If he did, there might never be another opportunity. With that acknowledgment, Sebastian Sinclair vaulted lightly over the wall that separated him from Delgado's sentry and ultimately from the woman that guard was supposed to protect.

Despite the fact that she was even more closely watched whenJulian was away,Pilar still felt an undeniable sense of escape, a subtle relaxation of the ever-present tension, when her guardian left her alone.As he had tonight.

He hadn't told her the import of the message that had called him away. He seldom shared that kind of information. All she knew was that it had been unexpected.And apparently urgent.

She was sitting now before her dressing table, her unseeing eyes focused on its mirror. She held her hairbrush rather than employing it, as she thought aboutJulian's behavior during the past few days.

Something had happened. Something he hadn't told her about. She knew because, up until tonight, his mood had been unusually buoyant.

It was possible, of course, that whatever had caused the almost visible aura of accomplishment that had surrounded him had to do with the political situation. Once or twice, however, she had lifted her eyes to find him contemplating her with an expression that had looked very much like satisfaction.

Then, becoming aware of her gaze, he had smiled at her.A slow, triumphant smile that seemed to denote victory.

Whatever he thought he had achieved, therefore, had something to do with her. And the only thing she could imagine that would give him cause to think he had had some triumph over her would concern the English soldier.

Sebastian Sinclair. Although she had tried since the reception to put his name out of her mind, she found it reverberating in her memory at the oddest moments.

That had happened once when she had heard a strain of music floating in through the windows of her bedroom. She had opened the shutters in order to listen to the distant, haunting melody, as faint as that which had drifted into the palace gardens the night of the reception.

The other incident had occurred at dinner last night. As she absently watchedJulian's long, white fingers toy with his wineglass, she had realized she was unconsciously contrasting them to the sunburned ones that had fastened around her wrist. It seemed she could feel their callused warmth even now.

There was a slight noise outside her window. Her eyes lifted, looking into the mirror at the reflection of the shutters her maid had closed before she had left.

She listened, trying to determine the origin of the sound she'd heard. Not the regular footsteps of the guard who would be stationed there tonight. This had sounded like a scuffle. Almost as if blows were being exchanged. And then...

At the sudden silence, she laid down her brush and turned toward the window. As she watched, the shutters opened inward, revealing the figure of a man. He was standing on the patio outside, his shape outlined against the deep purple of the evening sky.

The identification made viscerally rather than visually, she knew at once who it was. An overwhelming sense of terror, more powerful than that which she'd felt as he held her prisoner in the garden, blossomed in her chest.

She rose instinctively, but she could think of nothing to say. There was no warning she could give him that she hadn't already made. No other reason she could think of to convince him that being here was nothing less than suicide.

"You have five minutes to get dressed," Sebastian Sinclair said. "I've never known any woman who could accomplish that, but I warn you that if you don't, I shall take you in your rail."

"Take me?" she repeated, latching onto the salient part of that. "Take me where?"

"With me," he said simply.

"No," she whispered. "I told you--"

"The choice isn't yours, my lady. I have need of you. And therefore, you will come."

Her feelings about this man were so tangled there was some part of her that exulted in the fact that he was here. He had come for her.

That heady sense of pleasure was short-lived. Whatever his purpose, if she were foolish enough to go with him, there could be only one outcome. She had always known that.

"Needme for what?"

"To lure your guardian to his death."There was a slight emphasis on the word "guardian," the tone mocking.

"Julian?You're insane."

"Four minutes," he said, striding across the room to throw open her wardrobe.

She turned to watch, too stunned to protest as he began to paw through the garments stored there, selecting one or two items from among them. He brought those over to where she was standing, tossing them down carelessly onto the stool of her dressing table.

"Of course, if you prefer to go as you are..." His smile reminded her ofJulian's --cold and sardonic.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded. "Don't you understand that he'll kill you?"

"That particular threat grows old, my lady. You should find a new one. Did you enjoy your excursion to mass?"

Perhaps he had suddenly gone mad. Something about him had changed.

WhatJulian had done to his face might explain what had become of the gallant cavalier who had attempted to save her that day by the river. She could imagine no reason, however, for the alteration that seemed to have occurred between the kiss they had shared in the garden three nights ago and what was now in his eyes.

"I haven't been to mass," she said. There was too much she could never confess, so she refused to go and make a mockery.

"Only to the cemetery, I suppose. And you lost your cloak.A pity. You might have worn it tonight instead of having the bother of getting dressed."

She shook her head, feeling more and more as if she had stumbled into a nightmare from which she couldn't awaken. The Englishman was in her bedchamber, and he was demanding she go with him so that he might killJulian . The danger that he might be discovered increased minute by minute, yet he continued to bandy nonsense about lost cloaks and graveyards.

"I don't understand," she said. "What cloak?"

He picked up one of the garments he'd laid on the stool and tossed it toward her. It was the jacket of her riding habit, she realized, as she automatically caught it, clutching it protectively to her breasts.

"Are you waiting for me to avert my eyes?" he asked.

"I am waiting for you to tell me why you are here."

"I have told you. I'm here to take you with me."

She tried to think what she could possibly say to him that she hadn't already said. Of course, one didn't reason with a madman.

"I'm not going," she said instead. "I can't."

She expected argument.Another accusation.Something. Instead his eyes simply considered her face, his mouth still arranged in that mocking half smile.

"You profess to fear your guardian," he said. "Yet, when given the opportunity to escape him, you refuse to accept it."

"Because I know we'll never be allowed to leave the grounds," she said. "He has guards everywhere."

"Most ofwhom have just ridden out with him. As for the rest, with their master gone, I should imagine they are even less diligent than the one outside your windows was."

She hadn't been sure he was awareJulian wasn't here. And of course, he couldn't understand the implications of her guardian's absence. Contrary to what he was suggesting, security around her would be increased rather than lessened.

"Even if we did get past the guards--"

The soft knock on her door cut into those words of protest as sharply as a knife. Her eyes, widened in shock and fear, met his. Removing a pistol from beneath his cloak, the Englishman reached out to grasp her wrist as he had in the garden, pulling her toward the window.

Dropping the jacket he'd thrown at her, she pushed ineffectively at the fingers gripping her arm like an iron band. It was the only form of protest she dared with someone standing outside her door.

Inexorably the Englishman's strength overcame hers as he dragged her toward the open shutters.

Desperate, she struck at his face with her free hand until he averted it, protecting himself from the blows by hunching his shoulder to provide her less of a target.

As she struggled, she worried that the sound of those slaps might alert whoever was outside. Then, finally, she realized she was losing the silent battle. They were almost at the window and in only a few seconds-- He straightened, no longer forced to avoid her flailing hand. Without releasing her wrist, he looked over his shoulder, surveying the patio beyond the window before he turned, meeting her eyes.

Seeing what was in them, she realized that he wouldn't be denied. If he had to, he would carry her out of the house, and the only protest she could possibly make-- She raised her free hand, clenching it into a fist. With her closed hand, she struck him as hard as she could in the nose. At the same time, she gave one last desperate jerk of her captured wrist, panic lending her strength.

Her hand came free, but it happened so unexpectedly that she stumbled backward even as he grabbed for her again. As she staggered, off balance, her foot became entangled in the folds of the riding jacket she had dropped.

Arms flailing in a vain attempt to right herself, she knew she was falling, and yet there was nothing she could do to stop it. Almost as soon as the realization formed, the back of her head struck the footboard of the high bed.

There was a fraction of a second during which the impact registered before blackness closed around her like fog. The Englishman's shocked face, his hand still outstretched toward her, was the last thing she remembered.

Chapter Five.

Awkwardly shifting the burden he held in his arms, Sebastian raised his right fist, hammering it against the heavy wooden door. With Ferdinand's soldiers guarding the front entrances of the house that had been provided for the English envoy's stay inMadrid , this was a last resort.

He turned, his eyes searching the darkness behind him. Despite the knock on the door ofPilar's bedroom, no alarm had been sounded as he'd carried her out of Delgado's house. And so far he had seen no sign of pursuit. That had seemed a stroke of incredible luck, since he'd had no destination in mind when he'd started this.

When he'd made that spur-of-the-moment decision to use the girl to lure Delgado to come to him, he had never considered that he might have to take her by force. He had thought she would welcome the chance to escape her guardian's control.

He still believed he would eventually have been able to convince her if they hadn't been interrupted. At least that's what he had told himself, fighting the guilt he felt over this abduction, a guilt that increased with each passing minute. Especially when he looked down to consider the pale face of the girl who still slept in his arms.

After she'd hit her head, he had rushed to her side, realizing immediately she was deeply unconscious.

The knock on the door had sounded again, accompanied this time by a woman's voice callingDonaPilar's name.

Without much thought about the consequences, he had bent, picking the girl up and settling her across his shoulder. It was the same method he had used innumerable times to carry a wounded comrade.

Once outside, he had somehow managed to hold on to her and mount the gelding he'd hidden behind a neighboring house. Then, as he had guided the horse through the dark, twisting streets ofMadrid , he had held the girl before him, her body frighteningly still and limp.

During the course of the journey, she had drifted briefly into consciousness. She had turned her head to look up. Her eyes had appeared almost dazed, and after only a moment they had closed again.

Despite the time that had passed since then, she had not regained consciousness. Apparently the impact to her head had been more severe than he'd realized at the time, and anxiety roiled in his gut.

"Who is it?"

Although the voice was muffled by the thickness of the wooden door between them, Sebastian recognized it with a prayer of thanksgiving. At last, something had gone right.

"Sinclair," he said. Then, realizing his name might not be sufficient identification for the speaker, he added something that he knew would be."The man with the scarred face. I need your help."

There were no more questions, but it seemed an eternity before he heard the sound of the bar being removed from the inside of the door. When it opened, the figure of the fat cook who had served as translator between Harry and the fishmonger was revealed.

Sebastian already knew the man was amenable to bribes. And tonight he was ready to offer him anything for his help.

Due to the lateness of the hour, the cook had already donned his nightclothes, including a long, almost comical night cap. In one hand, he held a candle, which he raised to verify Sebastian's identity.

Without giving him time to speak, Sebastian put his shoulder against the door, pushing it open widely enough to allow him to carry the girl inside. To his credit, the cook didn't try to block his entrance.

Instead, he shut the door quickly after them, and, setting down his candle, lifted the bar and placed it back in its place.

"I need a bed and some mulled wine," Sebastian said. "You'll be well paid for your trouble."

Despite the fact that he was at this man's mercy, he did what he knew Dare orWellington would have done in the circumstances. He assumed command. If you did that convincingly enough, his eldest brother had always said, people usually responded exactly as you wished them to.

"Is she dead?" the cook asked, holding the candle so that its light fell on the girl's face.

Her eyes were still closed, fine blue veins visible under the fragile skin of the lids. She lay so still that for a heartbeat Sebastian feared she might be. Then he felt, as he had since he'd lifted her from the floor of her bedroom, the rise and fall of her breasts, moving tantalizingly against his chest as she breathed.

"If she were, I should need neither of the things I've asked you to provide. Since she isn't--"

He inclined his head, raising one brow in the same autocratic manner the earl used so effectively, and pinned the cook with a look that demanded action. Surprisingly, it worked as well for him as it always had for Dare.

"This way," the cook said, turning to lead him through the dark kitchens, his solitary candle lighting the passage.

Drawing a breath in relief, Sebastian shifted the girl in his arms so that his hold was more secure. He glanced back at the outside door, verifying that it was again impregnable, at least for the time being. Then he, too, turned, following the wavering light of that single candle.

"Drink this. It will help your head."

Pilaropened her eyes to find the English soldier, in full uniform now, stooping beside her. He slipped his arm beneath her shoulders to raise her upper body as he placed the rim of a cup against her lips.

She had a vague recollection, almost like something from adream, that he had done this before. It had been night then, the only light in the room a candle. And every time she had opened her eyes, she remembered now, he had been beside her.

Once he had put his hand against her forehead, as if feeling for fever. As she had looked up at him then, he had laid his palm against her cheek, the motion almost a caress.

His fingers had been cool on her heated skin, seeming to soothe the throbbing in her skull. She'd had to resist the urge to turn her face into them, rubbing against them like a cat.

"Drink it," he said again, his tone this time more commanding.

Obedient as a child, she opened her mouth, taking a tentative swallow of whatever the cup contained.

Some kind of infusion, she decided. The taste was slightly bitter.Medicinal. Despite that, just as his hand against her cheek had been last night, its coolness was welcome against the incredible dryness of her mouth.