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the certainty aroused him undeniably.
    Mounting Percival, he glanced back toward the hunting cottage in the woods; it belonged to his family, but it had recently been put to another use . . . Oh, but he wished with all his heart that Miss Julianna Clare was ugly, her charms nonex istent, her beauty wilted and faded. He recalled how she’d leaped from the bed—straight into his arms—when she’d felt Maximilian beneath the covers. Why, she’d been practically crawling up his leg! A most disturbing sensation, that, he de cided almost irritably.
    He shifted on Percival’s back. Just thinking of her had a very physical effect. It made his blood swell heavy and thick between his thighs. Very odd, for Dane was a man who prided himself on being a master of his emotions. Considering his line of work, he had to be...
    Yet his mind continued to stray.
    He’d been right about her eyes. They were in credible. Not just blue, but sheer, brilliant cobalt. He had to remind himself that those brilliant eyes were not alight with passion, her mouth soft with yearning and seeking his. Instead they were gla cial and cold, her tongue as icy as a blast of wind from the most dreary winter skies. Considering her position, she’d been remarkably defiant. It was, he admitted reluctantly, a fascinating mix— both strength and delicacy.
    Yet, truth be told, he liked her spirit, her poise, the fact that her brain wasn’t stuffed with muslin. Under other circumstances ...He dismissed the notion almost immediately. The circumstances were what they were. There was no changing them. He was pragmatic, if nothing else, for Dane had learned long ago that wishful thinking was for fools. Yet patience was also his strongest virtue, for a less patient man could not do what he did. The waiting, thinking, trying to pre dict ...He had a temper, too, one that was rarely quick to arise, but dangerous when it did.
    He was also a man of action, and in this partic ular case, he would simply have to adapt. Cer tainly it wouldn’t be the first time! He reminded himself he was a man who could charm and ca jole and lie with ease, threaten and bully, capture and win . . . whatever he was called upon to do.
    He sighed. Of course he’d seen the way she shrank against the headboard. If she glimpsed a beast in him, well, that was well and good. If she was convinced he was dangerous, so much the better. And much as he’d have liked to have done precisely the opposite—kissed the lovely Ju-lianna’s sweet, pink lips until she melted against him in yielding trust and ardor, he would not.
    Nor did the lady need to know that his das tardly reputation as the Magpie far exceeded his deeds. He had a reputation to maintain. Not as a womanizer, but as a robber.
    For if Dane had learned anything throughout his adult life, it was this ...Fear could be a good thing. It kept one’s senses sharp and alert. Ah, yes, fear was good as long as it did not develop into a malignancy that obliterated all else and kept one from living .. . .
    Death—and dying—was the one inevitability in life. He had come to that realization on the battlefield at Waterloo, with bodies littered all around—a day that haunted him still. A day that would haunt him forever.
    Dying was the one thing he was afraid of.
    No one knew, of course. Dane defied it, decried it ...denied it.
    He was no hero. He was simply lucky.
    Ah, yes, death and dying terrified him. But that was his own cross to bear. His own private demon.
    His own private hell.
    Julianna’s heart was still slamming wildly against her ribs when the lock clicked. Her head had be gun to throb as well. The urge to rest her aching head in her hands and succumb to a good cry was almost overwhelming. But when Thomas had de serted her at the altar, she’d cried until there were no more tears left, until she was empty and dry. Tears had accomplished nothing then. Nor would they now.
    She had changed since then. She would not be weak. She must be strong.