Opening her eyes, she stared straight ahead. "I know I sound insane, but truly, until this incident, my memory was excellent."

"Well." He shrugged. "Your arrival is a fortuitous mystery, then."

"Yes." Her gaze fell to her hands, clenched into tight, white-gloved fists.

She didn't want to talk about it anymore.

The road wound along the long ridge that ran through woods and meadows and almost the length of the country. Off to the right and above was a string of grand chteaux like Lord and Lady Fanchere's, sumptuous in their excesses, overlooking a series of valleys below. As the pony cart rounded a bend, another view came into sight. Here the cliff disintegrated into a series of stair steps, the foundation of Tonagra, the capital city. Here the finest hotels, spas, and eating establishments existed for the sole purpose of attracting the moneyed wanderers who traveled Europe to see its culture and taste its wonders.

Here Lady Lettice had taken her rooms in the Hotel Moricadia, and Emma shivered at the thought of confronting her. "Maybe she won't be in," she said.

Durant followed her train of thought without problem. "Maybe not, but I do hope she is. I would like to justly compensate her for her treatment of you."

In alarm, Emma said, "Sir, I do not seek vengeance." Suddenly uncertain, she added, "I mean, if that is what you intend."

"Vengeance is a very strong word, and certainly I wouldn't dream of hurting Lady Lettice in any . . . meaningful way. But I hate bullies."

Emma chewed on that, trying to decide if he meant that he intended to create a scene more awful than the one she imagined, or she was making more of his words than he intended. She glanced at him and found his gaze fixed darkly up and slightly behind. The road had turned away from the valley and toward the upper elevations, and, following his gaze, she saw a sight that had escaped her before.

Elevated on a gray pinnacle, set higher and separated from the rest, a medieval castle grew from the rock. It was tall and craggy, primal as a hunting hawk, with spires and crenellations like claws tearing at the bright blue sky. "What is that?"

He brought the pony to a halt outside the massive iron gates opening onto a rolling estate. "That is the royal castle of Moricadia and long the home of the Moricadian royal family . . . and now of Prince Sandre."

"It looks as if it could withstand a siege right here and right now."

"Absolutely. No guests uninvited by Prince Sandre can reach the castle. The road to the drawbridge winds up and down and around that pinnacle, and at any point, he could easily repel an assault. Of course, in this modern age, no one tries to assault the castle, but even for so simple a thing as to attend a party, the road requires a team of good horses to pull the carriage."

"And that's the only way up?"

"There's a path up to the postern door, too, where the shopkeepers bring the supplies for the kitchen . . . and the bodies are carried out."

"Bodies?" She laughed uncertainly.

"Below the kitchens are the dungeons. They aren't a pleasant place." He smiled, a stretching of his lip muscles to show his teeth.

She watched him in fascination. Never had she seen a man so nakedly show his fear and loathing. "That's where they kept you?"

"Yes."

"Did they hurt you?"

Now he looked genuinely amused. "No. Of course not. I'm a subject of the British Empire. They wouldn't dare."

His assurance comforted her, helped her settle back once more.

He slapped the reins against the pony's back and it trotted on, indolent and genial.

The breeze blew in her face. The air smelled of forest and grass. The sun was warm on her shoulders. This would be the ideal drive . . . "If only . . ."

Again he followed her thoughts. "I assure you, I won't let Lady Lettice hurt you-which I think she has done, has she not?"

"She can be unpleasant in a temper." A mastery of understatement. "You must think me a poor thing to be frightened of a mere woman."

"No. I of all people understand how a bully strips away every bit of courage and leaves you trembling before the fear of pain and death."

She thought about that. "I thought you said they didn't hurt you."

"A dungeon is a disagreeable place to pass two years of your life."

She suspected that he, also, was a master of understatement.

They rounded the corner, passed through the medieval gate and into the city, crammed with gaming establishments, hotels of all sizes, and spas that bragged of their natural springwater and its healing properties. Emma's heart drummed faster as they approached the inn where she had lodged with Lady Lettice. To face her again, after all the abuse and the humiliation of the other night . . . Emma could scarcely breathe.

Durant stepped from the cart, handed the reins to the doorman, and set the step. She put her hand in his and climbed down; then, at his slight bow, she walked ahead of him into the lobby. With the assurance of a man who knew himself to be welcomed anywhere, Durant walked to the front desk and introduced himself to Bernhard, the desk clerk, then said, "I've come to fetch Miss Emma Chegwidden's belongings from Lady Lettice. Is she in?"

"Yes, my lord, but she has decided to vacate her room and is now in the process of packing for her return to England." Bernhard was a German immigrant, with a pronounced accent and the militant attitude necessary to run a large hotel.

He scared Emma to death, yet with Durant at her side, she found herself asking incredulously, "She's packing for herself?"

Bernhard recognized her, and met her gaze with exasperation he clearly expected her to share. "Ha. No. She has four of our chambermaids collecting her belongings, and has kept them working for more than five and three-quarter hours. She doesn't seem to realize that the girls are not for her sole use, that the other guests have need of services, and that we need to clean that room for our arrivals tonight!"

"Lady Lettice is not a woman of large understanding," Emma said.

"No. She is not!" Bernhard was fuming. "She complained so vociferously of the fireplace smoking, we brought in a chimney sweep and kept him waiting for three hours this morning. I finally sent him up in the hopes the soot will drive her out."

"So since Lady Lettice is packing and we need Miss Chegwidden's possessions, we should go up." With a decisive nod, Durant turned to Emma. "Which room is hers?"

"She took the whole second floor," Emma said faintly.

"Of course." He offered his arm.

Bernhard drew himself up, offended. "My lord, I can't allow you to visit an unmarried lady's room."

"I suspect you had no idea where I intended to visit when I came into the lobby," Durant suggested.

Bernhard considered that. Heard a pounding from above like someone was stomping on the floor. And said, "You are right. I didn't."

The climb up the stairs took hours, yet was over too soon, and Emma led him to the lioness's den. Louvers at the top and bottom of the door allowed for ventilation in the summer heat, and from inside, they heard a repetitious rasping noise.

They exchanged puzzled glances.

Durant raised his hand to knock-and they heard a thump, a scream of agony, and Lady Lettice's voice shout, "Get that filthy beast out of here before he does any more damage!"

Chapter Eleven.

A second scream pierced the air, and before Michael's gaze, Emma transformed from a timid, proper English girl into a steely-eyed Amazon. Turning the doorknob, she strode into the luxurious suite of rooms.

There, in the sitting room, holding his arm and rolling in agony on a soot-covered sheet placed before the fireplace, was a young boy no more than seven.

Lady Lettice was in her nightclothes and cap, wrapped in a white velvet robe now spotted with black, dancing up and down and shouting at the boy and the chimney sweep, who in his turn stood shouting at the boy.

The four maids crowded into the doorway of the bedchamber, watching with wide, dark eyes and exclaiming in the Moricadian language.

Emma paced into the middle of the chaos, pushed the chimney sweep aside, pulled off her gloves, and tossed them on the side table. "Get me my medical bag," she told Lady Lettice.

"Get you your medical bag? What medical bag? Nothing here is yours. Nothing!" Lady Lettice shrieked at a decibel so high Michael knew dogs howled for miles.

Emma knelt, her knee in the powdery black soot, caught the boy by the shoulders, and spoke softly in his ear. Somehow she made him focus his gaze on hers, and when she had his attention, she took his forearm in her hands. Carefully, she slid her fingers over his skin, shook her head, and murmured, "Broken."

Michael couldn't take his eyes off her. How did she know? When had she learned so much? Turning to Lady Lettice, he intended to demand Emma's medical bag.

Before he could move, Emma bounded to her feet and turned on the woman like a virago. "Give me my medical bag. Now."

Lady Lettice's bosom and chins quivered with indignation. "I will not. You made a fool of me. You made me a laughingstock."

The words spilled forth from Emma like water from a broken a dam. "Lady Lettice, you need no help to be a laughingstock. You are an older woman courting younger men. You are of low morals and without gentility. Society laughs because you deserve to be laughed at. So, madam, give me my bag and I'll let you leave Moricadia without telling everyone of your disreputable peccadilloes."

Lady Lettice reared back, lifted her hand, and prepared to swing.

Michael caught her arm. "No." A simple word, spoken forcefully.

Lady Lettice looked at him, looked at Emma's blazing aquamarine eyes, and crumpled. "Your medical bag? I lost it. I gave it away. I threw it in the garbage on the street of this lousy stink hole."

Emma walked around her, pushed past the maids, and entered the bedroom.

Michael held on to Lady Lettice's wrist while she turned her pleading gaze on him. "You have to understand. I was good to her, and she was nothing but an ungrateful slut who went behind my back and frolicked with the gentlemen who might have wanted me for their wife. It is her fault I am held in disrespect."

Emma came out of the bedroom with a carpetbag clutched in her hands.

Lady Lettice had apparently convinced herself she spoke the truth about Emma, for she had tears in her eyes.

Emma didn't care. All her attention was on the child. "Michael, I'm going to need help," she said, and he thought she would be shocked to realize she used his Christian name and a command tone.

Certainly Lady Lettice was shocked when he obeyed the unspoken summons, going to kneel beside her in the soot and wrap his arm around the boy's shoulders.

"What's your name?" Emma asked the child.

The boy didn't answer, and the chimney sweep flushed with anger. "Answer the lady, you miserable churl!"

Emma lifted her head and looked at the man. "Get out." She was using that voice again.

But the chimney sweep was the type of man who equated obeying a woman with weakness, and he snarled, "I paid for that kid and I'm not leaving her alone with some madwoman who wants to coddle her because she fell and got herself hurt."

Emma looked at the sweep, and the gold in her eyes had vanished. They were now as hard and cold as green crystal. "This is a girl?"

"They're thinner, smaller, and they're always worried about the little ones at home, so they work harder. They're motivated, you might say." His voice rang with pride at his perceived intelligence, and he laughed. He didn't even see the danger until Michael's fist was an inch from his face.

Then it was too late to duck.

Lady Lettice screamed.

The sweep stumbled back, smashing into the wall, leaving a black mark that looked like a giant mosquito had been swatted there. His flailing arms brought down the Chippendale side table, the Chinese vase, the fresh flowers, and the lace scarf. The reverberation made the painting in its gilded frame swing wildly, then fall off and smack the sweep on the head. He slumped, unconscious, to the floor.

The girl under Emma's hands chuckled hoarsely; then in rough, accented English, she whispered, "Elixabete. My name is Elixabete."

"Elixabete, did you fall from the chimney?" Emma made eye contact again.

The child nodded.

"Your arm is broken. I'm going to wash it off; then this gentleman and I will straighten it. I won't lie to you: It's going to hurt very badly, but afterward it will feel much better, I promise. All right?"

Elixabete nodded, her eyes shockingly blue in her blackened face, her hopeful gaze fixed onto Emma's.

Emma pointed at one of the maids. "Bring me water and a towel. Michael, hands here on her shoulders." Emma laid out a clean cloth, then removed from her bag a corked jar, two sticks, and cloth torn into strips.

Elixabete didn't stir, but she watched all the movements in the room.

With calm efficiency, Emma washed the arm, murmuring to the child all the while, reassuring her. Then, eyes half-closed, she felt along the bone with careful movements. She gave Michael a warning glance, took a long breath; then in a smooth, assured movement, she adjusted the arm.

Elixabete screamed. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran in rivulets down her sooty face.

Lady Lettice drew in a sharp breath, and fainted in an ungraceful heap on the floor.

Bernhard strode into the room, with one glance took in the unconscious chimney sweep, his unconscious guest, and the coal dust and water that stained the rug and the wallpaper, and broke into excited German that condemned the morals of everyone's parents in the room, most specifically Michael's.

As far as Emma was concerned, Bernhard might not have been there. She again felt the broken bone, then, with a satisfied smile, plastered the arm with a grainy white material, splinted it, secured the splint with strips of cloth, and looked around. The long lace scarf that had draped the table caught her eye. She caught one end of it.

Bernhard grabbed the other and screamed like a girl. "No. No, you may not!"

They played tug-of-war over the scarf until she turned a cold look on him and asked, "Would you like to find yourself in the same position as those two?" She nodded at Lady Lettice and the sweep.

Michael rose.

Bernhard took one look at Michael's clenched fists and let go of the scarf. "I will call the prince's men now!"

"You should," she said cordially. "But before you do, you have a guest who's insensible on the floor. You should tend to her before she wakes and discovers you've been indifferent to her needs. I assure you, Lady Lettice would make her displeasure known."

Bernhard wavered, then hurried to Lady Lettice's side and knelt, slid his arms under her, and lifted her off the floor with an audible, "Oof!"

Lady Lettice groaned, stirred, and curled her arms around his neck.

At Bernhard's horrified expression, Michael grinned. Yes, my friend, you are in trouble now. He spoke to one of the maids, still trapped in Lady Lettice's bedroom, then leaned against the wall and watched Emma's deft handling of the situation. Apparently he had misread Miss Chegwidden. She was not the limp biscuit he had first perceived-or she seemed to think.