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Mariah stumbled backward, breathing hard, and rounded on him in anger. “How dare you, sir,” she began, only to stop as she realized that Lord Dexter was not standing in penitent silence before her. He was slumping, unconscious, into the arms of another man whose hand was still wrapped around Lord Dexter’s throat.

Her stunned gaze jumped from Harry’s face—so foreign still, under the wild mop of Lord Wroth’s hair, but taut with controlled fury—to the man in his arms, then back again.

“Are you hurt?” he asked in a harsh whisper that hummed with intensity.

Wordlessly she shook her head.

His eyes locked with hers for a moment. Then he turned and lowered Lord Dexter onto the grass, propping him up against a tree. Dexter’s head lolled back on his shoulder, his mouth gaping, and Mariah’s heart took another sickening leap—but then a distinct snore drifted out of that mouth, and she stumbled away, weak with relief.

“You should return to the house.” Harry rose from settling Lord Dexter and turned to her. She gasped as the deadly gleam of a knife disappeared under his coat. He held out his hand. “Come. I’ll see you out of the garden.” His voice had become that of Lord Wroth again, crackling and thin.

She looked at him in amazement. He appeared every inch an elderly gentleman—except that now she knew there was a dagger under his coat, and he had just taken down Lord Dexter with one hand. Lord Dexter was a large man, tall and broad-shouldered. He was strong, too; Mariah had always thought she was a fairly sturdy woman, but Dexter easily held her with one arm while he groped her with the other. She glanced down at him again as if to remind herself this had all truly happened.

“Is he... ?” She swallowed, unconsciously touching her throat.

“He’s had too much to drink,” said Harry. It was eerie to hear Lord Wroth’s voice from his lips. It didn’t sound a thing like his normal voice. Mariah swallowed another gulp of hysteria at his acting abilities. “He’ll have a splitting headache on the morrow, and doubtless not a single memory of this evening.”

“What did you do to him?” she whispered.

He hesitated, then stepped closer. “Here...” His fingers trailed down her cheek, then curved around her jaw as if to raise her face for a kiss. His thumb rested lightly on the side of her throat. “Here runs a vessel of blood. Press firmly for just a moment, and the strongest man will fall senseless. The wine did the rest.” His hand slid down her throat, his touch still feathery light, then stopped at her collarbone.

Mariah stared back at him in the faint light of a nearby lantern. Stooped over as he was, his eyes were level with her own.

“You should return,” he murmured again, even though he didn’t move.

She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I frightened you.”

She shook her head. “No—no, I just—I was frightened before you appeared. He seemed like a perfectly decent gentleman...” She put her hand on his arm. He had just proved himself not the romantic gallant of her dreams but a dangerous man—and she had never felt safer. Lord Dexter snored behind her in drunken oblivion, and she stepped closer to Harry, wanting to cling to him and the safety he offered.

Harry wrapped his arms around her. He was trembling, but not, she thought, from fear. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. She caught her breath, a flush of heat rolling over her. Kiss me, she wanted to beg. Make love to me. I’m yours.

“Harry...” she breathed, pressing against him.

He swore. Then he was pulling her deeper into the darkness to a sheltered arbor, trapping her against the trunk of an oak, and taking her face in his hands to kiss her with a hunger that stole her breath.

“Don’t stop,” Mariah moaned as his mouth left hers and moved to her neck. She clung to his shoulders, wanting to feel every inch of his body, lean and strong and capable of sliding through the darkness like a shadow. He made her feel wicked and alive and she would have granted him any liberty he asked at that moment.

“Shh.” He put his finger on her lips. She captured his gloved fingertip between her teeth and lightly bit down, trying to pull him closer. “Minx,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ll drive me mad.”

She sucked in her breath as his other hand cupped her breast. Her nipples grew tight and hard, and so sensitive she almost cried out when he rolled his thumb over the taut peak. Sensation rippled through her, and a fierce heat bloomed in her belly. Her body softened, opened, and she slid one foot along the side of his boot, trying to hold him to her with all her limbs.

He swore under his breath, then hiked up her skirt until his hand stroked her bare thigh. She went up on her toes, gasping encouragement, as he touched her. He pressed his cheek to hers and whispered in her ear—wild, reckless, impassioned things—as he wrenched a breathtaking climax from her, so hard and sudden she couldn’t make a sound.

And when her tremors subsided, he kissed her once more on the mouth, a soft, mesmerizing kiss. Her head spun. Her knees started to buckle, but he raised his head. “You have to go back.”

Mariah shook her head, refusing to open her eyes or to release him. Fire seemed to be licking at her bones. “Not yet.”

“You must.” His lips brushed the corner of her mouth. “If anyone else should come into the garden...”

“I would never betray you.”

His smile was strained. “I would betray myself, if you keep looking at me that way.” He brushed a stray wisp of hair from her temple, and she felt his fingers shake. “Come, love.”

* * *

With an effort, Harry released her and stepped away. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe in and out. He was still Wroth tonight. He could not make love to Mariah against a tree, marking her as his in the most primal way.