The moonlit landscape spread before her, forest on one side, cliff on the other.

She shut her eyes again. Opened them again.

The road was a pale ribbon ahead. A billion stars illuminated the velvet sky. The road curved and turned into the depths of the forest, and as they passed a meadow, she saw a deer lift its head and stare, saw an owl swoop out of the trees and soar on midnight's breeze.

She passed a carriage and waved, and laughed at the terrified faces pressed to the window, then leaned into Old Nelson's neck, urging him on. Because it was beautiful, and she was alone with the horse and the night and the wild that permeated her soul. . . .

When she finally returned to the stable near dawn, she told Rubio she was late because she got lost.

Old Nelson had always known the way home, but in a way, she was telling the truth.

For the first time in her life, she had been lost in freedom.

"She rode out as the Reaper?" Michael held Rubio's collar and stared into his eyes, and wished Rubio had both arms.

"Three times in the past four days," Rubio said with pride. "With no problems at all."

Because as it was, Michael couldn't pound him to a pulp. And that was what he wanted to do. Pound Rubio.

He'd woken this morning with the strong sense that something was wrong. Emma hadn't come to him in the night to see if he was still breathing. When he'd been really sick, her touch had been the only thing that soothed him. Then he realized she hadn't come on any of the recent nights, and when she did come, it was early in the morning, and she had smelled like . . . like leather, like horse, like . . . the Reaper.

Why it all clicked in his brain now, he didn't know. Maybe because he felt well enough to discover the truth. Maybe because something about her pink cheeks and bright jewel-toned eyes had put him on alert.

So he had thrown on trousers and a shirt, his scarf and a cloak, and come down to the stables to find Rubio awaiting her return.

"Someone had to ride as the Reaper while you were down. The Moricadians were getting anxious and Jean-Pierre was getting suspicious." Rubio spoke with great conviction.

"She could get hurt."

"No." Rubio scoffed. "You know Old Nelson is a sensible horse."

As if that were going to calm Michael's ire.

"She could get killed. The prince's guard is on the hunt!"

"She hasn't had a lick of trouble, and because of her, there have been Reaper sightings. The tourists are fleeing Moricadia, and rumor says Prince Sandre is going mad with fury." Rubio jiggled Michael's hands. "You want to let go of my collar now?"

Stunned and appalled, Michael loosened his grip, walked to the door of the stable, and looked out at the dim path winding its way through the forest and, he knew, onto the road that ran past chteaux and the palace on its way to Tonagra.

He wanted to pound Rubio for encouraging her with this madness almost as much as he wanted to chase after Emma. Chase after her and teach her that a woman's proper place was in the home, because she didn't seem to realize she wasn't supposed to put herself into danger and make him worry like a parent with a truant child.

But he couldn't chase her-Old Nelson was his, and the only horse to which he had access.

Rubio came to stand at his side. "She's returned every time before dawn, looking all happy. That Emma, she's a smart one."

"It's getting light." Michael turned on Rubio. "So where is she now?"

"Ah. Dunno. Well." Rubio scratched his stubbly cheek. "As long as you're here and feeling as well as you are, I suppose I don't need to stay to help Miss Chegwidden groom Old Nelson and change out of her costume-"

Michael bared his teeth.

Rubio started backing away. "-so I guess I'd better go see what Cook has for your breakfast. You know you're her favorite."

"Where's Emma?" Michael shouted after Rubio's limping, fleeing figure.

"Breakfast!" Rubio shouted back. "Need to keep up your strength! Her, too!"

Devil take him! Devil take them all! Michael paced into the stable, then out.

He had plotted his revenge on Rickie, and when he hanged him, he'd exacted retribution for countless other lives lost.

Yet still Sandre lived and ruled, and until Michael completed his vengeance, he couldn't leave.

Time was running out. He knew that. He knew his family would hear about his resurrection soon, and send someone to verify his existence. In fact, they wouldn't send someone-he'd be lucky if his father, his stepmother, and both brothers didn't descend on Moricadia and make Sandre sorry he'd ever dared to imprison a Durant.

But more than that, because of Jean-Pierre's good aim, Michael had now unwittingly involved Emma in his masquerade.

He paced around the cozy stable scented with leather and hay and the deep, rich smell of surrounding earth.

He opened the gate to Old Nelson's stall. Rubio had already cleaned it out, so Michael set out the curry-comb, the body brush, the hoof pick.

He glanced in the stall next door, where he always changed, and there was a pile of clean straw, a saddle hung on the wall, a basin and pitcher set on a wooden box. Emma's walking boots were placed neatly on the floor, directly under the hook where her clothes hung-a dark green gown, starched and ruffled petticoats, and a lawn chemise so fine he could almost see through it.

Rubio had prepared everything for her return.

Irresistibly drawn, he unhooked the chemise and crushed it in his hands as if it were a stalk of lavender and he was releasing its scent. Holding it close to his nose, he breathed. Just breathed. And as always, his libido stirred, responding to the faint, feminine perfume of Emma.

His imprisonment had created degenerate needs in him.

No, wait. When he was released, he hadn't suffered from this constant torture of want and need.

It was Emma who had created the degenerate in him.

Yes. It was Emma.

Tenderly he hung her chemise up. He checked the pitcher to make sure it was full of water and placed the soap beside the basin. He paced back to the outer door.

The sun was peeking over the horizon.

Where was she? Flung over Old Nelson's head and unconscious on the ground? Trapped by Jean- Pierre and his men? Shot and bleeding and dying . . .

At last, faintly, he heard the clop-clop of a horse's hooves. He tensed, staring so hard his eyeballs hurt.

There she came, mask hanging on her arm, makeup smeared on her chin, blithely trotting along, patting Old Nelson's back and crooning.

He walked out to the edge of the forest, put his hands on his hips, and frowned. "Where have you been, Emma?" He had the satisfaction of seeing her jump.

But his meek little companion didn't cower from his displeasure. She frowned right back. "What are you doing out of bed?"

"I'm fine." And he was. Getting up to face Jean-Pierre had caused a temporary setback, but Michael was eating huge meals and moving without pain, and his wound had closed without any sign of infection. "What are you doing on that horse with that ridiculous outfit?"

"Are you saying I look like an ass?"

"Exactly!"

"Then that's something for you to remember in the future when you don the costume." She ducked as Old Nelson entered the stable.

The horse headed right for his stall.

Michael followed.

She slid off onto the mounting block, then picked up a rag.

Michael took it away from her. "I'll wipe him down. Go wash your face and change."

"Fine," she snapped at him, and headed into the next stall.

He needed to be patient. She was tired from her ride. She had probably been frightened all night long, alone in the dark on roads she didn't know, always worried that someone was going to shoot her. And he had to remember that this was the first time he'd had a chance to talk to her, calmly and rationally, since she'd discovered the Reaper's real identity. When she'd seen him, she'd been angry, and he'd been transcribing the list of informers, and once that was done, he'd collapsed.

He did owe her an explanation, no doubt about that. But she was a reasonable woman. Once he explained why he'd done what he'd done-become the Reaper and kept secrets from her-she would understand.

So as he groomed Old Nelson, he said, "I know it's been a rough night for you."

"I had no problems whatsoever," she said. "You're not the only one who's competent to ride a horse, and you're not the only one who sees reasons to shake up the de Guignard rule." Something smacked the wall, shaking the wood.

The top of the Reaper's costume? "I didn't mean that you would have problems or that you don't have the same strong sense of justice. I meant that you . . ." He trailed off.

If she'd thrown the top of the costume, what was she wearing?

"That I what?"

Michael tore his mind away from the thought of her half-naked body, picked up the body brush, and went back to work on Old Nelson's neck. "It might be a good idea if I told you why I became the Reaper."

She didn't answer.

He heard the sound of splashing.

Was she washing her face, her body? Was she naked from the waist up? Or naked all the way? Were tiny rivulets of water slipping down her neck, her chest, and clinging to her nipples before dropping to the ground?

Old Nelson turned a knowing eye on him, and he realized his hand was suspended in midair.

"I'm listening!" She sounded thoroughly annoyed.

With a grimace at the horse, Michael discarded his scarf, pulled off his cape, and tossed it over the top of the wall. "I just got too warm." He went back to work. "It was for revenge."

"On Rickie, for what he did to you?"

"On Rickie, for what he did to us all." Michael hadn't told anyone the details of his imprisonment. He never wanted to see the pity in their eyes. But Emma couldn't see him, and he couldn't see her, and she was so aggravated with him he doubted she would feel anything but exasperation.

Exasperation he could handle.

He continued. "Two years is a long time, especially spent alone in the dark. Nothing to do but think and sweat and fear . . ."

"Sounds awful." The straw rustled as she moved about, undressing, dressing. . . .

"Yes. Do you know what it's like to make a friend you never see, who is nothing more than a voice in the darkness, but you know him because he eats the same gruel you eat, suffers the same pain you suffer, cries the same tears you cry?" The rhythm of the grooming soothed Old Nelson, and soothed Michael, too, for the memories seemed more remote, and the words came more readily. "Then he no longer cries. No longer speaks. You know he's still alive: You can hear him breathing; you can hear the guards taunting him; they drag him out for torture . . . but his spirit has died. Finally, one day, they drag the body out of the cell, put it in a bag, and carry it away. You've never seen him, but you've lost a friend."

"Oh, Michael." Pity. He heard pity.

He didn't want that, but now that he was talking, he couldn't stop. "It happens again and again, until one day they put someone new down there, and he calls out in panic and fear, wanting only to hear another human voice . . . and you don't answer. Because you haven't got a heart anymore. It's been taken out of your chest, piece by piece, and carried away in those body bags."

He heard a sob, muffled, as if she were pulling her petticoats over her head, then more clearly, her quavering voice repeating, "Oh, Michael."

"During all the hopeless days and nights of my imprisonment, I listened while my fellow prisoners begged for pity, screamed in pain, sobbed in loneliness . . . and silently died." He didn't know why, but it felt good to tell her these things. She listened, she saw into the dark places of his soul, and she didn't seem to think he was weak or heartless. She understood. "That's why I plotted my revenge on Rickie-and Sandre. That's why I ride as the Reaper."

He definitely heard a sniffle.

She had softened toward him. Good. In this case, he could use her pity to manipulate her. "So you comprehend-you have no such reason to put yourself in danger, and I forbid you to do so again."

Chapter Thirty-eight.

Emma stared at the damp, tearful handkerchief clutched in her hand, and she couldn't believe her ears. "What?"

"I said-"

"Forbid me? You forbid me?" She had donned her petticoats and chemise before sitting down to cry over Michael's ordeal, but now hot rage dried her tears and drove her around the partition. "Because I have no reason to wish for justice? You're the one who took me to the lower city. You're the one who showed me the misery the de Guignards have caused in this land."

Old Nelson stomped his feet.

Michael put down the body brush and threw a blanket over the horse's back. "You're upsetting him. He doesn't like having a virago behind him."

"You dare." Michael was not the lonely, pitiful prisoner she'd been imagining. He might have been once, but now he was tall and handsome, healed and sure.

She backed up to let him out of the stall, and helped him shut the door and lock it. "Should I not want Damacia to have vengeance for her husband's death?" she demanded. "Should I not help Elixabete to have a better life?"

"There are other, safer ways to accomplish that than by riding as the Reaper while the prince's guards scour the countryside."

"Not while you're sick unto death because you've taken a bullet, there aren't." She shook her finger at him. "Should I stand by and do nothing while Prince Sandre's men come and drag you away because they've discovered you are the Reaper? Who are you to forbid me to do anything? Who are you to judge me to be meek, afraid, and incompetent? How can you have the temerity to condemn me to a life of regrets because I could have taken action and did nothing?"

Head down, he grasped the edge of the gate, his chest heaving as if each of her words lashed him.

And she hoped they did. She really hoped they did. "You may be the heir to the dukedom of Nevitt," she said, throwing her bitterness in his face, "but you have no rights over me!"