Hey everyone!

I know I left you all hanging off a pretty major cliff last time. Well, the wait is over, and I'm thrilled to finally share the next chapter with you. Hopefully, this one will subside the yelling and maybe even answer some of your burning questions. As always, your support and enthusiasm mean the world to me. Enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think!

Happy reading!


Chapter 9: Hell Hath No Fury

The gunshot sent Hook sprawling back against his chair, which promptly capsized beneath him.

Emma lowered the pistol, released a pent-up breath, then pivoted and strode away.

For a fleeting instant, the spectators' minds lagged behind their senses, struggling to grasp the unfolding scene. In that critical lapse, she navigated swiftly through the restaurant, out the door, and down the stairs.

A short while later, she located the hackney she had arranged to await her and instructed the driver to ferry her to the nearest police precinct.

At the station, she demanded to speak with the officer in charge. Handing over the pistol, she recounted her actions succinctly; however, the officer greeted her account with skepticism, dispatching two gendarmes to Délice while offering her a glass of wine to steady her nerves. An hour later, the men returned with copious notes from the scene and a surprise guest—Comte Jefferson Hatter.

Jefferson calmly asserted his intent to secure her release, explaining the incident as a regrettable misunderstanding and mere accident. He assured them that the Marquess of Hookstone's injury was not mortal - hardly more than a scratch - and that he harbored no intention to press charges against Mademoiselle Nolan.

Naturally not, Emma reflected wryly. He'd have little chance in a legal skirmish against her in Paris, after all.

"Then I shall indict myself," she declared, chin held defiantly high. "And you can relay to your friend—"

"Mademoiselle, I would be honored to convey any missive you wish," Jefferson interjected smoothly. "But surely, you'll find my carriage a more congenial setting for conversation."

"Absolutely not," she retorted. "I insist on incarceration, for my own safety, to prevent him from silencing me permanently. Because, sir, that's the only way anyone will muzzle me!" Turning to the officer in command, she continued, "I will gladly pen a comprehensive confession for you. I have no secrets to withhold, and I look forward to addressing the reporters who will undoubtedly besiege this place within the next half hour."

"Mademoiselle, I am certain we can resolve this matter to your satisfaction," Jefferson interjected smoothly. "But perhaps it would be prudent to allow your emotions to settle before making any statements."

"Very astute," remarked the officer in charge. "Your agitation is understandable. Matters of the heart can be quite distressing."

"Indeed," she replied, locking gazes with Jefferson's inscrutable blue eyes. "A crime of passion, one might say."

"Precisely, mademoiselle, as everyone will surmise," affirmed Jefferson. "If the authorities delay your release, not only reporters but all of Paris may descend upon us. Innocent lives should not be endangered on your behalf, I am certain you agree."

Outside, a commotion erupted—presumably the first wave of reporters. She paused, savoring the tension that filled the room.

Then she shrugged, a gesture laden with defiance and resignation. "Very well. I shall return home. For the sake of the endangered innocents."


By midmorning, Comte Jefferson Hatter found Killian reclining on a sofa in the library.

The wound, Killian assured himself, was inconsequential - he'd barely registered the pain. The bullet had passed straight through and although his arm bled profusely, Killian had grown accustomed to the sight of blood, even his own, and had no business swooning.

Yet, swoon he did, repeatedly, each time awakening to a worsening fever. A physician had come, examined the wound, administered treatment, and expertly bandaged it, assuring Killian of his good fortune.

The wound was clean. No bones had been shattered. Damage to muscle and nerves was minimal. Infection posed no threat.

Despite this reassuring prognosis, Killian found himself feverish. Initially, his arm burned, then the blaze spread to his shoulder and neck. Now, his head throbbed fiercely.

Amidst this infernal turmoil within him, Killian heard Jefferson's voice, as smooth and calming as ever.

"Naturellement, she understands that no jury in France would convict her," remarked Jefferson. "Here, it's easier to pass a camel through the eye of a needle than to convict a beautiful woman of any crime tinged with l'amour."

"Of course she knows," Killian gritted through clenched teeth. "Just as I know she didn't act in a fit of passion. Did you see her hand? Not a tremor in sight. Cool and steady as can be. She wasn't blindly enraged. She knew exactly what she was doing."

"She is well aware of her actions," Jefferson nodded. "Shooting you was just the beginning. She intends to make a spectacle of you. I'm to convey that she'll make public—whether in the courtroom if she gets her demanded trial, or in the papers if not—every detail of the incident. She vows to recount all your words to her and provide a vivid account of everything you did."

"In essence, she'll embroider and contort words to fit her narrative," Killian seethed, keenly aware that all she needed to utter was the truth. And that, in the world's eyes, would reduce the Devil to a lovesick, panting, groaning, sweating schoolboy. Even the Greeks would join in the laughter.

She's got a knack for languages, hasn't she? he mused, his tone laced with bitterness. She'll deliver a spot-on impersonation, sharp as a tack, because she's quick-witted and vengeful. Before long, his most humiliating secrets, dreams, and fantasies will be translated into French, English, and every tongue under the sun. They'll be plastered in speech bubbles over his head in print shop caricatures. Theatrical farces of the affair will play out on stage.

Killian knew this was just the tip of the iceberg he'd have to face.

He only needed to recall how the press had skewered Byron a dozen years prior - and the poet had been a paragon of propriety compared to the Marquess of Hookstone. Besides, Byron hadn't possessed unimaginable wealth, intimidating power, and an unappealing visage.

The higher they ascend, the louder the crash when they tumble. And the world relished every moment of their downfall.

Killian grasped the ways of the world keenly. He could foresee clearly what lay ahead. Miss Emma Nolan saw it too, no doubt. That's precisely why she hadn't killed him. She aimed to ensure he suffered the torments of hell while he yet lived.

She knew he would agonize because she had struck where it hurt most - his pride.

And if he couldn't endure it - which she knew, of course, he couldn't - she'd relish her triumph in private, no doubt. She would make him grovel.

She had ensnared him perfectly, that cunning she-devil.

Amid the inferno scorching half his frame, his mind reeled in agony. "I must confront her head-on," he muttered. His speech was thick, words slurring like a drunkard's lament. "Negotiate... tell her..." His throat scorched with each word, the pain unbearable. "Terms... convey..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, grappling with his pounding, chaotic thoughts. But words evaded him, lost in the relentless assault on his senses. His skull felt like molten metal, pounded relentlessly by a demonic blacksmith, forging intellect and reason into oblivion. Jefferson's voice echoed distantly, but its meaning eluded him. Then, with one final diabolical strike, darkness claimed Killian, dragging him into unconsciousness.


Consumed by the feverish ailment he shouldn't have had, Killian drifted in and out of consciousness for the better part of the next four days.

On the morning of the fifth day, he finally regained full awareness, albeit still in a state of recovery. The fiery agony and pulsing ache had subsided, but his left arm remained stubbornly immobile, hanging limp by his side. Sensation was present, yet control was elusive.

The physician returned, probed, pondered, and shook his head in perplexity. "I can find nothing wrong," he declared.

He summoned a colleague, who also found nothing wrong, and summoned another, with the same result.

Summoning a colleague yielded identical findings, as did a subsequent consultation with another. By late afternoon, eight medical practitioners had all delivered the same verdict. By then, Killian was on edge. He had endured a day of prodding, questioning, and murmured consultations, draining a considerable sum on physicians' fees to no avail.

To cap it all off, a legal lackey arrived just moments after the last quack had departed. Smee presented the missive the clerk had brought just as Killian attempted to pour himself a glass of rum. His gaze was so fixed on the note resting on the silver salver, he missed the glass entirely, splattering rum across his dressing gown, slippers, and the delicate Oriental carpet.

He unleashed a torrent of curses, along with the salver, in Smee's general direction, then stormed out of the drawing room and into his own chambers. There, he worked himself into a fury trying to break the seal and unfold the note with one hand. By then, his anger was so intense that he could scarcely see straight.

There wasn't much to see, truth be told. According to the missive, Mr. August Booth desired a meeting with His Lordship's legal counsel on behalf of Miss Emma Nolan.

Killian's insides turned to lead.

August Booth, the eminent London solicitor, boasted a clientele teeming with influential expatriates in Paris. Known for his unwavering integrity and relentless dedication to his clients, Booth was a paragon of virtue. Yet beneath his saintly façade lurked a legal mind as formidable as a shark's jaws, particularly when it came to defending the fairer sex.

Unfazed by legal norms favoring male dominance, where women possessed scant rights and no ownership, Booth championed causes he deemed just, crafting rights for women where none existed before. Even the likes of Will Scarlet, a cunning rogue, couldn't lay a finger on a fraction of his wife's wealth, courtesy of Booth's legal acumen.

Booth's modus operandi, when faced with resistance to exorbitant demands, involved subjecting the hapless target to an unrelenting barrage of legal maneuvers and petty litigations. Eventually, the victim either succumbed to sheer exhaustion, found themselves bankrupted by legal fees, or was carted off, protesting vehemently, to a lunatic asylum.

Miss Nolan, in essence, wasn't just content to watch him squirm—she intended to have Booth execute her schemes with meticulous legal precision, leaving Killian no escape hatch.

"There's no creature more indomitable than a woman," as Aristophanes once said, "nor fire, nor any wildcat so ruthless."

Ruthless. Merciless. Fiendish.

"No chance, devil's spawn," Killian muttered. "I won't be played through intermediaries." He crumpled the note into a tight ball and hurled it into the grate. Marching over to his desk, he seized a sheet of paper, scribbled a terse reply, and bellowed for his valet.


In his missive to Mr. Booth, Hook boldly stipulated a face-to-face meeting with Miss Nolan at seven o'clock that evening, firmly declining to delegate to his solicitor with the declaration that he had no desire to be "sworn, signed, and bled dry by proxy." If Emma had terms to dictate, she could deliver them herself, or else dispatch her brother for a duel—a proper one, pistols at dawn, both sides armed this time.

Considering Hook's fiery suggestion, Emma wisely concluded it was best if David found diversion elsewhere for the evening, as he remained blissfully unaware of recent events.

Upon her return from the police station, Emma found her brother suffering the severe consequences of his overindulgence at Lady Belfrey's ball. His constitution, already weakened by months of dissolute living, had succumbed to a violent bout of dyspepsia, confining him to bed until teatime yesterday.

Even under the most favorable conditions, David's mental faculties were about as reliable as a clock with a penchant for chiming at random. Delving into Hook's perplexing behavior might well provoke a setback, or worse—an apoplectic fit. Emma couldn't afford David launching a misguided vendetta in her name.

Ingrid had agreed. She whisked David away to dine with Mr. Archie Hopper, where his loquacious tendencies would be tactfully managed. It was Hopper, after all, who had advised Emma to keep mum until consulting a lawyer.

Moreover, Hopper was footing Mr. Booth's bill. Emma had relented, knowing full well Hopper's offer implied more than mere financial support. If she hadn't agreed, Hopper would have dueled Hook himself—a gesture that spoke volumes about the French nobleman's standing with Ingrid.

At the stroke of seven, David was conveniently out of the picture. Emma and Mr. Booth stood poised around a table, where a tidy stack of documents awaited, just as Hook made his grand entrance.

He cast a disdainful glance at Booth, then fixed his sardonic sea-blue eyes on Emma. "Madam," he greeted with a curt nod.

"My lord," she returned, her nod even brisker.

"That takes care of the niceties," he declared. "You may proceed to the extortion."

Mr. Booth's lips tightened into a thin line, though he held his peace.

He picked up the stack of papers and handed them over to Hook, who strolled to the window. With a flourish, he placed them on the broad sill, lifting the topmost document and perusing it at a leisurely pace. After finishing, he set it aside and proceeded to the next.

Minutes stretched into what felt like eons. Emma's patience wore thin with each passing second.

Nearly half an hour later, Hook lifted his gaze from the documents that should have been a breeze to digest.

"I was curious how you'd approach this," he remarked to Booth. "In simpler terms, it's a defamation case — unless I agree to your steep demands and settle this privately."

"The words you flung like daggers in the presence of six witnesses leave little room for interpretation, my lord," Booth countered. "You've reduced my client's social and financial standing to rubble. She's now branded an untouchable, banished from the circles she once graced. She will be obliged, therefore, to live in exile from her friends and loved ones. She must build a new life."

Hook snorted. "And I'm to pay for it, I see. Pay off her brother's debts totaling six thousand pounds," he muttered, scanning the pages. "Sponsor her lifestyle to the tune of two thousand a year and... oh yes, something about procuring and maintaining a palatial abode."

He shuffled through the papers, scattering a few onto the floor in the process.

It was then that Emma noticed he wasn't using his left hand at all, holding it awkwardly, as if something were amiss. There shouldn't have been, save for a minor bullet wound. She had aimed meticulously, and was a sharpshooter. Besides, he was a large target.

Hook glanced her way and caught her staring. "Admiring your handiwork, are you? Perhaps you'd like a closer inspection. Unfortunately, there's not much to see. The quacks say it's fine. It just doesn't function. Still, I count myself lucky, Miss Nolan, that you didn't aim a bit lower. I'm merely disarmed, not unmanned. But I have no doubt Booth here will handle the emasculation."

Her conscience pricked, but she ignored it. "You've received and will get exactly what you deserve, you deceitful, spiteful brute."

"Miss Nolan," Booth interjected softly.

"No, I will not guard my tongue," she persisted. "His Lordship desired my presence precisely because he craved a quarrel. He's fully aware he's in the wrong, but he's too cursedly obstinate to concede it. He aims to portray me as conniving, avaricious—"

"Vindictive," Hook interjected. "Don't leave out vindictive."

"I, vindictive?" she exclaimed. "I wasn't the one who orchestrated a visit from the most notorious gossip in Paris while I was half-dressed and led—foolishly—toward ruin."

His ebony brows arched slightly. "You're not suggesting, Miss Nolan, that I engineered the spectacle."

"I needn't suggest a thing! It was plain as day. Arthur was there, your confidant. And the others—the sly Parisian sophisticates. I know who arranged for them to witness my disgrace. And I know why. You did it out of spite, as though every scandal, every scratch on your precious reputation, were my doing!"

There followed a tense, pregnant pause. Hook swept the remaining papers to the carpet, strode over to the decanter tray, and poured himself a glass of rum with ease. He needed only one hand to do that, and only one swallow to empty it.

Turning back to her, a sardonic smirk played upon his lips. "It seems we've both been operating under the same misunderstanding," he remarked. "I had assumed you orchestrated the—ah—interruption."

"Not surprising," she retorted. "You also appear to labor under the delusion that you're a prized catch, in addition to mistaking me for a madwoman. If I were desperate for a husband—which I am not and never will be—I wouldn't resort to such archaic, pitiful tricks."

She stood her ground defiantly. "I may resemble a withered, inconsequential old maid in your eyes, my lord, but that's hardly the consensus. I am single by choice, not because I lack suitors."

"But now you won't have any," he jabbed back. His mocking gaze sauntered over her, setting her skin prickling. "Thanks to me. And that's what all this hullabaloo is about."

He placed the empty glass on the tray and turned to Booth. "I've tarnished the reputation, and now I'm expected to fork over the assessed value of the goods, or else you'll bury me in paperwork, drown me in lawyers and clerks, and drag me through a legal marathon."

"If the legal system treated women fairly, the process wouldn't drag on," Mr. Booth replied, unfazed. "The consequences would be severe and swift."

"But we dwell in these dark ages," Hook mused. "And I, as Miss Nolan would attest, am the most archaic of men. I harbor, amid other quaint notions, the antiquated belief that when I pay for something, it should rightfully be mine. Since I seem to have no other recourse but to pay for Miss Nolan—"

"I am not a trinket," she interjected tersely. She reminded herself not to be astonished that the presumptuous oaf suggested resolving matters by making her his mistress. "I am a human being, and you shall never possess me, no matter the price you pay. You may have besmirched my honor in the eyes of society, but you will not tarnish it in truth."

He arched an eyebrow. "Besmirch your honor? My dear Miss Nolan, I am offering to restore it. We shall wed. Now, why don't you take a seat and behave like a good lass, and allow the men to handle the details?"

Emma felt a moment of bewildered paralysis before the words hit her like a thunderclap to the skull. The room swayed and blurred around her, forcing her to fight to stay focused. "Wed?"

Her voice sounded distant, fragile, almost pleading.

"Booth demands that I settle your brother's debts and provide for you indefinitely," he declared. "Very well. I agree. But under the same terms any other man would insist upon - exclusive ownership and breeding rights."

His gaze lingered on her neckline, igniting a simmering heat that spread as if his hands, not just his eyes, were caressing her.

She gathered her composure, like a queen donning her crown. "I see what you're about," she said coolly. "This isn't a genuine offer, but a cunning ploy to trap us. You know we can't sue if you pretend to take the high road. You also know I won't marry you, so you think you have us at point non plus ."

"Exactly," he replied, smiling with feline satisfaction. "If you refuse and pursue litigation, you'll only disgrace yourself. Everyone will think you're a gold-digging harlot."

"And if I accept your sham proposal, you'll string me along until the last moment and leave me humiliated at the altar," she retorted. "You'll disgrace me regardless."

He laughed, a sound as sharp as shattered glass. "And risk a breach-of-promise suit? Make Booth's job easier? Think again, Emma. Let's keep it straightforward: marriage or nothing."

She snatched up the first thing at hand—a small but weighty brass horse.

Mr. Booth stepped forward, his voice calm but urgent. "Miss Nolan, I beg you to resist the temptation."

She set down the statue with deliberate force and turned to Booth. "You see, don't you? He's not offering to make amends, because he doesn't think he owes me any. All he wants is to best me—and best you in the process to make his triumph even sweeter."

"It hardly matters what you think of me," Hook said, his tone dripping with smugness. "There are only two choices. And if you're waiting for me to make it more palatable by falling to my knees and begging for your hand, Emma, you may wait until Judgment Day," he added with a scornful laugh.

Then she heard it—a faint but unmistakable tremor beneath his laughter. She'd heard it before, in boyish boasts and taunts - the discordant note of uncertainty. She swiftly replayed his words in her mind and wondered if that was all his pride could muster. Masculine pride was an exceedingly precious and fragile thing, guarded fiercely from infancy.

"I'm not afraid," boys would say, laughing while their knees knocked together. They'd laugh off floggings, feigning indifference, and drop rodents and reptiles into the laps of girls they secretly fancied, chuckling uncertainly when the girls ran away screaming.

Perhaps his proposal was the adult equivalent of such a childish gesture. If she rejected it indignantly, he'd laugh and convince himself that was precisely the outcome he desired.

But perhaps it was not as straightforward as that.

Emma couldn't help but think that "perhaps" was a flimsy foundation for matrimony.

Then again, Ingrid had persistently advised her to reel him in. Even after everything that had transpired, her grandmother hadn't wavered. "I know he behaved atrociously, and I don't blame you for shooting him," she had said. "But consider he was interrupted at the worst possible moment for a man. He wasn't thinking clearly. Couldn't have been. Yet I'm convinced he cares for you. He didn't wear that insolent or cynical expression when he danced with you."

"Marriage or nothing," Hook's impatient voice interjected, snapping Emma back to the present. "Those are the terms, the only terms. Take your pick, Emma."


Killian reassured himself that the outcome was inconsequential. If she acquiesced, he could perhaps quell his foolish desire in exchange for the exorbitant sum demanded. Then he could relegate her to Devon and reclaim his life. If she declined, he owed nothing, and she would vanish, ceasing to torment him, fading from memory along with his desire. Either way, he triumphed and she faltered.

Yet despite his resolve, his heart thudded against his ribs, a chill of apprehension stirring his gut, reminiscent of boyhood fears.

He clenched his jaw, maintaining composure as he observed her approach Booth and then a chair. Yet she hesitated, not sitting, her lovely countenance a mask of inscrutability.

Booth frowned, brow furrowing with concern. "Perhaps you need more time, Miss Nolan. A few moments of privacy, perhaps? I am certain His Lordship would grant that," he suggested, his stern gaze shifting to Killian. "After all, the lady's entire future hangs in the balance."

"I require no additional time," Miss Nolan replied with unflinching calm. "The balance of assets and liabilities is straightforward enough."

To Killian's surprise, she looked up and smiled. "The idea of a life steeped in poverty and obscurity in some forgotten corner of the world holds no allure for me. It seems absurd to endure such a fate merely to preserve my pride. I'd much prefer the comforts of being a wealthy marchioness. You are dreadful, Hook, and I have no doubt you will endeavor to make my life miserable. However, Mr. Booth will ensure that I am well cared for in the financial sense. Moreover, I shall relish the satisfaction of knowing you will have to swallow every disdainful remark you've ever made about men ensnared into marriage and respectable entanglements. Oh, to be a fly on the wall when you explain your engagement to your friends, my dear Prince of Darkness."

He stared at her, hardly daring to believe his ears.

"The answer is yes," she declared impatiently. "Do you take me for such a nincompoop to decline and let you off scot-free?"

He found his voice, still stunned. "I dared not hope for such mercy."

She closed the distance between them. "And what yarn will you spin for your cronies, Hook? Something about matrimony being less of a nuisance than dodging my bullets, I reckon."

Her fingers lightly grazed his coat sleeve, a gesture that tightened his chest with an unexpected pang.

"You might consider putting it in a sling," she suggested coolly. "Give it some flair. Besides, it might prevent any further accidental damage."

"A sling would ruin the line of my coat," he retorted, with a touch of vanity. "Besides, I have no need to put on a show or justify myself."

"Your friends will roast you alive," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I would give anything to witness it."

"I'll announce our betrothal tonight at Délice," he declared. "Let them think what they will. It's of no consequence to me what those simpletons believe. Meanwhile, I suggest you scamper off and start packing. Booth and I have business to attend to."

She stiffened. "Pack?"

"We depart for England the day after tomorrow," he said. "I'll handle the travel arrangements. We'll be married in London; I won't have a mob invading the Dartmoor countryside and agitating the livestock. We'll head to Ashbourne after the wedding breakfast."

Her eyes narrowed with resolve. "Oh, no, you don't," she retorted. "We can tie the knot right here. Let me savor Paris for a bit, at least, before you banish me to England."

"We shall marry in St. Helen's, London," he insisted. "In a month's time. I won't grovel before the blasted Archbishop of Canterbury for a special license. The banns will be read. And you may amuse yourself in London in the meantime. Paris is not an option, so dismiss that notion from your mind."

The thought of the Marchioness of Hookstone residing in the cesspool he called home on the Rue de Rivoli sent shivers down his spine. His lady wife would not sit at a table where half of Paris's riffraff had feasted and caroused, leaving behind stains and stenches. She would not embroider or read by the fire in a drawing room that had hosted orgies even the Romans would envy.

He made a mental note to order a new mattress for the ancestral bed at Ashbourne and consign all current bedclothes and hangings to the flames. He would not have the Marchioness of Hookstone contaminated by the objects amid which he'd fathered a bastard upon Milah Lydgate.

"I've endured a bloody awful time in Paris, all thanks to you," she snapped, her green eyes ablaze. "The least you could do is let me make up for it. I'm not asking you to fund my every whim, but surely I'm entitled to attend a few soirées and revel in my newly restored honor and—"

"You can revel in London," he cut in. "Have the grandest wedding breakfast imaginable. Buy all the gowns and trinkets you desire. What does it matter where you are, as long as I foot the bill?"

"How can you be so heartless?" she exclaimed. "I don't want to be whisked away from Paris like some shameful secret."

"A secret?" His voice escalated. "In St. Helen's, London? How much more blazingly public and respectable could this blasted union possibly get?"

He glanced past her at Booth, who sat at the table, stuffing papers into his leather document case, his expression a masterclass in feigned indifference to the commotion. "Booth, perhaps you can elucidate the heinous crime I'm committing with a London wedding."

"This disagreement isn't under my jurisdiction," Booth replied. "Nor is the guest list or any other disputes that usually accompany engagements. You'll have to sort this out yourselves."

Killian felt he had endured more than his fair share of "negotiating" for one day. He hadn't arrived with the intention to marry the architect of his torment. Not consciously, at least. He had offered, he thought, merely to avoid being cornered and relentlessly pursued by a vengeful little spinster and her scheming lawyer.

He hadn't realized, until he made the offer, just how much her response truly mattered. Now, contemplating her departure—forever—Paris and the ensuing weeks seemed dull and dreary.

Even though she had agreed, he remained uneasy. She wasn't his yet, and the thought that she might slip away still gnawed at him. But his pride wouldn't allow him to give in. Give an inch to a woman, and she'd take an ell.

He resolved to set the tone from the outset, determined to establish his authority in his own domain. He wouldn't be manipulated. His ways wouldn't bend for anyone, not even her. Killian gave the orders; others obeyed.

"Love," he began.

She met his eyes cautiously.

Taking her hand, he whispered, "Pack your bags."

She tried to withdraw her hand, and he released it momentarily. Then, with his good arm, he enveloped her waist, lifted her effortlessly, and pressed his lips firmly against hers.

It was over in a heartbeat. She hardly had time to resist. A swift, audacious kiss... and he gently set her down, releasing her. She staggered back a step, her cheeks flushed.

"That's the extent of our negotiation, Emma," he declared, swiftly quelling the stirrings of warmth and desire that the fleeting embrace had ignited. "Persist, and I might think you're asking for more."

"Fine, London it is - but be prepared to pay dearly, Hook," she retorted.

She turned away. "Mr. Booth, show him no quarter. If he wants blind obedience, he'll have to pay a princely sum. I demand a lavish allowance for personal expenses. My own carriages and livestock. Generous dowries for daughters as well as sons. Make him squirm, Mr. Booth. If he doesn't bellow and stomp like an outraged elephant, you're not asking for enough."

"I'm willing to pay dearly for blind obedience," Killian grinned wickedly. "I shall begin drafting my list of commands tonight," he exaggeratedly bowed to her. "Until the day after tomorrow, Miss Nolan."

She curtsied. "Go to hell, Hook."

"I undoubtedly will - eventually," he nodded to the solicitor. "You may visit me at two o'clock tomorrow with your infernal papers, Booth."

Without waiting for a response, Killian swaggered out of the room.