Rain pattered against the windows while he considered her brave speech and fought to control his anger. Perhaps all was over and done with; perhaps now the matter would be closed. "You didn't learn anything incriminating."
"Incriminating to whom? We both know you're not at fault. But no, I learned nothing to incriminate anyone here. Not even Vincent."
"Vincent?" he snapped. "Why should you mention him?"
He saw her swallow hard. "He was the only one new to the staff. The only one without a long-standing loyalty to your Uncle Harold. The only one, in fact, who had a reason to resent him."
The anger surged anew. "Whatever do you mean by that?"
"Your uncle owned him, Tris. Don't you think that could have made a difference? After you freed the man and then found yourself in dire straits, haven't you ever wondered if it's possible he considered murder a way to both revenge himself and solve your problem?"
He hadn't. Not for the barest moment. "I'd sooner believe I murdered my uncle myself. Just because the man has dark skin—"
"This has nothing to do with his skin." Outrage brought color back to her cheeks. "I cannot believe you would think that of me. I happen to like Vincent very much. We had a nice chat. He cares about you—"
"Then why? Why would you accuse—"
"I've accused him of nothing! Shall you fault me for simply considering the possibility? For looking everywhere I can to find someone to blame so we can clear your name and get out of this mess?"
He realized they'd both raised their voices, but he didn't give a damn whom they might wake. "I do not want this mess, as you put it, stirred up again. I thought I'd made that perfectly clear. Do you understand me this time? Or do I need to write it down on a goddamn piece of paper?"
"What are you afraid of, Tris? That you'll find yourself a murderer? I know that won't happen." She looked beautiful in her righteous fury, her cheeks red as rubies now, her hair escaping its pins and curling about her face. "All I wanted was to ask around and see what I might turn up."
"And all I want is for you to stop!"
"Well, then, you have your wish," she said, suddenly sounding defeated. "I've talked to every single person on this estate, and no one had anything the least bit helpful to contribute. There's no one else to ask." She drew a deep breath, her breasts heaving with the effort. "It's over," she added in a voice so dead and quiet it was startling following all the shouting.
The silence reigned for a space of time, stretching awkwardly between them.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. "But I confess I'd do it again. It's over, but if it wasn't, I'd do anything I could to find a way to clear your name."
He couldn't summon any more anger—what he felt edged closer to guilt. After all, it was his fault—his sleepwalking, his failure to leave her room—that had landed them in this impossible marriage.
Maybe a tiny part of him had hoped she'd be successful. Hoped she'd find a way to erase the stain on the Nesbitt name. Hoped she'd prove able to keep that stain from spreading to her own family.
Of course, a much larger part of him—the part that was scared stiff of what she might have found—overshadowed that tiny part.
But it was there. Maybe.
"I'm glad it's over, then," he said. "And I'm sorry, too." He wasn't quite sure what he was sorry for. Given the chance, he'd try to stop her all over again. But he did feel sorry. And guilty. And a little angry still, and he didn't know what else.
She sighed and moved the few inches between them to lay her head on his chest. "You're damp."
"I had to ride home through the rain."
She snuggled closer anyway. "I guess we've had our first fight."
"I didn't know you had it in you," he said, wrapping his arms around her. "You're always so composed."
"When something matters to me as much as this does—as much as you do, as much as my family—I will fight for it all the way."
"I'll keep that in mind," he said dryly.
She felt warm and yielding in his arms. Soft and alluring. Though his emotions were still running high, he'd never been able to resist her pull.
Never.
His hands wandered down lower. "Are you wearing drawers?" he whispered.
"I don't own any drawers," she murmured against his chest, wiggling her bottom against his hands in a way that kicked his pulse up a notch. "If you want me to wear them, you're going to have to hire a seamstress to make them."
"Bring another servant here for you to question?" he said bitterly. "I think not."
She tilted her chin up to see him. "Was there a seamstress here at the time?"
She looked dead serious, which he found less than thrilling. Very much less than thrilling. Whatever had calmed in him flared again. "I thought you said you were finished."
"Only because there's no one left to interview."
"It's over. You said it was over."
"If there was another person here at the time—"
He silenced her with a kiss. Exasperated, he could think of nothing else to do.
He half expected her to protest, but she opened her mouth instead, immediately inviting him in. Their tongues tangled in a dance that made heat flash through him. He backed her toward the bed. She smelled like heaven and tasted like sin, and he would never get enough of her.
He was mad for her. It seemed he'd spent his entire life mad for her. He wanted to bury himself deep inside her, and there was just enough anger swirling in him to make him too selfish to treat her like the almost-virgin she was.
Their mouths still bonded, his fingers worked frantically to unfasten the back of her dress as he inched her
