I don't know why I expected to wake up in a hospital. I suppose that's just the kind of thing you expect when someone recently beat the crap out of you. But when I opened my eyes, I lay not in a sterile, uncomfortable hospital bed, but in a sinfully comfortable four-poster the size of Kansas, amidst soft, sweet-smelling cushions. The room around me—or should I call it a hall?—looked like it belonged in a palace, with its silk curtains, old-fashioned dark wood furniture and vaulted ceiling.

This can't be hospital, can it?

If it was, I would recommend all my friends at home to get British health insurance.

I listened for the sound of orderlies marching through corridors, beeping heart monitors and all the other noises of a hospital.

Nothing.

No, this really wasn't a hospital.

But shouldn't I be in one? After what had happened...

Now that I thought about it, however, considering what had happened to me, my limbs hurt surprisingly little. Oh, of course I was bruised from head to toe, and my head felt as if it had been hit with the hammer of the thunder-god Thor, but other than that, I felt absolutely great. No bones seemed to be broken for starters. And, as an additional bonus, I was still alive! Yippee!

Someone stepped into my view: a girl in a maid's uniform. I'm not kidding. A black maid's uniform with a little white apron that looked as if came from an earlier, incredibly sexist (but nevertheless stylish) century. The girl in the uniform smiled at me and curtsied.

"I see you're awake. Good morning, Miss. What would you like for breakfast? The chef is at your disposal."

The chef is at your disposal?

That clinched it. If this was a hospital, my name was Fiddle Fuddle Cuckoo Shrimps III.

"Miss?" the girl smiled at me. She had a nice smile—a nice face altogether. Not really attractive, but homely and kind. "Your breakfast?"

"Um..." I cleared my throat. It felt dry. I really could use some breakfast. So 'the chef' was 'at my disposal', was he? I hoped that didn't mean they wanted me to dispose of him. I wasn't really up for a murder right now.

But this chef sounded like someone I could squeeze some breakfast out of. So, tentatively I asked: "Could I have some toast?"

"Just toast?" The girl looked taken aback.

Encouraged, I tried to smile at her. I stopped when my face hurt. "You mean I could have some toppings, too?"

"Of course, Miss! Anything you want. Caviar, pâté de foie gras..."

"How about marmalade?"

"Certainly, Miss. Which flavor?"

"Um... strawberry?"

"As you wish. Anything else?"

Becoming bolder, I uttered the deepest, dearest wish of my heart: "A cup of coffee?"

"Espresso? Cappuccino? Americano? Latte? Café au lait? Mocaccino? Caramel Macchiato?"

Geez! What kind of place was this?

"Err... just coffee will be fine thanks."

"I shall bring it directly, Miss."

She gave me another smile, curtsied, and was just about to leave the room when the door opened and a man stepped in. A tall man in a red riding coat with shiny, shoulder-length black hair and the face of an angel.

The moment I caught sight of him I understood. Looking around, I wanted to hit myself for not realizing it sooner. The silk curtains, the vaulted ceiling, the giant bed, the ancient, incredibly expensive-looking furniture...

I was in the manor. In the place that not one of the stable staff had seen before, except from outside. I was in their Lord's personal palace—Barrington Hall.

My eyes met his.

"Good morning, Miss McKinney," he said.

"Good morning, your Lordship," I said.

Silence spread over the room like a thick blanket. We continued to stare at each other. The maid stood in the corner, not daring to move an inch.

"You can go," Lord Farleigh commanded, not glancing at her. She almost ran from the room. He didn't take his eyes from me.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Me?" His eyes narrowed. "You get beaten up by band of lowlifes, and you are worried how I feel?"

"Considering that murderous look in your eyes... Yes. I am worried."

One corner of his mouth twitched. "Point taken. Well, if you must know: I feel angry. Murderously angry."

"You should take up pottery or yoga. I've heard it's relaxing."

His eye flashed. "I doubt pottery or yoga would be enough to calm me down right now, thank you."

Marching over, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed. I could feel him, warm and alive, only a few inches away.

"How are you, Miss McKinney?"

Tentatively, I moved a few muscles. The motion didn't make me want to scream in indescribable agony.

"Surprisingly well, actually, considering the fact that I'm not in a hospital, there isn't a doctor in sight to give me pain meds. Why am I not writhing in agony?"

Reaching out, he took my hand. He took my hand. My mouth went even drier than it had already been. My heart rate picked up the pace.

"I wouldn't have trusted you to one of those bumbling young fools at the public hospital in a million years," he growled. "You're being taken care of properly. I insisted that the chief physician, Dr. Willis, look after you, and that you be given every care and attention money can buy. And I..." He took a deep breath. "I sat with you during the night. Just to make sure you were all right."

I felt heat start to creep up my neck. "You didn't need to do that."

"Yes, I did." His jaw set, he took a tighter hold of my hand. A tingle went up my arm, spreading through my entire body. "I'm so sorry, Miss McKinney. I never thought that Sir Jasper would go that far. I knew he wanted to win the race, but this...!" His hand clenched so tightly around mine it hurt. But I didn't mind in the least. "I woke up in the middle of the night and heard shouting and dull thuds in the distance. When I stepped out of the manor and saw you fighting those thugs—God! I could hardly believe my eyes! I had never been so afraid in my entire life." Turning his face away, he gazed out of the window, deep in thought. "I suppose you never quite understand how precious something is until you're in danger of losing it forever."

I squeezed his hand back. "I was scared for poor Silver Star, too."

Slowly, he turned his head back towards me. His bright, steel-blue eyes pierced me with a strange intensity.

"Who says I am talking about Silver Star?"

"Oh."

I felt color rush up into my cheeks. He couldn't have meant... could he? His gaze didn't leave my face. Suddenly, there was tension crackling in the air—and not the kind of tension that usually was between us (the kind which made you want to punch people in the face). No, this was infinitely sweeter, and more dangerous.

Slowly, he leaned closer.

"Miss McKinney..."

"You didn't call me that yesterday," I reminded him shyly, looking up at him from under my eyelashes.

"What?"

"Last night. You didn't call me Miss McKinney then. You... you called me Cassy."

He sat up straight, as if I had tried to electrocute him. "I most certainly did not!"

The tension in the air mounted, until I could practically feel little bolts of lightning dancing across my skin, and arching between him and me.

"Yes, you did."

"It would be most improper to refer to one of my employees by her first name!"

"In America we do it all the time."

"Well, here you are in a civilized country."

"Am I?" I sneaked a peek from under my lashes at him again, the corner of my mouth twitching. "Because I distinctly remember you calling me Cassy."

"I did not!" But even as he spoke, his grip on my hand tightened.

"You did. Twice, in fact."

"Well..."

"Do you deny it? On your word as a gentleman, my Lord?" Raising my free hand, I placed it gently over his.

He sucked in a breath, and shifted unconsciously. "I... well... I may have temporarily forgotten myself in the heat of the moment. Let me assure you, Miss McKinney, it will not occur again."

Abruptly, he rose. Almost wrenching his hand away from mine, he turned and strode to the door. He was half outside already when he paused and said: "You have the guest suite for your own. But if you wish for anything beyond, it is at your disposal. What has happened to you is my fault, Miss McKinney, and I will do anything in my power to make things right again."

Stepping outside, he shut the door behind him and left me alone to ponder various ways in which Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcolm Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh, could make me feel right. There were quite a lot of them.

❤☠❤☠❤☠❤☠❤

Over the next few days, Lord Farleigh was incredibly attentive, and so was everyone else at the manor. I wasn't allowed to leave my bed, and my new friend the maid—her name was Jenny—stayed beside me like a guard dog to make sure I didn't move one toe from under the covers. Everything was handed to me on a silver platter: books, drinks, painkillers, get-well cards and flowers from my well-wishers, including a squashed bunch of daisies that Jill had flattened and sent over from the good old US of A in an express envelope.

Oh, and by the way—when I say everything was handed to me on a silver platter, I don't mean that metaphorically.

"Here you go, Miss."

Bowing as deeply as he possibly could, Samuel the butler extended his hands towards me. In them, he held a silver tray, and on the platter sat a small bottle made of poisonously green glass. I made a face.

"Do I really have to?"

"Doctor Willis said every hour, Miss. And his Lordship was very insistent that I see to it that you take your medicine."

"He was, was he?"

"Yes. He indicated that if you were disinclined to comply with the doctor's suggestions, he—his Lordship, that is, not the doctor—would effect a discoloration of your epidermis with his equestrian motivational device."

"He said that?"

"Well..." the butler cleared his throat, delicately, "actually, he said, and I quote, 'Tell her if she doesn't swallow the entire bottle I'm going to tan her hide with my horsewhip!'. I was hesitant to express myself in so extreme a fashion."

"I bet you were. Well..." Sighing, I snatched the bottle and unscrewed the top. "Down the hatchet."

I swallowed the stuff, and made a face. "Ugh! Why do medicines always have to taste so nasty?"

"I couldn't say, Miss."

Sighing, I sank back into my pillow. There remained nothing for me to do except wait for my next drink or meal, which I knew most certainly would not taste disgusting. Since I had awoken in the manor, I had gotten to try out all two dozen varieties of luxury coffee and could attest to the fact that they were all delicious. Every morning, I ordered something different for breakfast, just to see whether they had been kidding when they'd said a chef was at my disposal—cheese omelet, rice porridge, pancakes with maple syrup, tortillas—nothing seemed to faze the kitchen staff at Barrington Hall. One morning, just for kicks, I ordered gummy bears and chilly peppers on toast. It was duly delivered, and two minutes later I was calling for Jenny to bring me a glass of water—or even better, a bucket!

The surroundings, too, could not have been more conducive to a quick recovery. The huge room, filled with fresh air and golden light, had a wholesome feel about it the way no modern hospital room could ever have. I could practically feel the walls whispering tales of past lives, of happiness veiled by the passage of time but never forgotten. In any other place I might have resented being kept in bed so long, but not here. This place was like a fairy tale. It was halfway to heaven.

And it came with ministering angels—even if they looked a bit old, dried-up and wingless.

"Well, Miss McKinney," said Dr. Willis, looking over his notes. He had come by daily, and every time conducted a detailed physical exam as well as asked me a lot of questions that had 'psychology' stamped all over them. "I must say, I'm impressed."

"You are?"

"Oh yes. Your physical recovery is going well—but that's as I expected. You are a healthy young woman, after all. No, what astounds me most is your mental recovery. Being in a desperate situation like that, the fighting, the violence...most people would have born the mental scars forever. But you seem to take it all in stride. Amazing."

With a smile, he shook his head. "Usually, one only sees this kind of strength in people who are accustomed to violence, like soldiers, or people who are simply completely detached from humanity and reality, like murdering psychopaths." He chuckled. "But I think we can safely assume you're not one of those."

"Ha, ha," I said. "Yes, of course. Ha, ha. Very funny."

"You are a lucky girl, Miss McKinney. You have one of the most normal and resilient minds I have ever encountered."

"How wonderful."

"Well, goodbye, then. I shall send my bill to his Lordship."

And he was gone.

Breathing out a sigh of relief, I sank back into my cushions. One thing I knew for sure: If I ever had a friend with mental problems, I was not going to send them to that over-priced quack!

He took care well enough of me, though, regarding my visible injuries. His salves did wonders for my aching bruises, and the supplementary juices and pills he made me swallow, no matter how vile they tasted, suppressed the urge to wretch and the headaches that attacked me now and again. So I continued to lounge about in bed all day, choosing to see this not as an enforced confinement, but as a vacation. With all the books I wanted to read, the birds twittering in the trees outside my window, and Lucky curled up in bed beside me, a scrap of material from one of the assailants' jackets clutched in her tiny paws, it wasn't too hard to convince me this was actually the case. The maids continued to wait on me hand and foot, delivering me breakfast, lunch and dinner in bed, and every morning there was a fresh vase of flowers in my room, brightening my day.

But the food, the place, the kind if misguided Dr. Willis, the friendly faces of the staff... all that faded into significance whenever he came into the room.

"Good morning, Miss McKinney."

Quickly, I looked up from the pages of The Encyclopedia of Poisonous Spiders of South America and Asia, Volume 3, and saw a tall figure with long, shiny black hair step into the room. He wasn't wearing red for a change. Instead, he was clad in a dark gray, double-breasted jacket and pants of the same dark color. It contrasted his muscular figure sharply against the light wall. I felt my interest in Asian and South American spiders dwindle abruptly.

"Lord Farleigh." I gave him a smile—just to see if I could do it without my face hurting. I didn't actually want to smile at him. Of course I didn't. No matter how well he had treated me over the last few days, I still couldn't stand him. It was his fault that I had ended up tied to this bed in the first place. If he had never hired me, I would have been fine.

Lucky, the traitorous little fury beast, rose to her paws and jumped off the bed to stroll over to him and rub up against his leg.

"Shameless!" I muttered.

Lord Farleigh raised an eyebrow. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Nothing."

"Oh." One corner of his mouth twitching, he sauntered closer, Lucky following him like a lapdog. "I thought you had said something."

"No, nothing," I assured him.

He sauntered still closer and closer until he stood right in front of my bed, looking down at me. His eyes bored into mine.

"How are you feeling, Miss McKinney?"

Hot. Really hot, and getting hotter.

"Quite well, your Lordship," I said. "Thank you."

"Any discomfort?"

I shifted. Not the kind you're talking about...

"Shut up!" I hissed, under my breath. Why couldn't that inner voice of mine ever be quiet?

"I beg your pardon?" One of his arrogantly aristocratic eyebrows rose.

"N-not you, my Lord. I didn't mean you."

"I am glad to hear it. Now, let me ask again: do you still feel any discomfort?"

"I still itch a bit in one or two places," I answered, truthfully. "But I'm sure that'll take care of itself soon enough."

"I'm sure it will."

"What about you?" I challenged. "What have you been up while I have been lounging about in bed? Have you found out who was behind the attack yet?"

"Oh yes." His eyes glittered dangerously, and the curve of his mouth became cruel and ruthless. I knew what that expression meant.

"So it was Sir Jasper?"

"Indeed it was, the—"

There followed a list of expletives most unbecoming to a member of the British Aristocracy. When he was finished, I couldn't resist smirking up at him. "My, my, my Lord. You seem to have picked up a few new words since we first met."

His face, unmoving, didn't give away a thing. "Apparently."

"I believe there even might have been one or two American swear words in there."

"Possibly. Your countrymen seem inordinately talented at inventing words that make your ears want to explode."

"Yep," I agreed, filled with national pride. "That's the USA, all right."

Suddenly, though, I remembered what we had been talking about, and the proud smile drained from my face.

"About the attack..."

"It all must have been meticulously planned," Lord Farleigh told me. "They had three vans standing by, painted in dull black so they wouldn't be seen at night. From the tracks they left, I gather they set up lookouts all around the stables and then—" his face twisted in hate, "they sent in a team to mutilate my horse."

Suddenly, his face softened again, and he sat down on the edge of the bed, gazing down at me intently.

"The only thing they didn't count on was you. They probably thought you would be fast asleep by then, or too afraid to go out when you heard noises." A smile spread over his face. The smile was full of triumph and pride and warmth, and it made me glow inside to know it was for me. "I bet they have never been so wrong before in their lives."

"Did you get them?" I asked. The last few days had been too peaceful to think about those men. But now I suddenly wanted to know—savagely.

"Do you mean did I catch them, or did my bullets hit?" he inquired.

"Both."

"To the first—no. To the seconds—" A fierce light lit his steel-blue eyes. "Judging from the red stains I found on the ground, several of my bullets must have hit. Several of these nefarious gentlemen will remember that night in years to come, when their old wounds hurt in the winter."

"And Sir Jasper?" I demanded. "How are we going to make him hurt?"

He raised an eyebrow. "You know... you and I think astonishingly alike sometimes."

"Can we shoot him?"

"Hm... I think, on the whole, it would be impolitic. He is the Queen's second cousin thrice removed."

"What about the law? Can we sue him?"

"I did mention that he is the Queen's second cousin thrice removed, didn't I?"

"Which means...?"

"No. We can't. Well, we could, technically, but her Majesty would be most displeased."

"Damn!"

"My sentiments exactly."

"Besides, he has been frustratingly thorough. There is absolutely no evidence whatsoever linking him to the crime."

"But we know he did it!"

"True. Unfortunately, however, Miss McKinney, that is not going to convince a judge."

Sighing, I slid my hand to the place at my waist where, normally, my trusted knife hung. "I really despise the modern judicial system!"

He nodded. "I couldn't agree with you more, Miss McKinney. Back in the early Middle Ages, things were much more sensibly organized. In those days, I could simply have raided Sir Jasper's lands, set fire to his manor and slaughtered his cattle."

I sighed, melancholy for the glorious days I had never seen. "That sounds wonderful."

Reaching out, he took my hand, and squeezed it, gazing deep into my eyes. "And it wouldn't even have been for Silver Star's sake. I would have done it all for you."

I melted into the pillows. Suddenly, I didn't feel as if I hated him, really, anymore. His hand around mine felt incredibly strong and warm, and his eyes were so deep...

"That's so sweet of you!" I breathed.

"I would have bound and gagged him, and hung him from the gibbet by his toes."

"What's a gibbet?"

"It's a kind of gallows, from which they used to hang criminals in iron cages as a warning for the populace—dead or alive." He squeezed my hand, and leaning forward, caressed my cheek with one finger. "He would have hung there for days, for what he did to you. I might have let him rot."

"Lord Farleigh! That's..."

"Horrible?"

"...the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."

He laughed. I realized that I had never heard him laugh before. It was a beautiful sound, wild and raw and pure.

"Romantic, Miss McKinney? You have a very strange idea of romance."

"I'd say you have a very strange idea of justice." I smiled at him. "But I like it."

"Hm... yes, about that." Suddenly, he was serious again. "Justice... Hm. As I said, I doubt we'll be able to get that piece of vermin Sir Jasper in front of a judge. But..." A smile played around the corners of his mouth. "I know a much better way to get back at him. A way that will hurt him more than a thousand lawsuits."

An answering smile crept onto my face, and we looked into each other's eyes with amazing understanding for two people who couldn't stand each other.

"Ah." My smile widened into an evil grin. "I see."

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My dear homicidal maniacs,

As they say, revenge is a dish best served hot ;) Looking forward to our dear heroine getting back at the villain? I certaintly am! **rubs hands**

Cheers

Sir Rob