Discipline is nothing more than avoiding consequences.

Ultimately, disciplined men will always prevail.

—Hugh Logan MacCarrick

Bringing a strong man to his knees is simple.

It's keeping him there that's the tricky business….

—Jane Farraday Weyland

The Kingdom of Morocco, North Africa

1846

"Take the shot, MacCarrick!" Davis Grey ordered yet again. His tone was harsh, but low enough not to give away their vantage, concealed high in the desolate headlands of the Atlas Mountains.

Hugh ignored him. This was to be his first kill, and he knew that once he committed this deed, there was no going back—a weighty decision for a man of only twenty-two years.

He would do it when he was bloody ready.

Taking his eye from the telescopic sight, Hugh released his rifle with one hand and ran his forearm over his face, wiping away the sweat and sand that stung his eyes like needles. Summer was upon them, and the surreal blue of the sky stretched relentlessly, unmarred by clouds. Hugh squinted against the light of a white, indistinct sun.

"Why in the hell are you hesitating?" Grey bit out. "It's noon." The sun was directly above, casting the fewest shadows of the day. Shadows mocked a gunman's truest aim.

Hugh didn't want to disappoint the older Grey, his mentor of sorts. Grey was Hugh's only real friend outside of the MacCarrick clan, and the only person Hugh would spend time with, apart from his brothers. And apart from an auburn-haired lass Hugh would kill for. He gave a bitter laugh, adjusting his rifle against his shoulder.

In a way, hewas killing for her.

To take out a stranger in cold blood was to cross a line. Which was what he wanted.

"Goddamn it, MacCarrick!" Grey yanked his own rifle and its detached refractor scope from his leather holster, assembling them. "It'll take us four more weeks to get a shot like this again."

That was true. The traitor knew he was marked for assassination for his treason and had been running for a month, before holing up in the abandoned Berber farm far below them. In this part of the world, even a battered, flat-roofed hut like the one below had a courtyard for a private oasis, and the man sat within it. He faced the courtyard's only entrance with a pistol in his lap and a shotgun by his side, yet he was unguarded from above.

The shot was clear, but both of them knew Grey could never hit a target so far away. Where Grey's preferred weapon was a blade, Hugh had been hunting and target-shooting since he'd been old enough to lift a rifle. Besides, Hugh wanted to act soon while the man was still alone. "I'll do it," Hugh grated, sliding a glance toward Grey. He refused to believe he saw excitement there in the man's expression. This was a job, a foul task. Grey couldn't enjoy this.

Hugh turned back and took a bead once more. The wind was light, but the target was more than a quarter of a mile away. The glare of the sun was an environmental factor, and the nearly four feet of his gun barrel were heated, as was the single bullet inside the chamber. He took all of this into account.

He stroked his forefinger over the trigger guard before placing his sensitive fingertip at the trigger, beginning a ritual he performed with every shot, almost unconsciously. With his other hand gripping the forestock, he rubbed his thumb twice over the wood, then froze halfway through an exhalation of breath.

The press of the trigger was smooth; the report was like a cannon boom in his ears, louder, for some reason, than all the times he'd shot while hunting.

Nearly two seconds later, the bullet pierced the man's forehead and cast him to the ground. Blood seeped out from the back of his head, soaking the gravel, and his legs twitched in death, stirring a cloud of dust at his feet.

It's done, then.

Hugh was done.

There again, he saw something like pleasure in Grey's eyes. "I've never seen anyone shoot like you, Scot." Grey slapped him on the back, then took a swig from the flask he always kept near, grinning against the opening.

All Hugh felt was disgust and a strange sense of relief.

They mounted up quickly, then rode hard down winding mountain trails. An hour after they reached the valley, they neared a village and slowed.

"When we get back to London," Grey began, still jovial, still excited, "I'm going to tell Weyland that you're ready to go out on your own."

Hugh's expression must have revealed his uneasiness with Grey's buoyant mood.

"Don't look at me like that, MacCarrick. You do this for as long as I have, and we'll see if some part of you doesn't come to love it."

Love it?Hugh shook his head and quietly said, "It's a job. Nothing more."

"Trust me." Grey's smile was knowing. "It'll be something more—when it's all you have…."

London, England

1856

Ahardened killer, denied his obsession for a decade.

That was what Edward Weyland was bringing back into his daughter's life with one cryptic message:Jane is in grave danger.

Since receiving Weyland's missive in France two days ago, Hugh had read and reread it with fingers gone white from clutching it in fury.

If anyone had dared to hurt her…

Now, after days, and nights, riding like hell was at his heels, Hugh had finally reached the Weyland town house. He slid down from his saddle and nearly toppled over, his legs gone boneless from so many hours on horseback. His mount was as winded as Hugh, its coat lathered and its barrel chest twitching.

As Hugh approached the side door, where he always entered, he encountered Weyland's nephew, Quinton Weyland—who also didwork for Weyland—sprawled along the stairs.

"Where's Jane?" Hugh demanded without preamble.

"Upstairs," Quin said, seeming preoccupied and even somewhat dazed. "Getting ready for…for her night out."

"She's safe?" When Quin nodded absently, relief sailed through Hugh. Over the hours alone on the road, his mind had conjured too many ways she could be ingrave danger . He'd prayed she hadn't been hurt, that he wasn't too late. Now that Hugh had been assured of her safety, the hunger and thirst he'd ignored for two days began to gnaw at him. "Who's watching her now?"

Quin answered, "Rolley's inside, and I'm trailing her tonight."

Rolley was Edward Weyland's butler. Most butlers in the exclusive enclave of Piccadilly were older with a hint of grandeur about them, denoting experience and the longevity of a family's fortunes. Rolley was in his mid-thirties, wiry, his nose shapeless from being broken so many times. His fingers were scarred from his incessant use of steel knuckles. Hugh knew the man would die for Jane.

"Is Weyland here?" Hugh asked.

Quin shook his head. "Not getting in till late. He said if you somehow managed to get here tonight, to tell you he wants to see you in the morning to give you all the details."

"I'm going in—"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why the hell no'?"

"For one thing, your clothes are covered with dirt, and your face looks like hell."

Hugh ran a sleeve over his cheek, remembering too late the jagged cuts marking his skin.

"For another, I'm not sure Jane would want to see you."