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glass of port. First, let me fetch Chrissy's portmanteau. And do you have a barn or shelter where I can stable my horse? I changed mounts at the inn so this horse is not heated, but nonetheless, I hate to leave him standing out in this weather." There was a hint of warmth in his voice when he addressed Maria that was lacking when he had spoken to Leona. It was as if he addressed her from a position atop the castle curtain wall while she stood on the ground on the other side of a moat, far below him. The imagery made her squirm.
    "Of course, Mr. Deveraux," Maria tittered.
    Leona rolled her eyes.
    "Go around the cottage to the left. It's just beyond the kitchen wing. . . . What a handsome man your uncle is," Maria told Chrissy after he left.
    Sitting on a scarred and scratched wooden chair swinging her legs back and forth, the girl nodded happily. "He's the best!"
    Leona looked from one to the other, hysteria bubbling up. Chrissy was naturally biased in favor of her uncle. Maria admired any single male over the age of twenty. Worse, she insisted on evaluating those single males as potential husbands for her friend and employer. It would serve no purpose to tell Maria otherwise. For all her sweet, wistful nature, when she chose she could be like a horse with the bit between its teeth. Over the years Leona discovered it safer to ignore her friend's actions than to take umbrage. She just hoped Maria did not say or do anything of a matchmaking tenor in front of Mr. Deveraux. That could prove a further condemnation.
    Maria was right about one thing. There are times when duty does stand in the way of wisdom. She should have stayed abed today with the covers pulled up over her head!
    Sniffing and blowing her nose again, she settled back against the cushions of the sofa. Oh, if she could only get rid of the pounding in her head! She was glad there were no mirrors in the parlor. She would hate to catch a glimpse of herself, for she could well imagine what she would see: watery eyes, flushed face, red nose. Not at all the image of a gallant rescuer or heroine. Perhaps it wasn't to be wondered that Mr. Deveraux should suspect the worst. She sighed and took another sip of tepid tea.
    Mr. Deveraux returned moments later, stamping the ice from his boots. This time he removed his greatcoat and allowed Maria to hang it on a hook by the door.
    He held out the portmanteau to his niece. "Here you are, poppet"
    "I'll go help her, Mr. Deveraux, and make sure she has everything she needs while you warm yourself by the fire and have your port"
    "Thank you, Miss Sprockett. I appreciate that" He watched the two of them mount the stairs. When they were out of sight he turned toward Leona and casually strolled into the parlor.
    Wary, Leona watched him, unaware when she pugnaciously thrust her chin forward.
    His eyelids drooped, obscuring but not hiding the icy aquamarine glitter in his eyes. "Well, Miss Leonard," he drawled, "now we may get down to the truth. How much do you desire?"
    "I beg your pardon?" Though stunned by his directness, she managed to retain a reasonable semblance of aloof calmness.
    He sat down across from her, crossing one booted leg over the other. He reached for his port glass and took a sip. He stared broodingly at the dark liquid. "How much do you desire for the return of my niece?" He looked up at her, a faint jeering smile on his lips. "In the nature of a reward, of course."
    "Mr. Deveraux—" she began repressively, then paused, raising her handkerchief to her nose as she fought back a sneeze, her eyes watering with the effort. This was not the time to show weakness! The threat passed, and she blinked to clear her eyes. "Mr. Deveraux, I do not desire, nor will I accept, a reward for what was only my duty," she said, her naturally throaty voice husky with her illness.
    "Duty, Miss Leonard?" His dark, rumbling voice was arrogantly mocking.
    "Yes, duty!" she seethed, then composed herself again. She studied the shape of her