The other man resembled no one here. He was a man at home in the shadows . . . and a man used to being in charge.

Regardless of their disguises, Michael obviously knew who they were. He whooped; then in tones of delight, he said, "Father! Throckmorton! Jude!"

The man he called "Throckmorton" never allowed his cold gaze to wander from Jean- Pierre. Keeping his pistol aimed at Jean-Pierre, he said, "Disarm him."

"I'll do it." Clumsily, slowly, using his left hand, Jean-Pierre pulled a pistol from his belt and placed it on the floor.

"He'll have a knife, too," Michael said. "Perhaps more than one."

Jean-Pierre pulled a knife out of his sleeve and one out of his boot, and dropped them on top of the pistol.

"Tie him up," Throckmorton ordered.

Jean-Pierre cast Throckmorton a loathing glance.

The atmosphere grew dark, tense, reckless.

Emma could barely breathe as she waited to see if Jean-Pierre would attack like a rabid dog.

But no. He turned with his hands behind his back.

Jude used the coil of rope at his belt to secure Jean-Pierre's hands and tie him to the bars over the window. "More?" He raised an eyebrow at Throckmorton.

"That'll keep him." Throckmorton turned away. "Let's go."

"Yes." Michael put his delight on hold and pulled Emma close. "Let's get out of here."

He led the way with Emma. The other men closed ranks behind, and right before they turned the corner, Emma glanced back.

Blood soaked the handkerchief Jean- Pierre had wrapped around his hand. He twisted in the restraints, and those pale eyes turned toward them and shone like beacons of pure malice.

She shivered and walked with increased speed.

They rushed down the corridor and toward the kitchen.

"How is Mum?" Michael spoke as he walked. "And Adrian?"

"Both well. Both waiting for us to return with you," Nevitt answered.

"They'll be pleased to find there's a bonus." Jude glanced at the hold Michael had on Emma.

"Yes," Michael said. "They'll like my Emma."

Emma wanted to tell him he was saying too much, too soon. If they were going to do this properly, she should put on her best clothes, go to visit the Duke of Nevitt and his family, and be introduced in a drawing room in England.

But perhaps it was too late for that. Perhaps it had always been too late for that.

"How are we getting out of here?" Michael asked.

"The same way we came in," Michael's father said. "Through the front gate."

"Of course." Michael laughed. "You're the Duke of Nevitt. Where else would you enter and exit?"

"Exactly." Nevitt pulled the scarf away from his face.

Jude did the same, and Emma saw the striking resemblance between the father and his sons.

Liveried servants bustled past, carrying platters of food and bottles of wine up to the next level. Emma expected one of them to speak, to ask where she and her four rescuers were bound, or perhaps to direct them elsewhere, or to call for help because one of the prisoners had escaped.

Instead, they seemed oblivious to Michael, to Emma, to the other men.

Prince Sandre's servants were preparing for a party . . . and they were smiling.

How strange. She had never seen any of them smile before.

"Throckmorton arranged for the stable boy to hold our horses," Jude said. "There's something odd about this palace and this party. And this country, for that matter-they're having some kind of weird costume party. They're all dressed as ghosts or something."

Emma realized what Michael and Lady Fanchere had done, and chuckled deep in her throat.

Michael grinned down at her.

"I don't suppose you know anything about that, Michael?" the other man asked.

"Yes, Throckmorton, I might." Emma loved the way Michael's voice sounded while he was smiling: warm, amused, smug.

They reached the massive front door. The men placed their pistols in holsters strapped to their sides, a futile attempt at discretion, and walked out into the courtyard.

The night air was smoky; torches lit the perimeter of the walls.

Carriages were rumbling across the cobblestones and up to the steps. Men and women dressed as Reapers were descending, stopping and mingling with the other guests, then laughing as if they all enjoyed this masquerade more than they should.

No one seemed at all interested in four men dressed as travelers and a young woman in damp, dirty clothes.

"An odd and peculiar place you chose to inhabit, Michael," Nevitt snapped.

"A good part of the time, sir, it was not a choice," Michael said firmly.

"Over here." Throckmorton led them toward the stables, then beckoned, and a boy came forward, leading two horses. He handed reins to Throckmorton and to Jude, and went back for the other two horses tethered nearby.

"I've got another mount below," Michael said. "We can stop and get him on the way."

"Old Nelson." Emma sighed with delight. "I'm so glad. I would hate to leave him behind."

"In the meantime, can the young lady ride with you, Michael?" Throckmorton asked.

"Throckmorton, I wouldn't have it any other way." Michael flashed him a grin.

Emma didn't like being demoted to mere saddle luggage. "Or perhaps, Mr. Throckmorton, Michael can ride with me."

"Who is this saucy wench?" The Duke of Nevitt sounded stern, but one side of his mouth twitched as if he were fighting a smile.

"Let me introduce you." Michael took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the Duke of Nevitt. "Father, this lady is Miss Emma Chegwidden."

She curtsied as correctly as she would in any ballroom.

Michael continued. "She saved my life when it was in danger. She saved my heart when I thought it was broken. She saved my sanity . . . for what that is worth."

Jude snorted.

Michael never turned his gaze away from his father, but his fist flew out and punched Jude in the arm. As calmly as if nothing had happened, he continued speaking to his father. "She has consented to be my wife, and I'm going to marry her as soon as I can. Pray give us your blessing."

Nevitt accepted the reins, put his boot in the stirrup, and lifted himself into the saddle.

Emma tensed. Oh, God. He was going to refuse.

He looked down at them. "If she did all those things, then she's more than you deserve, boy. Of course you have my blessing."

Emma almost collapsed with relief . . . and surprise.

"Father recognizes an Amazon when he sees one," Michael said in her ear.

"I'll help you up, Miss Chegwidden." Jude put his hands on her shoulders. "Michael, hurry up."

Michael mounted and held out his hand.

Emma put her hand in his, her foot in Jude's cupped palms, and scrambled into the saddle behind Michael, flashing, she was sure, bare legs as she wrapped them around the horse.

She had been the Reaper; she was not riding side-saddle.

The men noticed, of course. They were men. But there was no censure in their gazes.

Nevitt wheeled his horse away, then wheeled it back. "Michael, you should worry more about Miss Chegwidden's father's blessing."

"My father is deceased, sir," she said.

"I always said Michael had the devil's own luck," Nevitt said gruffly. "But I'll stand in for your father and tell you-you don't have to marry this reprobate. You've saved his life and I owe you for that, and I can settle a sum on you that would enable you to be an independent woman."

"Father, for the love of God, shut up!" Michael pulled her arms tightly around his waist. "She wants to marry me."

Jude laughed and mounted his horse. "Probably just for your position as the future Duke of Nevitt."

Throckmorton chuckled, but his gaze wandered, scrutinizing the gate and the guards, before he also mounted his horse.

"I don't care why she wants to marry me," Michael said. "She can have my every penny; she can flaunt the title when she gets it, as long as she stays beside me and keeps the darkness away."

Emma realized she needed to make her position clear now, before they rode away and conversation was no longer possible. In her firmest tone, she said, "I intend to marry Michael, and squander all his money and run his life, and make sure he never again consorts with wicked women or gambles with licentious men. I promise I will henpeck him until he has no life beyond what I allow him, and when we die, I will lie in his arms through all eternity."

For a moment, the men were silent.

Nevitt took out his handkerchief and blew his nose with a honk.

"There you go. I've lost all control of my life." Michael sounded cheerful, and he picked up her hand from around his waist and kissed it.

"It's about time. You were never good at control, anyway," Nevitt said.

"Bravo, Miss Chegwidden!" Throckmorton urged his horse forward. "Well said. Now let's go."

Michael replaced her hand on his waist. "Hold me tight. Never let me go."

He and Emma followed Throckmorton out the gate and down the steep road. Nevitt and Jude followed them. They avoided oncoming carriages, riding into the darkness and the forest below.

Michael led them into the woods to Old Nelson.

As Michael adjusted the stirrups, Emma greeted the gelding with delight, then mounted him and sighed with relief. Now she felt at home. She felt free.

Michael looked up at her. "You can't ride the roads of England righting wrongs, you know."

"No?" She smiled down at him. "I can't?"

"You're going to lead me a merry chase, aren't you?" He sounded resigned. And delighted.

Nevitt watched and announced, "We'd better get these two married in Spain. Michael was always an impatient lad."

Emma glanced at her future father-in-law in dismay. How much had they betrayed with a glance and a few words?

Nevitt chuckled. "Don't worry, lass; the first child can come at any time. The rest of them take nine months."

Michael mounted his horse. "Father, stop embarrassing Emma and ride. We want to be well away from Jean-Pierre by morning."

"He's a coward," Jude said.

"He's not a coward." Michael led the way back to the road. "He is the most dangerous man I know. Throckmorton's right: We should get out of Moricadia as fast as possible-before he discovers what I did with Sandre, and before all hell breaks loose."

"So my sources are right?" Throckmorton asked. "Trouble is about to visit the de Guignards?"

Michael's gaze grew cold with satisfaction. "Sandre should have paid attention. The appearance of the Reaper was a sign. The king has returned."

The party at the palace was in full swing. Guests dressed as the Reaper danced with abandon, disguised by their masks, their makeup, and their costumes. When asked, they said they were half- mad with the joy of knowing the Reaper had been captured and tomorrow would hang.

Jean-Pierre believed they behaved like children let out of school because Prince Sandre was nowhere in sight.

Jean-Pierre stood on the balcony, his hand wrapped in a bloody napkin, his wrists torn from his wrestling with the ropes, watching the crowd and wondering where that cursed Durant had hidden Sandre. He'd sent the guard everywhere, into every room, every closet, every cupboard. They hadn't found him . . . or they said they hadn't.

He didn't trust them. Their hatred had gone beyond fear. If one of them had found Sandre bound and gagged, Jean-Pierre was sure that guardsman would have slit Sandre's throat without compunction.

Jean-Pierre didn't trust the servants, either. They set up a long table on the edge of the dance floor and filled it with dishes of exquisite taste-a peacock with its tail feathers attached, an aspic in the shape of a red rose-and while they did, they smiled. Smiled! That wasn't the way Sandre's servants behaved.

And where were the keys to the dungeon? Sandre's keys had disappeared. Gotzon's keys had disappeared. Were there more? Jean- Pierre didn't know.