Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews! I'm glad people like it. I'm toning back some of the point of view changes so hopefully it's still not so confusing. I think toning it back works too without losing the style because we know them each a little better now.


"Tanya?" A deep, groggy voice grunted through sleep.

She shot up in the morning light and looked down at Mark. Pain glinted through half-hooded eyes. "What's wrong?" How long had she slept once the ghost nightmares of Anna had stopped?

"Is it time...for more...?" The words slurred out.

He must mean more morphine. "What time is it?" Leaning over him to reach his pocket watch on the nightstand, she jumped out of bed. "I overslept! I'm sorry, you're overdue for it."

"Tanya?" he croaked.

"Hm?" She measured out the powder into a glass of water.

"I don't...remember."

She turned, the poor man a picture of misery with tears in his eyes. "Remember what?" Sitting on the bed, she shoved pillows behind to prop him up enough to drink.

"What I was...going to say." The poor thing blinked hard and began to slide to the side.

It took all of her weight to push his heavy frame back up. She held the cup to his lips with a handkerchief on his chest to catch spills.

After several swallows, he managed to get it all down. "Thank you," he sighed, his eyes squinted in discomfort.

She blinked and stilled for a moment while laying him down again. It was the first time he'd ever said it - the first time he'd really ever accepted her help. "You're welcome." Then she got him settled and made hot compresses over the fire in the other room. The morphine didn't seem to be quite enough for the pain.

When she returned, she draped the rags over his battered body. She flushed when his eye cracked open to watch her pull the sheet down to his waist. "I found this helped the most after...well, when I took punches."

"After he assaulted you," he finished quietly.

She kept working without a reply.

"You need one for your face." The words didn't come quite as crisp as usual, but a bit clearer than a few minutes ago.

"I'm fine." She started to pull down the sheet, but he held it fast. "Mark, you needed the chamber pot a couple times yesterday, and I was the only one here in the morning."

His face actually turned red.

"I suspect you need it again." So the man could get embarrassed about something. She suppressed a smile.

"I can do it."

"No, the doctor said you must stay off your leg."

"For Christ's sake, get it and I'll do most of it." Without the ability to give a crisp delivery, he didn't seem fierce at all. He even struggled to raise onto his elbows.

"Mark, you're too drugged. Just be still and I'll see to it."

"Get the sheriff." He laid down.

"He is gone for the morning."

"Just hand it to me and I'll do it." The cranky man set it under the sheets. "Do you mind?"

Her eyebrows rose. "I have to leave? For heaven sake, I did it all yesterday. Your anatomy is hardly shocking now."

"Out." His temper seemed to pull him out of the drug haze.

Rolling her eyes, she stepped into the other room and waited for a minute. Then she walked in and reached to move the sheet, but he held on tight. "You're impossible." She tried to fumble under the sheets but finally jerked them down, wiped him and grabbed the pot.

"What the - ?!"

"You needed wiping."

"What?"

"After going." She rolled her eyes. He was impossible.

His eyebrow rose. "Men don't have to."

"Oh." She lowered her chin from a haughty tilt, her cheeks on fire. "How am I supposed to know that?"

"You've never seen a man, have you?"

Her chin raised again. "Yes, I have."

"Before yesterday," he said dryly.

"Why do you care?" she snapped. It didn't take him long to return to his snarly manner.

But his face was solemn. "Because it must've frightened you not even understanding what he was doing. It'd be natural to be curious but hesitant about seeing a man. You shouldn't be afraid of men."

With hot cheeks, she looked away. He must realize that she'd looked at him yesterday. Best to face it head on. "I see why your wife wasn't afraid of you."

He frowned. "Pardon?"

"You're not...um, as big as he was. A man your size would be gentle."

His eyebrows rose.

Not the best choice of words. "Not that there's anything wrong with you - "

"Tanya, do you know about a man's anatomy?"

A deep flush swept up. "I know what there is."

His brow furrowed. "When a man is aroused, he enlarges two to three times."

Oh dear heaven. How could he say that could be pleasurable for a woman?

"Men are somewhat comparable in size. It's how they could about coupling that determines pain or pleasure for the woman."

She turned away, not wanting to remember.

"What were you going to tell me in the forest?"

His tone held that gentle note again, the one that made it safe to talk to him in the moment. Stroking a teacup on the table, she whispered, "Nothing."


"Now, don't put weight on it," Dr. Englewood instructed the next day.

"Just give me the damn crutches." Mark got to his feet with effort and growling, but without anyone's help.

"Be a good man and let me check your splint," she said and knelt.

"Get off the floor - you look like a dog. I'm not five - get up!"

She checked the knee wrap anyways and stood. "Good thing you're sweet sometimes." She kissed his cheek. "Or maybe it was the drugs that made you sweet yesterday," she teased. He'd been quiet and gentle for the most part of the day previous.

He rubbed the kiss off on his shoulder. "I rescued you in a moment of guilt. I should have jumped for joy when you were gone. Don't get any ideas - I don't like having you around all the time like this," he snapped.

She smiled. "Yes, dear."

"Don't call me that," he hissed, his eyes shooting sparks.

She blinked in surprise. Yesterday it'd slipped out and had almost made him smile. "Alright."

Then he spun on the doctor. "Go home!"

"Mark! He's trying to help you."

"I don't want help! I want everyone to go away and leave me alone! Just everyone leave me alone like it used to be!"

"You don't mean that." She frowned.

He turned on her. "And you! Go home! I'm moving out! I'm not your husband to care for!"

Her face fell in confusion. "I don't understand why you're being like this - "

"Jesus! I don't want you! I never wanted you! I was doped up yesterday! I don't know why the hell I came after you!"

Tears burned. "You don't mean that."

"I do! Get out!" His neck veins bulged with the shouts.

"Mark!" The surgeon stepped between them. "Enough."

"Get out!" he roared. He shoved a handful of coins at her and pushed her toward the door. "This had better last you until I send more. Goodbye!"

She whirled around, clutching the coins to her chest. "You promised you wouldn't leave us." Tears fell. "You promised to protect us." That madman might come back. Brigands and Becky couldn't offer much protection. He'd said he wouldn't leave her in a house alone. "You promised," she wept.

"Guess what, princess: this world is full of broken promises." Then he slammed the door in her face.

The doctor gathered her to him as she wept. "He's painful and frustrated with his leg. The drug can exacerbate mood swings. Come home with me and let him have his tantrum."

That evening, she received a missive at the surgeon's house.

Come home.

Mark

Coming from him, it was an order, not a request. And an indirect but nonetheless message that he missed her, even if he wouldn't admit it.

She had a hospitable dinner with the surgeon, who agreed it would be good for Mark to not have everyone immediately jump at his bidding.

Walking into the house after dark, the voice that greeted brought forth a smile.

"Goddamn took your time!" His voice boomed through the foyer even before him. A second later, he limped out on his crutches.

Hiding the smile, she took off her cloak and remained calm. "I didn't realize I had a curfew."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he sneered. "I didn't realize you had social calls."

Hanging up her cloak, she turned to face him. "I'm not a possession or employee who jumps at your bidding."

"Obviously or you'd be fired. And by law, you are my possession."

Giving him a snooty smile, she headed for the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Walking away. You should recognize the gesture."

"I'm not finished!"

"I know," she threw over her shoulder.

Only a few minutes of peace. At any moment he'd barge through in a temper. Three. Two. One.

The door slammed open. "You little brat - "

She cut off his words with a hearty kiss.

When she let go, he stormed out and slammed the door behind himself.

She smiled. "He missed me."


The chit ignored him for two days. That blasted kiss didn't help with trying to sleep either. Brigands had to help with the dressing changes instead of Tanya, whose duty this should've been as his wife. And she would've been a hell of a lot gentler and better to look at. No one ignored him, goddamn her.

Walking into the kitchen the second miserable evening, she stood at the sink instead of Cook. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows as she scrubbed a pan. Her bottom swayed, just right for a man to come behind and wrap his arms around to help her wash dishes. The chit didn't look pregnant from behind - her waist trim and hips plump and ripe for... His teeth ground. Goddammit, she'd made him stare again. "Where's Cook?" he barked.

"Ill. I'm making dinner." She didn't even turn around.

Silence. His blood boiled. "Are you going to keep ignoring me?"

"Are you going to watch your tongue?"

"Who is the master here?!"

She set a hand on that dainty hip and turned. "Obviously me."

His jaw dropped.

"Three rules. One, you don't walk away from me."

He snorted.

"Two, you respect me as a human and as your wife."

He smirked.

"Three, you do not kick me out."

"Oh, really?" he growled.

"Yes."

"No." He turned to go.

"Fine. I'll be gone for a week."

He spun around. "To where?!" he demanded.

"My affairs are none of your business."

The chit had the gall to throw his words back at him. "I have a right to know where my wife is for a week!" God bless it, he wanted to stomp a foot!

"I thought I wasn't your wife."

"Goddammit, answer the question!" He stomped a crutch instead.

"My goodness, you need to stop having tantrums before the babe learns them from you."

"Woman!'

She turned. "Your concern is sweet but as you said, this is a marriage of honor."

"Son of a bitch! Answer me!" Now she had him - a composed marquess - having tantrums like a damn child!

"Watch your language. The babe can probably hear you." She turned and continued scrubbing. "I'm going to see my mother's grave."

"You need to go for a week?" he snapped.

"Yes. She died when I was born. I've never been to her grave."

"Why will it take a week? Where the hell were you born?" The words barked out.

"Spain."

He blinked. "You're Spanish?"

"No."

Silence. "Are you English?"

"Do I look English?" she retorted.

He studied her auburn locks and fair skin. But upon closer look, other features stood out. She had a beautiful almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. "I suppose not."

"I'm half English by my father and half Native American by my mother."

His eyebrows rose. "As in tribal from the Americas?"

"Yes." She turned around to continue scrubbing.

There was something erotic about having a foreign wife, goddammit. "How did you end up in Spain?"

"Mama blended in better in Spain than England, and my parents weren't discriminated there. Papa brought me to England when I was a newborn."

He cocked his head and studied her backside. Her body wasn't volumptuous, as was the fashion, but instead more beautiful and graceful with her willowy frame. The English side took over in her coloring. Heat rushed between his legs, goddammit!

She must've caught him staring. "What?"

He blinked and shook his head.

"Sorry to disappoint you - your wife is further fallen from Society," she snapped.

Thank god she'd been unkept and he'd been blinded with anger for so long, for no sane man would leave a marriage with her unconsummated. "You're very...nice looking." So damn nice looking.

Her big brown eyes rolled. "Uh huh." Then she wiped down the counter.

A frown pulled. That was no way for her to accept a compliment. "You don't think so?"

The woman threw down the rag on the counter and turned to look at him in irritation. "If you came to point out what a poor end of the bargain you got, point made."

"I didn't say that," he scowled.

She turned and peeled potatoes in the sink with excessive enthusiasm. "Right. Here, we'll get it all out. Besides being a half breed, my father was a nonfunctioning alcoholic. The only thing my father did teach me was to read. The only books I had were ones I found fallen on the side of the road, but they didn't last long because we needed kindling. I struggled to hold down jobs because Papa needed me at home to take care of him. I don't remember not being poor, I'm no longer a virgin and I'm carrying a bastard. There. Have your fun now for I won't hear of it after the babe's born," she barked.

"Why would I have fun?" He frowned severely.

"Please. You live to point out how I'm not good enough. Just more reasons to hear why you don't want me or the babe." She dumped the potatoes in a pot and mashed with excessive force.

The words struck raw and right to the heart. "Tanya." He set a hand on her arm. The woman didn't turn. "Would you look at me for a moment?"

"No."

"Why?"

She spun on him. "Because you can't expect people to just keep taking you stomping on them! It hurts! You're not God's gift to humanity and allowed to get away with anything just because you have money!"

Yesterday had finally pushed her over the edge. He held her eyes. "I owe you an explanation and apology for yesterday."

"Mark," she said with tears in her eyes. "I'm not your doormat. You punch me and then apologize, only to do it again later."

"It's not what you think." He had to tell her. Humiliation burned hot. "Hear me out. You don't have to say anything, just hear me out."

"Why?"

"Because..." He swallowed down his pride for the first time in years. "I need to tell you something."

She crossed her arms over her chest.

Pulling out a chair, he sat and propped up his aching leg. "Come sit so your ankles don't swell."

"No." She pursed her lips and waited.

"A few months after my wife passed, I was in a riding accident. I had a hard time coping with her death. I drank far too much and then tried riding. I charged straight into a fence in the dark. It impaled my horse and killed him instantly. I was thrown and landed on a boulder." He pointed to the scar on his chin. "Englewood set my broken jaw and created a cast contraption that kept me bedridden for six weeks. The pain was unbelievable. I..." He swallowed hard and didn't meet her eyes. "It took nearly three months to get off the morphine after I healed. I was too ashamed to tell anyone." He fingered a spoon sitting on the table. His eyes flitted to hers and his cheeks turned red. "After the knee surgery, I realized I was addicted again. I tried to stop cold turkey the day I yelled at you. I was having withdrawl. It's no excuse, I know..." The man's pride shriveled before her eyes. "I'm still having mood swings. I didn't mean to hurt you." He looked desperate for her to believe it. "I'm not a drug addict, Tanya. When I asked for more pain medication, I thought I hurt from being beaten. I didn't realize I was having withdrawl." So much shame colored his face.

She sat in a chair beside him. His eyes were dilated and bloodshot. Taking his hand, she felt the tremors.

"I haven't touched it since my jaw was broken," he vowed.

"How do I know that?" She met his eyes. "Are you still taking it?"

His emotions shut down, as if her skepticism hurt. "I don't expect you to believe it," he said softly and got to his feet. He cleared a lump in his throat. "You're free to take whatever funds you need for your travels. Money is in the safe behind the portrait in the study. 12-51-34. The sheriff can recommend footmen to accompany you as protection." He turned to go.

So he still struggled getting off of the drug. "Mark?"

He turned.

"Thank you for telling me, but I have to protect the babe," she said quietly, regretting the shame in his eyes.

"I wouldn't respect you if you didn't," he said quietly and left.

Intense retching came from his room that evening. She sent for the doctor and met him at the door, explaining everything.

"I know." Dr. Englewood didn't look the least bit surprised.

"You know?" She blinked.

"Dear, I've practiced for many years. For some reason, his body became strongly addicted after the accident. I monitored his usage and he didn't abuse it until after he no longer needed it for pain. He was trying hard to get off of it for two to three months. He could still function and I noticed only small doses missing. Brigands kept an eye on him in between. Morphine was our only choice for his knee surgery. That's why I pulled him off so quickly - I was hoping he wouldn't react. A body only remembers what it wants, not how long it's been. He hasn't been addicted in between - I can vouche for that. The worst will hit him tonight. Just make sure he doesn't seizure and he'll be better in a few days."

"We can't do anything?"

"His body has to do it itself," he apologized.

She went in after the doctor left and found him shirtless and in a sweat with his head in the sink. He painted hard afterwards and rinsed his mouth. His lips were white, his eyes red and his body weak. "Do you need anything?" When he swayed, she hurried over to steady him. "Let me help - I judged too quickly and should have trusted you." His body tremored.

"Please go."

"You're in for a rough night. A little vomit won't send me screaming." She helped him into bed.

"No, I might hallucinate - "

"You've cared for my baby and I. I can certainly help you through one night."

"I don't know if my temper will get worse. You shouldn't be here." He laid down.

"I can go to my room if you get hostile."

She told him stories of childhood and mopped his brow to keep him distracted from the misery. Soon he even grew hypersensitive to his clothes and the sheets, so she stripped him to nothing. He clutched her hand and panted through the imaginary pain. "Mark, what can I do?" She sniffled right before dawn.

"It will...pass in...a few hours," he gasped and clutched her hands. "Oh god," he panted and rolled onto his side, clutching his belly.

"What hurts?"

"Shit," he gasped in agony and curled up. "Tanya," he panted. "Get my bag out of here."

"Why?" She blinked.

"Because," he groaned, "I'm having cravings."

So she hid his bag.

It was the worst three days of her life seeing him suffer. At one point he was in such pain that he wept and begged for morphine. Rushing downstairs in tears, she got Brigands. He came upstairs.

"My lord," Brigands said, completely quiet and calm and certain as he took Mark's hand, "it will pass. You hold onto my lady and remember you're doing this for her."

And that was all it took. Mark tossed and turned and panted through the pain, but he'd hold her hand and touch her belly and seem to find strength to keep going. Once he finally fell asleep the third night, she sat in the chair to keep watch.


The sunlight streamed in. She yawned and stretched, blinking at being in her own bed. Getting dressed quickly, she hurried to his room. Empty. Maybe the doctor had come during the night and taken Mark to the hospital. Holding her belly, she trotted down the stairs and stopped in her tracks when she spotted him at his desk.

He stood at her entrance, to her surprise. "Are you better, Mark?" The man certainly made a fast recovery.

"For the most part," he said stiffly. "I owe you thanks for what you did. And an apology for delaying your trip."

She shook her head. "You needed me here. I'm glad you're better."

The man looked uncertain of himself. "Is the babe holding up? You must not have slept much."

With a nod, she took in the slight red rim around his eyes and his paleness, but he looked more like himself. "Join me for breakfast?"

He shook his head. "I still can't tolerate the smell of food. Are you going to be leaving today?"

"Anxious for me to leave?" A slight smile tugged. The 'thank you' and his pleasant manner surely had to be hitting his limit.

"No. I didn't mean it like that." His brow furrowed.

"I'm teasing." The smile blossomed. "I'm thinking that, if you don't object, I'll see my mother after the babe's born."

A smile almost flitted over his lips. "Good sense to not jostle the babe."

"Yes." And leaving him yet would just make her fret.

"Now that I'm of more sound mind, I didn't like the idea of you traveling in your condition, much less without proper protection or medical care." He folded his hands behind his back, seeming to balance most of his weight on one leg without trouble. That had to be a good sign that he wasn't dizzy.

"I thought you said for me to ask the sheriff about footmen he recommends to accompany me for protection." She frowned.

'Yes, well, they may not be adequate, and they wouldn't know how to help if the babe troubled you." He gave a stern look.

"Did you have someone in mind instead?" How interesting that he worried.

"Me. But I'd need some time to heal to offer proper protection."

Her eyebrows shot up, as did a smile.

"Seeing as that's unnecessary now, you should go have breakfast." He walked around the desk on his crutches and offered his arm.

"Special treatment?" She beamed up at him.

"After the last few days, I consider it lucky that you haven't run half way across the continent." Shame filled his eyes and he didn't quite meet her gaze.

Taking his arm, she looked up. "I'm proud of you, Mark. Many men would've given up."

"Yes, well, I had a lot of help," he said gruffly, keeping his eyes forward. He escorted her to breakfast.

Afterwards, she entertained herself for the day.


After dinner, Mark entered the library on his crutches. "You were up late this week. You should go to bed."

She glanced at the clock. Nine. "Alright." When she moved to step past him at the door, he offered his arm.

"I'm not quick on the stairs," he stated, offering her an excuse to bow out.

A smile formed. "I don't mind."

At the stairs, she helped him take both crutches in one hand and hold the railing to hop up the stairs. He nodded for her to proceed and joined her at the top. The man offered his arm again and continued the laborious journey to her chambers. At her door, he turned. "Tanya?" He looked as shy as a schoolboy. "Thank you for taking care of me. It was far from pleasant or easy."

She smiled up at him, resting her hands on her belly. "You've done the same for me."

He looked down at her belly. An awkwardness vibrated from him. "I haven't been suitable company for anyone in a long time."

"I know," she teased to win a smile from him.

The man didn't seem to have heard. "When...now, don't get ideas, but when I said you look nice...I..." He cleared his throat. "I meant you are pleasant to look at and shouldn't be anyone look down upon you - even me."

Those words struck a soft, tender spot in such a wonderful way. "Is that a compliment, marquess?" She smiled.

"No," he grunted.

Standing on her toes, she kissed his cheek. "Now that I've seen all of you - inside and out - and haven't run screaming into the night..." She smiled and set a hand on his chest while holding his eyes. "Well, I find you 'nice' too."

He actually blushed. "Get to bed."

"Fast, aren't you?" She teased.

"Oh, you're funny," he said dryly, turned her and nudged her inside.

She turned. "Mark?" The smile faded in all seriousness.

"Yes?"

"Are you being nice to me out of honor because I helped you?"

"Off to bed," he replied gently.

The hope fell flat. "Oh. Goodnight." Then she softly shut the door.


He was already gone to work when she woke up and not home yet when she went to bed. Apparently the ignoring was back to normal.

The next morning, she went downstairs and stopped - he waited beside the table.

"Good morning." He pulled out a chair for her.

"Morning," she answered and took a seat. "Thank you."

He sat. Silence as Brigands filled the plates. "You're upset with me," he stated after Brigands left.

"I have no reason to be." She took a drink.

"I was called away to the bank in London yesterday." He took a drink.

"Like you said, your affairs aren't my concern. I occupied myself." She picked up the fork.

"Don't be like that." He frowned.

She set down her fork. "Mark, decide what you want. One day you are giving me more attention than you usually do in a week, and the next day you disappear without a word. You said we weren't going to dine together, yet here you are. You want a marriage of convenience, fine, but I'm not here to be picked up and dropped according to your whims - "

He held up a hand. "I understand. I shouldn't send mixed signals. The bank was robbed during the night. I'm not used to having someone around, so I didn't think to leave a missive for you."

"Oh. Well, I'd appreciate it if you would."

"Fine." Tense silence. "Lord, I forgot how difficult wives are," he muttered under his breath.

"I didn't know how difficult husbands are," she retorted.

"What has you in a dither?" he dropped his fork and demanded.

"Nothing." She shot up and threw down her napkin.

"Sit down - that babe needs to eat," he commanded without patience.

"Oh, shut up." She stormed to the door.

"Sit. Down!" It was a tone not to be crossed.

She turned at the door. "Why? What concern is it of yours? Oh yes, you'll foot the medical bills if it's not a heathy babe," she spat.

Those blue eyes pierced ice cold. "Sit. Now," he growled.

"I can't do this," she sighed in defeat.

"Do what?" He barked the words.

"This!" She flung out her arms. "I thought I could sit happily in the background with the babe, but I can't. I want your attention, although I don't know what sane person would. I want a husband who wants me."

"I'm not doing this." He pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the crutches.

"You said you wouldn't walk out." She blinked.

He stopped. "I'm not doing this. Discussion done." Then he walked out.

She followed him to the study and slammed the door shut. "We're not done! I want to seriously talk."

"Tanya, you want what I can't give," he sighed and dropped into his chair.

She stood on the opposite side of the desk and rubbed her belly. "I want a friend. I want a man who doesn't dread coming home to me. I don't expect love or lust - "

He ran a hand over his face. "There are things you don't understand - "

"You didn't poison your wife," she stated.

"What?" He blinked.

"The rumors."

He looked away out the windows, grief and guilt clouding his face.

"Mark?"

"The rumor is true," he whispered, as if to himself.

She swallowed hard. "But not on purpose. It was an accident..." It couldn't be true. He wouldn't murder his wife.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes transfixed out the window.

"No," she insisted as the tears welled. "You wouldn't do that."

His gaze shifted to her and tears shimmered in his eyes. "I'm not fit to be a husband or father. You have money, food, shelter and the protection of a man's name. I can give nothing more."

She shook her head in disbelief. Guilt made him think he was responsible - that had to be it. "No, if you killed her, you'd be in prison."

"I was acquitted!" He snapped, anger and pain dancing in his eyes. "If I agreed to never hold a practice again, I could go free! You have your secrets and I have mine!"

The tears fell. He had tantrums but a good heart. "You're not a murderer."

He roughly ran his hand over his face to brush away the tears. "Oh, my dear, that's exactly what I am."