Her eyes opened, but they were dazed, without recognition. As she drew her breath for another scream, he shook her shoulder. "Wake up, Maggie. There's nothing to fear."

Slowly her gaze focused on him. "Rafe?" she said uncertainly. Feebly she pushed herself to a sitting position.

"Yes, my dear. Don't worry, apart from a bang on the head nothing happened to you." He spoke softly, but his words must have brought back memories of the riot. She began to cry, crumpling forward as racking sobs shook her.

Rafe drew her into his arms, and she clung to him like a drowning woman. In a remote corner of his mind he was mildly surprised by the degree of her distress. The tough-as-leather countess had seemed equal to anything.

But this wasn't the countess, it was Margot, and she was hurting terribly. He held her shivering body close, murmuring a soothing flow of platitudes and reassurances. When her sobs abated, he said, "Lemercier was the one that turned the mob on you. Did you see him?"

She nodded, her face hidden.

"If it's any comfort, justice was visited on him rather quickly."

Startled, she looked up. "Did you…?"

"With your pistol," he said. "Pure poetic justice." Succinctly he described what had happened, and how he had managed to get them away.

Satisfaction flickered across her face, but it quickly vanished. "I keep seeing them," she said unsteadily. "The faces and the hands, all reaching for me____________________No matter how hard I try, I can't escape. And then, and then…" She buried her face against him again.

Stroking her hair, Rafe said forcefully, "Maggie, it's over, and you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you."

She lifted her head and looked at him, her pupils so distended that her eyes looked black. In a wavering voice, she said, "Rafe, I… I want you to make love to me."

Chapter 15

In a day full of drama, nothing had been as stunning as Maggie's words. Incredulously Rafe said, "Do you know what you are saying?"

Though her long fair lashes were clumped with tears, her eyes were bleakly aware. "I know what I am asking, and I know it isn't fair to you, but I want to- need to-forget."

Her voice trailed off and she shuddered, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them to renew her plea. "Rafe, if you have ever cared for me at all…"

Still he held back. Despite his vivid fantasies, he found that he didn't want to take her like this, when she was injured and terrified. He wanted her to desire him as he desired her, not see him only as a way to block out unbearable memory.

She reached out and brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her expression desolate. "Please, I beg you…"

Rafe couldn't bear to see her fierce pride broken. Turning into her hand, he kissed her palm and whispered, "Oh, God, Margot, I've waited so long. So very, very long…"

The desire that had been consuming him for days flared to white heat, and for an instant his vision blurred. More than anything on earth, he wanted to bury himself inside her-to lose himself in passion. Yet this was not the time for a wild, heedless coupling; if he was to help her, he must be stronger and calmer than she.

He took hold of her shoulders to draw her into a kiss. As soon as he touched her, she began shaking.

He became absolutely still. "Is that desire or fear?"

Not meeting his eyes, she replied, "A little of both."

How strange to think that the evening before, he had wondered if he might be capable of rape; the mere thought that Margot could fear him was like a red-hot poker in his belly.

While he was trying to decide what to say, she raised her hand to brush nervously at her hair. The sleeve of her gown slipped a little, revealing an ugly bruise on her forearm.

When he saw the purple-blue splotch, he dropped his hands from her shoulders. The knowledge that strangers had hurt her made him want to do murder. "This isn't a good idea," he said tightly. "I don't want to do anything that you'll regret later."

"I won't regret this." She took his hand and clasped it to her heart. "I need to remember that… that not all men are vicious brutes."

Unable to keep an edge from his voice, he said, "Given that I'm a selfish, arrogant, conceited rakehell, are you sure that I'm a good choice for restoring your faith in men?"

Her face flooded with color. "I'm sorry for what I said. I… I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yes, you did, and with some justice. I'm certainly selfish, definitely arrogant, and quite possibly conceited." He made a show of pondering. "I'm not sure I'll admit to being a rakehell-I like to think that I practice my vices in a civilized fashion."

"Then I'll retract that particular insult." She offered a tremulous smile. "Truce?"

He had wanted to amuse her, but when he looked into her smoky eyes, he saw devastation. Chilled, he realized that the only thing holding her together was willpower, and even the steeliest will had its limits. If she was not brought back from the precipice of fear, she might fall into the abyss.

'Truce, my dear." Again he drew her into his arms and bent his head to hers. When their lips touched there was a small shock, like the spark that sometimes occurred in cold weather. Part of that was the attraction that always vibrated between them, but this time there were disquieting undercurrents.

As she responded to the kiss, her rigidity lessened, but the improvement was short-lived. Her eyes drifted shut, and she suddenly stiffened again. Then she began tugging clumsily at his shirt to free it from his breeches.

He caught and immobilized her hands. "We have hours until dawn, and I intend to use every moment well," he said soothingly. "Relax, accept, enjoy. I promise that when we are done, what happened in the Place du Carrousel will seem like no more than a distant nightmare."

She bit her lip. "I'm sorry, Rafe. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the hands and faces again. It's… it's like being set on by wolves." She drew an unsteady breath. "I can't control the terror, and the only thing I know that is stronger than fear is passion."

"It's true that passion has a way of obliterating everything else, at least for a while," he agreed. But he also knew that it would be hard for her to lose herself in desire when she was emotionally so close to the breaking point.

Then he saw how he must proceed. Not once had she called him "your grace" with her razor sarcasm. By the same token, for him the formidable countess had vanished, replaced by Margot Ashton. Quietly he said, "We need more than a truce, Margot. Let's try to go back to our earlier selves-to a time before life became so painful and complicated. Forget tonight's riot, and every other episode that has left scars and cynicism. Pretend that you're eighteen, and I'm twenty-one, and the world is a place of infinite promise."

"I don't know if I can," she said, her voice aching. "If only it were really possible to go back."

"I would take you to the past if I could, but I'm afraid that's beyond my power." Tenderly he brushed a shining strand of hair from her grazed cheek. "Still, for a few hours, we can recreate what might, have been if the world were a simpler-or kinder-place."

"The world is neither simple nor kind," she said bitterly.

"Tonight it is." He lifted her hands and kissed them as if she were made of egg-shell porcelain. "Believe, Margot, if only for the next few hours.

Her tense fingers slowly uncurled. "I'll try, Rafe."

He resumed their kiss, deliberately focusing all of his attention on the sensual merging of their mouths. Tonight was the wedding night he had dreamed of when they were betrothed. Nothing in the world mattered beyond the softness of her lips on his, the rough, moist texture of her tongue, the warmth of her breasts compressing against his chest.

At eighteen Margot had been innocent, but also impetuous and eager for new experience. Though Rafe at twenty-one had been experienced enough to insure that all would go smoothly, he had still had enough youthful optimism to believe in happy endings.

For a moment the ugly reality of what had destroyed that optimism intruded on his imaginings, but he pushed it away. Tonight was for what might have been, and silently he vowed that all the subtle skills of love that he had ever learned would be his gift to her.

As when he had been calming Castlereagh's frightened horse, he created tranquility within himself so that his mood could be transmitted to Margot. Her fear gradually diminished, the tension flowing from her like sand from an hourglass.

When her body had become malleable, he began trailing kisses across her high cheekbones. He reached her ear and licked the dainty, complex shapes with his tongue.

She gave a breathy sigh of pleasure, and her head fell back. With humility, he thought of what trust it took to offer one's vulnerable throat to another being. Strange, that in spite of all the suspicion and conflict there had been between them, she could trust him when she was at her most defenseless.

He pressed his mouth to the fragile skin below her jaw, feeling the beat of her blood and the whispery vibration of her breath. Spreading one hand behind her back for support, he began unfastening the small round buttons that secured the front of her nightgown.

As her pale skin was revealed, his lips drifted, slow and thorough. Pretending that tonight was an earlier, simpler time gave him a delicious sense of naughtiness as he delved lower and lower. When he blew lightly into the shadowed valley formed by her breasts, she trembled, then began kneading his back with restless fingertips.