"I may be your wife, but I wish to be treated as an equal. Anyone can tell you I do not respond well to commands."

"You will respond to my commands, Phoebe. Or there will be bloody hell to pay."

He'd handled her badly.

Gabriel examined the conversation he'd had with Phoebe over and over again after he dismissed his valet. He poured himself a glass of brandy and began to pace back and forth across his bedchamber.

The bald truth was that he could not think of any other way that he might have dealt with the matter. He had seen the uncertainty in her eyes. Baxter had put doubts into her mind.

Gabriel knew he had to keep Phoebe away from Neil Baxter at all costs. The only way to do that was to forbid her to have anything to do with the man she had once thought was her own true Lancelot.

Unfortunately, Phoebe did not take orders well.

Gabriel's groin throbbed with a sudden, fierce need to possess her. He was consumed with a desperate urge to sink himself into her softness. When she gave herself to him in bed, he felt completely certain of her. During that hot, wet time when he was deep inside her, he knew she was his.

Gabriel stopped pacing and put down the brandy glass. He went to the connecting door and opened it.

Phoebe's room was shrouded in darkness. He took a step toward the canopied bed and frowned when he realized she was moving restlessly on the pillows. She was asleep, but she was making tiny little sounds of protest. He could sense the fear in her and knew at once that she was in the grip of another nightmare.

"Phoebe, wake up." Gabriel sat down on the edge of the bed, took hold of her shoulders, and shook her gently. "Open your eyes, sweet. You are dreaming again."

Phoebe's lashes fluttered. She came awake with a gasp and levered herself up on her elbows. For an instant her eyes were wild in the shadows. Then she focused slowly on him. "Gabriel?"

"You're safe, Phoebe. I'm here. You were having another nightmare."

"Yes." She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. "It was the same one I had at Devil's Mist after I swam out of the cavern. I was in a dark place and two men were reaching out for me. Each said he could save me. But I knew one of them was lying. I had to choose."

Gabriel pulled her into his arms. "It was only a dream, Phoebe."

"I know."

"I'll help you forget it, just as I did last time." He eased her back down onto the pillows. Then he stood up.

She did not protest when he unfastened his dressing gown and dropped it carelessly on the floor. Her eyes were solemn and watchful as she took in the sight of his heavily aroused body. But she did not resist when he pulled back the covers and slid in beside her.

"Come here, my sweet." Gabriel reached for her, anxious to rekindle the desire that always flared so easily between them. He needed to know that she would respond to him tonight as she always had in the past.

A deep sense of relief shot through Gabriel as Phoebe's arms went slowly around him. He touched the soft swell of her breast, willing himself to take his time with her, wanting her to become as aroused as he was.

It was hopeless. The frantic urge to possess her overwhelmed all Gabriel's intentions. His willpower collapsed under the storm of driving need that was exploding inside him. He had to know that she was still his.

"Phoebe, I cannot wait."

"Yes. I know. It's all right."

He was on fire. The blood was roaring in his veins as Gabriel parted Phoebe's legs and lowered himself between her silken thighs. He used his hand to fit himself to her and then, with a husky, wordless exclamation, he surged into her.

Phoebe sucked in her breath, her body instinctively tightening around him. Gabriel looked down into her face and saw that her eyes were closed. He wanted her to look at him, but he could not find the words to ask her to do so. Nor was there any time to search for them. All that mattered now was slaking this overpowering need that raged within him.

He began to move quickly, driving again and again into Phoebe's snug warmth. She took him into her, wrapping him close, making him a part of herself. He reached down to find the small, sensitive bud of delicate female flesh.

"Gabriel!"

Her soft cry put him over the brink. Every muscle in his body tightened in the penultimate moment. He arched his back and gritted his teeth and then he was pouring himself endlessly into her.

She accepted all that he gave her, holding him close as he shuddered above her. He felt her tiny convulsions ripple through her and then he was lost.

Gabriel lay awake for a long while afterward. He gazed into the shadows and put his mind to the task of figuring out how best to protect Phoebe from Baxter.

Phoebe arrived at her parents' town house promptly at eleven o'clock the following morning. She knew her father's habits well. She was certain she would find him hard at work on his latest mathematical device.

He was exactly where she thought he would be. When she was ushered into the study, she found him fussing over a large mechanical contraption composed of wheels, gears, and weights.

"Good morning, Papa." Phoebe untied her bonnet strings. "How is your mechanical calculation machine coming along?"

"Very nicely indeed." Clarington glanced at her over his shoulder. "I have hit upon a way of using punched cards to supply the instructions for the various calculations."

"Punched cards?"

"Very similar to the ones used by the Jacquard looms to establish weaving pattern."

"I see." Phoebe walked over and gave him a quick hug. "That is all very interesting, Papa. But you know I was never much good with sums and calculations."

"Probably just as well." Clarington snorted. "Got enough of that sort of talent in the family as it is. I wonder if Wylde would find this engine useful in his shipping business."

"I would not be surprised. Papa, I must talk to you." Phoebe sat down. "I have come to ask you a very important question."

Clarington looked wary. "I say, now, if this is a question about married life and your duties as a wife and that sort of thing, you will have to talk to your Mama. Not my field, if you see what I mean."

Phoebe waved that aside impatiently. "I am adjusting tolerably well to married life. That is not what I wished to discuss with you."

Clarington relaxed. "Well, then, what was it you wanted to ask me?"

Phoebe leaned forward determinedly. "Papa, did Neil Baxter leave England three years ago because you paid him to go? Did you buy him off because you did not want him making an offer for me?"

Clarington's bushy brows bunched together in irritation. "I say, who the devil told you that?"

"Wylde told me that."

"I see." Clarington sighed. "I suppose he had a good reason."

"That is not the point. Papa, I demand to know the truth."

"Why?" Clarington asked, his gaze turning shrewd. "Because Baxter is back in England?"

"Partly. And partly because I felt very guilty for a long time after I learned of his death. I told myself that if he had not gone off to make his fortune so that he would be able to ask for my hand, he would not have been killed."

Clarington gazed at her in astonishment. "Good God. What rubbish. I had no notion you were harboring such thoughts."

"Well, I was."

"Utter nonsense. My only regret is that the bloody bastard didn't have the decency to stay dead," Clarington muttered. "But that's Baxter for you. Went out of his way to be difficult."

"Papa, I must know if it's true that you gave him money to stay away from me."

Clarington shifted uncomfortably and tinkered with a mechanical wheel. "Sorry, my dear, but it's true." He glowered at her. "Not that it matters now. You're safely married to Wylde, and that's that, eh?"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Phoebe demanded.