"Brandi..." Quentin's hand shook as he pressed her head to his chest.

  "You've opened your heart," she breathed. "Now open your eyes. Stop fighting. 'Tis time to concede." She smiled through her tears. "Do you know, you're still the very worst of losers? You refuse to yield, even when it's clear the contest has long since been lost. Whether 'tis a race or your heart at stake, you fight to the bitter end and then, when surrender is inevitable, you do so in a most grudging manner." Raising up, she brushed her lips across his. "A most unbecoming trait. One I suggest you rectify. Oh, I recognize only too well how you loathe relinquishing that impervious control of yours, but that's one of love's inevitable effects." A twinkle. "And if you must yield to someone, hadn't it best be me? 1 won't promise to leave your control intact, but I will vow to guard your heart with my life."

  "My heart is yours, Sunbeam."

  "As mine is yours. And, being that I could never pledge myself to a man I didn't love—and that the only man I'll ever love is you—your fate is sealed. All or nothing, you said." Brandi buried her face in his throat. "I want all."

  "And when I leave England?" Quentin managed hoarsely, gathering handfuls of her hair.

  "Then I'll ache for you. And pray for you. And await your return." She twined her arms about his neck. "But, above all, I'll love you."

  With a rough sound, Quentin covered her mouth with his, crushing her against him and possessing her with a naked urgency spawned by the budding hope that all he longed for could possibly be his.

  "I can't walk away," he told her, his voice husky with the bittersweet joy of surrender. "I need you too damned much."

  "Oh, Quentin . . ."

  A sharp knock intruded.

  "Miss Brandi?" Mrs. Collins's tentative voice reached their ears. "Herbert and I noticed your light was burning. I thought you might be hungry. So, I brought you some warm milk and a slice of pie."

  Breaking apart, Quentin and Brandi stared dazedly at each other.

  "Miss Brandi? Are you awake, dear?" The sound of a tray being shifted, presumably for balance, suggested that the housekeeper intended to enter the room and determine Brandi's condition firsthand.

  In one quick motion, Quentin lifted Brandi from the bed, jerking the bedcovers out from under her and depositing her beneath. Then he bolted to his feet, simultaneously buttoning his shirt and tying his cravat. He bent forward, lightly touching Brandi's eyelids and gesturing for her to close them.

  Brandi nodded her understanding and complied, listening to the sounds of Quentin's footsteps as he crossed over and opened the door. "She just dozed off," he whispered to Mrs. Collins. "I'm hoping she'll sleep through the night. I was about to extinguish the lamp and retire to my bedchamber."

  "Oh, forgive me, my lord," the housekeeper replied anxiously. "I hope my knock didn't awaken her."

  "I don't think so," Quentin assured her. "And no forgiveness is necessary. Your gesture was very thoughtful. Actually—" Quentin's natural charm took over, a palpable entity Brandi need not open her eyes to discern. "As Brandi is not awake to savor it, and as it so happens I'm famished, would you object to my enjoying your pie?"

  "I'd be delighted, my lord." Brandi could actually hear Mrs. Collins beam. "I'll run down to the kitchen and bring you a larger portion."

  "That won't be necessary," Quentin interceded hastily. "This slice is more than sufficient. What I would appreciate is if you would bring the tray to my chambers. I want to make certain Brandi is sleeping comfortably before I retire for the night."

  "Certainly. I'll do it this instant." Her solid footsteps disappeared down the hall. Quentin closed the door. "You can open your eyes now, Sunbeam. Mrs. Collins and her pie are gone."

  Brandi raised up on her elbows, met Quentin's gaze. "And had she not arrived in the first place?"

  His eyes darkened to a deep smoky gray as the implicit meaning of Brandi's question sank in. Silently, he battled his conscience, a muscle working furiously in his jaw.

  Brandi climbed out of bed and walked toward him, aching at the warring emotions she saw reflected on his face, yet unwilling to allow him to retreat. She stopped directly before him, raising her chin and holding his gaze, seeking nothing short of the honesty they'd always shared. "Quentin," she repeated softly. "Just before Mrs. Collins interrupted us, you said you needed me too much to walk away. Did you mean that in the vast poetic sense or in the immediate one?" She lay her palm against his jaw. "Please. I need to know."

  "Both," he managed.

  "Then, had she not knocked when she did ..."

  "I wouldn't have had the strength to leave you."

  Joy sparkled in Brandi's eyes. "I'm glad."

  "Are you?" Quentin framed her face between his palms, brushing kisses across her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, her lips. "We have a great deal to discuss, Sunbeam. But not tonight. Mrs. Collins has doubtless delivered my tray and is hovering about to gauge my reaction to her pie. I'd best not disappoint her." Quentin tugged Brandi to him, seizing her mouth in one last soul-wrenching kiss. "I'm going to my bedchamber now," he said in a rough whisper, the trembling of his body conveying volumes. "While I still can."

  Brandi nodded unsteadily, reveling in the wondrous transformation tonight had wrought, knowing in her heart that an irreversible step had been taken.

  She inhaled sharply, caressing the taut muscles at his nape. "Save me some pie," she breathed with a teasing sparkle in her eyes. "After all, it was originally intended for me."

  For an instant, Quentin looked startled. Then laughter erupted from his chest. "My outrageous Sunbeam." He stepped away, kissing both her hands before releasing them. "Only you would think of eating pie at a time like this. Very well, I'll do better than save you a piece. I'll ask Mrs. Collins to bring me a second helping—that larger slice she referred to. When everyone is abed, I'll have Bentley sneak it into your room. How would that be?"

  "Wonderful." Brandi gave him an impish grin. "Not as wonderful as if Bentley were sneaking you into my room. But I'll be patient." The look she gave Quentin was pure seduction. "That, too, will come. Mark my words, Captain Steel. That, too, will come."

  "I believe the moment of reckoning has come," Bentley announced from the dining-room doorway. "I just spotted Master Desmond's carriage rounding the far end of the drive."

  "My, my. Isn't he the bright and early one today." Quentin folded his copy of the Times and glanced at the mantel clock. "It's scarcely nine a.m. He and Hendrick must have left London before dawn."

  "Or ridden back to Colverton last night," Bentley suggested.

  "True." Quentin came to his feet. "In either case, dare we hope that, due to the early hour, Desmond has yet to drink himself into an incoherent stupor?"

  Bentley sniffed. "Indeed, sir. Dealing with Master Desmond is difficult enough when he's sober."

  Quentin's lips twitched. "I couldn't agree more." Walking over to the window, he peered out across the sunlit gardens, "Where's Brandi? Have you advised her of my formidable brother's arrival?" An indulgent grin. "She's definitely up and about. In fact, she left the cottage before dawn. Either that or some other exuberant resident was bounding about the gardens beneath my window before the sun had risen."

  "Oh, that was most assuredly Miss Brandi, sir. She and her squirrel were dashing through the trees when I took my five a.m. stroll."

  One dark brow rose. "Since when do you take a five a.m. stroll?"

  "Since I shouldered the task of overseeing a tireless young lady who means the world to me." Bentley cleared his throat. "In any case, sir, Miss Brandi has probably already spied Master Desmond's carriage. She's in the gazebo garden with Herbert, and has been since breakfast."

  Quentin's smile faded. "She's not working, is she? 'Tis only a day since she was injured. I don't want her exerting herself, and that includes planting geraniums or digging in the rock garden."

  "Actually, sir, she's awarding a small feast to her squirrel—a sort of tribute to him for his heroic rescue. To my knowledge, her banquet arrangements involve nothing more strenuous than preparing a small bowl of berries and nuts and showering Lancelot with well-deserved praise."

  "Oh." Quentin visibly relaxed. "Well, I suppose I can't fault her for that. Even I'm feeling grateful to that troublemaker of a rodent."

  On cue, the front door slammed open. "Quentin?" Brandi raced breathlessly through the hallway and burst into the dining room, nearly knocking Bentley to the ground. "I'm sorry, Bentley. I didn't see you."

  "No harm done, my lady." Bentley brushed a blade of grass from his uniform.

  Brandi turned to Quentin, "Desmond is here."

  "So Bentley tells me." Assessing her disheveled state— the tousled mass of cinnamon curls, the grass-stained gown, the dirt-smudged cheeks—Quentin grinned, wondering if this could truly be the same woman he'd burned to take to bed not eight hours past.

  "Incidentally—" Brandi smiled and, abruptly, Quentin's wondering vanished. "As we haven't seen each other yet today—good morning." She walked toward him, her chin tilted up to meet his gaze.

  "Good morning." Quentin tugged one shining curl. "How do you feel, or need I ask? 'Tis nine o'clock and already you've eaten breakfast, romped in the garden, and are now, I hear tell, holding a banquet in honor of your squirrel."

  Her brow furrowed. "Did I disturb you when I took my stroll? It was rather early."

  "Not at all. I'm delighted at the rate of your recovery. All I ask is that you don't overtax yourself." Quentin averted his head to the sound of horses' hooves, which rounded the drive, then stopped. "Are you up for this, Sunbeam?"

  "Yes. I have dozens of questions to ask Desmond. I'm also anxious to learn if Mr. Hendrick has yet received any responses to the missives he sent."

  "Don't expect miracles, Brandi," Quentin cautioned. "It's been less than two days."

  "I know. And I won't."

  "I'll see them to the sitting room, sir." Bentley pivoted and returned to his post.

  Brandi reached the door in two racing steps. "Let's go to the sitting room," she urged Quentin.

  He followed, pausing to take her arm once they'd reached their destination. "I mean it, Brandi. I don't intend to allow you to overtax yourself. Physically or emotionally."

  Her lips curved. "I didn't think you would."

  Not three minutes later, Bentley appeared in the doorway, accompanied by Desmond and Hendrick. "Master Desmond," he announced. "Oh, pardon me—His Grace— and Mr. Hendrick."

  Desmond scowled, clearly piqued by the butler's intentional slip. Hendrick seemed not to notice, strolling past Desmond and into the room.

  "Quentin," he acknowledged graciously. His anxious gaze flickered to Brandi. "Are you all right, my dear? Desmond told me of your horrible accident yesterday."

  "I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Hendrick. Very much myself."

  Brandi's words appeared to penetrate Desmond's silent, seething rage. "Brandice ..." He hastened to her side, seizing her hands in his. "How are you?" His glance went to her bandaged temple. "How in God's name could such a thing have happened?"

  "That's what we're here to discuss," Quentin inserted curtly. "Why don't you both have a seat. Mrs. Collins made enough breakfast for an army. Would either of you care for something to eat?" A pause, Quentin's censuring gaze flickering to Desmond. "Or to drink?"

  "Neither, thank you," Hendrick forestalled Desmond by answering. "We had a large meal at Colverton not an hour ago."

  "So you arrived in the Cotswolds last night?"

  "Late last night, yes." Hendrick lowered himself into an armchair. "We went directly to bed in order to get an early start this morning." He inclined his head quizzically at Quentin. "It's not too early, is it? Desmond assured me you were early risers."

  "We are." Quentin crossed over and sat down on the settee. "And I'm relieved you came as quickly as you did. I have a great deal of unresolved questions—and concerns. The sooner we address them, the better."

  Desmond remained standing, his gaze on Brandi. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "Brandice, if you have no objections, I'd like to speak with you in private. I realize you're a woman grown, but your father did appoint me your legal guardian. And, as such, I'm dreadfully disturbed by what happened to you yesterday. I want to hear the precise details and explore ways in which we can ensure your safety. Would that be acceptable?"

  Brandi's brows rose in surprise, unaccustomed as she was to Desmond actually seeking her approval or, for that matter, treating her in so reasonable a manner. Slowly, she nodded. "That would be fine, as I, too, have a matter I'd like to pursue with you."

  "Good. Then, shall we adjourn to the library?"

  "Fine." Brandi glanced at Quentin, giving him a reassuring nod. "We'll be back shortly, gentlemen." She smiled at Bentley as she passed through the doorway, fighting the urge to laugh aloud as Desmond sidestepped the butler, inching his way around him with a look of utter distaste.

  "I'll be at my post, should you need me, my lord," Bentley apprised Quentin, his expression unchanged. "And fear not. The cottage entranceway is twice this width." He indicated the expanse that defined the sitting-room doorway. "Therefore, arriving guests run no risk of grazing my person as they enter. However, should I perceive that I've offended even one other visitor, I'll set aside my morning break for bathing purposes. Now, if you'll excuse me, sir. . ."

  Stiff as a board, he exited the room, veered away from Desmond and Brandi, and headed toward the front door.

  Quentin shook his head, his shoulders quaking with laughter.

  Hendrick blinked in astonishment. "Your Bentley never ceases to amaze me," he noted diplomatically. "Although, I must say I don't recall his being so ... forthright when your father was alive."

  "He liked Father," Quentin responded with a shrug. "He doesn't like Desmond."

  "So I see." Hendrick cleared his throat, aware that he was entering volatile territory and, as such, ensuring that he trod carefully. "Desmond is an erratic and complex man. Further, his title is new, his responsibilities oppressive. I'm certain he'll settle down in time."

  "Settle down, yes. Change, no."

  Hendrick gave an uneasy cough. "Yes, well, as to Desmond's concern for Brandice, I do believe it is genuine. And, for that matter, justified. Why, even I was dreadfully unnerved by the news of yesterday's shooting."

  "We all were." Quentin leaned forward, his fingers tightly gripping his knees. "I'll be blunt, Ellard. I want to establish if the shooting was really an accident, or a very real attempt on Brandi's life."

  Hendrick nodded. "My worry exactly."

  "Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Brandi told me everything: about her father's ledger, her visit to your office, the meeting you're helping her arrange."

  "Of course. I assumed she would. "

  "The missives you dispatched—did you send them as promised? Directly after Brandi left?"

  "Within an hour after her departure, yes. First I perused the files of all the gentlemen listed in Denerley's ledger."

  "And did they reveal anything?"

  "No. So far as my records revealed, all their losses were consistent with Ardsley's. However, you must recognize that my role in these business transactions is merely setting up the initial partnerships and providing periodic statements of profits and losses as they are reported to me."

  "Meaning that if any one of the parties were dishonest in their business dealings, you would have no way of knowing it."

  "Precisely."

  "Did you explain that to Brandi?"

  "To be blunt, Quentin, Brandice was determined to forge ahead with plans for that meeting. Nothing I said would have swayed her."

  "That's my single-minded Brandi," Quentin concurred with grim exasperation. "Very well. So you searched your files and found nothing incriminating. Then you sent out the missives?"

  "I did. Based upon the whereabouts of the parties in question, the majority of missives reached their destinations that night."

  "The majority of missives?"

  "Three of the gentlemen are abroad and, as such, are probably first receiving their missives today."

  "True." Quentin waved a dismissive hand. "And even if your timing was impeccable and a ship brought the messages to Europe yesterday, it wouldn't give any one of those men ample time to sail for England, ride to the Cotswolds, and take a shot at Brandi."

  "Which eliminates three people as suspects," Hendrick declared thoughtfully. "Nevertheless, of the twelve men listed in Denerley's ledger, nine of them had opportunity to strike. And that's without even considering the dozens of businessmen funded by my clients."

  "It sounds like you and I are thinking along the same lines."

  "I believe we are. If any one of those men is a murderer, then Brandice is putting herself in grave danger by insisting upon this meeting."

  "You think we should call it off." Quentin's assessment was a statement, not a question.

  Hendrick answered it anyway. "Absolutely. If one of those men really did kill Ardsley—and your parents in the process—then it's very likely he was shooting to kill when his bullet grazed Brandice yesterday. In which case, I'd recommend keeping her as far from this investigation as possible."

  Quentin's eyes narrowed pensively. "Maybe the best thing would be to go ahead with the meeting—only with me in attendance rather than Brandi."

  "I'd say that was ill-advised, Quentin," Hendrick dissuaded. "Remember, this arranged meeting would only include the dozen gentlemen who are my clients, omitting the external parties involved and thereby alerting them to your suspicions. Trying to corner a dangerous criminal in this brazen and uncontrolled fashion is just as foolish a step for you to take as it would be for Brandice."