Chapter Ten

Uncle Rafe!"

The gleeful shout caught Rafe by surprise as he was leaving his study, and he turned toward the stairs just in time to catch Hannah, who had flung herself at him from a running start, before she barreled straight into him. He hoisted her up into the air, dodging the excited flailing of small limbs. "Hello, moppet. Whatever are you doing here?"

"I came with Mama to tell you that it was very rude of you not to come to our ball," she said, affecting a scowl even as she wrapped her small arms about his neck, half-strangling him.

"Was it?" he asked. "I do apologize. I wasn't aware that you were playing hostess." He peered over the railing from the landing to see Diana waiting below.

"In fact, she was eating herself sick on stolen bits of cake," Diana said, from the floor below, where she was standing with Mrs. Morris. "But it was too bad of you, Rafe, not to come. It was my first time as hostess, you know."

Rafe winced. He supposed he'd earned himself the chiding, given that Diana and Lydia had worked so very hard on it—and it had been Diana's first as a hostess, even if that role had been a joint one. She'd had no opportunity to play hostess before, given that she'd been unmarried until quite recently. Worse, it would likely be some time before the opportunity arose again, since her husband's finances were yet in a sorry state, and it would months, perhaps years, until they sufficiently recovered.

Hannah pressed her cheek to his. "I was devastated," she confided. "I wanted you to dance with me!"

Rafe swallowed back a snort of amusement—presently, Hannah's dancing skills consisted of standing upon the toes of his boots and squealing with glee as he whirled her about. She shrieked in delight as he took large, bounding steps down the stairs and put her back down upon her feet. "I'm sorry, darling. But there will be other balls."

"And will you attend these other balls, then?" Diana inquired, lifting her brows. "I count myself lucky even to receive your regrets. Considering you so rarely bother even to say that much."

"Diana—"

"Really, Rafe. We hardly see you." Her palm settled over her midsection, rubbing the slight swell of her belly. So slight that it was only visible because she had drawn attention to it with the motion. "At least make time for breakfast every so often. Perhaps on Saturdays?"

He supposed he couldn't blame her for her persistence. Probably she only wanted to ensure that her children had a better childhood than they had had, full of people that doted upon them and the security of knowing they had a place within a family. A family with all of the love that had been absent in their younger lives. "I can do Saturdays," he found himself saying.

"Good," she said. "I will hold you to that." She wrinkled her nose as Mrs. Morris brought out his coat, handing it over to him. "You weren't leaving?"

"I really am very busy," he said, sliding his arms through the coat sleeves as he shrugged it on. "I've got a standing appointment on Thursday evenings. You caught me on my way out." He paused in the process of collecting his hat. "Incidentally," he said, "have you got a list of those who attended your ball?"

Her lips pursed in annoyance, and she pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose only to glare at him through the lenses. "If you had attended, you'd hardly need a list."

"Diana, I've already agreed to Saturdays. You could be gracious."

Diana's mouth dropped open in offense. "Gracious!" Folding her arms over her chest, she tilted her nose up at him. "What do you want it for, then?"

Rafe hesitated. Emma had mentioned Ambrose's journal to Diana at some point during the ball. There was no way he could know whether it had been a private conversation or one that might have been overheard, and no way to inquire of it without raising further questions, which it would not have been prudent to answer. "You once asked me for a favor," he said. "Let's just say you owe me this much, and it isn't nearly as much as you asked of me."

"Hm." Diana pressed her lips together. "And I am to do this favor for you without an explanation?"

"For the time being. I'm not at liberty to divulge more at present."

Diana rolled her eyes. "All right," she said. "You'll have your list. On Saturday, at breakfast. Do be prompt." She cast a glance about, noted the front door slightly ajar. "Oh, lord," she sighed, with a resigned shake of her head. "Hannah has gone to splash about in puddles again."

"Again?"

"There's a massive one just outside," she said as she pulled the door open. "She's soaked the hem of her dress already—oh."

Hannah glanced up from her seat upon the steps. "Mama, I made a friend!" she said, gesturing to the boy seated beside her. "His name's Dannyboy. Isn't that a funny name?"

"It's not a funny name," Dannyboy grumbled as he climbed to his feet. "It's the only one I got."

Apparently, both children had been splashing in puddles together, since Dannyboy was significantly dirtier than he had been when he had first arrived at Rafe's home a few hours earlier, and Hannah had muddy splotches of water all across the front of her dress.

Digging in his pocket, Dannyboy withdrew a folded scrap of paper. "From the lady," he said as he thrust it into Rafe's hand. "She liked the peppermint sticks, I think."

"The lady?" Diana echoed, brows arched above the rims of her spectacles in interest. "Peppermint sticks?"

A consolation gift he'd sent along with Dannyboy to Emma earlier. Rafe cleared his throat. "Dannyboy, this is my sister, Diana, and her daughter, Hannah. They don't need to know any of my business." He shoved the note into his pocket.

"And what do I do if they ask?" Dannyboy inquired. "They got no bollocks to kick."

Hannah gave a little titter, muffled behind her hand.

"You tell them," Rafe said, "that it's none of their business. Because it isn't." He slanted Diana a severe look, warning her away from pressing any further. "Dannyboy acts as a messenger for me from time to time," he said. "And as it happens, he has concluded his business for the day and will be on his way home."

"Soon as ye pay me, guv." Dannyboy placed his hands on his hips, puffing his chest out as far as it would go, which was not very, given the bagginess of his shirt. He caught the half-crown that Rafe tossed to him, shoved it into the depths of his pocket, and turned to dart off without so much as a goodbye.

Hannah shouted after him, "Goodbye, Dannyboy! I hope I see you again soon!"

∞∞∞

"An improvement," Chris said, glancing around as he slipped into the chair opposite Rafe's in the far corner of a tavern at the edge of St. Giles. "Though not much o' one."

Chris had found fault with every tavern they'd visited since they'd attracted too much attention at what had once been their regular meeting place. "I've been too busy poring over books in the hopes of finding the key to the cipher to devote much time to finding a tavern which might meet with your approval," Rafe replied sourly. "Perhaps if you'd have restrained your temper until we'd left the tavern, we might not have had the need to find a new one." He lifted his empty glass, signaling one of the barmaids to bring a fresh round.

Or, at least, as fresh as fresh got in a tavern such as this one.

A dull flush heated Chris' cheeks, and he hunched over the table, sparing hardly more than a glance at the heavily-pregnant barmaid who delivered their drinks. Once the woman had retreated, he said, in a surly voice, "Brawls aren't so out o' the ordinary."

No, but it was always wisest to avoid notice whenever possible. But the need for a new place to meet had provided an unexpected opportunity, at least in one regard.

"Nothing new, then?" Chris asked, throwing back the amber liquid in the glass before him in one long swallow, wincing at the substandard flavor of it.

"No." And he had searched the house for whatever bits of Ambrose might have remained within it, jotted down every bit of information he had found, pressed Emma as deeply as he dared for hints of the man she had known her husband to be. None of it had turned up useful, though he'd spent hours and hours in the workings of it all. "And you?"

Chris heaved a sigh and scraped one gloved palm over his jaw. "Em made mention of the journal," he said. "Publicly. Or at least near enough to it for word to reach my ears."

Blast. "How did you hear of it?" Rafe asked.

Chris slanted him a chiding look. "I got my sources, don't I? People treat servants like furniture. A shilling or two placed in the right palm can buy information from places my shoes would never be permitted to tread." His eyes narrowed. "Ye knew already, didn't ye?"

"Emma made some allusion to it. I had hoped it had been a private conversation."

"No such luck. At the edge of the bloody dance floor, they were, according to my source. There's no telling who overheard."

"Yes, there is," Rafe said. "Or, at least, there is telling who might have overheard. I've already asked Diana for a list of those who attended." He hesitated. "If I can procure such a list, can you make a determination on who upon it might be worth looking into?"

"It'd go quicker to use Home Office resources. Probably got a fair few dossiers on aristocrats; things I'd not be privy to otherwise. Sir Roger would scrounge something up, if we asked."

Something specific perhaps, and only if he was kept informed. He'd been the man to group the three of them together, Rafe, Chris, and Ambrose, and he'd kept a watchful eye upon them over their years of service. Not that it had turned out to be watchful enough.

Rafe had nursed a grudge over it, though he knew it was not quite rational to do so. After all, none of them had noticed anything amiss in Ambrose until it had been too late. Sir Roger had, to his credit, helped them clean up the mess Ambrose had left in his wake—but his assistance had come at a cost. They had paid it once before, but the price had been dear, and now that they were approaching the end of their service, Rafe was not eager to risk extending it once again.

"Would you truly trust anyone else in this?" Rafe asked quietly. "When even so much as an offhanded comment to the wrong person could prove disastrous?" When they knew, better than any, how little even those closest could be trusted?

And he knew, from the minute flicker of Chris' lashes, that the answer was no—not even for the convenience. Perhaps he didn't even trust Rafe much further than this, but at least he had the assurance that they had both already sacrificed for Emma's sake.

"Damn," Chris said, and he rubbed at the furrow of his brows. "I suppose not." He lifted his gaze once again. "She's safe enough," he said, and though the words had been meant to be firm, instead they had come out almost like a plea for assurance.

As safe as she could be. Even if they had not fully dismantled Ambrose's network, any remaining conspirators would have to first learn of the journal, and then attempt to retrieve it. It had gone unnoticed for ten years thus far. Probably the threat of discovery was low.

But he could not make himself say the words, when he wasn't certain he believed them himself. Always there had been that odd, niggling doubt.

"Christ," Chris said. "I need another drink." He cast a glance about the tavern, lifting his hand to signal once again to a barmaid. "Can't imagine what a woman so heavy wiv babe is doin' here. She looks fit to burst."

"Probably she's got another month or more left," Rafe said, though he winced when the woman bumped her protruding belly upon the back of a chair on her way over. "She's Dannyboy's mum," he said. "That's why I chose this tavern."

"Is she, now?" Chris peered at the woman, as if attempting to divine which of her features she might have imparted to her child.

"Bit young," Rafe said. "Probably she's five and twenty and the very most." Which would have made her a mother at fifteen, most likely.

Chris scoffed. "It's often the way o' things, outside yer exalted circles," he said. "Take a walk down any alley in St. Giles some evening. Ye'll see girls even younger, already with babes clingin' to their skirts. Me own mum was lucky to make it to seventeen ‘fore the earl got her wiv babe." He dropped his voice to a murmur as the woman approached once more, sliding coin across the table toward her in payment for the drinks she delivered. "Quiet, ain't she?"

Yes. Except when she wasn't. "From what I can tell, she and Dannyboy stay in a rented room nearby. He came by earlier, probably to tell her he'd come home for the day. He tried to hug her, but she's a bit ungainly in her present condition. She dropped a glass and cuffed him for causing the incident." Exasperation, he thought. The strain of a day's labor had left her with little patience for her son. She had made up with him later, or so it had seemed, but Rafe had been left with the impression that it wasn't an uncommon occurrence. That perhaps Dannyboy had grown a little too accustomed to not knowing if it was affection or chastisement he might receive in any given moment.

"Then perhaps she won't mind if Em—"

"He loves her," Rafe said. "She's his mum. She's all he has."

He hoped that he had misunderstood, that it had been only a bad day for her, and that Dannyboy would never have to learn the lesson that unrequited love was among the most painful experiences a body could suffer. That eventually, one had to understand that some things were beyond one's ability to obtain. That the only thing one could do for it was to let it go.

After all, Rafe had yet to let the lesson fully take himself.

∞∞∞

Deep in the evening, well past dusk drifting into night, Emma lay awake in bed nursing a wretched headache and a plague of cramps. It was not an unfamiliar state, this monthly affliction, but still it was an unwelcome one.

Her mother had been just the same; like clockwork once a month she would take to her bed, there to remain for at least the first few days of her courses. Only a healthy dose of laudanum had eased the discomfort, though it had also resulted in her mother becoming rather vague and scatterbrained.

Emma had given it a try a time or two, and while it had been effective in its relief of the pain, she hadn't much cared for the way the laudanum had made her feel otherwise—vacant and detached, as if she were an outside observer to herself. Ginger and yarrow tea provided minor relief at best, but still it was better than the alternative, which was simple suffering.

Even the moonlight streaming through the window felt far too bright, the light falling into her eyes making her head pulse with pain. She twisted onto her side, her knees naturally drawing up as if to protect herself from the pain in her abdomen, hoping that sleep would settle over her soon.

Somewhere not too distant, there was the sound of a man clearing his throat. Her heart pounding in a sudden surge of fear, Emma bolted upright, the abrupt motion pulling at every aching muscle.

Rafe stood just inside the door, a frown etched upon his face at the violence of her reaction. "I'm sorry if I startled you," he said. "It wasn't my intention."

"I thought you were an intruder," she said, through the ferocious tightness of her throat. "What are you doing here? It's Thursday."

"My business concluded earlier than expected."

Her fingers snarled in the tangled material of the sheets. "I—I sent a note with Dannyboy," she said awkwardly.

"I received it." Still he showed no inclination to leave. Instead, he peeled his coat off of his shoulders and cast it over a chair. "It was delicately phrased, I'll grant you. But I have got a sister. It wasn't difficult to understand what you were implying when you said that you would not be in a fit condition for company for a week or so. I can only guess that you must be in pain."

She could feel the heat of her cheeks, the vibrancy of the flush that slid over them. "It's not the sort of thing a woman speaks of in mixed company," she said. "If you understand the nature of my ailment, then why are you here?"

"I didn't wish to wait a week to see you." He said it so nonchalantly that for a moment Emma could only stare as he plucked free the knot of his cravat, unwinding the fabric from his neck.

But when he tugged the tails of his shirt from where they were tucked into his trousers and pulled the garment off over his head, she was galvanized into speech. "I don't think you entirely understand. I am bleeding," she stressed.

"I understand perfectly," he said. "What, had you imagined I might fall into a swoon at the mere mention of it? I'm not so squeamish as that. Have you got a bathing room?"

A bathing room? "Of course I have," she said. "It's just through there." She indicated with the wave of a hand toward the door.

"Good. My sister swore by the healing power of a hot bath. I'll ring for one."

"There's no need. The house is plumbed. You just—bang on the pipes and wait a few minutes for the scullery staff to set the water to heat." It had been a costly endeavor, but then she had had an average of twenty children at a time residing with her for years now. If she hadn't modernized, then keeping all of them clean would have been a never-ending cycle of heating and carrying cans of water, with time for little else in between.

"Even better." He disappeared briefly into the bathing room, and a moment later she heard the dull clank of the pipe. He strode through a thick stream of moonlight as he returned, and it painted the skin of his chest in a silvery glow. "How bad is it, then?" he asked as he sat upon the edge of the bed, bending to remove his boots and stockings.

Even the slight dip of the mattress with the advent of his weight forced the contraction of muscles that burned with the motion. "Bad," she confessed in a low voice, her fingers fiddling with the lace-edged cuff of her nightgown. "It always has been, really."

"Headache?" he asked blithely, as if it were a perfectly normal thing for a man to inquire of. "Cramps? Nausea?"

She found herself answering just the same. "All of it. Everything. Every time." One hand lifted to massage her aching temple. "Everything is painful. Even the light hurts."

"We'll keep it dark, then. Here, up you get." Carefully his arms slid around her, lifting her from the tangled nest she'd made of the covers in her efforts to find a comfortable position. She expected even his steps across the floor back toward the bathing room to jostle her, but they were smooth and even, like he'd had a good deal of practice in the art of light footwork. Probably he'd had lessons from a dancing master at some point, to perfect that level, uniform stride. "Can you hold your feet while I fill the tub?" he asked.

"Yes, of course." It wouldn't be comfortable, but then nothing was at this point in her courses. The darkness was disorienting, but soothing enough to her aching head. Her feet touched the tile, and his hands lingered long enough to ensure her steadiness before he returned his attention to the taps. There was the pounding rush of water and then a thick bloom of misty heat that seared away the chill in the room.

In the faint light that poured through the open door, she could see him thrust his hand beneath the faucet, gauging the temperature. "Probably it's a bit hot," he said. "It should do well enough. Might be a bit uncomfortable at first."

His fingers snarled in the tie of her nightgown, struggling in the darkness to untie the bow and pull the whole thing off over her head. With one hand bracing her elbow and the other arm at her waist, he guided her to step into the tub. The hot water stung her toes—not scalding, but hot enough to layer a fine film of mist upon her skin. She sank down with a sigh, and the water lapped over her thighs, rising slowly toward her hips.

There was the rustle of fabric in the darkness, the sound of his trousers falling to the floor as he kicked them off. "Budge up," he said, "I'm coming in."

What? "I'm not certain that would be…sanitary."

"It's only a little blood, Emma. Nothing I haven't seen before, and in far less pleasant circumstances. Come, make room." His fingers around her shoulder eased her forward enough to climb in behind her, his long legs bracketing her hips as he settled into the water. "How is the water?"

"Perfect." The heat soaked into her sore muscles, and if it hadn't eradicated the pain, at least it had gone some way toward alleviating it.

"Good." His palm played across her belly. "Here, lean back a bit. I'll rub your head."

She comforted herself that at least it was dark enough that neither of them could see even if her blood had pinked the water. The heat of his chest warmed her back as his fingers threaded through her hair, stroking her temples in soft, circular motions. "Lord, that is lovely."

A soft sound of amusement brushed her ear. "Did your husband never do this for you?"

"No. He was…away rather often." And he had been squeamish. She had grown accustomed to couching her monthly pains in delicate terms so as not to upset him. Which seemed to her now to be rather unfair, given that it had never been her choice to suffer them. Men, she had learned from Ambrose, were not to be bothered with such feminine problems, except to be informed when they had concluded. "I don't think he much cared to be reminded of such things."

"Ah," Rafe said. "You were meant to suffer in silence, then."

She shrugged. "I was given to understand that it was enough of an inconvenience to be unable to lie with me if it pleased him to do so. He did not wish also to be troubled with the gruesome details." There had been guilt there, and shame—as if she had deliberately contrived, somehow, to inconvenience him with the troublesome workings of her body over which she had no control. How dreadful it had been, to be made to feel as if her courses had been not only something disgraceful, but something for which she ought to feel obligated to apologize.

"Hardly gruesome," he said with a disdainful sniff worthy of a dowager. "Any better?"

"A little." She turned her face to the side, tucking her cheek against the damp hollow of his throat, surprised by how comfortable it felt, how natural. "It's always been wretched," she said. "I suppose many women must experience a great deal of discomfort, but I think—I think mine must be particularly unpleasant. It truly is like being ill, and sometimes the pain is so great that I can think of nothing beyond it."

Still those clever fingers massaged her temple; a pleasant diversion from the pain. "Tell me something, then," he said. "Tell me how you came to know Chris. I cannot imagine most lords would encourage a relationship of any sort between their legitimate children and their natural children."

"No," Emma said. "Those with illegitimate children seem to view them as a blemish upon their reputations. Unfortunate byproducts of affairs, to which they owe nothing." As if it were the children themselves who bore the burden of that sin, rather than those who had committed it. "You're trying to distract me," she accused.

"Is it working?"

It was, rather. "Kit has told you already, hasn't he? If he has shared the truth of our connection—"

"He has. But I enjoy hearing you talk." There was the smooth rub of his cheek against the top of her head. She guessed he must've shaved in advance of his arrival this time.

"It will sound more unsavory than it truly was," she said. "But to put it into blunt terms, he kidnapped me."

"Did he, truly?" There was an amused lilt to the words. "I had thought it an exaggeration."

"Well," she said. "I was all of eight years old at the time, and I hadn't any awareness that I was being kidnapped, you see. I thought it a game, because he presented it as such. Kit is a few years my senior, perhaps three or four, though I don't think he knows the precise date of his birth. His mother was a housemaid and quite young, I imagine," she said, "Father promised her marriage in return for her favors. But it came to naught, as he turned her out the moment he learned she was expecting."

"You're certain of that?"

Emma shrugged. "Father had a habit of promising a good many things that were never to materialize. His honor was a malleable thing in that way; he thought little of stretching or bending the truth to suit his needs. He was not yet married to my mother at the time, and thus I was not yet born—but I knew him well enough to have little doubt that the tale that Kit put before me was the truth of it."

"What was his purpose in kidnapping you?" Rafe asked.

"I suppose he intended to ransom me back," she said. "I was playing in the park when he found me. My governess had a habit of nodding off there, and I was by and large an obedient child. I stayed within sight, even while she closed her eyes for a half an hour or so. I suppose I was quite na?ve, for when Kit approached me, I thought nothing of it except that I might have a friend to play with. I had no sense of danger, nor any fear of strangers. And he was just a boy besides, only a few years older than me."

"He told you he was your brother?"

"No; he told me only his name. I had a dreadful lisp at the time. I called him Kit, instead." She muffled a chuckle against his shoulder. "He didn't care for it, but I couldn't quite say his name properly, so he tolerated it." Eventually, it must have grown on him, for he hadn't tried to take the nickname from her since. "He lured me away from the park with a game of tag, and I didn't even realize it. Before I knew it, we had left the park entirely, and I didn't know where I was or how to get home."

"You must have been frightened." It was just a murmur, vibrating over the sensitive skin behind her ear.

"I was," she said. "I cried inconsolably. Kit said he would slap me if I kept making such a godawful noise."

"Did he?"

"No. In fact, I struck him instead. I pitched a full tantrum and blacked his eye in the doing of it. I couldn't make myself stop; I kept flailing and sobbing and sniffling. Sniveling, really. I don't think Kit had gotten so very far in his planning. He had no idea what he was meant to do with me. He hadn't anticipated that I would be so bothersome. But he didn't hit me in return—instead, he pickpocketed some well-to-do gent, and used the coin he'd filched to buy me some toffee candies. And then he took me to his home." Or what had passed for one, at least. At first glance. "It was a nasty little shack in St. Giles, I think. I couldn't point it out. I doubt it still stands."

"His mother's home?"

"No; she'd passed by then, poor lady. Kit was living with a kidsman—Scratch, the children called him, for if they failed to bring in enough coin for a day's work, they could expect to receive a slap instead of supper, and his long nails had the tendency to lay deep gouges in the flesh. Happily, he was out when we arrived, and Kit had time to shed me of my clean dress and scrounge up some suitably pitiable scraps of clothing for me. There were so many children that one more wasn't noticed, and it wasn't unusual for one of the children to bring in a new recruit, so long as they paid their way."

"How long were you there?"

"Three days," she said. "The first one was wretched. I missed my mother something awful. And I had nothing but scraps for dinner."

"And the rest?"

"Better. I never managed to pickpocket anyone—I was far too timid, too clumsy with my fingers to meet with any success—but I saw a side of London I never knew existed. Even if it was frightening, still it was more exciting than playing with my dolls or taking a stroll with my governess. And even if Kit was surly about having to watch over me, still I felt quite safe with him. He bought me sweets with coins he'd stolen and made certain the other children didn't bully me for whatever scraps of food we could lay hands on."

"Rather like a brother might, I expect."

"Yes," she said, with a soft laugh. "Though still I didn't know it. Not until—not until a man tried to snatch me off the street. It's not uncommon, you know, for street children to go missing like that. For young children to end up in brothels, easy pickings for any unscrupulous sort that comes along. But Kit had kept such a close eye upon me that when the man grabbed my arm and tried to pull me away, he was there immediately. He kicked the fellow in—er, I'm certain you know where—and shouted something like, ‘That's my sister, you miserable bastard!'" It was the one time, the only time, he'd left off that crucial half.

A low chuckle. "Now, that I can imagine."

"Can you?" she asked. "It's the bit that perplexes me the most, in all honesty. Of course we have…kept in touch, as much as he allows. But I have never had the impression that he much cares for me. He does keep his distance."

"Perhaps because a known familiarity between the two of you could have proved injurious to your reputation," Rafe said. "I don't think he would have wanted that for you."

"Well, it wouldn't now," she said with a huff. "Probably he can do no more damage to it than I have done myself." She was already known as an odd woman with more money than sense, who took in children of uncertain origin.

"Perhaps he simply does not know how to go about establishing a familiarity. He's quite a solitary man. When did he return you home?"

"That very day. I thought he wanted to be rid of me, but I suppose—now, with some distance, I think that he must have wanted to protect me. But on the way home, we talked. He told me we shared a father, that he'd known of me for years. That he hadn't thought it fair that I lived so privileged a life, and he—he lived in the slums, stealing for his supper. I suppose I didn't think it fair, either." Emma sighed, turning her cheek into the caress of his fingers. "He brought me straight up to my door, held me by the hand, and surrendered me to my father. And father told him that if he ever showed his face again, he'd have him clapped in irons. His own son."

"I suppose there must be a great number of men unsuited to be fathers," Rafe said.

"Do you imagine yourself to be one of them? Is that why you have not married?"

"No," he said. "I simply had never met a woman I wished to marry. To the best of my knowledge, I have no children, so I cannot say whether or not I would be well-suited to be a father."

He would be a good one, Emma thought. He was a natural protector of children, whether or not he had any himself. Of course he would make a good father. And someday, he would find a woman he did wish to marry, who would give him children of his own.

But it would never be her. It could never be her.

His fingers touched her chin, tilting her face up to his. In the darkness, she could see only the brief flash of white teeth, a slice of a smile in the darkness. "Better?"

What? Oh—the pain. "Yes," she said, testing the soreness of her abdomen, which had been dulled by the heat of the water to little more than a faint ache. The headache, too, had fled, banished by the gentle strokes of his fingers. "I am much relieved."

"Good," he said as his lips brushed hers. "Now let me show you what else a bath is good for."