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  “Where’s my daughter, and where is Travis?” Regan demanded.

  “Dear little rich Jennifer is asleep, and so is her beloved father. Of course, Jennifer will wake; Travis will not.”

  “What!” Regan yelled. “What have you done to my family?”

  “No more than you’ve done to my life. Travis drank enough opium to kill two men. He’s upstairs sleeping until death.”

  Regan had reached the doorway when a shot from outside made her stop. Paralyzed, she looked down the hall toward the door. Margo rushed past her and jerked the door open, and Farrell entered, half carrying, half dragging Wesley’s bleeding body.

  “I found him lurking around outside,” Farrell said, pushing Wes into a chair, a pistol in his hand.

  “What are you doing here?” Regan gasped, going toward Wesley.

  “Leave him!” Farrell said, grabbing her shoulder. “Did you think I was going to give up so easily, after all the years I’d been searching for you? No, Margo and I planned all this long ago, while the rest of you were playing with that stupid circus. Wesley here will die of his wounds received in an unfortunate hunting accident. Travis’s body will never be found, and his dear little daughter will inherit everything. I will, of course, marry the little heiress’s mother, who will be so distraught over her husband’s death that she’ll commit suicide. I will then return to England, the sole beneficiary of your estate, and Margo will generously agree to be Jennifer’s guardian and care for the Stanford plantation until she comes of age—if she lives that long. Now do you see why I’m here?”

  “You are both mad,” Regan said, backing away from him. “No one will believe so many deaths are accidental.” She turned and started for the stairs at the end of the hall, but Farrell caught her.

  “You’re mine now,” he said, advancing toward her, his body stained with Wesley’s blood.

  Regan’s hand went out, and she turned over the candelabra on a low table. Immediately, the curtains over a nearby doorway went up in flames. Margo’s scream filled the air as she grabbed a small rug and began beating at the flames.

  “Release her,” said a voice from the end of the hall.

  “Travis!” Regan cried, fighting to free herself from Farrell. Travis looked horrible, as if he’d just been violently ill.

  “I thought you put him out of the way,” Farrell yelled at Margo as she fought the fire.

  “It took me a while to get all the opium out of my system,” he said, holding on to the stair banister.

  “Stop talking,” Margo screamed, “and help me put out the fire. It’s spreading!”

  Farrell tightened his grip on Regan and put the pistol to her head.

  Wesley, nearly forgotten and slumped in a chair behind Farrell, used his draining strength to pull a knife from his boot, and with one lunge he plunged it between Farrell’s shoulder blades. The pistol flew upward, fired into the ceiling, and Farrell fell forward.

  Regan reacted instantly as she ran toward Travis and the stairs. “Get Wesley,” she commanded. “I’ll get Jennifer.”

  Regan found her sleeping daughter quickly, pulled her from the bed, and ran down the stairs in time to meet Travis working hard to get his brother out of the house. Neither man had much strength, and it seemed forever before they were in the fresh, sunlit morning air and out of the smoke-filled house.

  Travis gently put Wesley on the grass. “I’ll get horses and a wagon,” he said.

  “Travis!” Regan said, touching his arm, her eyes going to the house. A flame leaped out of the first-floor window. “We can’t leave Margo in there to die. She has to come out.”

  Travis gave her cheek a quick caress and then ran back to the house. Minutes later he came out, Margo thrown over his shoulder as she kicked and clawed, cursing him vilely.

  He dumped her on the ground. “That goddamn house isn’t worth anyone’s life, not even yours,” he said as she glared up at him.

  Regan was bent over Wes, binding the gunshot wound in his side.

  Travis had barely glanced away from Margo before she leaped up and ran toward the house. “My daddy is in there!” she was screaming.

  Travis saw the first flames touch her skirt and knew he could not save her. Quickly, he grabbed his daughter, who was watching everything wide-eyed, and buried her little face in his shoulder.

  Within seconds, Margo’s whiskey-soaked dress burst into flame, and Regan turned away as Wes’s arm went around her, pulling her to sob onto his shoulder.

  It was a while before any of them could recover. Travis, touching his brother’s forehead in affection, smiled at the man holding his wife. “Take care of my women while I go get a wagon,” he said.

  By the time he returned, they were surrounded by plantation workers who stood helplessly by as the house burned. It was too far gone to try to save it. Men were getting the horses out of the nearby stables, and two more men helped Travis put Wes in the back of the wagon. Jennifer sat by her uncle, too tired and dazed to speak.

  When Travis and Regan were on the seat, he turned to her. “Shall we go home?”

  “Home,” she whispered. “Home is where you are, Travis, and that’s where I want to be.”

  He kissed her. “I love you,” he said, “and—.”

  “I’m bleeding to death, and you two are courting,” Wesley bellowed from the back.

  “Courting!” Travis snorted, clicking to the horses. “Little brother, you don’t even know what courting is. As soon as you’re up to the excitement, I’m going to tell you about the world’s best courtship. Maybe someday you can be half as creative—.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes at Regan, who’d started laughing, and his look of injury made her laugh harder.

  “I think I’d rather hear Regan’s side of any of your stories, Travis,” Wesley said, smiling, his eyes closed.

  “Home,” Regan said, wiping her eyes. “It’s going to be very good to get home.”

  Travis began to smile also as he turned the horses toward the Stanford plantation.

  Jude Deveraux

  Answers Questions

  I fell in love with every one of the Montgomery men. Will there be more books about them in the future?

  When I finished Velvet Angel, I hadn’t planned to write more books about the Montgomery family, but since then I have received hundreds of letters asking me for more of this family. Several of the letters contained long outlines of plots for stories about Montgomery children, American Montgomerys, outlaw Montgomerys, you name it.

  It was a difficult decision (took about ten minutes), but I decided to write four more books dealing with the descendants of my lovely men. They are set in America and cover all four corners of the United States. I have no idea what the titles will be, and if you have any title suggestions, please send them to me.

  In the back of Velvet Angel was a mention of a contemporary romance between the American Montgomerys and the English branch. When will this book be out?

  You saw my attempt at contemporary fiction in Casa Grande, and you can still ask me for more?!

  It seems that when God so kindly gave me the ability to write, He didn’t extend it very far. All I want to do is write the very best historical romances that I possibly can—and historicals seem to be all I’m capable of. I don’t want to write family sagas or occult books, and I have no intention of again trying to ruin the contemporary market.

  In The Black Lyon you mentioned Dacre and Angharad, and it seemed to me that this would make a good sequel. Are you planning to write about them?

  I had intended to write the story of Dacre and Angharad and had the plot ready. But when I turned in The Velvet Promise, which had many references to The Black Lyon, Rannulf being a major character in the book, I was told that thirteenth-century books didn’t sell and that I had to change the book to the sixteenth century, which did sell, or my book would not be published. I spent a month changing the description and background and removing the Warbrooke family. The plot for Dacre and Angharad became Highland Velv