Captivated

He should have been warned by the lack of smoke trailing out of the chimney pipe in the thatched roof. He should have known that a cottage that appeared so utterly alone and desolate was just that. Being a military man, he should have noticed the fresh wagon tracks outside the cottage.

And he did. He merely attributed the lack of smoke coming out of the chimney to Abigail's exhaustion. And the wagon tracks only incited his hungerfor food. He had had nothing to eat since yesterday evening.

Stomach roiling, he burst inside the cottage.

Only to find emptiness.

The bedding had been ripped off the mattress. The floor near the sink was bereft of the hip bath.

For a second he wondered if he had gotten the wrong cottage.

One coastal cottage looked much like another. He could have gotten the wrong one…

But of course there was the cupboard barring the window. And the small trunk at the foot of the bed.

Abigail was gone.

Pain filled his chest; it took his breath away. For a second he wondered if he had caught pneumonia from the storm.

But then the pain was washed away in a flood of rage.

Damn her. She had planned it this way, from the moment he had introduced himself. While he had told her his full name, she had said her name was merely 'Miss Abigail.'She had known then that with the end of the storm she would be gone.

How could she walk away from him after what they had shared last night?

He had felt her pleasure.

She had felthis pleasure.

Damn her to hell, she had accepted him,all of him, his body, his past, his fantasy.

She had taken his pain and turned it into pleasure.

For the first time since Robert had killed theSepoy with a pair of drumsticks twenty- two years earlier, he felt like crying. Bawling like the gullible thirteen-year-old boy he had once been, forever searching for an easier way to live.

Fool that he was, he had allowed Abigail to become more than his fantasy woman. She had become a part of his soul.

Whilehe had given her the weapon that she needed to sever the union. Ladies might dally with men raised on the streets of London, but they didnot marry them.

No wonder she had fled. Last night he had asked her if she accepted himand she had said yes. No doubt when she had awakened alone, she had expected him to return with a preacher.

Angrily he jerked at the lid of the trunk.

It was locked.

He kicked it.

Only to burst a blister on his toe.

He hopped up and down.

Damn, damn, damn!

His hopping led him to the sink.

The hip tub was empty, propped up against the wall beside it. The water bucket sat in the sink. And the sponge…

Was gone.

He distinctly recalled placing that sponge inside Abigail.

Either she wore it still… or she had taken it with her.

And with the incongruous thought came reason.

He had left her at the crack of dawn to hunt down the cursed horse that had thrown him two nights ago. She had been curled against him, soft and replete.

He had thought to find the damned horse by the time she was awake. Instead, it had taken half the day.

The bargain had beeneverything for as long as the storm lasted.

If he had been Abigail, what would he have thought if he had awakened, alone, in a cold bed with sunshine pouring through the window?

Damn. Why hadn't he asked for her last name? Or even more importantly, where she lived?

But the old caretakers would know.

It took Robert three hours to locate the Thomass. He was met with stoic silence.

'Her didn' leave no address.' Mrs. Thomas's weathered eyes were full of hostility. 'I drove 'er to the train station an' that be that.'

Robert clung to his patience. 'Then give me her family name. You must have that information.'

'It 'pears to me, ye bein' 'er mister, ye should know that yerself,' Mr. Thomas said craftily.

Short of beating the information out of the old man and woman, there was nothing Robert could do. Except try the train station.

Which was closed.

He returned to the cottage by the sea.

There were candles in the cupboardbut no butter; Mrs. Thomas's doing, clearing out the perishables. Lighting a candle, he contemplated the stripped bed and the trunk at the foot of it. Then, calmly, methodically, he retrieved the pistol from his saddlebag and blew the lock off.

The sponge lay on top ofThe Pearl, edition number twelve.

Blistering pain enveloped Robert's chest.

Grimly he picked up the sponge. It still smelled of brandy and hot, wet woman.

How does the sponge feel?

It feelsthere.

I'll take it out for you… After I soak you in hot water to relieve the soreness.

Bottomless brown eyes alight with amber fires stared out of the sponge.And what then, Colonel Coally?

Then I'll put it back in for you.

A wave of exhaustion rolled over him.

It was immediately followed by a rush of rage.

By leaving behind the trunk and the sponge Abigail had made clear her decision.

He should let her walk away. He should let her have her cold, passionless reality.

But he wasn't going to allow that.

Abigail would not get away from him that easily. He was a soldiera damned good oneused to tracking down far more wily quarry than a genteel lady.

He would find her. If not tomorrow, then the next day. Or the next.

Robert picked up the journal. It was marked by a dark wet circle.

And when he found her… he would know every sexual act that she had ever read about. That she had ever fantasized about.

The next morning found Robert a thoroughly educated man. Acting on impulse, he packed the twelve copies ofThe Pearl into his saddlebag.

Old man Thomas was tending a pig and a dozen squealing piglets when Robert reined in his horse.

'Miss Abigail left a trunk inside the cottage. Store itI'll arrange to send it to her later. Meanwhile, I will give you a sovereign if you will take me to the train station and feed and care for my horse until I return.'

Old man Thomas upturned a bucket of slops into the sty. 'Miss Abigail said we wus to throw that trunk away. Ain't no need to store it. 'Less you care to buy it, of course…'

Robert grimly dug out another sovereign.

'I don't suppose Mrs. Thomas remembers what town Miss Abigail was getting off at?'

The birdlike eyes fastened onto the gold. 'We don't keep track of renters. In an' out like flies, they are.'

'And of course you don't know the name or address of the owner of the cottage,' Robert remarked cynically.