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with one hand. “That should purify everyone it’s linked to.”
    “Everyone,” she said slowly.
    I blinked twice. “Yeah.”
    “So once you do it… we’ll see what a bad idea this is. And remember that we both have very good reasons to not get together.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And… we won’t be feeling
this
anymore. This… happy. This complete.”
    “No. We won’t.”
    Her voice cracked. “Dammit.”
    I hugged her tight. “Yeah.”
    “I want to tell you to wait a while,” she said. “I want us to be all noble and virtuous for keeping it intact. I want to tell you that if we destroy the belt, we’ll be destroying the happiness of God knows how many people.”
    “Junkies are happy when they’re high,” I said quietly, “but they don’t need to be happy. They need to be
free
.”
    I put the belt back into the car, turned my right hand palm-up, and murmured a word. A sphere of white-hot fire gathered over my fingers.I flicked a hand, and the sphere arched gently down into the car and began charring the belt to ashes. I felt sick.
    I didn’t watch. I turned to Murphy and kissed her again, hot and urgent, and she returned it frantically. It was as though we thought that we might keep something escaping from our mouths if they were sealed together in a kiss.
    I felt it when it went away.
    We both stiffened slightly. We both remembered that we had decided that the two of us couldn’t work out. We both remembered that Murphy was already involved with someone else, and that it wasn’t in her nature to stray.
    She stepped back from me, her arms folded across her stomach.
    “Ready?” I asked her quietly.
    She nodded and we started walking. Neither of us said anything until we reached the Blue Beetle.
    “You know what, Harry?” she said quietly, from the other side of the car.
    “I know,” I told her. “Like you said. Love hurts.”
    We got into the Beetle and headed back to Chicago.

Jo Beverley

    New York Times
bestselling author Jo Beverley is the author of thirty-two novels of historical romance, including
Something Wicked, Dangerous Joy, Tempting Fortune, An Unwilling Bride, A Lady’s Secret, Lord of Midnight, Lord Wraybourne’s Betrothed,
and many others. She’s the winner of five RITA Awards for best novel, and is a member of the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame. Her most recent novels are
The Secret Wedding, My Lady Notorious, The Secret Duke,
and
The Stolen Bride.
She lives with her family in England.
    Here she tells the story of a man wooing a very reluctant maid—with his life and the lives of all his relatives in the balance, all doomed to die if he can’t overcome her resistance. Which is
not
going to be easy.

The Marrying Maid
1
    St James’s Park, London, 1758
    I T WAS AS if a new song entered his world, or a new taste, or a new sense—and yet one instantly recognized.
    Rob Loxsleigh turned to look around the park, striving to make the movement casual to his chattering companions, so noisy in their silks and lace, but already fading under the power of his new awareness.
    There.
    He smiled, with delight but with surprise.
    The woman in gray? The one strolling through the park at the side of another woman just as ordinary, wearing a plain gown with little trimming and a flat straw hat?
    She was his destined bride?
    He’d been told he’d know, and for years he’d sought the unignorable. Sometimes, with a particularly pretty girl or fascinating woman, he’d tried to believe his desire meant that his quest was over. A kiss had quickly proved him wrong.
    Now, however, he
knew
. She alone seemed real in an unreal world and his body hummed with a symphony of need, not just desire, but a hunger for everything she would bring.
    Now, within weeks of disaster, Titania had sent his marrying maid.
    . . . .
    A PRICKLE ON the neck.
    When Martha Darby turned, she saw a man looking at her. A London beau in silk and lace with powdered hair and a sword at his side. A peacock in company with