"And would your good lady like a dish of tea with that, sir, or perhaps a glass of sherry?" The woman bobbed a curtsy, looking helpful.

"Oh, there's no need to wait upon me. I can perfectly well be served in the taproom. I'm so hungry, I could eat a horse."

Judith Davenport swept smiling into the room. She was still putting up her hair as she walked, blind fingers twisting the ringlets into a knot, pushing in securing pins. She wore no jacket and her lawn blouse was carelessly opened at the neck, her breasts lifted by her upraised arms. "Marcus, I was thinking…" Her voice died as she took in the room's other inhabitants, all of whom had turned the color of beetroot. Her hands dropped to her sides.

Had she heard the voices? How could she not have heard them as she came down the stairs? The world spun on its axis as Marcus faced what had happened and its immutable consequence. He'd once found a poacher caught in the steel jaws of a man trap. His sick horror at the man's plight was what he now felt for himself as the vicious jaws of his own trap clamped. He had no choice… no choice whatsoever. Adventuress she may be, but he'd taken her virginity and knew she was no whore… not unless he made her one.

"You know my wife, of course, Francis," he said. He crossed to the door and took her hand, drawing her into the room. "My dear, are you also acquainted with Viscount Whitby and George Bannister?"

"We have met, I believe," Judith replied distractedly, her head spinning as she took in the disaster. These men were all prominent members of London Society. The story of this encounter would be on everyone's lips and she'd never be able to enter the hallowed portals of the ton… and neither would her brother. And her father would go unavenged. Marcus's fabrication was her only protection at the moment, and she had to go along with it until she could think things through clearly.

"Devil take it, Marcus, but you're a dark horse!" Francis exclaimed. "Secrets, eh? Pray accept my congratulations, Lady Carrington."

"Yes, indeed. This calls for a bottle," Bannister announced. "My good woman, champagne."

"Well, I don't know as we've got any, sir," the flustered woman said. "I'll go and ask Berthold." She hastened out of the room and a short silence fell. The puzzlement of the other men was evident, although they were trying politely to disguise it.

"So, you're taking Lady Carrington to Quatre Bras?" Whitby said, raising his tankard of ale to his lips.

"In the manner of a honeymoon," Marcus agreed without blinking. "A little unusual, but then the times are not exactly accommodating." His smile was a trifle twisted.

"Quite so," Lord Francis said.

"What news of the battle?" Marcus changed the subject abruptly.

"As expected, he's attacking Bliicher at Ligny and Wellington at Quatre Bras."

"Why did he wait so long to attack? He's left himself but five hours until sunset."

"According to our agents, he didn't make his usual early-morning reconnaissance and thought he was only facing Bliicher's one corp at Ligny. He didn't realize Ziethen's forces had come up in support, so he didn't see any need to hurry," Francis replied.

"But despite the delay, we're being mangled on both fronts," Whitby said somberly. "Wellington's taking very heavy losses at Quatre Bras and we've orders to call up reinforcements at Nivelles."

"Here's a nuncheon, my lord, and a bottle of Ber-thold's best claret.'" The innkeeper's wife came in with a heavily laden tray. "I hope it'll do. We've no champagne, sir."

"It will do very well," Carrington reassured. He drew out a chair at the table. "Judith, come and sit down. Gentlemen, will you join us?"

"Thank you, no, Carrington. Beg you'll excuse us, ma'am." Whitby bowed formally. "Fact is, had nuncheon some time ago."

"It is rather late in the day," Judith managed to say.

She took the chair Marcus held for her, casting him a quick glance as she did so. His expression was impassive, his eyes unreadable.

"May I carve you some ham?" he asked with a distant courtesy.

"Thank you, sir." A pink tinge touched her cheekbones.

"A morsel of chicken also?"

"Please." She dropped her eyes to the tablecloth, feeling as if she had committed some dreadful crime for which retribution waited in the wings.

Wretched, she concentrated on her food and left the conversation to the men. The steady booming of the guns continued until the sound was abruptly overtaken by a swelling roar from outside. The roar gradually separated itself into shouts, screams, and pounding feet.

Lord Francis ran to the inn doorway, followed by the others. A torrent of humanity, some on horseback, some in gigs and dog carts, but most on foot, poured down the lane toward Brussels. Women carried babies, small children clinging to their skirts, stumbling on the hard mud-ridged road; the men were armed with whatever they had been able to grab in their haste: staves, knives, a blunderbuss.

"What the devil?" Marcus exclaimed.

"Looks like a rout," Whitby said. "Wellington must be retreating."

"Napoleon's not beaten him so far," Marcus said. "I can't believe he'll do it this time."

"Oh, sirs, they say the army is retreating!" Berthold, the innkeeper, came running in from the road, where he had been chasing after information among the fleeing crowd. "Wellington's falling back on Brussels. The Prussians are retreating to Wavre."

"Hell and damnation!" George Bannister grabbed up his hat. "We'd best be about our business."

"Berthold!" Marcus bellowed as the innkeeper ran for the door again. "Have my nag put to the cart." He strode to the stairs leading to the bedchamber and took them two at a time. Judith stood in the now-empty taproom, listening to the roar of humanity outside. Then she ran up the stairs after Marcus.

He was shrugging into his coat, checking the contents of his pockets. He glanced up as she came in and said curtly, "I'm going to Quatre Bras. You'll stay here. I'll pay our shot when I come back for you."

"You seem to be forgetting that / was going to Quatre Bras, too," she said, swallowing the lump that seemed to be blocking her throat. With what was happening at the moment, it was hardly feasible for them to discuss the personal mess they were in, but the coldness of his voice was surely unwarranted. And she couldn't believe he intended simply to take off and leave her stranded, cooling her heels in a lonely inn, not knowing anything of what was happening.

"Well, you're not going now," he said in clipped accents. "It's too dangerous with that horde out there, and you'll only be in the way."

Judith lost her temper. It was a relief to do so since it banished her feeling of helplessness and concealed for the time being the apprehension that something very hurtful lurked around the next corner of her relationship with Marcus Devlin.

"That's my horse and my cart," she said with furious emphasis. "And I'll have you know, Lord Carrington, that I go where I please. You have no right to dictate to me." She snatched up her jacket and gloves. "If you wish to hitch another ride in my cart, then you're welcome to do so. Otherwise, I suggest you find your own transport."

Before he could respond, she had turned and run from the room. With a muttered oath, Marcus grabbed up his whip and sprang after her. He reached the stable-yard on her heels. Judith leaped onto the driver's seat of the cart, standing ready as ordered, and snapped the reins. Marcus grabbed the bridle at the bit and held the horse still.

"You're behaving like a spoiled child," he said. "A battlefield is no place for a woman. Now get down at once."

"No," Judith snapped. "You really are the most arrogant, high-handed despot! I told you, I go where I please and you don't have any right of command."