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There had never been a moment Demelza Carne could look back on when she had suddenly come to know that what she felt for her master was a woman's love, rather than the gratitude of a girl for the man who had dragged her from the mud. Looking back on it, she thought there should have been, that she should have stopped short in the path or while kneading the bread and known it for certain. But instead it had come on her bit by bit, until she knew her love as well as she knew the texture of Garrick's fur under her fingers, or the scent of the salt spray off the sea.

It had never occurred to her that there was anything to be done about it. Master Ross was a gentleman; she was no lady. Never could be. She merely accepted as fact that she loved him and would do anything to please him, and set about to see that his needs were met as best she could. She knew that there were rumors about that she met his needs in bed as well as about the house, but she paid no mind to them. No one who truly knew Master Ross could imagine that he could take advantage of a person in his care. And no one who truly knew her could imagine that she would be good enough for him to bed.

When Prudie injured herself and Demelza took over the cooking, she took pains to make the pie she baked look and smell and taste as appetizing as she could. When a man worked hard in the mines all day, when he had a care for the workers' feelings as well as their health, he deserved a good meal, hearty and filling and pleasing to eye as well as to tongue, when he got home.

When he liked it, Demelza was warmed all through, glad that she could make him happy. She set herself to learning his ways and habits so well that he need never ask for anything—everything he could want would be set before him without him needing to say a word.

She was rewarded when he asked her to eat with him. To sit with him together, talking while they ate, hearing his plans and letting him talk out his troubles, was more than she had imagined.

The night poor Jim was taken for poaching, she found she had something else to offer Master Ross—a different way of looking at himself, as not just a gentleman, but a man of heart and understanding as well. It had never occurred to Demelza before that she could talk in return, that she could serve him that way as well as with the things she made and the work she did. It made her feel as though she contributed to the household, to his well-being, in a more meaningful way. Yes, she cooked for him and knew what he wanted, but others could do that. Her thoughts and her words were her own—no one else could offer those to him.

It was at this moment, when she was just starting to learn who she could be, how she could help, that her father came for her. She knew she dared not refuse to go with him when he came back to get her the next day; she was his daughter, and he had the right to ask her back. And how could she refuse to come along with him without proving in his mind that he was right in his suspicions that she and Master Ross went to bed together? Not that she cared, not truly, but she remembered the day Master Ross had fought her father on her behalf, and she had no wish to see that happen again.

She talked it through while she peeled the potatoes, not caring that Prudie was there to hear her, to know what thoughts she treasured. It would break her heart to leave Nampara, to leave him. To never see his bright eyes studying her as though he truly saw her, never see his smile or hear his voice, never know how he fared or who was caring for him.

But it was foolish to cling to these dreams, even if she expected nothing to come from them. Master Ross was a gentleman; she was for certain no lady, nor ever would be. Best thing for them both, perhaps, was for her to go, to set her face to a new life and learn to forget him.

Determined on her course, she let herself into the library, among the things that were important to him. She put on the gown she had found once before in the chest, its fabric shimmering like a gem in the fading light of the day. It fit her like it was made for her, and for just a moment she could pretend she was a lady who could live in this house with him, as man and woman, not master and servant. Or so she tried. But underneath she knew she was but Demelza Carne, a miner's daughter, employed as a servant, and meant nothing more to him than that—and that she would have to go, before she lost herself entirely.

She touched his things. The ore, the maps, the papers, the desk where he worked, all the things that were part of him, and she whispered good-bye to each of them. But what she meant was good-bye to him, the good-bye and the admission of love that she could never say to him.

"I can't leave him, I can't, I can't!" she cried to herself in a passion of longing. But she knew better, and she said so to herself. "I must."

It was then that she heard him call for her. She hadn't expected him home tonight, and now he was here and expecting food, and she without a moment to change out of the gown she should never have been wearing at all.

If only the beautiful fabric didn't whisper so as she walked. She had found it enchanting when she first put it on, but now … she tiptoed as best she could across the floors, trying to keep the dress from touching the floor, to move silently in order to avoid attracting his notice.

The day in town had gone badly. She could tell it by the tension in his shoulders and the clipped way he spoke. She laid food on the table, but he wanted rum, though it appeared to her he had already had some in town.

"Jim Carter got two years," he told her.

That was a relief. She had thought Jim might be transported. "I feared it might be worse."

He looked back at the fire. "I doubt he'll survive."

"You did all you could." Demelza was torn—she wanted to stay here and comfort him, talk him 'round from his black mood, but she must get out of the room long enough to change from this dress before he noticed it.

"Did I? I doubt it. I was too concerned with my own dignity. Groveling and compliments were the order of the day, and I made the mistake of trying to teach them their business. Schoolboy error. And Jim paid dearly for it."

Even as she withdrew, slowly and carefully, from the room, Demelza understood what he had done. It was his greatest strength and his greatest failing, together, that he could never hide the passion for justice in him, that he could not pretend to be something he was not.

She had nearly escaped the room, the dress undetected, when he suddenly turned his head toward her and called her name. And then it was too late. He had seen the dress, and her in it.

"What are you wearing?"

"I found it, sir. In one of the chests in the library."

"You dare to go rifling through those things?"

"I'm sorry, sir. You never told me I shouldn't look." It was a thin excuse. She had known she shouldn't look.

"Surely that was obvious. You're employed as a maid."

"I know, sir." Still, it was uncomfortable to hear him say it so plainly.

"And you've been a good one. And for that, you're allowed certain liberties, but dressing in fine clothes is not one of them."

She couldn't bear to have him angry with her. "I meant no harm, sir! It was just rottin' away in that old box, and—"

"Take it off."

"I thought maybe you might let me wear it, and—"

"Take it off now!" He roared the words this time, Master Ross who had never raised his voice to her, not in true anger.

Demelza stood frozen, humiliated and grieved that this should be the way of it, the last night she would be here with him.

But Master Ross took her stillness for stubbornness. He got to his feet, his voice low and dangerous, coming toward her until he stood just inches away. "If you don't take it off this minute you can pack your things and go back to your father."

It was as much as she could do not to cry, knowing that she would have to do so anyway, regardless of whether she kept the dress on or not. And then she lost the battle with her tears, turning away from him.

Immediately he came around to face her, his voice softening. "Demelza, enough. Enough now. I shouldn't have spoken so harshly. Don't take it to heart." He moved toward her again. "It's been a hellish day, and I'm not myself." His hand came up, stroking her cheek and cupping her chin. He had never touched her before, not like this, and now she stood still for another reason, because she could hardly catch her breath. The nearness of him, the warmth and the scent, the look in his eyes as though he saw her in a way he never had before—they all combined to hold her rooted to the spot.

And then his hands were on her waist, pulling her against him, and his mouth was on hers. Demelza kissed him back, aware of every inch of her skin alive and tingling in a way she had never felt it before.

Abruptly he let her go and stepped back, leaving her confused and uncertain. "What is it? What've I done?" she asked.

"I didn't take you from your father for this."

"What do it matter what you took me for?"

"Go to bed," he told her, the subject closed in his mind.

"Sir!" To have tasted such pleasure for the briefest moment and then to leave him now—how could she bear it?

"Go to bed, now."

He left her there, the order ringing in her ears, alone in the room in this fine borrowed dress with the feel of his mouth still on hers. Demelza sank to the floor in agony and frustration, and very nearly surrendered to tears.

But that had never been her way. She had never yet given way to tears when there was something to be done, and this was no different. He had seen her as a woman tonight; perhaps he had seen her that way before. She must know. If there was any chance that she could know what it felt like to be held and touched by him, to hold him and touch him in return, she must know.

Getting up from the floor, she blew out the candle and went to his room, knocking lightly before she opened the door.

He was sitting on the side of his bed with his jacket off, and he turned to look at her. "What is it?"

Demelza crossed the room to stand before him. "The dress. It unfastens down the back." He would know that she had gotten herself into it; surely he would know she could as easily get herself out of it. But he would also know that wasn't what she meant. As she turned around, presenting the laces to him, she held her breath, hoping that he wouldn't send her away, not certain she could bear it if he did.