"Zenia is safe," he said. "You have a daughter."

Viscount Winter turned white and then red beneath his tan. Michael thought he was not quite as old as the harsh imprint of his adventures made him appear at first glance. He seemed to have difficulty knowing what to do with his sun-browned hands, staring down at them and then shoving them behind his back, turning away.

"Well," he said sullenly, "if she will have me, I'm willing to make it right."

Michael's lips twitched. He really felt rather sorry for the fellow. "But you already have, have you not?" he said mildly. "Lady Winter is in residence at Swanmere, with Miss Elizabeth Lucinda Mansfield in the nursery."

Lord Winter looked back in clear astonishment. He seemed for an instant as if he would reject the statement, but then a scowl erased any hint of emotion. He gave Michael a veiled, appraising look. "Of course," he said.

"I don't suppose you would part with some of that sherry?" Michael asked. "Forgive me, but you are presumed dead. An old man's nerves, you know!"

The viscount's mouth twisted in a smile. "You've nerve enough, Mr. Bruce." He poured the wine out into a sparkling glass. "I nearly was dead. Several times."

"Good. Not that I wish you ill, particularly, but I should like to think that you did not seduce my daughter and then abandon her without some sufficient reason."

Lord Winter poured himself a glass. He looked up over it. "No," he said, and then pointedly: "I wonder if you can say the same?"

"I suppose you have some right to ask. I never knew of her until she came to me. I was told-how ironic it seems now-that Lady Hester caught the plague after I left, and was a long time recovering. You may be sure that I felt a suitable son of a bitch, but by the time I had the word, all was supposedly well." He tossed down the sherry. "Do you know that I think, Winter? I think Hester was waiting to see if it was a boy. She'd sworn to my father she wouldn't ruin me by marriage. She was too old; she always said she was too old. She screamed at me until T left her. But I think if it had been a boy-" He set down the glass and damned her. The rise of his own violent emotion took him by surprise. He had not meant to say such things.

Lord Winter stood looking down into the fire. "She was capable of anything, I daresay," he said neutrally.

"Well, I doubt you wished to see me to speak of that," Michael said, standing up. "What else can I tell you? Your daughter is a fat, jolly, healthy little charmer. Lady Winter is grown beautiful beyond anything, now that she's had some proper nourishment. You will be astonished-and pleased, I hope. She was terribly wasted when she arrived. I go up to Swanmere twice a year. They live very retired. Your father does not like them to leave the place. He is a little inclined to be overprotective, perhaps, but then he has thought you lost to him. I'm glad-what an inadequate word!-I'm overjoyed to find that it is not so. Does your father know yet?"

Lord Winter shook his head, still watching the fire.

"I think that you should write to him. Perhaps I should do it for you, to ease the news. He is in health, and your mother also, but it will be a stunning shock."

The viscount looked up at last. He had a closed expression, giving nothing away.

"Shall I write to your father for you?"

Lord Winter nodded slowly.

"Excellent. I shall say that you will be at Swanmere in-what-a sennight? That will give them time to prepare. Unless of course you wish to go directly. You must naturally wish to rush to your family. I'm sure there would be no harm done."

The viscount cast him a sudden vehement look. "There is no rush, Mr. Bruce. Oh, no. I wouldn't want to bring an apoplexy upon anyone, would I?"

Grimly, Arden packed up his small kit, having bribed the porter to get him a job horse at this late hour. He could not remain here, pacing the stuffy warmth of his hired rooms the way he had all day. He would have preferred violence, but he settled for movement.

A daughter! And Lady Winter. Somehow he had thought that she would come to him with her father. Why had he thought that? He could think of a hundred things that might have become of her; they all crowded in now, the possibilities-she might have died, never reached England, been rejected by Bruce, become one of hundreds of unprotected females on the streets; she might have entered a workhouse, gone into a factory, become a whore. Or an actress. Now there would be an outlet for her talents.

He might have looked all his life and never found her again.

The one thing he had never thought, in his wildest inventions, was that he would return to discover her installed at Swanmere as Lady Winter.

He wondered who she was, this Lady Winter. He couldn't see her in his mind. There was Selim, and then there was-a woman who had said to him, What difference does it make?

It was all he could remember clearly. He had misplaced the certainty that she was real, or ever had been. But he remembered what she had said before he made love to her. He could not recall her voice or her tone, but the words seemed infinitely cold and languid to him now.

Apparently it had made a difference after all, he thought fiercely.

He avoided Oxford Street, taking quiet back ways out of the city, for he led the Arab mare-Shajar al-Durr, the String of Pearls. She looked even more fairylike and fragile than usual in the bleak setting of narrow coal-blackened streets, all aglow in white next to the stolid liver chestnut hack the stable had provided, exhibiting her fright in twitching ears and soft snorts. And yet, though she trembled, she came with sweet docility, a princess dancing her delicate hooves upon the wet pavement, her whiteness reflected back by the stones.

She was his prize. What he had to show for three years of his life, for the cauterized scar and lingering shafts of pain in his left side, for futility and blood. It was Rashid, not the Saudis, who had shot him down and taken him like raided livestock from the Egyptians. Afterward, for some amount of time that Arden did not know, he had lain in the black Shammar tents, hung between living and dying of the wound in his side, his reason lost in the grip of weird and terrifying dreams.

He recovered, but Rashid had held him like a slave, friendship at knifepoint, until Arden had understood that he was still hostage to the fantastic image of the Queen of the Englezys. Myth and magic and legend was the lifeblood of the desert, and the prince a mixture of keen military pragmatism and romantic foolery. It needed only a figurehead, or some visible representation of it, and listening for hour after hour to Prince Rashid's bewitching certainties, even Arden had begun to half-believe that they fought for a queen hidden somewhere just beyond reach, a spirit Over the desolate mountains and the long coppery sky, and that he was her earthly commander sent to Prince Rashid; a shield and spear and a demon-gun on the hot dirty ground.

Certainly the real woman had come to seem a dream. He could remember Selim; he desperately missed Selim, missed English words and quiet companionship. But that one day and night, when he had looked up and seen a woman-and such a beautiful, desirable, soul-wounding woman-it was too elusive. He lost the sense of it. He could not feel, or remember feeling what it had been like. He had to resist the dreamlike quality of it, to insist in his mind on hard facts, and as time passed he even lost the ability to remember those, or make them more real than the actuality of his life in the desert.

He was Abu Haj Hasan, riding under banners that unfurled like serpents' tongues with the words of Allah written upon them, shouting a war cry in one voice with the warriors of Shammar and Kheytan, galloping beside Prince Abdullah ibn Rashid as he rode on the mare they called the String of Pearls and took the desert in his hands. The rest of the world was gone, utterly vanished into dim, uneasy memory.

But one night, amid the poems and stories told over coffee and the fire, some Kheytani had spoken of an ancient Frankish stranger who had belonged to his tent when he was a boy. He had once asked his father who this man was, with his red beard and strange speech, and what he did there. And his father had answered that the man was dakhile; he had been a protected guest in his grandfather's tent, and when his grandfather had died, he became a guest in his father's tent, and if his father and his grandfather had not thought to ask him why he came or why he stayed, then it was surely a graceless discourtesy for his son, a mere boy by Allah's mercy, to inquire into something that did not concern him.

It was a tale for the children who sat about wide-eyed, a little parable of desert etiquette, not to pry into a guest's affairs. But sitting in the firelight, all Arden could see in his mind was that solitary old man who had come among strangers and lived a stranger until he died.

The next day, in scouting for a raid on Aden, he had seen British guns and British marines-and suddenly, strangely, his own self had come back to him with a jolt of painful realignment. By then it had been easy-Rashid had trusted him. Arden had caught the mare Shajar al-Durr in the night, released her from her hobbles, walked with her up to the sleeping sentry beneath the walls of Aden and nearly given the redcoat a seizure by addressing him in English.

He supposed that he should have expected these stunned reactions. He supposed that he should have known life would go on without him. It had done so before, and never made a material difference to him. He rode with cold rain dripping down his collar and seeping under his gloves, feeling lost.

On the journey home, he had longed for England. It was a new emotion, but this time the desert had nearly eaten him. He felt how close he had come to some fatal edge of his identity. He wanted home. He wanted the places that he knew by heart, the language that was his. And as he had traveled, gradually his sense of himself had been restored to him. His tongue remembered not to speak Arabic; his fingers remembered how to button his waistcoat and hold a fork; his body grew accustomed again to coat and confining boots. He recalled the things that were important to do and say with the European passengers.

Now and then, an abyss would open beneath him. He would face some trivial occasion and for an instant be unsure of the proper action: should he help himself to the dishes on the table or wait to be served? Should he shake hands? His hand would move-and he would have to consciously think the moment through. Small things, tiny things, but underneath them lay a black well of uncertainty.

Even now, he hardly knew where he was going. The streets were familiar; he knew the way home-but he was barred from the road north for a sennight.

He felt dispossessed. Bewildered. Lady Winter at Swan-mere. Miss Elizabeth Lucinda Mansfield in the nursery. Clearly Lord Winter himself was not overly welcome in this cozy menage. Bruce had all but said so to his face.

He had a spiteful thought of riding through the night-he could be at Swanmere by dawn, and let them discover just how strong their hearts were. He wondered by what means she had convinced his father that she was his wife. It must have taken some profoundly clever talking. His father was no fool.

But then, Selim had duped Arden without much difficulty, and Arden didn't think he was entirely a fool either.

At Hounslow, as the houses fell away from the road, Arden pressed the hack to a canter. The little mare followed like a ghost, her breath sparkling puffs of vapor against the backlit glow of the city. He was denied the gratifying outlet of shooting any footpads. Nothing more interesting appeared on the road but a little late traffic.

At Longford, he pulled up at the crossroads. It was rising midnight, and his last easy point to turn north and make Swanmere by morning.

He imagined walking into his "wife's" bedroom. And quite as suddenly his nerve failed him.

A crowd of reasons why he would be a fool to do it pushed into his thoughts. The servants would not know him; he had not been back for nearly thirteen years. He might find himself ignominiously denied entrance to his own home-worse, he would have to ask where his supposed wife was sleeping. He sat still, appalled at the thought of trying to explain who he was and what he wanted to some pinch-lipped hall porter of the sort his mother always hired to keep the inferior classes at bay.

Beyond that, there was the abyss. Who was she? What would she look like? He couldn't remember her.

He only remembered that she had said. What difference does it make? He turned thehorses west, away from Swanmere.

* * * * *At the ungodly hour of five a.m., Sir John Cottle was roused out of his warm bed bya shout. He threw open the window, squinting down through a spitting mist, and sawtwo shadowy forms in the half-light of his yard.

"By George!" he uttered. "What the devil is it?""I've brought your mare," came a rough voice. "The String of Pearls."Sir John sucked in his breath. For a long moment he stood very still. Then he shoved his feet into slippers, grabbed a coat and ran down to the hall. A sleepybutler came up from the back stairs just as his master threw back the bolt.He hurried out onto the steps. "By God! Bejesus! Winter! Is it you?"

"Yes," Viscount Winter said, with a tinge of irony. "I realize it's a shock.""And the mare-is that her, by Jove? Look at her! What a little darling!" His voicehad a strange, anxious affability. "Winter, by all that's holy! We thought-well, nevermind that, my good man! Would you mind-shall we just come away from thehouse a little?"

He trotted right past the horses, back down the drive in his slippers. Lord Winter

looked after him, his brows rising, and then turned the hack and followed after.When the house had vanished in the mist, Sir John turned. His round face was so fullof distress that he seemed almost ready to burst into tears.

"I can't have her!" he cried. "I'm sorry!" He stood back, as if he did not even wantto touch the delicate mare that watched him with ears pricked.

"What's amiss?" the viscount asked softly."I've married," Sir John said in despair. "I'm sorry." He lifted his hands helplessly. "Ihad to sell off all my stable. She won't have it. Hates racing horses with a passion.Oh, Winter, I could weep. Look at her! Look at those hocks!"

Lord Winter watched the ridiculous figure of Sir John in his nightgown and cap,standing in the drive."Gresham?" he asked, after a silent moment.

Sir John made a faint keening noise. "Duel. He's bolted to the Continent."The viscount sat gazing at Sir John, such a forbidding expression on his face that theman in the nightgown and coat wet his lips.

"I'm sure I can find a buyer for you," he said quickly. "Nothing easier!"With a faint laugh, the viscount shook his head. He turned the horses, wheeling pastSir John. "There is no need. Good day to you."

CHAPTER 13.

"The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace, both now and evermore. Amen."

"Amen," intoned the congregation. The minister turned up his palms, signaling a general shuffle and rising. As the mourners in the forward boxes began to file past the veiled and black-clad family, each bending briefly to express their sympathy, Zenia waited, her hands cradled in a sable muff. Her breath made faint clouds in the cold air. Beside her, the countess Belmaine was still and silent, her face composed, watching each row stand up in turn.

"We seem destined to meet at funerals," murmured a dry voice behind Zenia.

She knew him instantly. She had known he was coming; for a fortnight she had known, but not when. Her heart began pounding in her ears as she rose from the church pew.

His mother surely had heard him also, but the countess did not betray so much as a flicker of emotion. She simply gathered her skirts and stood, walking out of the box as the usher opened it. Zenia could not be so stoic: she turned her head, looking back from beneath the ebony curl of an ostrich plume on her bonnet.

Lord Winter was dressed in black, with proper crape ribbon on his arm and hat, a perfect gentleman. But his skin was deeply tanned and his blue eyes striking-she had never forgotten his eyes. He was looking at her with cold intensity, with no more emotion than his mother revealed.

"My lady," he said softly, holding out his hat to direct her to go before him.

My lady. Zenia felt him fall in behind her. She felt his presence at her side as she took the hands of the family; she saw their reddened eyes and looks of shock at Lord Winter-few of them so lost in grief that they did not notice him. The deceased had been the scion of a county family; member of Parliament, supporter of Corn Laws and Tory causes. As a compliment, Lady Belmaine herself had arranged for the white sprays of flowers from Swanmere's succession houses.

The newly bereaved widow kept hold of Zenia's hand, and impulsively caught Lord Winter's in her other. "Oh, praise God!" she said brokenly, looking up at him through her veil. "I had heard the news, but-oh, how it does my heart good at this moment, to see you safe home with your dear, good, sweet wife, and your little girl!"

Lord Winter stood with his hand in the widow's. "I'm glad," he said brusquely, at the same time that Zenia said, "I'm so sorry." She glanced at him, flustered, and again at the widow. "For your loss," she added.

The widow was already looking beyond them to the next mourner. Lord Winter took Zenia's arm and drew her down the aisle after his mother's straight-backed figure.

"My dear sweet wife and little girl?" he asked tightly.

She felt unreal, walking through the vestibule and into the frigid air with his arm under her hand. The whole world was shades of gray; the somber stone of the church, the silver clouds, the bare trees.

"Yes," Zenia said. "I have a daughter." She did not dare look sideways at him under her bonnet. "You are her father."

He put his hand over hers and gripped. It was not a comforting hold, or a loving one. It was pure violent force, wordless. She could not tell what he felt, only that he hurt her.

His mother was waiting on the church steps. She gave Lord Winter a bleak glance. "How dare you choose such an occasion for your reappearance?" she asked in an undertone.

"I am so happy to see you also, Mother," he said mildly.

"For God's sake, Arden! Mr. Forbis's funeral! What will people think?"

He smiled slightly. "I suppose they'll think that I'm not nearly as dead as he is, poor devil."

"Save your impiety for your club. I will speak to you when we return home." She turned and walked toward her carriage.

"I wonder I don't run away again," Lord Winter murmured, watching his mother enter her coach, "with that treat before me."

Zenia said nothing. She looked down at her muff. A chill breeze swept her dark skirts. All the carriages waited in line behind the family's vehicles and the hired mutes with their draped staves and professionally solemn faces. At the head of the procession, four glossy black horses arrayed in black plumes and harness stood motionless before the ready hearse.

"I brought my own landau," he said. "Will you ride with me, Lady Winter?"

Panic consumed her. "I believe Lady Belmaine expects me to-"

His hard grip arrested her attempt to walk on. "No doubt Lady Belmaine expects all sorts of things, but you may find that the wishes of your husband and your mother-in-law are seldom quite in harmony."

Zenia looked quickly up at him. "I-"

"Not here," he said, drawing her with him as he bestowed a curt nod on a couple clearly bent on accosting them. He walked her down the long line of carriages, all the way out of the churchyard and across the village green to the last vehicle.

She was trembling by the time they reached it. He helped her up the step and sat down on the seat across from her. A footman in the Belmaine livery closed the door.

"Lord Belmaine insisted that I live-" she began, but he cut her off.

"God, how long will this take, do you suppose?" He looked out the window. "I detest funerals. Have you been unhappy here?"

"No." Zenia shook her head. She gripped her fingers together inside her muff. "No."

His jaw seemed to tighten. She gazed at his profile. The sun had burned lines abouthis eyes and mouth. His cheeks were as lean as a Bedouin's, the planes of his facemore severe. The father of her child.

"It is so difficult to believe that you are here," she said."Is it?" He slanted her a look. "Am I very de trop?"She had not thought Elizabeth resembled him at all, but her heart seemed to contract in the fleeting moment of likeness, the vivid image of her daughter somehow crystallized in an expression that was more than his blue eyes and black hair; his highcheekbones and hard mouth. He was entirely a man, sunburned and savage-and hisplump, dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked daughter looked like him.

"I don't . . ." Zenia prevented herself from biting her lip. "What is de trop?"

"In the way," he said dryly. The carriage rocked forward, following the processionat a slow, stately pace."No," she said. "This is your home."He made a sound of bitter amusement. He did not seem to want to look at her, watching instead the painfully slow progress of the funeral cortege past the church.

"God, how long will this take?" he asked again, dropping his head back against theseat."A quarter hour to the new cemetery," she said. "It's across the river. Then the service-and a luncheon at the Forbis's . . . your mother will not stay more than an