“I’m not a gentleman, I’m a nobleman, a distinction I suspect you understand very well.”

“You also," he said, lowering his voice, "haven't yetthanked me for saving you from sitting in the flower bed."She didn't even look up. "It was entirely your fault that I nearly did. If you hadn't sneaked up on me, I wouldn't have been in any danger of landing in the weeds." She glanced briefly at him, a touch of color in her cheeks. "A gentleman would have coughed or something."Vane trapped her gaze, and smiled—a slow, Cynster smile. "Ah," he murmured, his voice very low. He shifted fractionally closer. "But, you see, I'm not a gentleman. I'm a Cynster." As if letting her into some secret, he gently informed her: "We're conquerors—not gentlemen.”

“..the family motto, after all, is 'To Have and To Hold'. We were always a warrior breed, but we don't fight solely for lands and material wealth. There's an understanding, drummed into all of us from our earliest years, that success-true success-means capturing and holding , something more. That something more is the future-to excel is very well, but one needs to excel and survive. To seize lands is well and good, but we want to hold them for all time. Which means creating and building a family-defending the family that is, and creating the next generation. Because it's the next generation that's our future. Without securing that future, material success is no real success at all.”

“I'd expected," Martha continued, "to have to deal with hysterics-bouts of weeping and pleading at the very least.""Yes,well..." Heather pulled an expressive face. Looking ahead, she went on, "I have to admit I did feel like panicking at first, but...I've been wondering if I shouldn't view this as an adventure." She had to deflect any suspicion, so offered the one explanation that might serve. She gestured dramatically. "A romantical adventure, complete with mysterious villain, who might or might not prove to be devastatingly handsome."Martha snorted. "So that's the way it is-you're romanticizing this blackguard who's arranged your kidnapping.""Do you actually know if he's a blackguard?" Heather didn't have to manufacture her concern.Martha grimaced. "I can't rightly say. I haven't had anything to do with the beggar. Fletcher and Cobbins were the ones that met him. But," she continued, "any blighter who arranges a kidnapping, and one as coolly planned as this, take it from me, handsome or not, you won't want to meet him." Martha glanced at her again. "Sure you won't want to rethink those hysterics?"Heather arched her brows. "Will they get me any further?""Not with me-and Fletcher's more like to slap you than come over all solicitous.""Well,then." Heather tipped up her face. "I believe I'll just go on romanticizing, at least until I have cause not to. You should be grateful-I'm making your task much easier.”

“His first stop was the local branch of Child's Bank; once he replenished his supply of cash, he followed the bank manager's directions to the town's premier bootmaker, and was lucky enough to find an excellent pair of riding boots that fit him. His next stop was the best gentleman's outfitters, where he created a small furore by demanding they assemble for him outfits suitable for a groom and for a north country laborer.The head tailor goggled at him and the assistants simply stared; holding onto his temper, he brusquely explained that the outfits were for a country house party where fancy dress was required.Then they fell to with appropriate zeal.It still took longer than he would have liked. The tailor fussed with the fitting until Breckenridge declared, "Damn it, man! There's no prize for being the most perfectly dressed groom in the north!"The tailor jumped. Pins cascaded from between his lips and scattered on the ground. His assistants rushed in to gather them up.The tailor swallowed. "No, of course not, sir. If Sir will remain still, I will endeavor to remove the pins...although really, such shoulders...well, I would have thought...""Never mind about showing off my damned shoulders-just make sure I have room to move.”

“Deciding that at the moment it behooved her to, as Wiry had put it, behave, Heather inclined her head, first to the woman alongside her, "Martha," then to the barrel-chested man, shorter than Wiry but of heavier build, who'd remained quietly seated in the far corner of the coach. "Cobbins."She turned her gaze on Wiry. "And you are?"He smiled. "You may call me Fletcher, Miss Wallace."Heather thought of a few other epithets she might call him, but she merely inclined her head. Settling on the seat, she leaned her head back against the squabs and ventured nothing more. She sensed that Fletcher expected her to protest, perhaps beg for mercy, or try to subvert him and the others from their goal, but she saw no point in lowering herself to that.No point at all.The more she thought of all Fletcher had let fall, the more she felt certain of that. This had to be the strangest abduction she'd ever heard of...well, she hadn't heard the details of any abduction attempts, but it seemed distinctly odd that they were treating her so considerately, so...sensibly. So terribly calmly and confidently.”

“You like my kisses - and I like kissing you. Why deny ourselves such innocent pleasure?”