Tempest ran as though her life depended on it. She ran from the room and tried to remember where the front door was, or the door to a terrace. She had no idea where to go, only that she was running for her life.

Voices clamored around her, sounding for any second as though she would be caught. Her breath hitched as she overheard some of the hooting cries.

"Get her and hold her down!"

"Tourville won't be the only one to have his fun with her!" shouted another voice.

"First one to catch her wins fifty guineas from me, boys!"

Sounds of glass shattering and furniture being overturned accompanied the cries. It was romp turned lynching.

"There she is! Someone grab her!" a voice cried.

Something struck her faintly on the back, another glass shattered against the wall next to her with a loud cacophony. Tempest did not dare to turn around; she lifted her skirts and ran.

Finally she emerged from a hallway and ran to the front door, pulling fiercely at the handle. It didn't budge. With a choked cry of disbelief, she saw that the door was locked from the inside, as was the case with older, larger houses.

Tempest turned to run into next room, remembering that the saloons had been connected. Surely she could escape out a window. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in an upstairs room.

But, turning, she saw that her way was blocked by a leering man, and whirling to her left, the man she vaguely recalled as Lord Delaney advanced on her.

Heart in her throat, Tempest sprinted in the only direction away from them, straight up the grand staircase.

At the first landing, though, arms caught her and pinned her down. Tempest struggled and bit down on anything she could manage, screaming as loud as she could. Surely the servants would help her. Surely Lord Marchmont and Lord Nigel-but they were friends of Saintignon's and he was capable of so much more fury.

Tempest continued to struggle as rough hands cuffed her neck and held her to the rug. Several hands reached out. There was a ripping sound and Tempest cried out as a surge of cold air hit her bare back.

"It's there!" said a triumphant voice.

"Mount that bitch, Demoynes!" someone shouted. "Saintignon will reward you well for it!"

"We all caught her!" A slurring voice. "I say we all have our turn!"

Tempest had sworn she would not cry but she was so frightened and immobilized that tears flowed freely from her eyes even as she struggled to crawl away.

Then, suddenly a loud male voice cut through.

"Stop this at once!" Saintignon's voice, low and commanding, carrying through the large hall.

"But, my lord," someone whined. "She has not been true to you."

"See for yourself, my lord," a feminine voice decreed. "Her mole matches the placement in the sketch."

Tempest was suddenly free from grasping hands. Holding her ripped dress to her chest, she scrambled to get up but was shoved to her knees.

The man who pushed her was struck down with a hard blow from Saintignon. "Get you gone henceforth!" Saintignon seethed at the man.

His eyes were full of fury as he turned to her. She could have wept at the black rage in his eyes and shrank as far back as she could manage, terror seizing her.

"He'll see to her punishment himself, my fine lads," someone smirked, and the men holding her down backed away.

"It's not true, Saintignon," Tempest choked out. "I spoke with him but once-"

"And walked off with him for a good hour!" shouted a voice.

"It's not true!" she whispered frantically in a voice ragged from screaming, looking up into his masklike face, a face white with unforgiving rage. "Please believe me! Please, I beg of you! All… I need is for you to believe me! Don't listen to them...it's not tr-" And then her voice hitched and she cried in earnest. For how futile it was to ask this fearsome man to not believe in something that was so cleverly set up. In her heart, she had no doubt that she would die, here, tonight, at his hands. Saintignon had arrived at the party already in a rage, and now he was faced with the ultimate loss of face, seemingly faced with the glaring infidelity of his fiancee.

In one swift movement, Saintignon stooped down and swept a flinching Tempest into his arms. Ignoring all the cries coming at him from different directions and her frantic struggles, he strode up the stairs, yelling at the servant behind him to send for a doctor.

In a low voice, he whispered in her ear, never lessening his hold on her, "Cease your struggling. I believe you. I believe you."

Tempest was deposited in the middle of an enormous bed in an unfamiliar bedchamber. She clutched the tattered remains of her bodice to her chest, shivering, unable to truly believe him.

Without giving her a second look, he tossed a dressing gown on the bed next to her and walked through an adjoining door.

Fearing more reprisal and possibly death, she ran first to lock the door to the bedchamber, and then to lock the adjoining door when she ran straight into Saintignon's chest.

He held her to him for a brief moment before lifting her up and setting her back down on the bed.

"Where do you think you're going? Stay here!" he ordered sternly and she was so cowed that all she could was to hold her dress to her chest and back away from him.

A hand intruded upon her vision and lifted up her chin. She looked straight into his face as he knelt down beside the bed, afraid she would only see a black rage, but the only thing she saw on his visage was concern.

"Did they hurt you?"

"I-I-" she started to say and then broke down weeping at the kindness in his voice, so unexpected and welcome.

He pulled her down from the bed and into his lap where he cradled her head to his chest, muttering soothing sounds. "I won't let them hurt you, my love," he murmured. "Stop your tears now."

"They...were...going to rape me," she said in a shaky voice.

His arms tightened around her and he ground out, "You're safe with me."

Tempest lifted her head up and stared questioningly at him. "Am I?"

His eyes never left her face as he nodded his head slowly. "Yes," he said, sounding like he was vowing to her, then swept his eyes over her face as though something pained him.

"You're cut here," he said in a voice that shook, and then he touched her cheek with one gentle hand.

"I-it was probably when they started to throw bottles at me to impede my flight. One hit the wall next to me, and the glass splintered."

He didn't reply but she heard a sharp intake of breath. "Anywhere else?" he asked in a steely voice.

"I'm not certain."

"The doctor will be here momentarily," he said, again in his soothing voice. "Put on this dressing gown and lie down."

"It's-it's not my room," she protested.

"No, it's mine. Nobody will dare to bother you here, not even God Himself."

Tempest wondered at this piece of blasphemy, and why he was so gentle with her. "Why…why do you believe me?"

He smoothed the hair from her brow tenderly. "Because you told me to. Because... you've never asked anything of me before. Because... I-I'm not a monster."

His voice was so uncertain Tempest cringed. "Saint, I… I'm sorry for saying such things to you. They were unforgivable. I... don't think you're a monster or a barbarian."

"Don't you?" he asked, a wry curve to his lips as he looked down at her face.

"No. A monster wouldn't have saved me," she said.

"I will always save you, Tempest," he swore. "I...have never felt this way about anyone, do you understand what I'm saying? I...want to be with you. I think I go crazy when I can't see you or talk to you." He gave a short, embarrassed laugh, half turning away from her. "When you called me a monster-and said you couldn't stand to be with me, I think I went a little crazy."

He was crazy even when he saw her or could talk to her, but his hands now were so gentle, and his voice was tender.

"Will you give this engagement a chance?" he asked, in the same uncertain voice, looking anywhere but directly at her. "I don't want it to be a sham. I want it to be real, for me, for us to have a chance. Don't say no." He suddenly advanced on her without warning and grabbed her about the shoulders. His forehead was against hers so that she felt his breath against her face, and one large hand gently cupped her face. "Please think about it."

Tempest started to speak, but in the next moment, his gentle fingers were stroking her face and lifting it up to meet his. Warm lips touched hers, soft, slow, carefully caressing her cheek before returning to her mouth. She recognized his touch, his scent. It was the same as the night of the ball at the Ferris manor-the tentative, gentle kiss.

Ah, she thought. So it was him that night. These lips-they belonged to this man.. Against her better judgment, she began to kiss him back. He held back initially, but then, as though inflamed by her shy response, his breath grew quicker and he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth wider and allowing her access. He demanded a response and she didn't know what to do but to return it, only to be rewarded with his low groan. His tongue met hers and stroked her tongue. His hands left her face to stroke her shoulders, her arms. Then they were under the dressing gown and they had touched her bare back before she jerked out of his arms.

He looked befuddled and questioning. His hair was mussed-had she done that?-and his lips were red and glistening, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"No," Tempest said, shaking her head. "W-we can't-"

Saintignon shook his head briefly, as if to clear it. "I'm sorry-I was...carried away. I won't hurt you; you know that."

"My dress-is torn," she said, looking around. "And-and we're alone in your bedchamber."

"Let me see your back," he demanded, turning her around and forcibly taking off the dressing gown.

"No!" she shrieked, afraid that he would see the mole on her back and draw his own fevered conclusions before turning on her. And she couldn't bear that-not now, not after he had been so incredibly gentle.

But he had his way and she heard his short breaths as he fingered the torn fabric of her gown. "They-tore this from your back? Who? Who did this?" he demanded with a voice struggling for control.

"It-doesn't matter. All of them did," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. She was afraid at any moment that she would break down in hysterics.

"They will pay," he breathed, and she saw that one hand on the bed next to her hip was clenched so tightly into a fist that his knuckles were white.

"I don't know how they got that drawing," she broached cautiously. "They said-Tourville did it. But I've only met him the once. Saintignon-I swear it!" It seemed imperative he believe her and she turned beseeching eyes to him.

"Dominic," he corrected, cupping her face with one large palm. "Only you-can call me by my given name."

"Dominic," she said absently, gripping his hand. "Don't listen to their lies, even if you see the drawing-please! They say-they say it's an entire sketchbook!"

"I know," he said, placing one last kiss on her temple before getting up from the bed. She instantly felt bereft of his large body, of the warmth and comfort it provided against the terrors of this household. He was all that stood between her and the people who had attacked her.

Something fell on the bed next to her. Tempest looked up to see what was unquestionably a sketchbook, and grabbed it. She flipped through the pages, her face reddening. It was all drawings of her, in varying degrees of shameless nudity, posing, primping for the artist. The expression on her drawn face made her so embarrassed she could not finish going through the book and slammed it shut.

"I've seen it already," he said when she looked up.

"B-burn it!" she said, face red. "It's not me! I don't know how he knows of the mole on my back! He's never seen me-like that! No one has!"

Saintignon's eyes sharpened and he rubbed his chin. "But Miss Stearns has seen you unclothed-hasn't she?"

Tempest didn't understand why he was changing the subject. "My-my house is very small. We take turns bathing in the back parlor. It's the only place to hold the bathtub. There are no male servants indoors!" she explained hurriedly, blushing at having to discuss this with a man. "But we have each walked in on the other...and she...she has washed my back for me. She believes in baths, you see. Matilda thinks cleanliness is next to godliness. She-told me so…urged me to bathe frequently. But what has this to do with anything?"

"Lies," Saintignon denounced calmly. "That woman is nothing but a hussy. She had her hand down my breeches as soon as we were out of the saloon."

"What!" Tempest exclaimed, turning beet-red at his words and the image they evoked. "Not Matilda! She…"

"I almost broke her hand removing it," he said. "Does she know Tourville? Never mind; that should be simple enough to prove."

Tempest's mind whirled. "I thought she knew him-I thought she was in love with him once…"

"No, she was in love with me," Saintignon said without inflexion. "She was jabbering about her Season and how I didn't give her a chance, but now that she was a woman that I should...avail myself of her...womanly attributes." He shook his head. "Never mind. It's not really for you to hear."

"Then…" Tempest broke off. She was sharply reminded of Matilda's story of a dreadful season, of falling in love hard and deep, of confessing her love and being scornfully rejected. "You were the man who called her an ugly woman!"

Saintignon rubbed the side of his neck. "I don't remember her very well. I only recall a very pushy girl who followed me around town that year. She was everywhere and she was ugly," he said thoughtfully.

"Then...this attack was all your fault?" Tempest said, brow clearing.

"Hey!" he exclaimed.

"You called her ugly and scorned her painfully! Do you know how hurtful that is to a young girl?" Tempest demanded, slapping him on his hard chest. "That leaves scars!"

"You'll leave scars," he muttered, catching ahold of her flying hands and unbalancing the both of them so that she fell backwards onto the bed and he was above her, supporting himself on his arms. "Nobody dares to hit me but you!"

He stared at her for such a long time that Tempest blushed and tried to twist away. "You," he said, preventing her from getting up, "are the only one I allow to touch me. No one else has that right. There's no Miss Stearns, or any other woman in my eyes. Only you. There's only you."

Saintignon pressed a kiss on the side of her neck. "They can all go to the blazes," he said fervently into her ear, trailing his hand down her arm until their fingers were interlaced. He grasped her hand so forcefully it hurt and placed it on his chest. "This heart-it beats only for you," he declared, flushing in his declaration. "I believe in you; believe in me."