"Margot Ashton didn't die-she became a remarkable, compassionate woman." Rafe's voice was very soft. "You have touched more lives, accomplished more good, than most people ever dream of. I won't deny that I feel tremendous guilt about how I treated you, but that's not the reason I want you for my wife."

Afraid of what he would say next, she raised her head and said wearily, "I don't want to hear any more."

Ignoring her remark, he seated himself beside her on the rim of the fountain. "When I was twenty-one I loved you with all that was best in me," he said soberly. "At the time, I was frightened of how much I was in your power, because I loved you more than pride and honor."

He plucked several strands of grass and absently rolled them between his thumb and forefinger. "After I lost you, only pride and honor were left and I slid into all their traps. When I look back at the man I became, I don't much like him. If I was usually courteous, it was because it was beneath me to be rude. When I was sometimes arrogant, it was because being a duke gave form and structure to a life that was essentially meaningless." He turned and looked at her, his grave gaze holding hers. "You are what gives meaning to my life, Margot."

By exposing so much of himself to her, he was paradoxically making Maggie herself more vulnerable. Feeling more and more afraid, her gaze slid away so that he could not see her cowardice. "I don't want to be responsible for giving your life meaning."

"You don't have a choice." He twined the strands of grass around his finger like a ring. "It will be true whether we marry, or whether we never see each other again."

With every sentence, he was undermining more of her defenses. The horror of Gascony joined the separate fear she had felt when he proposed to her, creating a torrent of panic. Unable to conceal her feelings any longer, she cried, "I haven't the courage to try again, Rafe! The idea of risking myself with you terrifies me. Varenne's threat to blow my brains out was child's play by comparison."

The blades of grass snapped between his fingers. After a long silence, he said, "My life has been easy compared to yours, but I do know something about fear-I've spent the last dozen years living a life shaped by it. Because I didn't dare risk the kind of pain I felt after losing you, I kept life at a distance, never allowing myself to get close to a woman whom I might love."

"Then you should I understand how I feel. Give up, Rafe, please." Her breath was coming in raw, painful gasps and she knew that she should refuse to listen any longer. Yet she was utterly unable to make herself leave.

"Not until I'm convinced this is a hopeless case," he said, his tone adamant. "Admitting that I love you terrifies me, yet I must risk it because even pain is better than the emptiness I've known for the last dozen years."

He turned to her, his gaze compelling. "After the riot in the Place du Carrousel you said that the only thing stronger than fear is passion. But you're wrong." With gossamer tenderness, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "It isn't passion, but love, that is stronger than fear. I love you, and I think that you must love me at least a little, or you would never have shared my bed. The love exists-give it a chance to heal the wounds of the past."

She yearned for what he was offering like a woman dying of thirst yearned for water. Yet she could not accept. Ever since Rafe had come to Paris, she had experienced one brutal shock after another, and the barriers she had erected for survival were collapsing. The storm of fear intensified to hurricane force, threatening to shatter her beyond any hope of healing.

There was only one form of solace that she trusted.

She slid along the marble fountain rim, then twined her arms around Rafe's neck and kissed him with desperate hunger. His calm demeanor fractured and he crushed her hard against him. In the fierce embrace that followed, her fear retreated a little, driven back by the molten madness of desire.

He unfastened the back of her gown and dragged the garment down to bare her shoulder. But instead of kissing her again, he stopped, his hands shaking. "We should be talking," he said unsteadily, "not pulling each other's clothes off."

She opened her dazed eyes. "Talking won't help, Rafe. Passion will-at least for a little while." She slid her hand down his torso until she felt a ridge of warm male flesh. He hardened instantly under her palm.

His breath caught. "Oh, God, Margot…"

Unable to withstand her, Rafe drew her willing body to the sun-warmed grass. Their limbs twined together and clothing was stripped away so that yearning flesh could be kissed and touched. Beyond fear, she gave a shuddering sigh of relief when he entered her in a swift, powerful act of possession.

But instead of proceeding to the blazing, inevitable conclusion, he became still, his arms trembling with strain as he throbbed within her. "Not yet, love," he gasped. "I haven't finished talking about fear. Life has taught you to be afraid, but it doesn't have to be that way. Let me love you."

"Isn't that what we're doing now?" Determined to draw him down into desire, she rotated her hips provocatively.

He involuntarily drove deeper, then caught his breath and eased back a little, sweat shining on his face. "This isn't love, it's sex-glorious and intoxicating, but not the same as making love."

"Stop talking about love!" Furiously she struck out at him, her nails raking his shoulders and chest.

He caught her wrists and pinioned them to the grass with gentle implacability. "I have to," he panted, "because it was the failure of love that sent us both off on such joyless, fearful paths."

"This isn't a bloody parliamentary debate, Rafe!" More than ever craving oblivion, she contracted her interior muscles in a ravishing caress.

He groaned and his head fell forward, his black hair tumbling damply over his eyes. She tightened again, and thought she had won when a violent tremor pulsed through him.

But once more his control defeated her. Raising his head, he said huskily, "Let me love you, Margot, for passion will never give you anything but temporary relief."

"Perhaps you're right," she whispered, inexplicably wanting to weep. "But passion… is safer than love."

He braced himself above her, his wide shoulders blocking the sun, filling the world so that there was nothing real but him. "Safe isn't good enough."

Unable to bear his probing gaze, she closed her eyes and tried feverishly to recapture the mindlessness of passion.

Sharply he ordered, "Look at me!"

Though she didn't want to obey, her eyes opened.

She was appalled to realize that she seemed to have no will of her own.

More quietly he said, "You deserve more than simple safety, Margot. You've already suffered the pains of loving-let yourself feel the joy."

Piece by piece, her defenses had been flaking away, and abruptly the last of them disintegrated, pitching her into a maelstrom of fear, pain, and anger. She had survived devastation by never allowing herself to fully experience the horror of the past, but now the memories swept over her with a ferocity that splintered her spirit. Her father's agonized death cry, and his blood spilling over her face. Clawing hands and the excruciating defilement that forever destroyed her innocence. Unspeakable acts that had been literally unimaginable to a sheltered eighteen-year-old girl.

She cried out with terror, desire vanishing as brutal sobs racked her to the core. She was cold, so cold, and absolutely alone…

Instantly Rafe released her wrists and enfolded her in his arms, using his body and spirit to shield her from the storm. "I love you, Margot!" he said urgently. "I always will. You don't ever have to be alone again."

She had known, in the very marrow of her bones, that if she ever faced the full horror she would die.

Yet she didn't. Rafe was around her, within her, his tenderness and strength protecting her, his forcefully repeated words of love a lifeline that saved her from annihilation.

Gradually the maelstrom of terror began to lose its power and her rasping breath eased. The past had not changed; her memories were still bitter, the scars still deep. Yet his love was dispelling the clouds of terror as inexorably as the sun burned off the morning fog.

Fear ebbed, leaving emptiness. Then slowly, like the flow of the tide, the hollowness at the center of her soul filled with love. The warmth of his caring banished the dark shadows and suffused her with light.

And with love came a rekindling of desire. It was not the desperate craving that had ruled her earlier, but a powerful upswelling of emotion in which love and passion were inseparable.

Though he had softened while holding her against the storm, they were still locked together as intimately as man and woman could be. She arched against him, letting her body speak to his. As passion rose again, she whispered, "I love you, Rafe."

He exhaled roughly as he moved into the primal rhythms of mating. There was no trace of the distance she had sensed in him the first time they made love. Now he was wholly with her, spirit as well as body.

As they tried to merge their separate bodies into one, his powerful thrusts created another storm, this one the white wind of desire. She cried out and clung to him as she spun out of control. Savage contractions blazed through her, searing outward from the place of their joining. Her cry was echoed by his heart-deep groan as he released his seed deep inside her.