Yet in spite of the pain, he wished the night would never end. He had wanted Margot Ashton back, and with the bittersweet treachery that marked the gods' answers to human prayers, he had gotten what he wanted. What Rafe hadn't realized was that if he found Margot again, he would once more be as blindly, helplessly in love with her as he had been at twenty-one.

The obsession he had felt for Countess Janos was only another name for that love, but he had been too cynical to name his emotions truly. In the dark, with the palest of dawn light etching the windows, he recognized starkly that he had never stopped loving Margot. No matter what her betrayals and lies, no matter how many beds she had passed through, he loved her- more than wisdom, more than pride, more than life itself.

And in the morning, she would leave him. Tomorrow all the barriers would be firmly in place again, perhaps with an additional layer of shame on her part, for what she had done so shamelessly.

The irony was crushing. Rafael Whitbourne, fifth Duke of Candover, had been beloved of the gods- blessed with health, intelligence, charm, and wealth beyond imagining. Those who crossed his path gave him admiration and respect.

Yet he damned his fate with dark, despairing anger that this one woman, who mattered more than all else, could not love him. She had cared for him when she was young, surely, but not enough to be faithful through the short months of their betrothal. He had never come first with her, not then, and not now, when a traitor and spy held her first allegiance.

Staring upward into the softening dark, Rafe wondered what deep, crippling flaw made him unable to love any woman except one who could not love him back.

Tomorrow would be time enough to ponder that. For now, he would savor this handful of moments with the only woman he had ever loved.

With the bleakness that lies beyond hope, he knew that it was all the time he would ever have.

Chapter 16

Maggie felt deeply rested when she awoke, though the angle of the sun showed that it was still early. In the clear light of day, it was hard to believe that she had had the audacity to ask Rafe to make love to her. Yet the warm length of his body lying beside her was irrefutable proof of what had happened.

As a woman of the world, she had thought it likely that he would oblige her; though females needed a reason for intimacy, men usually needed only a place. She had had a reason, and Rafe had supplied the place… Yet what had passed between them had gone far beyond anything she had been able to imagine, and it would stay etched in her brain forever.

Turning her head slightly, she studied Rate's sleeping form. His numerous bruises had matured to melodramatic purple-black. God only knew how he had gotten her away from that mob. Take away his title and his wealth and his influence, and he would still be a man among men-strong and brave and heart-stoppingly beautiful, in an utterly male fashion.

Maggie closed her eyes in anguish. She had always known that if they became intimate, she would be helplessly in love with Rafe again, and it had happened. The love had always been there, since she had first met him thirteen years ago. Perhaps that was why she had never been able to love Robin as completely as he deserved.

No, the problem was not how much she loved Robin, but how she loved him. She cared for both men more deeply than words could ever express, yet Rafe she loved with conflict as well as harmony, challenge as well as understanding.

Strange to think that it was the harsher elements between them that gave her feelings for him such depth and intensity. With Robin there was always harmony, and their love was that of friends, almost siblings. Rafe she wanted as a mate, the archetypal male who made her feel most deeply female.

She swallowed hard and slid away from Rafe's arm, careful not to wake him. Though she would like nothing better than to spend the rest of her life in his bed, that was impossible. Conspiracy and death still surrounded them, and there were the charges against Robin.

One way or another, the business would be resolved, and then she would never see Rafe again. Considering the sexual fire between them, he might still want her for a mistress, if his pride wasn't too deeply injured by the way she had used him. But she would never dare accept. The memory of the previous night's passion made it almost impossible to imagine life without him. If they became lovers in truth, she would never survive the end of the affair.

When the end came, Rafe would be perfectly charming, of course, kind and a trifle bored. She could imagine it already.

Laying the back of her hand against his cheek, Maggie said a silent farewell to their brief hours of intimacy, resisting the temptation to kiss him one last time.

Since her clothes were neatly folded on a chair, she dressed, wincing over the incredible range of aches and bruises she discovered. A little crude mending disguised the worst of the rips in her garments so that she was more or less decent. Apart from being dressed as a man, that is.

Then she went to the window seat and curled up, hugging her knees to her chest as she waited for Rafe to awaken.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour until he stirred. His first movement was toward the side of the bed Maggie had occupied. The emptiness woke him, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, his gaze scanning the room until he found her on the window seat.

Relaxing fractionally, he stared across the intervening space, his face unreadable. Maggie found herself distracted by the elegant patterns of dark hair on his bare chest. Last night she had experienced them as a texture, but now sight provided a different kind of pleasure.

Hoping that some of the previous night's intimacy would survive the light of day, she said tentatively, "Good morning."

He watched her with damnably cool gray eyes. "Is it a good morning?"

He was going to make this difficult for her. Maggie swung her feet to the floor and forced herself to meet his gaze. "Well, I'm alive, for which I am profoundly grateful. There wouldn't have been much left of me after the mob was done." After a brief struggle with the panic that flared at the thought, she continued, "There are no words strong enough to thank you for saving my life."

"Don't bother trying," he snapped, his gray eyes like ice chips. "I didn't do it because I wanted gratitude."

With dread, she knew that she must refer to what had happened in the heat of the night. If she didn't, he would, and she feared what he might say. "I also owe you an apology," she said unevenly. "You saved my life, and I used you in an unforgivable manner. Asking you what I did was… an offense against honor and good taste. You helped me survive a nightmare-I hope you can also find it in your heart to forgive me."

A caustic edge in his voice, Rafe said, "Think nothing of it, Countess. I'm sure that a woman of your experience knows that men don't usually mind servicing distraught females. And you're remarkably skilled. It was a privilege to have the opportunity to sample your wares."

Maggie felt as if she had been slapped. Though she had guessed that he would be angry, this was far worse than she had imagined. No man would like the idea of being used as an anodyne against pain, and this one would like it less than most. Pride was undoubtedly the deepest of his emotions, and she had gravely wounded that.

At least he didn't taunt her with the words of love that had escaped when all her defenses were down and her heart spoke uncensored. If he had mocked her unguarded declaration, the hurt would have been unendurable.

Yet in her secret heart, Maggie could not regret what had happened, even though she knew how much it would cost her in the future. Quietly she repeated, "I'm sorry," as she stood and turned to leave.

His voice lashed across the bedchamber. "Where the hell do you think you are going?"

She stopped, but wouldn't look at him. "To Robin's, of course. I must talk to him."

"Do you mean I actually managed to raise a few doubts about him in your irrational female mind?"

Turning to face Rafe, she retorted, "Yes, damn you, you did. Now I must give him the chance to explain himself."

He sat upright, the covers spilling across his lap as his gaze bored into hers. "What if he has no satisfactory explanation?"

"I don't know." Her shoulders sagged. "I just do not know."

"Ring for breakfast when you reach the drawing room. I'll join you in fifteen minutes."

When Maggie started to protest, he cut her off. "You're not leaving here without some food in you. Afterward, I'll take you to Anderson's myself."

She started to sputter, unsure whether to be amused, alarmed, or outraged at his high-handedness.

Fixing her with a gimlet eye, Rafe said, "If you think I will let you walk the streets alone looking like that, the kick in the head did more damage than the physician thought. Every night men are killed in the streets of Paris-two bodies were found near the Place du Carrousel just the night before last.

"Speaking of physicians…" he picked up a small bottle and tossed it to her. "The doctor left this for what he assured me would be the devil of a headache. Now kindly get out of the way while I dress."

Not waiting for her to leave, he swung from the bed, magnificently naked. Knowing that if she didn't leave instantly, she would be tempted to drag him back among the covers, she hastily averted her face and headed for the door.

As soon as Rafe had mentioned the probability of a headache, she realized that her head was throbbing. Once she was safely in the drawing room, she swallowed one of the doctor's pills.

What a pity that heartaches could not be treated as easily as headaches.

Too foul-tempered to wait for his valet, Rafe started to shave himself, his mind seething. Apologies and gratitude were not what he wanted from Margot. In the ultimate idiocy, he wanted her to have magically fallen in love with him. But as soon as he awoke and saw her curled on the window seat, as bristly as a hedgehog, he had known that there had been no miraculous transformation in her feelings.

As his hand clenched involuntarily on the handle of his razor, he felt a stinging pain on the edge of his jaw. He swore as blood dripped messily into the china basin. Christ, if he wasn't more careful, he was going to accidentally slit his own throat. He pressed a towel to the cut to stop the bleeding, wondering what the devil was happening to him.

Margot was what was happening. He had always prided himself on rational, civilized behavior. In the House of Lords and among his friends, he was known for his ability to coax opposing factions into finding common ground.

Yet the moment he had walked into that small room in the Austrian embassy and recognized Margot, he had started to fall apart. He had lost his temper and his sense more often in the last fortnight than in the previous decade. It was becoming obvious that the only reason he had a reputation for an even disposition was because there hadn't been anything in his life that he cared enough about to make him lose control.

He couldn't face Margot in such a state, so he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. She had been completely honest about why she wanted him to make love to her, and he had no right to be furious with her. For the sake of his own pride, he must stop acting tike a spoiled schoolboy.

He lifted the towel from the razor cut and found that the bleeding had stopped. Margot had managed to master herself after her terror of the night before, and he could do no less. He supposed that he should feel proud of the fact that his exertions on her behalf had had such a beneficial effect.

And he was. Bloody proud.


* * *

By the time Rafe finished dressing and joined Margot for breakfast, The Duke was once more in control. After a wary glance at him, she relaxed. He was glad that he could still maintain the appearance of being a civilized man.

There was little discussion over the excellent coffee and croissants, or on the first part of the ride to Anderson's lodgings. Then their carriage reached the edge of the Place du Carrousel and was forced to stop by a milling crowd.

As the driver carefully turned the carriage around, Rafe and Maggie saw that the plaza was sealed off by thousands of Austro-Hungarian troops, the sunlight dazzling on their white uniforms and brass artillery. With such protection, the task of removing the bronze horses of St. Mark's was proceeding without incident.