

Eyes wide, she put the back of her hand against her lips.

"What are you doing, Sebastian?" she whispered. "What do you want from me?"

There was no girlish coyness or hesitation about her. What had the years of absence done to transform the spoiled princess he remembered to this superbly controlled woman?

He struggled to refocus his thoughts. He had a part to play, and he'd better remember it.

"Just trying to collect a few of my conjugal rights," he said flippantly, with great effort. "They're long overdue, don't you agree?"

Mary took a step backwards, away from him.

"I cannot believe you have become so cruel."

"Believe it, my dear." He sighed theatrically. "All men are beasts. But tell me, why did you venture out of your chamber in the still of night to come to me, if not for lusty pursuits?"

"I came to see if you were comfortable." Her voice dripped with disdain. "I remembered that you seemed to experience some difficulty walking this afternoon, and thought perhaps your leg required an extra pillow."

So she had seen his limp after all. Now he'd have to explain it. He was strangely reluctant to do so. Lying to Mary was proving to be stressful. It was getting increasingly difficult to look into those clear green eyes and let her think the worst of him.

He was too tired to make the effort to lie to her now, but he couldn't bear the concern in her eyes, either. It reminded him of emotions better suppressed. He had to deflect her concern, and he knew just how to do it.

"This pallet will do nicely. I have no need of an extra pillow. Though I confess I'm curious as to whether you still have any of those ridiculously embroidered things that littered our marriage bed."

"How dare you bring that up, sir." Her words were emphatic, though she kept her voice low. "I wonder you would risk reminding me of the dishonor you've brought to your family. I vow, I much preferred to believe you nobly died in battle than to be certain of your safety through cowardice."

She might as well have struck him. He schooled himself to betray no effect from her scorn.

"I see you are in a serious mood, so perhaps I should allow you to return to your chamber and sleep your way to a better disposition. Unless, of course, I am correct in assuming your real purpose in coming to me was to gain some company in your bed?"

Her expressive eyes were filled with loathing.

"I came to you because I pitied your affliction, and because once I thought I loved you. Now I merely despise you. Oh, why did you have to pick this village to play your idiotic games?!"

She was so angry sparks seemed to shoot out of her green eyes. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her chest rising up and down so rapidly the tattered lace at the throat of her dressing gown trembled.

It took all of Sebastian's self-control not to crush her once more into an embrace, so he could feel the wild beating of her heart against his. He had never seen her look more desirable. Lord, but she was magnificent when she was on fire!

Mary seemed to be waiting for some response to her outrage. He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

"You're a heartless rogue, Sebastian Edmunds."

"Mallory, my dear. Let us not forget our roles."

She gasped. "Oh, if you knew how I mourned you, Sebastian. And you weren't worth it." She turned on her heel and left.

If they'd been dueling, her hit would have struck him right in the heart. He steeled himself to remain detached. She had spirit, he'd give her that.

Despite his efforts, a sharp sense of loss assailed him. He almost raised his hand to stop her; it took every ounce of discipline he possessed to leave it at his side. Desperately he fought the impulse to call her back and tell her everything, reveal his true purpose in coming to this particular coastal village.

But he couldn't do that, not without jeopardizing his mission. His duty was painful, but oh, so clear. All because he'd gone to Whitehall as soon as he landed at Dover.

Always the good soldier, he mocked himself. Report to your officers first, then attend to your own needs. He'd planned to go home after London. But his officers wouldn't let him off duty. They gave him one last assignment, to travel to this Somerset village to find a traitor.

The England Sebastian returned to was in a state of high alarm. Defenses were frantically being built all along the coast, against a French invasion widely believed to be imminent.

The grim-faced men in Whitehall believed this stretch of coast was especially vulnerable to attack. They also had intelligence that at least one of the traitors passing information to the French about coastal defenses was a local who had a link to Sebastian's prison. Sebastian was their best hope to identify the traitor and halt the flow of information.

He wanted to say no. He knew his father must be frantic for news of his whereabouts. Then he was offered a special incentive. When his mission was successfully completed, they told him, the Secretary of State for War would issue an official recognition, not only of Sebastian's contribution to England's defense, but an exoneration of Gerard's behavior in India as well. The Foxborough family honor would be reestablished.

Sebastian accepted the mission. How could he refuse?

Sebastian had never expected to see his forgotten bride in this village. Her face and form had faded from his memory during those long years in prison, and when he thought of her at all, he thought of her safe in Scotland with her family.

If Mary revealed who he was, and how he'd been gone for so many years, questions would be asked, and suspicions about him would be raised in the village. He wanted people to believe he was an idle London dandy, not a military man.

But in order for his charade to be convincing, Mary had to believe he was an irresponsible fribble, too. That unexpected development bothered him more than he counted on. He clenched the fist of the arm held rigid at his side.

It wasn't as if he had any real attachment to her, despite the physical attraction he'd just experienced. His wife or not, he barely knew her. Prison had killed any tender feelings in him. And Lord knows Mary hadn't been pining for him. She had his replacement already lined up. And he couldn't find it in his heart to blame her for it.

Undoubtedly, Mary was better off without him. He certainly wasn't the same man she had married. Even if he wasn't pretending to be a damned dandy, he was irrevocably altered by his prison experience. He was unfit to be anyone's husband now, much less the spouse of a sweet, sensitive woman like Mary.

Sebastian looked around at the humble furnishings of Mary's cottage. Poor girl, she must have had a rough time of it, too, these past seven years. Would it have been any easier for her to know her husband was alive and in prison?

Certainly not. With her husband gone, Mary had courageously made a life for herself, with prospects his miraculous reappearance was bound to threaten. For all Mary could see, her long-lost husband was a shiftless dandy, with nary a responsible thought in his brain.

Their bargain was good for both of them. Mary would get her freedom from her ill-fated marriage, in return for her silence regarding Sebastian's true identity. As Mary's "cousin," Sebastian could move freely around the village, with Mary and everyone else unaware of his true mission.

He would find the traitor the men in Whitehall sought so desperately, and restore honor to the Foxborough name. Then he would find Davies, his own personal demon.

Maybe then the nightmares would stop. Playing the fool in this little village, and lying to the woman who had been his wife a lifetime ago, was a small price to pay for the promise of such peace.

Besides, he'd make it up to Mary. He'd help her marry her dependable country squire. Though he was beginning to think marriage to a dull fellow like Sir John Addington was a sad waste of a remarkable woman.

* * *

Mary woke up the next morning with an aching head. She knew she had to rise, milk the cow, and start all her daily chores. But her limbs felt heavy and she didn't want to stir.

She clutched the heavy silver locket that she kept around her neck, its weight reassuringly nestled between her breasts. It held a tiny miniature of Sebastian, the way she liked to remember him: young, enthusiastic, with the whole world before him.

She'd first fastened that miniature around her neck on her wedding day. It was a present from Sebastian, though it was casually given and she doubted he'd remember it.

She really should remove it. Unhook it and toss it in the sea. The man in the miniature bore little resemblance to the irresponsible dandy who had swept back into her life. Or the brooding man she visited last night, whose touch set her skin aflame.

Her cheeks burned at the memory. She should not allow him to affect her so. The romantic Sebastian of her youth was dead. What had been resurrected was a vain, shallow man who cared nothing for his responsibilities.

He had been so accommodating, suggesting they get a Scottish divorce so she could marry Sir John. No man who loved his wife would countenance such a thing.

Sebastian didn't love her now, and probably never had. She was a means to an end for him. Oh yes, she knew his marriage to her was a condition of his father's allowing him to join the army. And now Sebastian needed her to help him win a bet.

Her stomach churned with humiliation. But she could not afford fine sensibilities. She would keep her side of the bargain, and earn her freedom from this disgraceful man.

In the meantime, she would not allow him to upset her. She would have to keep a safe distance from him and the disturbing effect he had on her.

Her future depended on it.

Sebastian was up and out of the cottage by the time she had returned from the barn and went back into the cottage to make breakfast. His pallet was tucked neatly along the wall, his blanket folded on top.

She was grateful she wouldn't have to face him this morning. The memory of last night's encounter was still too vivid for her to act casually around him.

As the day wore on, however, Mary's thoughts kept drifting to Sebastian. Where was he, anyway? Probably down at the sea front, trying to win his bet. That was just fine with her, because she didn't care a tuppence if she saw him or not.

But when the front gate creaked open, her heart began to race and she hurried to the door.

It was just Sir John. It was absurd to feel so disappointed. He was exactly who she wanted to see.

Sir John stooped to enter the low doorway.

"Miss Blackmore! How fortunate I am to find you at home. Your father is here as well, is he not?" He looked around anxiously. "I would not care for even a whisper of impropriety to taint my visit."

Mary nearly flinched as the impropriety that occurred in this very room the night before replayed itself in her mind with startling clarity. She hurried to usher Sir John into the room.

"My father is here, by the hearth. Though I fear he is dozing."

"That's all right, then. The purpose of my call is to ascertain whether you have recovered from yesterday's ordeal."

"Yesterday's ordeal? Oh, you refer to the scene at the inn-yard."

"Yes. I could see that young coxcomb upset you with his vulgarity. I should horsewhip the fellow and make him apologize to you."

For a moment Mary allowed herself to dwell on the pleasant prospect Sir John painted. Then she recollected what she needed to do.

"You are so kind to be concerned. But you must not trouble yourself any further, for I discovered after you left here yesterday that the man at the inn-yard is actually my cousin. Quite distant." She put extra emphasis on the last word.

"That is amazing." Sir John removed his gloves, and handed them to Mary along with his hat and cane. "And you did not recognize him?"

"Not at first."

"Not even when you kicked him, my dear?"

Mary gave Sir John a sharp look to see if he was mocking her. But his face was all earnestness.

"It had been so long since I'd seen him," she tried to explain. "I thought he was just being insufferably rude. But he came by later to apologize, and that is when I recollected our connection."

"How very odd. Oh well, if he is as distant as you say, at least you don't have to put up with him all the time."

"Please sit down, Sir John," said Mary quickly. He accepted the chair she indicated. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"If it's no trouble--"

"I'd love some," said Sebastian, strolling through the door. He was resplendent once more today in fawn-colored breeches, a bottle green jacket and cherry striped waistcoat. Marguerite, who had been playing outside, trailed in behind him.

"Chatting up the locals is thirsty work. Though I wouldn't say no to a drop of something stronger, if you have it, Mary." He gave her a wink.

Sir John puffed his chest out, like a pigeon on a window ledge.

"You! What are you doing here?"

Sebastian put one mirror-polished booted foot up on a chair, and grabbed an apple out of a bowl on the table.

"Me? I live here." He took a large, succulent bite of the apple.

Sir John sprang to his feet, sending the wooden chair skittering across the floor. "The devil you say! Begging your pardon, Miss Blackmore," he added as an afterthought.

"No need to apologize to our Mary," Sebastian retaliated, munching on his apple. "She's a right game 'un. Has been since she was just a wee thing, no bigger than little Maggie."

Marguerite clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, is that my new name? Tante Marie, can I have it, please?"

"It's not very French, Marguerite. What would your mother have thought?"

The little girl's expression sobered for a moment. "But I am in England now, no? I will still learn French from you, to honor my dear maman. But with Monsieur Sebastian, I can be Maggie, n'est-ce pas?"

Mary hesitated. "Well..."

Sir John looked as though he was about to explode.

"Do you mind staying with the topic under discussion? This man has no right to be renaming anyone, much less staying with you. How do you even know he's your cousin? You yourself didn't recognize him at first. It's my opinion he's nothing but a mountebank!"

"Steady on, old man," said Sebastian. "It's not healthy for you to be so upset. A chap your age needs to be careful, conserve his strength."

Sir John moved to stand directly in front of Sebastian. "How dare you refer to my age, you insolent puppy!"

"Now who's bringing age into it?"

"Gentlemen, please!" Mary inserted herself between the two of them. "I do not appreciate your arguing, and neither does Marguerite."

"Oh please, Tante Marie, call me Maggie."

"All right." Mary capitulated with a sigh. "Maggie. So please cease your brangling."

"I tell you, Miss Blackmore, it is not suitable for this man to be staying under your roof. It is not safe. And I do not like the idea of my future wi--, that is, of you, being submitted to his vulgarity."

If only Sir John knew how dangerous having Sebastian under her roof really was, he'd be doubly upset. For just a moment Mary had the rebellious thought that the squire was being stiflingly possessive. Yet, Sir John had almost declared his intentions to wed her just now, and Mary wouldn't jeopardize that turn of events for anything.

"He has no other place to stay, Sir John," she said almost pleadingly.

"Nonsense. The vicar has a spare room. I shall call on him today and make the necessary arrangements."

"Hold on," said Sebastian. "No one has consulted me. I do not wish to bunk with a mealy-mouthed parson. You said I could stay with you, Cousin Mary."

"Perhaps Sir John is right," she answered him meekly. "I do not wish anyone in the village to get the wrong idea."

"Indeed," said Sir John. "A woman's reputation is her most prized possession. I knew you would make the right decision, Miss Blackmore. Now if you will excuse me, I will warn the vicar to expect this person in a short while."

"You are too kind," Mary murmured.

Sir John left.

"Too kind, indeed," said Sebastian. "He's a nosy, interfering old woman."

"He is right, though. Gossip could ruin both of our plans. The vicar won't trouble you. He's a bit scholarly and keeps to himself. He may encourage you to pray at every meal, but I don't see how that will hurt you."

"I don't believe in prayer." Sebastian's voice was curt.

Marguerite drew a scandalized breath.

"Just a jest, little one," Sebastian assured the little girl half-heartedly.

He turned to Mary.

"All right, I will go to this vicar of yours. But do not be deceived into thinking it will be that easy to get rid of me."

"I have no illusions on that score, Sebastian. I am sure you will continue to pop up when I least expect it.

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