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“ L eona! Where’s Miss Leonard?’’

Deveraux’s angry voice resounded through the entrance hall and into the surrounding rooms. Leona heard him quite clearly from the library. She laid the book of poetry down beside her on the sofa.

“Nigel! What are you shouting for?” It was Lady Nevin. The countess sounded irritated. “Leona went into the village with Lucy and Chrissy."

“No, she didn’t. Purboy, have you seen Miss Leonard?”

Leona tried but couldn’t hear the butler’s response.

“Damnation! You, too?”

“Nigel, what is going on?” demanded Lady Nevin, her voice louder now.

Leona swung her feet to the floor and leaned forward, straining to hear the ensuing low-voiced conversation between Deveraux and his mother.

“Purboy, summon the staff to assemble here in fifteen minutes. No, there shall be no excuses. Absence shall mean immediate termination!" Deveraux suddenly ordered just before the door to the library crashed open, rattling pictures on the wall.

Leona fell back against the sofa cushions, one hand creeping up to cover her heart beating frantically in her chest. A tiny sound escaped her, a small mew of fear as she stared wide-eyed at the sight of Nigel Deveraux in the doorway.

His black hair was in wild disarray, his dirt-streaked coat reminding Leona of the first time she saw him.

A handkerchief wound around the knuckles of his right hand showed evidence of fresh blood.

He strode into the room and firmly closed the library door behind him, shutting out the curious faces of his mother, Maria, and Fitzhugh.

Leona shrank back into a corner of the sofa, biting her lower lip as her eyes searched his face for any clue to his thoughts.

He stopped three feet away and stood towering over her, his face a mask, his eyes hard, glittering gems. A muscle in the granite surface of one cheek jumped spasmodically.

He stood staring down at her, taking in her pallor, her wide vulnerable eyes.

Her expression tore at his insides. This was not how his Leona should be.

She should be fighting and spitting and yelling enough to give the devil his due! What have they done to her?

He dropped down to his knees before her and softly repeated the question.

Dumbly, Leona shook her head.

“Leona—” Gently, he reached out to pull her hand away from her heart and to enfold it in one of his own. "Tell me.”

“No.” The single word came out on a soft breath of air.

Deveraux swore and dropped her hand. He bowed his head a moment, then rose and ran his hand through his thick black hair. He paced before the sofa.

“I know about the rumors,” he said harshly and grimaced.

“I know about Miss Benedict. She has been sharply reprimanded—more by Chrissy than me!” he added, a ghost of a reluctant smile pulling at his lips.

“Obviously, you also have become aware of what the servants are saying or you would not be hiding in here.”

That stung. Her eyes flashed as she straightened her body and folded her hands in her lap. “I am not hiding!”

“No? Then why do I come in here to find you cowering?”

“I was merely uncertain as to your reaction. I didn’t know—” She stopped, compressing her lips tightly as color swept up her cheeks.

“Didn’t know if I believed them or not? Confound it, woman, how could you for a moment imagine .

. .” He stared at her, then swore under his breath.

He walked to a nearby cabinet to pour himself a glass of port.

He looked inquiringly at Leona. She shook her head.

Grimly he tossed back the contents of the glass.

“Not since that first half hour after I met you have I believed you were involved,” he said distinctly, biting out each word. “Each day I spend in your company, I see how ridiculous it was to hold the idea for even thirty minutes!”

“Thank you,” she murmured, looking down at her hands.

“Still, that doesn’t explain why you are cowering in here. It doesn’t seem natural for you to cave into lies.”

“I am not cowering. I just wish to avoid scenes.”

“You do not seem to have that notion normally,” he observed caustically.

“That is different.”

“How so?” he demanded. “No, please don’t turn your head away. I wish to understand.”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“You are quick to defend others or to defend ideas. Why can’t you now? . . . Oh!” he said, pausing.

He crossed back to the sofa with quick long strides and sat down beside her, searching her face. “Lucy was right. You can’t defend yourself, can you? You can fight for anyone and anything else but not for yourself. Why is that?”

Leona squirmed. His words were more accurate than she cared to admit. “I-I believe people should accept themselves as they are. If they cannot. . .” She looked up into his eyes, searching for understanding for the thoughts she couldn’t put into words.

She became lost in the glittering blue depths of his eyes.

Suddenly there was a warmth there. The image of sharply-cut gems gave way to the velvety softness of blue cornflowers.

The rigidity in his jaw muscles eased, allowing a smile to pull up on the corners of his lips and light his eyes.

He reached out a gentle hand to caress the side of her face.

Instinctively she pulled back, then stopped when he paused with a fleeting expression of pain in his eyes.

“How I have hurt you,” he murmured, shaking his head sadly.

“No! No! Not you! How could you?” She caught his hand between her own and boldly carried it to the side of her cheek, tilting her head to fit in the curve of his calloused palm.

“I have railed at you for all the good you have done, saying you shouldn’t, that you should leave everything to a man. Yet, in all honesty, if you did, you would not be the Leona I admire—the Leona I have come to love,” he finished on such a whisper that Leona wondered if she heard right.

His head bent towards hers, his hands grasping her shoulders, pulling her nearer. Slowly, gently, giving her time to pull away if she felt she must, his lips settled over hers.

Leona sighed, her hands coming up to his head to touch the thick pelt of black hair that curled over his collar. Against her lips Deveraux groaned. Leona leaned into him, questing, curious. Her blood sang in her ears, and a curious coiling, tingling feeling came up from her toes.

Deveraux ran his hand down her back and around the curve of her spine until he could pick her up and shift her into his lap. “Oh, my proud beauty, my lioness,” he murmured against her lips, “how could we have hurt you so?”

She parted her lips to deny his words, but no sound could come, for he covered her mouth with his own, his kiss a fierce apology and demand. Willingly she answered his kiss, her kiss a passionate denial of what he would not let her say aloud.

When their lips finally parted, he leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged, his hands trembling.

“My God, Leona,” he managed hoarsely. He lifted his head up to stare blindly at the ceiling as he clutched her tightly to him.

Then he released her and set her gently back beside him on the sofa.

A knock on the library door had him surging to his feet. “Yes?” he snapped.

“The servants are assembled, sir,” the butler called through the closed door.

“Thank you, Purboy. I shall be there directly.” He held out his hand to her. “Come.”

She hesitated.

“Leona, you must come. You see that, don’t you? It is the only way I can go to battle for you, as you so courageously would do for us.”

She took his hand and rose reluctantly. “It is of no use. Someone has poisoned their minds.”

He glanced at her. “Yes,” he agreed slowly. “I believe you are correct.” Thoughtful now, he tucked her arm in his and drew her slowly toward the door. “Clever. Very clever. I shall not underestimate them again.”

“Pardon?”

He cocked an eyebrow as he looked down at her. “It means, my dear, we have a traitor in our midst. Perhaps I did you more harm than good by bringing you to Castle Marin. I may have played directly into their hands.”

Leona shivered.

He smiled at her crookedly. “Have faith. This is only a skirmish, a mere test of arms. We shall win the battle,” he assured her before opening the library door.

Word of Deveraux’s anger traveled swiftly through the household and estate staff. Consequently, it was a subdued group that gathered in the hall. Anxious, frightened faces looked first at Leona, then at Deveraux.

The butler cleared his throat and cautiously admitted that one person remained absent—George Ludlow, one of the grooms. Leona remembered him as the warm, bandy-legged fellow who saddled Lady Talavera for her every day.

Deveraux’s face became a cold mask. Without a word, he led Leona to where his mother stood with Lucy, just returned from her outing, still wearing her bonnet and cloak.

The two women gathered Leona to them, their arms protectively around her, their faces as set as Deveraux’s.

Fitzhugh and Maria stood to one side with Chrissy, who tucked her hand in Maria’s while fat tears rolled down her tiny face.

She dabbed at them with her handkerchief, her lips set in a stubborn line.

Deveraux walked through the hall, scanning the faces.

Many he’d known for years. A few had a history of generations serving the Earl of Nevin.

In their faces, he saw fear, in others a stubborn bravado.

Only a few, like Miss Jewitt, Lucy’s dresser, Mrs. Henry, the housekeeper, and Gerby, the head groom, stood impassively, but that was their habitual mien.

“I should turn you all out!”

A keening wail came from one of the young housemaids. The other servants turned to stare angrily at her. Quickly she buried her face in her apron, muffling her sobs.