After listening to Anna's story, Matthew had a feeling Richard Carlisle was involved in Mary's disappearance. He hadn't told Mary of Richard's attempt to have him followed because he knew she wanted her life—their life together—to move on from the nightmare of her engagement to Richard. Short of traveling to Richard's London office to warn him to stay away from Mary, Matthew had done everything he could think of to protect her from Richard's looming presence. Irritated that Robert did not share his concerns, Matthew felt Richard posed a real threat to Mary. Richard's hair-trigger temper made itself known many times at the Abbey—even Robert couldn't turn a blind eye to the bruises Richard's grip left on Mary's upper arms when something she said or did displeased him—but Robert, ever the gentleman, dismissed his heir's concerns labeling Richard's actions "water under the bridge." So, after speaking with Carson, Anna, and the outside staff, Matthew insisted Mary never travel alone, even into the village or on the Abbey's grounds and also insisted she tell him if Richard attempted to contact her in any way. Thankfully, so far, he had worried for naught. Richard appeared to have disappeared from Mary's life; however, Matthew still was wary. Now, his fears rose to the surface, and he grabbed his army revolver and his coat and headed on foot to Haxby, telling his mother and Anna to remain at Crawley House until he returned.

When he was halfway to Haxby's long, winding drive, Matthew could see the house in the distance. His mind was jumbled with possibilities. What if Mary had gone to Haxby willingly? How angry would she be when he showed up breathless and irate? Was Richard even there? Had Mary simply entered a friend's automobile in order to enjoy a simple respite from the day's activities? Sir Anthony Strallan owned a stable of Rolls Royces. Maybe he had offered her a ride. No matter the result, Haxby was the first place Matthew had to look. At this point, he had no idea where else to go. He thought he saw a brief flash at Haxby's front door—a fleeting glimpse, really—that looked as if someone had opened and closed the door quickly. Maybe someone was home, and he could get some answers.


Barely able to breathe because of Richard's grip on her hair and her own struggle to get away from him, Mary staggered and fought as he pulled her toward the staircase. Panting with exertion, he reached the steps and glared at her as she continued to resist his efforts. She had no intention of letting him win easily. Finally, he grabbed the pistol from his waistband and stuck it under her chin. I cannot bear this. I cannot survive what he will do to me. How do I stop this? Oh, God, how do I end this? "Now, my dear, are you going to come with me willingly, or am I going to have to do some more convincing? Believe me, a veritable garden of delights awaits us upstairs. You won't ever want to leave."

"Richard," she sputtered, her words coming in gasps, "you can't be serious. You can't think for one minute that you'll get away with this." Despite his superior physical strength, she resolved to fight him to the end, if necessary.

"On the contrary, my dear…." Richard looked to the top of the stairs and began to visualize her willingness to disrobe for him, kneel at his feet, and pleasure him in ways he'd been dreaming of since he met her. His eyes glazed over as he remembered the settee with its red silken ropes just waiting for her lithe body to lean over so he could pound into her and relieve the growing pressure inside his fevered brain. He visualized her splayed on the bed, aching for him to devour her in ways he had only read about in the novels he read for his private pleasure. The cuffs on the wall awaited her slender wrists and trim ankles. She would beg him to use her as he wished and obey his every command. He had a drawer-full of toys just waiting for her—whips, glass rods, vibrators, collars, straps, and such—that he was impatient to employ. He also had her wardrobe ready that he was certain guaranteed total pleasure for them both. His mind churned with his lewd visions. The intensity of his desire for her had not subsided since he met her at Cliveden; the culmination of that desire awaited him at the top of the staircase.

His reverie was broken, however, when Mary gathered the strength to try to get away as his grip on the gun relaxed and it lowered from her chin. Unfortunately, Richard had not released his grip on her hair, so when she tried to run, he jerked her back toward him. She let out another piercing scream before he began to ascend the stairs with her in tow. The anger and cold dread that ran through her veins was intensified by what she knew Richard was capable of. She had withstood all sorts of troubles in her life, but she never had faced what awaited her at Richard's hands. Nevertheless, she would fight. She would never let him win.


Matthew steeled himself as he started down the drive to Haxby. He had stopped running so as not to arouse suspicion. He placed the revolver in his coat pocket and smoothed his hair. He hoped he had overreacted when Anna had shared her fears about Mary's safety. He thought of Mary's independence, how she tended to face obstacles with strength and resolve. He knew she was not one to take chances, so the odds of her agreeing to meet with Sir Richard willingly were beyond Matthew's comprehension. Maybe he was just letting his imagination run away with him. She would have a perfectly plausible explanation, wouldn't she? It occurred to him he would have to devise a story excusing his appearance at Haxby if his hunch were wrong. Then he heard what could only be described as a bloodcurdling scream coming from inside the house. His heart began to pound; he knew it was she. Pulling the gun from his pocket, he began to run.