Then she took him in her mouth. He gave a choked cry, feeling as if he would burst from his skin. His hips began pulsing between her and the wall as passion coiled tighter and tighter. He couldn't bear for it to end, so he used the control he'd cultivated in the last weeks to stay on the knife edge of ecstasy. "Christ, Mei-Lian," he gasped, "you will kill me with the sweetest of weapons, and God bless you for it."

Sensing that his control was on the verge of fracturing, she straightened and stripped off her trousers, leaving him throbbing in the cool air for a moment. Then she locked one arm about his chest and wrapped a strong, supple leg around his hips. With her other hand she guided him into the liquid heat of her body. She made a slow tease of it with small movements that drew him in a fraction of an inch at a time.

When he could endure it no longer, he thrust away from the wall and buried himself fully inside her. The intimate clasp almost destroyed him, but she held absolutely still, her only movement the exquisite pulsing of her flesh around him.

She waited until she sensed that it was safe before she began tightening her internal muscles in a voluptuous rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart to the hammer of his. One spirit, one flesh. Her husband. Only passion existed, life so intense that it denied the future and the unbearable loss looming ahead.

"Troth," he groaned, starting to pull back. "Beautiful Willow."

"If I am your wife, give me at least the hope of a child," she said fiercely as she ground her hips into his, pinning him against the wall as their bodies clashed in mutual frenzy. Yin and yang fighting for completion, until they both spun out of control into a place where there was only shattering rapture and heart-stopping wholeness.

Trembling, she clung to him as she gasped for breath. They'd both be on the floor if not for the ruthless support of the chains. His heart pounded under hers, intensely alive, his lungs heaving like hers.

The knowledge of waiting death was a knife searing through her soul. She tightened her embrace. Surely he was safe as long as she held him. Together they were immortal, for they had shared more than mortal joy…

He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you, my dearest friend," he murmured. "You've given me the kind of pleasure most men don't find in a lifetime."

She forced back her tears, for she did not want him to go to his death with only the memory of her weeping. Slowly she untangled herself from him, almost unable to bear the separation. Her hands shook as she straightened his garments, then donned her own. He watched her, his blue eyes amazingly calm. He made her think of an angel in chains, undefeated and unbearably beautiful.

At the far end of the corridor, a closing door thumped shut. "When you reach England, go to my brother Dominic, Lord Grahame, at Warfield Park in Shropshire," he said swiftly. "Have you got that?"

"Lord Grahame, Warfield Park in Shropshire," she repeated. "Will he really believe I am your bride?"

"For my sake he will. If he doesn't… well, ask him about the time he got trapped in the priest hole at Dornleigh. He'll believe you then."

"What other messages shall I carry?"

"Give my father and sister my love, and my apologies for not managing better." Kyle's eyes closed for a moment. "I… I wish so much that I could put my arms around you, but I can't. Will you hold me for the time we have left?"

Blinking back more tears, she embraced him, memorizing his scent, the taste of his skin, the feel of his taut muscles. She wanted to cry out that she loved him, but knew that would only increase his burdens. He mustn't know the depth of her anguish.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, drawing closer. Tenderly she cupped his genitals, praying that they had made a child. "Good-bye, my dearest lord." She kissed his lips. "I swear to accomplish what you have asked."

His warm lips lingered hungrily. "Farewell, my dearest girl. Travel safely."

The key turned in the lock. She released Kyle and pulled her wide hat down to conceal her ravaged expression.

The door squealed open and she walked out without looking back.

Farewell, my dearest love.


By sunrise Kyle was in a weary state of grace, bolstered by resignation and the sweetness of his hour with Troth. He stood quietly as the guards released his chains, though his muscles ached from the long hours of being immobilized. In silence he walked from the dungeon, up the stairs, into the courtyard where pure dawn light touched the curving roof of the prefect's palace with enchantment. It was a lovely place to die.

The firing squad was drawn up in a line facing the back of the compound. He found mild pleasure in the knowledge that Wu Chong's wall would be damaged.

As he crossed the compound between half a dozen guards, a drum began to beat in time to his footsteps. Barummm. Barummm. Barummm. The death march.

Surrounded by his court, Wu Chong sat on a dais overlooking the execution ground. Kyle was brought to face him, and the sergeant growled, "Kowtow!"

He'd been willing to offer a mark of respect when first captured, but not now. When the seconds dragged and he didn't prostrate himself, the sergeant shoved him hard between his shoulders. Expecting it, Kyle pivoted and slammed his elbow into the man's throat, laying him flat and gasping on the paving bricks.

The other guards leaped for the prisoner, but the prefect snapped an order and they refrained from striking him. A high-ranking officer drew his sword and approached, the blade pointed like a cattle goad.

Ignoring the officer and his sword, Kyle crossed the courtyard to stand in front of the wall. As a Renbourne, arrogance had been bred into his marrow. He used every shred of it now. Wu and his people might despise him, but they'd not forget him soon.

He turned to face his executioners, glad they hadn't heard of the custom of blindfolding a condemned man. He didn't want to miss his last sight of the world.

The dozen matchlock muskets carried by the firing squad were primitive by European standards and not very accurate, but they would suffice. The barrels looked enormous. Any one of them was capable of blasting a fist-size hole through him. He hoped enough musket balls would strike to end it quickly.

Wu Chong's face radiated evil pleasure. God help the people of Feng-tang who lived under his authority.

Last words were also traditional, but there was hardly any point when no one present would understand them. The only one who mattered was, please God, safely away. Travel safely, Troth, with all your strength and cunning. And when you reach England-be happy.

At a signal from their officer, the soldiers raised and aimed their weapons, faces flat and emotionless under their spiked helmets.

Wu Chong chopped his hand down and barked a command.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my soul.


A crowd had gathered outside the walls, silently waiting for Feng-tang to be cleansed of the foreign devil. Troth stood apart from the others, so tense her bones might snap if someone spoke a hard word to her. Surely in the last day Wu Chong had realized the folly of killing a European. Even now he might be reconsidering his sentence.

Inside the walls, a harsh voice shouted, "Fire!"

A volley of gunshots shattered the morning air with thunder, echoing from the stone walls of the compound. As dark smoke wafted upward, Troth jammed her knuckles against her teeth to suppress her agonized cry.

Kyle Renbourne, Viscount Maxwell and lord of her heart, was dead.

Chapter 27

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England

Christmas Eve 1832


" 'And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.' "

As the vicar's sonorous voice filled the small stone church, Troth closed her eyes and drank in the familiar words. When she was a child, her father would always return to Macao to spend the holidays with his family, and on Christmas Eve he read the nativity stories to his household in a voice not unlike that of the Warfield vicar.

Seated in the family pew between Dominic and his sister Lucia restored the sense of belonging that had vanished with her father's death. During her years in Canton she'd privately read the nativity stories from her father's Bible at Christmas, but it hadn't been the same. Tonight she felt like a Christian again. Her father would have been pleased.

In true Chinese fashion, her reverence for Kuan Yin and the Buddha were undiminished by her joy in Christmas. Kyle had understood her need to honor both spiritual paths-in fact, he'd shared it-but she doubted that many other English people would. Perhaps Meriel might-Troth suspected that her sister-in-law was more pagan than Christian. Tonight, though, the countess was entirely proper, listening to the service and choir like a serene, silver-haired angel. She was even wearing shoes.

The service ended. Voices softer and smiles warmer than usual, the worshipers left the church to return to their homes. Carriages waited for the Warfield party, but when Troth saw that a light snow was frosting the hills, she said, "I'll walk back. It's not far, and the night is so pretty."

To her surprise, Dominic said, "I'll join you, if you don't object."

"Of course not." She took his arm, and they made their way to the footpath that led to the estate, traveling half the distance that the carriage road did. As always, she found bittersweet pleasure in Dominic's company. Though she tried not to think of Kyle, in the snowy night it was impossible not to dream of what had never been.