"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" she said with a rueful laugh. "Is that what all the fine romantic phrases come down to: the man choosing the female who most arouses him, the woman accepting the man who can best provide for her?"

"That may be the basic transaction, but it is only a beginning. Humans are complicated creatures, and a good marriage must satisfy many needs and desires." He looked down, his slateblue eyes glinting with amusement. "But in addition to affection, companionship, and trust, it is not inherently a bad thing to find one's partner physically attractive."

She looked away, shy again but content to stay within the circle of his arm. "Are we back again to the fact that I look like a harlot?"

"Not really. I've never found such women very interesting-at least, not for more than an hour or two. You, on the contrary, are nothing if not interesting. I admire the idealism of your political work, and what you have done on behalf of a niece you have never met. I like your directness." He chuckled. "I also like the fact that your blushes make it easy to know what you are thinking."

The wave of color that went over Desdemona confirmed his last words. She found herself on the verge of scuffing her toe in the carpet like a child.

He finished his recitation of her virtues by saying, "The fact that I like and respect you as a person is the foundation. However, I am absolutely delighted that you also look like the most expensive kind of opera dancer."

She had to laugh at his absurd and marvelous chain of logic, and the way it dissolved her selfconsciousness about her unladylike appearance. For perhaps the first time in her life, a man's admiration was pleasing rather than menacing.

Then she raised her eyes, and laughter ceased. Her breath caught at what she saw in his eyes. Certainly there was desire, but also affection and kindness. When he bent over, she did not try to avoid his kiss.

It began as a light, undemanding caress, quite unlike the slavering assaults of the young men who had sometimes cornered her when she was a girl. Her husband had seldom bothered to kiss her at all, instead going directly to his satisfaction.

Giles, however,, preferred a leisurely exploration. His lips brushed hers with slow sensuality, finding pleasures she had never imagined. At first she simply accepted, but soon she began to want to respond. She slid her arms around his neck and relaxed against him. Their bodies fitted together as if designed for each other. With him, she didn't feel like a vulgar, oversized Amazon; she felt like a woman who had met her match.

He began stroking her back underneath his coat, which was still draped over her shoulders. His hands warmed her through the damp muslin of her gown. She did not realize the effort his restraint was costing him until she shyly touched her tongue to his. He made a sound deep in his throat and crushed her to him so that she felt the full force of his male strength. She stiffened, hating the feeling of being overwhelmed.. Instantly he ended the kiss and stepped back. His breath unsteady, he stroked her tangled red curls. "I'm sorry. It's perilously easy to forget myself. I didn't mean to alarm you."

"You didn't. At least, not much." Desdemona was more than a little unsteady herself. "Where do we go from here, Wolverton?"

He gave her a slanted, hopeful smile. "Perhaps a courtship? Spend time together, learn to know each other better. Decide if we might suit."

"I'd like that." As soon as she spoke, she felt a shiver of nerves. "But it will take time. As I said, I've enjoyed my independence."

"Have you also enjoyed your loneliness?" he asked quietly.

She looked down at her ruined slippers and shook her head. "But if we are courting, let us do it honestly. If I decide that I can't bear to marry again, I shall say so. And if you decide that I am an impossible virago, you must tell me. None of this nonsense about feeling obligated to marry me because you raised my expectations. They say that's why Wellington married his wife, and a sad business that has proved to be."

"Agreed. That common sense is exactly what I like about you. As the next step in this courtship, perhaps you could call me Giles." His mouth twisted. "Dianthe always called me by my title, which was appropriate since it was the lord she married."

"Fool woman. Very well, Giles." She surveyed him thoughtfully. "Do you think you can manage to call me Desdemona with a straight face?"

"Probably not." His eyes gleamed with humor. "When you came blazing into Wolverhampton, it occurred to me that Othello may have had a point when he strangled his Desdemona. The thought has returned once or twice since then."

"That is a ridiculous and unworthy comment." She tried to look severe but found herself succumbing to undignified hilarity. What a silly chit Dianthe must have been, to find Giles boring.

'True," he agreed cheerfully. "Is that why you're giggling?"

"I am a widow of mature years and serious pursuits," she stated. "I do not giggle." Then she hid her face against his shoulder in a vain attempt to muffle the sounds of her lie.

Chapter 22

Robin was right about the number of humorous stories he knew. By the time they were ready to retire, Maxie had laughed so much that she could scarcely remember the black anxiety she had felt when trying to look toward the future. Arm in arm, they climbed the stairs, Robin carrying a candle and Maxie holding up her red velvet skirts so she wouldn't trip and break her neck.

He accompanied her into her room and lit the bedside candle, then turned to go to the adjoining chamber. The candlelight cast strong shadows across his face, illuminating the chiseled planes. In his flowing blue velvet robe, he looked like a medieval lord who had stepped out of the past. He was the most desirable man she had ever seen, and she wanted to untie his sash and bare his beautiful body and pull him onto the bed.

Without conscious thought, she placed her open hand on the triangle of skin exposed by the loose folds of his robe. His heartbeat accelerated beneath her palm as raw sexual tension" pulsed between them.

Mouth dry, she asked, "Whose turn is it to be sensibler?"

"Mine, I think." He touched her hair, letting the shining strands spill over his wrists. Then he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers before releasing them. "Remember, I'm just next door. If you have a nightmare, call and I'll be right here."

"I know." Forcibly repressing the impulse to risk a goodnight kiss, she stepped back and began braiding her hair for bed. "Pleasant dreams."

After he closed the connecting door, she removed her robe and slid between the fresh sheets. Yet despite the comfort of the bed, sleep eluded her. The reason had nothing to do with her disturbing sense of a dark future. It was simply that the fourposter was too wide, too cold, too empty.

She rolled onto her stomach and pummeled the pillow irritably, using the excuse of making it more comfortable. Though it might be wise to avoid greater intimacy with Robin, wisdom made a poor companion for the night. The very difficulty of being without him reinforced the knowledge that she was following the right course. Damn, damn, damn.

An hour of tossing and turning brought her no closer to sleep. Scowling, she sat up and pondered. Perhaps if she opened the connecting door between the bedchambers, she would feel closer to Robin. Less alone.

She slipped off the high bed and padded over to the door, shivering a little in her light muslin shift. It was raining again, and the air had a raw chill that reminded her of a New England November. Quietly she opened the door and listened, hoping to hear the comforting sound of Robin's breathing over the steady drum of rain on the windowpanes.

She heard him, but the sound was not comforting. His breathing was choked and shallow, like that first night when they had slept on bracken pallets on a north country moor. He had claimed a nightmare then, but he had had none since.

The bed creaked as his weight shifted. Then he began to talk in a language that was not English, his flexible tenor laced with anguish. She frowned and entered his room. He was speaking a German dialect. Though she did not speak the language, she recognized the words das Blut and der Mord. Blood and murder.

With a harshness that would have woken her even through a closed door, he suddenly cried, "Nein!

Nein!" and lashed out frantically at some unseen threat.

Alarmed, she scrambled onto the wide bed and laid a hand on his shoulder to wake him from the nightmare.

He exploded under her touch, rolling over with blinding speed. Before she could even speak his name, he seized her shoulders and forced her down into the mattress. His torso was bare and damp with perspiration and his breath came in wrenching gasps as he sprawled full length on top of her, his forearm pressed across her throat so hard that she could scarcely breathe.

She was terrifyingly aware of the trained strength in his taut body. If she struggled, he might throttle her or break her neck. Trying to lie absolutely still, she drew as much air as she could through her constricted throat, then said sharply, "Robin, wake up! You're dreaming."

For a dreadful moment the pressure on her throat increased, cutting off further speech. Then her words penetrated through his nightmare. Blindly he whispered, "Maxie"

She managed to say, "Yes, Robin, it's me."

He flung violently away from her to lie on his back, his fair skin ghostpale in the darkness. "Christ, I'm sorry," he said hoarsely. "Are you all right?"