.

of herself nowadays as self-contained and even a little cold. Trying to control her peculiar reaction to a stranger who seemed oddly familiar, she drew heavily on the lessons the last five years had taught her.

      Maybe he was even more intimidating now than he had seemed outside, but hard looks and accusations could only hurt if she let them. Yet he managed to exude an air of power, just held in check by the demands of civilisation. It must prove an enormous asset to him in his business dealings she decided, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood up in some sort of warning. But no, she was immune to adventurers, she reiterated fiercely to herself, and hoped her lips hadn’t moved in time with her thoughts.

      A shudder shook her as she met his dark eyes again and decided a wise woman would walk away right now, before anything irrevocable could happen. Once upon a time she had run headlong towards damnation with a confident smile on her silly young face, but she had acquired a little wisdom from her youthful follies. In which case, why was she having such trouble controlling this urge to tremble at the very sight of the new Earl of Carnwood?

      Somewhere in her most feverish dreams she had met the dark eyes of a fallen angel somewhat akin to him, and that was what was doing the damage to her defences now. Her dream hero had been all power and intensity too, but she had fantasised him as her other half. Unfortunately he had been an illusion, produced by a sick mind and suffering body at her darkest hour, and my Lord Carnwood was much too real for comfort.

      Miranda watched warily as he let the silence stretch and her nerves along with it. He took her mind off his piratical looks when he seemed to consider what he had to say to her before turning about and shutting the door behind them.

      Despite its lofty proportions, the new earl dominated the huge room effortlessly and she felt as if she had unwarily entered a trap. She stiffened her backbone and told herself he would not intimidate her so easily, but she wasn’t entirely convinced she was right. Reminding herself of her godmother’s motto that knowing your enemy took you halfway to taming them, she wondered if anyone could know this one. He let silence echo around the large room with the slow tick of the elaborate French clock on the mantelpiece and she made a cautious survey of him, looking for any weakness to exploit when battle finally commenced.

      He had high cheekbones and a Roman nose, but a surprisingly sensitive mouth offset the haughty cast of his features, and surely it was made for better things than clamping into the hard line it took on now? She shivered and resisted the temptation to cross her arms over her body in self-defence. Her predominant sensation was one of cold isolation, as if he had deliberately excluded her from the generosity of that firm mouth and whatever gentleness he might be capable of.

      ‘We have not met before, have we?’ she asked, puzzled by a feeling of familiarity with this stranger.

      ‘I should recall it, even if you did not, ma’am,’ he replied with apparent uninterest. ‘Being admitted to the charmed circle of the Earl of Carnwood’s close family would have been memorable for such a rough creature as I was in my youth. Perhaps we should cite an elusive family resemblance in support of your obvious bewilderment?’

      Despite the sickening lurch of her heartbeat when she recalled where certain gaps in her memory fitted, Miranda held his gaze and pretended her knees were not threatening to wobble like a jelly. No, she would not forget the new Earl of Carnwood. She doubted anyone could, however hard they tried.

      ‘You do look a little like Wicked Rupert Alstone,’ she agreed lightly.

      ‘Should I be flattered by the likeness?’

      ‘Not unless you have a taste for ruthless piracy and riotous living, in which case you would probably consider him a prince among men. If not, we must hope I’m mistaken. Sir Rupert was a very bad apple.’

      ‘I dare say you must be, then,’ he said with a cynical smile that told her he was unsure of her soundness. ‘But you must not keep my lord-ing me, Mrs Braxton. I would prefer being simply your Cousin Christopher, if you will be my Cousin Miranda in return?’

      ‘Then of course we must be cousins, my lord.’

      She doubted he had ever been simply anything, but it sounded such a comfortable notion. Not kissing cousins, but distant ones in every way? Oh, yes, that would do very well.

      ‘That’s settled then, Cousin, and I bid you welcome to your old home and my new one,’ he said with an elegant bow.

      ‘Thank you, I look forward to reacquainting myself with it.’

      ‘I’m quite sure that you do,’ he replied and this time there was no mistaking the cynicism in his smile.

      Did he think she was planning to run off with the family silver, for heaven’s sake? A picture of herself staggering out of the house weighed down with clanking booty at the end of her stay almost made her smile.

      ‘I do not intend to stay any longer than necessary,’ she sought to reassure him, but if his formidable frown was anything to go by, she didn’t succeed.

      ‘I believe my predecessor ordered that you remain a week,’ he argued.

      ‘I am of age and a widow, and thus in command of my own destiny.’

      ‘Yes, and just look what you have done with it,’ he snapped.

      ‘Which has nothing whatsoever to do with you,’ she said with apparent calmness; it was that or throw the nearest ledger at his ridiculously handsome head.

      ‘I am head of the family now.’

      ‘Congratulations, no doubt you will enjoy wielding your authority over them, but luckily you have none over me.’

      ‘Your annuity comes from the family trusts, I believe?’ he asked in a voice that was suddenly silky with unspoken threat.

      ‘And I hope you are not thinking of using that fact against me like the villain in a poorly contrived melodrama?’ she returned scornfully.

      ‘Anything to put a brake on your folly,’ he ground out as if tried to the very edge of his meagre stock of patience.

      If Miranda had not known better, she might have considered him a man driven to extremis by some deeply hidden passion, but surely an hour’s acquaintance wasn’t enough to raise his hackles so thoroughly?

      ‘My conduct is none of your business, my lord,’ she objected and suddenly she wanted to commit every sin in the calendar just to spite him.

      ‘Of course it is,’ he replied, more formidable than ever as he stepped closer and seemed to tower over her like a Titan.

      ‘If I choose to dance naked on every gaming table in Mayfair, you could do nothing about it and you know it.’

      ‘Try it and you’ll very rapidly discover your mistake,’ he gritted through clenched teeth, and she actually heard herself squeak with surprise when he clipped her into his furious embrace, as she discovered too late that she had goaded the predator in him just a little too far.

      Possession, fury and sheer need blazed back at her as she stared up at him in wonder, waiting for her own rage to catch up with shock. It was shock that held her immobile, of course it was. To be helpless in the arms of a man whose strength and power far outran her own was a nightmare. Or at least it would be as soon as her mind took over from her senses. Then she would turn stiff and outraged in his arms, instead of lying passive and even a little intrigued against his muscular torso like some swooning idiot.

      ‘I won’t allow it,’ he informed her tersely, just before he did just what her silly senses wanted and bowed his dark head to take her mouth with his.

      And take he did. She stood bewildered in his arms and gave right back with a generosity part of her screamed was the biggest mistake of a long line of them. Nothing that had gone before had armoured her against this, she realised, even as her mouth softened and then yielded to his and she let her senses drown in him.

      His kiss felt almost desperate; hungry with more than mere lust, as if he had been starving for this for a long time. Ignoring the cynical