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air.
    "Your tongue isn't sharp enough." Paris laughed.
    "Mine is," asserted Shannon.
    "Yes, sweetheart, but you always want to do things your own way. You can't be trusted to follow orders, can you? Besides, I'll need you here to receive my prisoner."
    "What exactly is this piece of business?" she demanded.
    "A kidnapping for ransom."
     
    Paris had to restrain himself all week: A dozen times he wanted to rescue the Lamont girl before she committed herself to the disastrous marriage, but he knew Abrahams would never pay a ransom for a female, unless that female was his lawful wife. A wedding celebrated in front of Edinburgh's leaders of society would obligate him to retrieve a stolen bride at almost any cost.
    The banqueting room at Holyrood Palace was hot and overcrowded. Resplendent in violet-colored velvet doublet ablaze with a crest outlined in emeralds, Paris looked a slave to fashion. The lovely young bride, smiling shyly, seemed lost in the vast assemblage of unfamiliar faces. Then she saw him, and her eyes lit in recognition. Her heart fluttered in her breast as he swept her from head to foot with his piercing green eyes. A quick finger to the lips and a negative shake of his head warned her not to speak to him. Anger rose up in her, and a strange desire to deliberately disobey him began to grow, but to her consternation she found that she dare not goad him. Then Lord Lennox was introducing him to Abrahams.
    "I am honored by your presence, Your Lordship," Abrahams greeted him smoothly. "My only regret is that we've never done business together. Perhaps now that we have met we can rectify that situation."
    Paris lifted his glass and toasted lightly. "To our future dealings." He moved off into the throng so he could study Abrahams. He was small, in his mid-fifties, with a distinctly evil air. The formal black wedding attire made him seem most sallow and sinister. His eyes were hooded and shrewd, and Paris realized he would have to be sharp to come out ahead in any transaction with the man. Then Paris turned his attention to the bride. He caught his breath at the loveliness before him. He cursed himself for never giving her a thought. In the two years since he had seen her, womanhood had blossomed. The curve of her cheek against the cream lace made his heart beat thickly, and the Titian tresses, just the color of his own, sent desire flooding through him. Her round breasts swelled temptingly above the neck of the wedding gown, and as he lifted his eyes from her bosom, he got the full blaze of her amethyst gaze. They looked at each other, her eyes darkened to violet, her lashes lowered and her shoulders drooped. He reluctantly broke his gaze. and made his way over to Venetia, who was holding court of her own. "I'm leaving now. Remember your instructions."
    When he climbed in the casement window on the third floor of the mansion on Princes Street, the velvet and jewels were gone. He wore a rough leather jacket with his weapons in his belt. Leather jackboots came halfway up his thighs, and all identifying badges and devices had been removed. He grinned as he realized he had picked his moment well, for the young bride was just being helped to remove the heavy lace wedding-gown. As the motherly maid lifted off the garment, a button caught upon one of Tabby's curls, and the servant clucked and gently untangled her. She stood in exquisitely embroidered pantalets and gasped as a tall figure swung into the chamber. Her maid, Mrs. Hall, stepped protectively between them, ready to do battle for her newfound charge. She was a small, plump woman with gray hair and merry eyes, but they held a fierce challenging light at the moment.
    Paris laughed. "Gently, mother. The lady knows me.'
    "I know you for a damned rogue," she hissed, and he was pleased that she had remembered his nickname.
    Mrs. Hall spoke up. "Ye canna come in here. 'Tis my young mistress's wedding night. Her husband is impatiently awaiting her this-very moment."
    Tabby,