Her father had smoked these same small, tightly rolled cigars, and their fragrance had lingered in his clothing. When she was a little girl, and her papa had been away too long, she would sneak into his chamber and open the door of the enormous wardrobe to breathe in the wonderful variety of smells she would always associate with him.These cigars.The oiled leather of his boots.Sandalwood and cedar.

Horses.The aromas of home.

"Shall I put it out?" the Englishman asked.

She swallowed against the force of those crowding memories and shook her head before she realized he would no more be able to see that gesture than she could see him. All she could discern was his shape, black against the lesser darkness of the night, his chest centered by the pale gleam of his cravat.

And, of course, the small glowingtip of the cigarillo.

"No," she said, the word little more than a whisper.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

Hearing the unfamiliar--and unmistakable--concern in his voice, her eyes stung with tears. She blinked, denying them.

"I wasn't expecting anyone to be here," she confessed.

"Escaping?"

The word reverberated in her consciousness.Another memory.

"For the moment," she said.

"Then we can be conspirators together."

There was a heartbeat of silence.

"You're with the English envoy."

"The Duke ofWellington.Have you met him?"

"Not yet. He seems..." She hesitated, searching for a word that would not give offense.

"Ordinary," the deep voice supplied, touched again with amusement.

Which made it even more attractive,Pilar decided.Confronted with his ease of manner, she was beginning to relax.Despite the fact that she shouldn't be here, despite the fact that he was a stranger in a dark garden, she felt no sense of foreboding in staying to talk to him.

Even if someone came looking for her, it would be easy enough to fade into the shadows. No one would ever know she had been here. With the constraints under which she was now forced to live her life, this small, harmless adventure had suddenly become unbelievably precious.

Of course, whatever interpretation she chose to put on this clandestine encounter, she had no doubt whatJulian's reaction to it would be. Then she reminded herself again, almost fiercely, that he need never know. What were a few moments in a garden compared to a lifetime-- "It's all right," the Englishman went on. "Most people think him to be far less...extraordinary, somehow, than they had expected."

Wellington, she realized. He had asked her what she thought of the duke.

"I don't believe I have yet had time to form an impression," she said.

"I see," he said, the amusement in his voice still evident. "I should imagine that a lady like you has heard little about his military exploits."

"Only that they were successful," she lied.

And was rewarded by his laughter.Like his voice, it was rich and pleasing, clearly masculine, and yet, unlike her guardian's, free of mockery.

"Somewhat," he agreed after a moment.

"Did you fight under his command?"

"I was a member of his staff."

"Then I am sure you must have the greatest admiration for him."

"Of course," he agreed readily, that tantalizing hint of amusement lurking.

"And as a member of his staff, what were your duties?"

"Primarily to dance attendance."

"On the duke?"

"On whomever or whatever needed attending to. The role of staff is to make things run as smoothly as possible. The variety of tasks we undertake to accomplish that would probably amaze you."

"I think I should like to be amazed," she said promptly, realizing how much she was enjoying this.

There was no need to guard her tongue or to watch her back. She was simply a woman engaging in light flirtation with a gentleman who seemed skilled in the art.

"Carrying dispatches on the battlefield.Scouting. Procuring provisions when need be.Dancing."

"Dancing?" she repeated, allowing her own amusement at what seemed to be a ridiculous non sequitur.

"Oh, quite the most important requirement in a staff officer, I assure you."

Like his laugh, like the heady sense of freedom the darkness provided, his teasing was exciting.

"The ability to dance?" she mocked.

"And to be enormously charming while doing so."

"I'm sure you excel at all of them," she said.

"Would you care to put that to the test?"

"Here?"

"Or inside, if you prefer."

"Not inside," she said, the laughter wiped from her voice.

"Then..."

With the word, he threw the cigarillo away. Her eyes followed the glowing arc of its short flight, and when they came back, he was holding out his hand. It was close enough that she could see it, despite the darkness that obscured his face. Hesitating only long enough to draw a fortifying breath, she placed her fingers over his.

Even through the supple kid gloves she wore, she could feel its strength. A horseman's hand, she thought, remembering the muscled contours of the Englishmen's bodies, their strength more revealed than concealed by the superb cut of their clothing.

His fingers were perfectly steady, although she was aware that hers betrayed a small vibration.Anxiety or excitement?she wondered.

Then, as he moved, drawing her with him into the center of the arbor walkway, she decided it made no difference.One dance in the concealing darkness. And she was determined to make the most of it.

He turned to face her, bowing from the waist. She dropped a deep curtsy in return, and then, once more, they faced one another.

Here, away from the shadow of the trees, she could almost see his face. And her heart began to beat too quickly.

In perfect time to the measures drifting out from the ballroom, he began to lead her through the seguidilla. And she found that what he had told her was nothing but the truth. Despite the fact that the dance had never, so far as she was aware, traveled beyond her native country, his performance of the steps she had learned in childhood was faultless.

Under the spell of their perfection and the music, she began to relax again, perhaps even relishing the sense of danger in what they were doing. From that exhilaration or from the exertion of the dance, the blood in her veins began to flow more quickly, making her feel more alive than she had felt in months.

They moved together in exquisite union. His ability to anticipate the familiar rhythms of the ancient dance seemed no less than hers. She, who had been bred to feelthem .

And then, as she made a turn, her eyes inadvertently found the lights of the palace. Someone was standing on the balcony, looking out into the garden. Without being able to discern anything beyond the shape and size of the figure, she knew in an instantwho was there.

Like some faceless nemesis, her guardian was peering out into the shrouded darkness beneath the trees. And he was looking for her. Her fingers fell away from those of her partner, as her feet came to an abrupt stop, disrupting the pattern of the dance.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

The tone was probably no different than that of a normal conversation. To her, the question, and especially its masculine intonation, seemed magnified in the nighttime stillness.Loud enough forJulian to hear?

"I have to go," she said.

She began to turn, and his fingers closed around her wrist. Her attempt to flee was effectively halted, not only by his hold, but by her shock that he would dare detain her.

She twisted her arm, trying to wrench it free. Instead, his fingers tightened over the bone of her wrist, gripping hard enough to be painful.

"You're hurting me," she said, twisting her arm again. "Please let me go."

His hold was implacable, his determination seemingly unmoved by her plea. Heart hammering, she wondered what she could say that would make him release her beforeJulian found them.

As she tried to decide, her eyes again sought the figure of her guardian. He had left his position beside the balustrade and had started down the steps that led into the garden.

She wondered briefly, ridiculously, if the Englishman might be armed. But of course, no one would dare bring a weapon into the royal palace, certainly not a representative of a foreign government.

He was therefore defenseless.AndJulian ...

"You don't understand," she said, panic coloring her voice. "He's coming."

"Who's coming?" he asked. His tone betrayed nothing except a calm curiosity.

"My guardian.Please. He can't find me here with you."

"Of course," he said agreeably.

Rather than releasing her, he used the hand he had wrapped around her wrist to draw her into the shadows. Back under the obscuring canopy of trees they had forsaken to indulge in that dangerously exposed dance.

What had she been thinking to allow this? And the answer, when she was forced to acknowledge it, did not begin to excuse what she had done. Ifanything ...

"You don't understand," she said again, still struggling to free her wrist.

"You don't want your guardian to find you in a dark garden with a man. Believeme, even we English can understand that concern."

"Then let me go," she demanded, her fear producing a rush of anger.

She raised her free hand, trying to pry apart his restraining fingers. It was no use. His hold, tight enough that the fingers of the hand it controlled were beginning to grow numb, didn't loosen.

"If he finds me here with you, he'll kill you," she warned. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, ragged in the darkness.

"He may certainly try," he agreed, his voice too soft.

His other hand fastened around the one she had been using to pry at his fingers. As it did, he shoved her back against the trunk of one of the trees that lined the walkway. Positioning her arms at her sides and still gripping her wrists, he held her there.

Before she could protest, his body was pressed tightly against hers, the wall of his chest painfully flattening her breasts. She had time to turn her face, so that her check lay against his shoulder rather than be crushed under it.

His heart was under her ear. Despite his calm refusal to heed her warnings, it was beating as rapidly as hers.

"Shh," he said.

In unthinking response to that command, she listened, straining to hear above the pulse of his blood.

"Pilar?"

Julian'svoice.But of course, she had known it was he since she had seen that figure on the balcony.

"Shh," the Englishman warned again, the sibilance no louder than the sound of his heartbeat.

Because she had no choice, she obeyed, holding her breath so that nothing would betray their presence to the man who was hunting her. She could hear his footsteps now.Too near and far too dangerous.

Their bodies hidden from the walkway by the trunk of the tree, the Englishman released her hands.

Terrified to breathe withJulian so close, much less to move, she closed her eyes, her lips trembling in a silent prayer.

The Englishman leaned back slightly, far enough that her sense of being held captive eased. She drew a careful breath, wishing she could warn him to stillness, butJulian was too close to risk even a whisper.

Then, unexpectedly, the Englishman's palms encircled her face. He tilted it upward with pressure from his thumbs, which were beneath her chin. Startled, her eyes opened in time to watch his mouth descend toward hers.

She was too shocked to close her lips, so that his tongue had invaded before she realized his intent. His breath mingled with hers, the smoky warmth of the cigarillo pleasant.

She didn't dare protest. Not with those footsteps coming closer and closer to where their bodies, entwined like lovers, were sheltered by the tree.

That was a lesson she had learned too well.Julian did not listen to explanations. He wouldn't now. He would kill the man whose mouth was fastened over hers, his lips ravishing them expertly.

All she could hope was that the darkness would not betray them. And that what had happened before...

His mouth lifted, allowing her to draw another breath. During the past few seconds, she had forgotten how necessary that was to life. She had forgotten everything but her fear and the feel of this man's lips moving over hers.