"You've made it clear that you don't want this marriage," she said. "So before you go forward with this madness, consider—how much can you resist…day after day?"

He swallowed.

"Prepare yourself, darling." She turned, sauntering up the stairs with a hip-swinging gait that drew his riveted gaze. Over her shoulder, she said, "Because I'm about to make your life a living hell." Disappearing into her room, she slammed her door.

"More of the same," he muttered, wondering if his wedding might go smoother than his engagement.

The wily old man had done it.

Weyland had somehow convinced MacCarrick to marry his daughter.Felicitations all around.

Grey had been creeping around the house all morning, entertaining himself by dodging Quin and Rolley. Though Grey didn't blend as perfectly as he had in his prime, he'd been able to get close enough to gossiping servants to garner information.

Apparently, Miss Jane was having trunks packed for at least a month, but she couldn't provide a destination to help them select appropriate clothing to pack. And her lady's maid was being left behind, while her horse and her bow and quiver were not. Food preparations were being made—refreshments for the minister, who'd arrived early, but no wedding breakfast, as the newlyweds were setting off immediately after the simple ceremony.

The servants were sniffling at the news of the wedding and their mistress's departure. They all fawned over her. Not surprising. Weyland had told Grey and Hugh with obvious pride that Jane had always been generous with her wealth and her time, regardless of a person's station.

The servants were far from enamored of the groom, however. As one of them opined: "'E's frightening as 'oly 'ell and not near good enough for our Miss Jane."

This was true. Jane was so far out of his league it was laughable. MacCarrick was massive, stony, and intimidating; Jane was a celebrated beauty brimming with wit and charm.

And she was MacCarrick's sole weakness.

Grey had discovered that the night of Jane's coming-out ball—an event Weyland had insisted they attend. Grey had gotten MacCarrick drunk to lure him there, but Hugh had skulked outside, watching her through a window, his body tense. There'd been such longing in his eyes that Grey had realized the young Highlander was in love with the fair Jane.

A bear chasing a butterfly.

Grey had had to stifle a chuckle at the illogical match—even more so because Hugh hadknown he wasn't good enough for her, yet he'd been unable to let go of his feelings.

More shocking to Grey than Hugh's capitulation was that Weyland had somehow convinced Jane as well. How? Had he come clean about their occupations? About Grey's?

It had been years since Grey had felt genuine amusement, but this situation was boiling over with such rich irony. An assassin bade to protect a life, the life he held dearest in the world—hiswife's . And to protect her from abetter assassin.

All of them had to know that Grey was a much more accomplished killer than Hugh was a protector.

His amusement faded. He hadn't wanted this to be easy….

With Quin and Rolley hovering about them, and a sharp-eyed coach driver who had "Network" written all over him on the lookout, Weyland escorted Jane to the coach. Hugh followed, close behind her, behaving as if she had a target on her back.

She did. Grey had a clear shot from where he lurked this moment. Unfortunately, his aim was…impaired at present. If he missed, he'd be doing nothing but alerting them that he was in England. No, he would have to get closer.

At the coach door, Weyland held Jane's head in both hands and put his forehead to hers. Her face went stark white, her expression stunned, when her father kissed her cheek good-bye. "Papa?" she said in a breaking voice, as if she was just now realizing she was leaving him and her home.

Weyland forced himself away, pausing only to squeeze her shoulder and to give MacCarrick a hard look, letting him know what he was trusting him with. Then he left them, his own shoulders sagging like an old man's—like the old man he was becoming.

As Grey watched their actions and interactions in a kind of dazed captivation, he wondered if Weyland had told MacCarrick about the list to convince him. Probably.

Greydid have the list, and had threatened to release it, but if that information went public, Weyland would be dead directly. In Weyland's clandestine service, he'd routinely had to make cold-blooded decisions, dispatching men like Grey, Ethan, and Hugh to carry them out. If those numerous decisions were traced back to Weyland, it would be over.

That wasn't Grey's agenda, not yet—

When a sudden cold clamminess broke out on his neck and back, dampening his shirt, Grey reached into his jacket pocket. He'd anticipated that smoking would be more inconvenient in England than in some other countries, and had had his "medicine" prepared differently. He needn't have bothered. In London, opium was proving easier to find than tobacco and cheaper than gin.

But he liked the alteration. He chewed it, relishing it. The taste was like almonds that were slightly off. The texture was gummy.

My medicine.He snorted. His body had been ruined from injuries sustained in his profession, and laudanum had made the pain bearable. Upon noticing that Hugh limped himself, especially in the mornings, Grey had offered him some. The bastard had shook his head firmly.So bloody sanctimonious.

As he chewed, Grey's heartbeat slowed to a ponderous rhythm, though he felt more excitement than he could remember. Luckily, with this dosage there would be no hallucinations. He hoped….

Ah, and there went Jane, waking as if from a trance, beginning to gesture and fume even as MacCarrick was loading her into the coach. Stubborn Jane wasn't one to be led blindly, and she was no doubt demanding answers, ones that Hugh clearly wasn't providing. At the coach door, she stepped up, but turned to say something else to Hugh, putting their faces close. They both fell silent.

Grey had compared Hugh to a bear chasing a butterfly. The corners of Grey's lips tilted up. No, Hugh was better than that—he was like a wolf with a rabbit twitching her tail in front of him.

Sooner or later, the wolf would attack.

When Hugh shut the carriage door, he stood for just a second, exhaling deeply, as if getting his bearings. He ran a shaking hand over his face, no doubt disbelieving he'd wed the chit.

"Don't worry, Hugh," Grey softly assured him. "It shan't be for long."

In the past, if Jane had caught Hugh staring at her breasts, he'd always averted his eyes. In the coach for the last hour, he'd looked at her brazenly, studying her body, as if re-learning it, as if it was hisright to do so. It galled her. He could have had unfettered access to her body. She would have denied him nothing in the past.

The fact that she reacted to his heated gaze only infuriated her further. Why couldn't she have found him less attractive than she had years before? She'd always thought him the most beautiful man she'd ever seen—even before she'd spied on him shucking off his clothes to swim naked in the lake and had gazed in awe at his magnificent body. And now this new hardness about him was nearly irresistible.

A living hell, she'd promised him. She'd sounded so strong, so determined.

Now she waffled.

Stay married, her father had advised. She didn't want that, couldn't have that. She'd been forced to accept the alliance, but Hugh hadn't been and could have saved them both from this.

He'd refused.

Because Hugh had left her no way out, Jane felt he might as well have pushed her off a cliff. Yes, a nice, big shove, sending her flailing and screaming right over the edge.