Maggie had been knocked to the ground, but she still fought furiously, twisting and kicking and slashing with a knife. Her shoulder and part of her chest showed white against the torn fabric of her clothing, and in the uncertain light her face was distorted by fear such as Rafe had never seen before.

A raggedly dressed laborer tried to grab her wrist. She put the point of her blade through the back of his hand. The laborer shrieked as blood gushed from the wound.

With shocking abruptness, a heavy boot caught the side of Maggie's head and her struggle ended. She slumped into unconsciousness, the knife falling from her nerveless fingers.

The man who had kicked her hauled her upright and held her against his chest, one hand cruelly squeezing her exposed breast. Rafe looked into his face, and recognized the scarred, triumphant visage of Henri Lemercier.

"You'll have to wait in line, mes amis," the captain said genially, "I saw her first, but don't worry, there's plenty to go around."

He began dragging her backward toward the alley. Acknowledging the practical difficulties of more than one man raping a woman at a time, the surrounding rioters fell back a little, opening the space around Maggie and her captor.

Audacity was the only hope. Rafe bolted from the crowd, chopped the side of his hand across Lemercier's throat, and grabbed Maggie as the Frenchman's grasp loosened.

As Rafe raised her, he felt the unmistable shape of a pistol in her cloak pocket. One bullet would not have helped her against the mob, but it might be of use to him. As he slung her limp body over his left shoulder, he transferred the pistol to his own pocket. Then he sprinted down the alley away from the plaza, praying that the crowd would react slowly.

Before he had gone ten yards, a roar rose behind him. "Another of Wellington's spies!" Lemercier shouted in a strangled voice. "Kill them both!"

A stone struck Rafe's shoulder, knocking him off-stride. As he recovered, he spared a quick glance back, and saw that Lemercier had rallied the crowd and was pounding in pursuit.

Slowed by Maggie's weight, Rafe would never be able to outrun the mob. There was only one possible hope. He pulled the pistol from his pocket and cocked the hammer one-handed. For a bare instant, he saw again that horrifying vision of her being ravished by the mob, and considered putting the single bullet into her heart.

The thought left as quickly as it had come; he could not hurt Margot, even to save her from a ghastly death. He raised the pistol and held it out at arm's length, aiming with the same deliberation he used when shooting wafers at a gallery.

The priming fizzled oddly, and for a heart-searing moment he thought the pistol had misfired.

Then the weapon kicked in his hand. Time seemed to slow, and he could almost see the ball spinning, spinning through the air-until it struck Lemercier dead between the eyes.

Still in eerie slow motion, the Frenchman's expression changed from vicious lust to disbelieving shock. There was a small spurt of blood and bone as the force of the ball drove Lemercier back into the arms of the rioters. At the loss of their leader, the mob's cohesion disintegrated into confusion.

Rafe wasted no more time in observation. Holding Maggie again, he turned and escaped into the maze of alleys that surrounded the plaza, dodging left, then right, then left again. The unexpected shooting slowed the mob down long enough for him to get out of their sight.

After five minutes of running full speed with no sign of pursuit, he staggered to a halt. There wasn't an ounce of Maggie that he didn't like exactly the way it was, but she was no featherweight and his lungs burned with exertion.

Gasping for breath, he laid her on the pavement and made a quick examination. It was too dark to tell much, but her breathing and heartbeat seemed strong.

In the distance, he could still hear shouts from the Place du Carrousel. As soon as he regained his breath, he lifted her in both arms and started walking. Eventually he emerged into one of the boulevards and flagged down a cab, then curtly ordered the driver to take them to the Hotel de la Paix.

In the dank privacy of the cab, he held her in his lap, her black cloak spilling over them both. Though her hat had been lost in the plaza, her bright hair was still concealed under a black scarf. He untied it, then carefully probed the area where the kick had landed, praying that the heavy boot hadn't hit her squarely. To his relief, it seemed that her heavy coils of hair had cushioned the effect of the blow.

For the rest of the ride, he cradled her in his arms, trying to warm her chilled body. A lingering trace of exotic scent was in her hair, a reminder of the glamorous countess. Yet with a vague sense of wonder, he realized that for the moment, tenderness had overpowered his lust.

When they reached the H6tel de la Paix, he climbed from the carriage, tossed a gold piece to the cabby, and carried Maggie up the steps without looking back. The doorman looked startled, but said nothing. One didn't question a duke, even one with a ragged, unconscious female in his arms.

A kick at the door of his apartments brought his valet on the run. Carrying Maggie inside, Rafe snapped, "Have the concierge wake a maid and get her down here with a clean nightgown. Then go for a doctor. I want one here within half an hour even if you have to bring him at gun point."

The suite was small, with no guest room, so Rafe took her into his own bedchamber. Her black-clad figure was dwarfed in the huge four-poster. The irony did not escape him; he had dreamed of having her in his bed, but not like this. Dear God, never like this.

He lit a branch of candles and set it on the bedside table. Maggie's pale, smudged face was oddly peaceful as he pulled the torn shirt over her exposed breast.

A yawning maid entered in her dressing gown, a white garment over her arm.

Rafe glanced up at her. "I'll buy the nightgown from you. Undress this lady and put it on her."

The maid blinked. When gentlemen brought women here, they were usually interested in doing the undressing themselves. With a very French shrug, she set to work.

Rafe left the room. Acquaintances who knew him as a consummate ladies' man would have laughed at the idea, but after what Maggie had gone through, it would have seemed like an unforgivable violation of her privacy to watch, or to undress her himself.

A few minutes later the maid went back to bed, her sleepy eyes widened by the size of the tip Rafe gave her.

When he reentered his chamber, Maggie lay beneath the covers as if she were asleep, the only sign of her ordeal a graze on her left cheekbone. The maid had combed her hair out so that it lay around her shoulders in a fine-spun golden mist. Delicate embroidery surrounded the neckline of the soft muslin nightgown, and she looked like a schoolgirl, except that schoolgirls didn't have figures like hers.

The doctor arrived quickly, a tribute to the persuasions or threats of Rafe's valet. Told only that the patient had been caught in a riot, the physician examined her while Rafe paced restlessly in the overfurnished drawing room.

After an endless time, the doctor emerged to say, "The young lady was very lucky. Apart from some bruises and a headache, she'll be fine. No broken bones or signs of internal injuries."

Examining his disheveled patron, the doctor added, "Should I examine you also? You don't appear to have escaped unscathed."

Rafe made an impatient gesture with one hand. "There's nothing wrong with me. Or at least, nothing to signify," he qualified. Now that his anxiety was allayed, he became aware of aches and bruises all over. It was like the time he had been thrown from his horse during a steeplechase race, and half the field had galloped over him.

Sending his valet back to bed, Rafe built a fire in the small hearth, then took off his coat and boots and settled down with a glass of brandy in a chair by the bed. He didn't want Maggie waking in a strange place with no familiar faces, so he would sit with her until she was conscious again. As he stretched his long legs out before him, he thought humorlessly that she might hate him, but at least he was familiar.

He sipped his brandy, wishing he could obliterate the image of his bullet smashing into Lemercier's skull. Since he couldn't, he forced himself to look directly at the fact that he had killed a man. Would shooting the Frenchman in a less lethal place have been equally effective? At the time, he had acted from pure instinct, and obviously his instincts were savage. At least, they were where Margot was concerned. If he had had a cannon, he would have fired it into that mob in order to save her.

Wearily he rubbed his temples. The shooting had been necessary, and in the same circumstances he would not hesitate to do it again. Yet taking a human life was not an act that could be dismissed as if it had no significance. Perhaps some day he would ask his friend Michael Kenyon, who had been a soldier, if one ever became used to killing.

Or perhaps he would not ask. There seemed to be a large number of questions he didn't really want answered.

He was dozing when faint, restless movements woke him. Sitting up, he saw that Maggie was writhing back and forth, fear rippling across her face and her breath coming in gasps. As he watched, she twisted violently and began to scream, the same blood-chilling cry of panic that she had made in the plaza.

Coming instantly awake, he propelled himself from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed. "Maggie, it's all right!" he said sharply. "You're safe here."