Elizabeth? This was the second time he’d referred to her as Elizabeth. Perhaps if she humored him… “Certainly you were worthy of me, Sir Hugh, but I fell in love with Noble—”

“Love! Love? Don’t make me ill, my dear. You no more know what love is than you know what makes up the moon. No, my dear, I shall first punish you for your naughty ways, then we shall continue with our original plan. You will use that lush body of yours to bring McGregor to bay, and then we’ll arrange for your dear husband’s demise.”

Gillian felt sick, but not as sick as when the baronet began to describe what sorts of “games” he wanted to play with her. Did people really do those sorts of things to one another? And he made it sound as if Elizabeth enjoyed it—how could she have been so wrong about Elizabeth? Did Noble know about his first wife’s plot against him? Did he know what Elizabeth had really been like? Did he know that Sir Hugh had killed Elizabeth that night so many years ago? Did Noble know that his first wife had taken Sir Hugh as her lover?

And Lord Carlisle; there was no forgetting him. He had admitted to being Elizabeth’s lover, and it was evident from Sir Hugh that he and Elizabeth had planned to use Carlisle as a scapegoat for Noble’s murder. Gillian’s head began to spin with pain and confusion.

Secrets and lies, lies and secrets, Palmerston had said. The lies—those were Elizabeth’s words to Lord Carlisle. The secrets—Sir Hugh and Elizabeth and their secret plan to do away with Noble.

“It’s time, my dear. I haven’t heard your fair voice raised in terror in far, far too long.” Sir Hugh ran a thumb down the knife and stepped toward Gillian’s outspread legs. He had cut the shift off, leaving her exposed almost to her torso. She closed her eyes and sent up a prayer, jumping at the sudden cold feeling of the blade as Sir Hugh ran its flat side up the length of her thighs.

“Now, Noble, now is a good time,” she whispered, trying to brace herself against any pain. “Please, Noble, I need you now.”

“Praying, my dear? You know how futile that is—I shall have to flog the blasphemy out of your soul once we are through with this little game.”

“Noble!” Gillian’s voice raised to a shriek as Sir Hugh grabbed the edge of her torn shift and ripped it open wide. A sudden explosion of light and sound burst into the hellish darkness of the room as a figure crashed through the window, and then Noble was there, his hands around Sir Hugh’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter, lifting the madman off the ground, his hands never loosening their grip. Gillian closed her eyes again, but she still heard the sickening crack as Noble twisted the baronet’s head, snapping his neck.

“Thank God,” she whispered, and he was there, looking her over for signs of injury, then slicing the leather restraints and carrying her to a chair.