"Good girl." Countess Martin chucked her chin as if she were a child. "And remember what you already know-Prince Sandre is foul in every way. Run from his attentions." She laughed. "But of course. I forgot. You can't. The Reaper holds you in place." She swept from the room.

Emma stared, dumbfounded.

How did the countess know that? What did she know about the Reaper?

Could she tell Emma what was going to happen?

"Wait!" Emma leaped to her feet and ran into the corridor.

But Countess Martin was gone.

With a groan, Emma started her trudge back to the ballroom.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

Emma was lost. Lost in the royal palace.

She had stepped out of the convenience, found herself alone, and, without even thinking, she had turned left.

Apparently, she should have turned right, for the palace was a rabbit warren of passages and stairways-and she was the rabbit. She wandered through the dimly lit corridors, looking for someone to direct her. Failing that, she sought a brightly lit corridor that would lead to a public area.

She'd had no luck.

Now she saw a glow and walked eagerly toward it, then realized she had located the terrace and the glow was the moon in the clear, dark sky. She moaned and collapsed against the wall, staring out the window and wondering whether anyone would come looking for her, or if she'd be lost forever in this horrible parody of the Cinderella fairy tale.

The corridor turned left here. At intervals, a single candle burned in a sconce. Doors opened all along that corridor, and in each doorway she could see moonlight. So the corridor ran parallel to the terrace, and she started down it, peering into the dark rooms. Seeing a door onto the terrace, she hurried to it and stepped out, walked to the rail, and looked around.

The palace was built on medieval lines, with the kitchens below and the living areas above. She stood on the second floor; the cliff dropped off below her, and although the view was magnificent, there was no stairway, no way down to the lower level, where she might find the kitchens and servants and be directed, at last, to the ballroom.

The breeze ruffled her hair. Over the horizon, lightning flickered, eerily silent, illuminating the sharp profile of the peaks.

She lingered for a moment, wondering where the Reaper rode tonight. Would he be safe?

Her heart picked up speed.

When could they twine together, chest to chest, heart to heart, strain and pant and love? She put her hand to her mouth, bit the tip of her finger, and tried to wipe the smirk off her face. It was outrageous, but all day, at odd moments, she had been swept up by memories of their union. The pain, the glory, the sense of feeling, for the first time, like part of someone else.

When would he come to her again?

Never, if she didn't get to that ballroom and urge Prince Sandre to tell her his plans for capturing his nemesis.

Determinedly she turned away, found her way back to the corridor. Briefly, she spared a thought to Michael Durant. If he were here, she would be safely on her way back to the ballroom, for he would direct her.

Once again, she walked, glancing in the doors. Each room was lit by nothing but moonlight, but she saw luxury here. She passed room after well-appointed room, and realized that somehow, she'd found her way into the royal chambers.

And through the windows, out on the terrace, she glimpsed the swiftly moving figure of a man walking in the same direction.

She stopped, stared, but he was gone.

So she hurried on, and glanced through the next doorway.

Again she saw him, a black cloak rolling behind him.

Again he disappeared toward the next room.

Lifting her skirts, she raced to the next doorway.

He was there; then he was gone. The man was keeping pace with her.

No, not a man, a ghost, for beneath the cloak, a ragged shroud fluttered as he walked.

The Reaper.

She ran to the next doorway and saw him pass, ran again and saw him again.

At the next doorway, she saw no sign of him.

She waited. She ran forward. She backed up.

He was gone.

"No!" She rushed into the moonlit chamber, skirting the furniture, and ran to the window. She pressed her cheek to the cool glass, seeking a glimpse of him.

He was gone.

"Come back," she whispered.

A hand snaked out from behind her, covered her mouth and her gasp of surprise, and for a moment, her heart leaped in anticipation, for surely it was the Reaper. Then she was pulled hard against a man's tall figure, and anticipation became terror.

Who was this gentleman who held her so roughly against him? For he was a gentleman. He smelled not of leather and horse, but of soap and clean linens.

She gave a muffled scream and fought him.

"Shh." The warning was almost silent, roughly delivered in her ear.

He spun her around to face him.

Mask. Costume of white rags.

The Reaper. He had come for her.

For one moment, a single thought possessed her.

He could speak.

Then other thoughts crowded her mind.

He wore a mask, but not his usual white mask. This one was dark, and in this dim light, it appeared that the pale powder he usually applied to his skin was missing.

He looked different, his face thinner, his jaw more determined, his nose more decisive.

He didn't smell right. He didn't look right.

Uneasy, she asked, "Is it really you?"

He laughed, a rough chuckle of mirth. Taking her chin in his fingers, he lifted her face and kissed her.

Oh . . . She relaxed. . . . It was him, all right. She knew his taste, the way he parted her lips, the swirl of his tongue against hers. Her hands groped their way up his arms and clung to his shoulders as she pushed closer to press her breasts against his chest.

Still kissing her, he picked her up and set her on a small table, twelve inches by twelve, against the wall.

It rocked precariously.

She squeaked like a mouse and grabbed the sides.

"Shh," he said again.

"What are you doing?"

No reply.

"How did you find me?"

No reply.

Instead, he lightly ran his fingers down her forehead, over her cheek, over her lips, down her throat, and lingered over the swelling mounds of her breasts.

There was possessiveness in his touch, a reminder of who held her heart.

The moon was bright, but they inhabited the shadows. The room was silent except for the ticking of a clock. The table beneath her bottom was hard and cold, and her feet dangled, but didn't reach the floor.

"You can talk," she said. "So tell me-"

He put his hand to his throat, wrapped as always in a long white scarf, and made a rough, painful sound.

Yes, even last night, when their bodies were entwined, he had kept that scarf in place. "All right," she said. "But someday will I be able to hear your voice?"

He nodded.

"And someday I'll see your face?"

This time he put his hand to his heart. That was his hope.

Lifting her wrists, he held them away from her body. He looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe it.

She thought she knew what he must be thinking-that this elegant gown was not the gown of the simple companion he had first met. "I dance and smile," she whispered. "It means nothing. I do it so I may discover his schemes to capture you."

The Reaper hissed in annoyance. And jealousy?

"I won't stop," she said. "He's frantic to get you and prove to everyone he holds the country in an iron grip. It's become more than a matter of pride. If he doesn't succeed, he's shamed."

Behind the mask, the Reaper's eyes watched her face as his hands wandered over her bare shoulders and down her arms. He lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them, one at a time.

She leaned her head against the wall and watched him kiss the palms of her hands. Each touch of his mouth, each whisper of his breath against her skin made her own breath quicken.

"We can't make love here." She cupped his jaw and reveled in the clean feel of his bare skin. "It's too dangerous."

He pointed to her and to him.

"Yes," she said. "To us both."

He smiled . . . and lifted her skirt.

"No." She tried to push it down. "Really. It's not possible."

He took her fingers in his, pressed them to the edges of the tiny, precarious table, and indicated that she should stay still. Kneeling before her, he once again lifted her skirt. The silk and starched petticoats rustled, and she gave a stifled shriek as he slid beneath.

She tried to clamp her legs together. "No," she said, frantic with embarrassment and confusion. "No."

He caressed her calves, smooth and warm in their silk stockings. He toyed with the tie just below her knees, the one that held them in place. His hands crept up, slyly advancing regardless of her protests, and slid along the delicate skin of her inner thighs.

She tried to lunge away, but the table wiggled beneath her weight, and again she grabbed it to steady herself.

What did he think he was going to do? He seemed to have a definite direction in mind, for he pressed the flats of his palms hard against her knees, separating them, then lifted her thighs into the crooks of his elbows and kissed her ankle. Then her knee. Then . . .

She had never been so shocked in her life. "No! Please!"

Possibly he couldn't hear her. Probably he didn't care.

And after a moment, she didn't care, either.

The man who seduced her with a single kiss on her mouth now used his tongue and lips to drive her mad. He nuzzled her, kissing her softly at first, then more insistently, putting pressure against her closed cleft. Then, with his tongue, he explored, probing here and there with a leisurely determination that seemed to indicate that he . . . he was enjoying himself.

She was not enjoying herself. She had pressed her spine against the wall as hard as she could, trying to get away.

Or to steady herself.

But mostly to get away.

Really.

Because this was shocking beyond anything she'd ever imagined, and she was uncomfortable knowing he was tasting her . . . and discovering that she was growing damp.