She giggled and poked him. " 'Ain't you Grace Herring's daughter?'" she mimicked him in a high voice. "Old cheek! You always was the cunning quiet one." Then she squeezed his arm and leaned up suddenly to kiss him on the mouth. "Real quality," she whispered. Before he had a moment to register the first female form pressed against him for more than two years, she had left him and run inside.

As he turned up the collar of his coat and walked down the street, the last leaded-glass window of the Swan squeaked open. "And you make sure she treats you proper, m'lord," Grace hissed, "or bless me if she won't answer to me and Harvey too! I can't have you in here makin' them fine sheep's eyes again. My Martha ain't got a particle more sense than me, m'lord, and I know just how much that is!"

* * * * * It was hours after midnight when Arden lit a candle in the room he had been relegated to. He undressed himself, having yet to engage a manservant, and tossed his clothes and damp greatcoat over the chair beside the crib. It was warm in the room, the fire kept up on Beth's behalf, he supposed.

Better if it had been cold. He opened the window and stood before it in his trousers, with the chill air flowing past his chest.

Oh, yes, I have my own family now. His lip curled derisively. What a cozy little group we are.

He rubbed his hands over his face, moving restlessly away from the window. He sat down on the cot. He'd slept on far worse. For a few moments he gazed at nothing, lost in an erotic reverie, mixing up Grace and the elegant dasher that the earl had arranged, three years too late, to put an end to his son's virginity-the Earl Belmaine desiring as always to take no unnecessary risks in any part of his heir's education or experience-and a few other females worth remembering, though not for their clever conversation. He found himself staring at the door to the next room.

She had looked less frosty in her gown and robe. Warmer. Her hair had been tucked up under a cap, but it would come down so easily.

He saw the plate lying beside the door. For an annoyed instant he thought of ringing for whatever careless maid had left it and delivering some pointed remarks on the folly of encouraging vermin in a house of this size. Then he knelt abruptly and picked the dish up.

He stood holding it. His mood rose-and then he thought it was an amazingly absurd thing, to read meaning into an empty plate. He pitched the crumbs out the window and set it down.

He sat on the cot again, slumped against the wall, his legs stretched out. He turned a red-and-yellow building block over with his toe and wondered why it wasn't so difficult to talk to someone like Grace.

Because there was nothing to talk about, of course.

Ah, simple lust.

He was much in favor of simple lust. He grew more in favor of it by the moment. So much so that he got up, blew out his candle, and very, very slowly tried the door handle.

It was unlocked. He had not expected that. The door opened silently, emanating warmth to the cool air behind him.

He could hear his daughter breathing, soft little baby snuffs. Nothing else. His eyes adjusted, picking out the black mass of the bed in the dark.

She might be awake. She might have heard him come in, seen the light of his candle beneath the door. He moved softly into the room. Everything was in its place, so familiar that he did not need to see it even after thirteen years.

He paused at the foot of the bed. She was awake, he thought. He couldn't hear her breathing.

"Yallah!" she said, so clearly that he startled-but the word held fear instead of anger. The bedclothes rustled as she twitched. She began to whisper, urgent babble that turned into low moans, like a puppy unable to howl. "Go!" she said plainly in Arabic, "Yallah! Yallah!"

Her body grew still then, but she kept moaning.

"It's all right," Arden said.

"Djinn," she whimpered. "A djinni!"

He knelt beside her, searching for her in the tumble of pillow and counterpane. He caught her hand. Her fingers twitched, closing convulsively. Faint yelps came from her throat.

"It's all right." He leaned over her, bending close. "You're safe, wolf cub," he said. "No demons. This is England."

The whimpering ceased, but she was breathing in deep short gasps, clutching his hand.

"I'm here," he murmured, kissing her cheek and her temple. "Don't you know I'm here?"

Her breath caught. She seemed to make an effort to wake, inhaling. Her hand relaxed. She lay still, so still that he thought she must be awake, but she said nothing.

He waited for her to realize he was there, to jump up and scream, or cast him rudely out at the least.

Tentatively, he touched her temple with the back of his fingers. She sighed, a sleeper's sigh, and turned over in the bed away from him, snuggling down with his hand caught in hers.

In the dark she was not Lady Winter. In the dark she was his game little wolf again, who dreamed of demons and had to touch him in her sleep.

He leaned against the bed frame. He didn't try to lie beside her, because then she would wake and break the spell. He put his head down, resting against her warm back. For a long time, while she sank far down in the depths of sleep again, he knelt on the carpet with his arm around her.

CHAPTER 16.

Elizabeth, an active child, found her mother entirely too dull to be borne in the very early dawn. She knew that if she put her small face up to Mama's, trying to wake her, she would only be snugged close and trapped, and then she wouldn't be able to fall out of the bed all by herself. But she did take a moment to investigate the unusual circumstance of an extra arm, large and brown, hugging her mother.

Elizabeth thought hug was a nice word. Hugging was a nice thing to do. "Guh," she said, touching the new arm.

A low rumbling sound came from somewhere the other side of Mama. The hand moved, and the arm, and a head of tousled black hair appeared. As Elizabeth stared in delight, a dragon lurked up from the floor, squinting and shaking its head. She pressed her hands together and smiled at it.

It blinked its blue eyes, and smiled back.

Elizabeth cooed. She crawled to the bed stool and turned about and let herself down very creditably. In her berib-boned slippers, she ran around the bed and found the entire dragon, a great expanse of tanned brown skin right down at her level. She gave a squeal.

Mama murmured something sleepy. The dragon looked at Elizabeth with its laughing blue eyes and whispered, "Shh-hhh," in a soft way, softer than the average hissing dragon that Nurse drew for her on paper. Very gently it disengaged itself from hugging Mama and rose.

It turned into a man as it did, and Elizabeth quailed back a little, less certain of men than dragons. But he didn't try to pick her up; he just walked, tall and impressive in padded stocking feet, into her playroom. He started to close the door.

Elizabeth instantly ran forward. She was not going to be shut out of her room. She smacked her chubby hands against the door before it latched.

Zenia had an excellent sleep. She drowsed later than usual, dreamily surprised that Elizabeth was content to sleep so long and quietly. Zenia vaguely remembered a door closing-she could not decide how long ago that had been, but the maid always came to make up the fire, which usually had Elizabeth up and bolting for her toys.

She moved to check her daughter's forehead for fever. Her hand swept across the bed. She sat up abruptly.

"Elizabeth!" She flung her feet to the floor. "Elizabeth!"

She ran for the playroom and collided with the nurse coming the other way.

"Oh, beg pardon, ma'am-"

"Elizabeth!" Zenia cried frantically, brushing her aside to see that the room was empty.

"Oh, ma'am, she's right as rain," the nurse said soothingly. "She's gone downstairs with her papa to breakfast."

"Gone down-" Zenia pressed her hand over her throat. "Oh!" She realized that the nurse held a man's shirt and trousers folded over her arm. "I didn't give permission for her to be taken down!"

The nurse's smile vanished. She curtsied deeply. "I'm very sorry, ma'am! But I- was I to say to his lordship that he could not take her?"

"Of course," Zenia snapped, turning. She rang for her maid, but she was already dressed by the time the girl arrived. She waited just long enough for her last button in back to be done up and her hair quickly pinned under a black cap, then ran downstairs.

There was no one in the morning parlor. Bright winter sun shone across the long table, sparkling on silver and crystal. It was still too early for the earl and countess, but two of the waiting place settings had been cleared away already. There was a napkin laid flat where one of them had been, with a large orange spot in the middle of it-obviously a spill. Several of the toast racks had been heavily raided. The room smelled of ham and coffee. A footman entered, carrying a fresh pot. He set it down and automatically pulled out a chair for her.

"Where is Miss Elizabeth?" she demanded, disregarding the chair.

The footman bowed his head. "I'm not rightly certain, m'lady, but his lordship mentioned going to the stable after breakfast."

"The stable!" Zenia whirled around and strode across the marble entry hall, the sound of her heels echoing from the red-veined columns and the floor. Another servant opened the door to the King of Prussia room, and Zenia broke into a trot as she traversed the great gilded length of it. At the end, she let herself out the French door onto the terrace, not stopping for a cloak.

The crisp air of morning struck her cheeks and lungs as she ran up a long path. The stables were a great distance away-they crowned the hill behind the house, as formal and elaborate a facade as Swanmere itself. She was panting icy puffs of steam as she reached the graveled court.

"Is Miss Elizabeth here?" She accosted the first groom she saw, a little man leading a horse under the arched entrance.

He bobbed. "The grass school, mum."

"The grass school?" Zenia had never been into the stables; the carriages were always brought round to the house, and she had not ridden once at Swanmere. "Where?"

He seemed to sense her panic, for he threw the horse's lead to a stableboy and bowed again. "This way, mum, if you please."

Beth made giggling squeals as she bounced along, held in Arden's arm on the front of the saddle. "Pa!" she cried. "Pa!" demanding that they resume speed when he halted.

Shajar instantly sprang forward in a canter, her ears pricking, docile and pretty in spite of the strange surroundings. She rocked across the grass, much too small for Arden's height, but perfect for a young girl's mount. God willing, Beth would have twenty years and more with her, for Arabs were long-lived horses, and the mare just now six years old. The Bedouins grew up with their mounts. The greatest gift a sheik could give his baby son was the mare that would carry him into battle.

Arden carried his own daughter on Prince Rashid's war horse, turning and feinting and galloping in huge circles, ignoring the shafting pain in his side. Beth would learn her first lessons on a good solid pony, of course, but the String of Pearls would be there, inspiration and reward-Shajar al-Durr, the splendid, perfect mare that her father had brought out of the desert itself for her.

Beth was fearless. On the ground she had not drawn back when the mare put down her muzzle and drew in great curious gusts in Beth's face, but only reached out to touch the soft nose. She did not cry now, bouncing and flying, but laughed with joy. She might have been born in the black tents for the instant delight she took in mounting a war horse and jousting with the air. When Arden leaned his head down to squeeze her close and kiss her ear, she gave a squeal and then turned her face away.

"Oh, a cruel flirt!" he said. "You'll bedevil their dreams, won't you, sheytana?"

She made a chortle in her throat, as if she looked forward to it.

"Elizabeth! "

The shriek made the mare shy, leaping sideways. Arden clutched Beth tight while she laughed. As the horse steadied, he looked around.

Her mother stood frozen at the gate, her white hands up before her mouth. She seemed to have enough sense left in her to know that running forward screaming in a welter of flapping skirts was not the safest course. He made the mare stand still, and Lady Winter strode forward across the muddy grass.

"You are mad!" she hissed as she came close. She reached and tore Beth from his hold. The baby began to shriek in protest, kicking to get away. Shajar threw her head, eyes rolling at the commotion. "You want to kill her!" Beth's mother screamed at Arden. "You don't care if you kill her!"

Her face was mottled, her dark hair straggling free of an ugly black cap. She had not even worn a cloak. She spun away, carrying Beth with her.

He dismounted, watching her stride to the gate. All the air had left his chest, as if he had taken a hard blow.

Lady Winter turned, hefting the crying child. "Don't you dare touch her! Don't touch her again!"

The earl himself met Zenia halfway down the hill from the stables. "What has happened?" he demanded in a rougher voice than she had ever heard from him.

Panic and fury still drove her. "Lord Winter is not to be allowed to attend my daughter," she said. "She is not safe with him."

Lord Belmaine looked narrowly at her. 'Tell me what has occurred."

"Ask him," Zenia said. "I must get her inside. She will catch her death. She doesn't even have a cap." She walked past, ready to throw off his hand if he tried to detain her, but he did not. Elizabeth had stopped crying and wriggling, and sat on Zenia's hip staring about her, pointing at items of interest. Her cheeks were chapped bright red. Zenia put up her hand to tenderly cover the baby's wind-pinkened ear as she walked.

Back in her playroom, Elizabeth began to cry again as soon as the door closed. She toddled to it when Zenia put her down, reaching for the knob. All the time that Zenia worked to get off her damp and dirty nightgown-he had not even dressed her, but just shoved her small shoes on over her knitted booties and buttoned her pell-mell into a coat-Elizabeth wailed, trying to reach the door.

Zenia bundled her in the warmest layers she had, ordering the nurse to build up the fire. When she put her in her crib, Elizabeth stood up, gripping the rail and screaming. She was going into a fit, Zenia could tell. She tried to cuddle her, but Elizabeth pushed her furiously away. Her screams began to mount.

The earl found his son standing beside one of the paddocks, a saddle and bridle lying at his feet. Just inside the fence cavorted the loveliest little white mare that Lord Belmaine had ever seen, running with her tail held out like a streaming banner. She turned as she saw him and came to investigate at a floating trot.

The earl stood at the fence, a few yards from his son. "What the devil have you done now?" he asked, watching the horse sail along the fenceline. The mare halted, arching her fine neck toward him, her dark eyes liquid with inquisitive-ness. Then she snorted playfully and thundered away.

"Oh, I've been trying to murder my daughter," Arden said. "What else?"

The earl felt the place beneath his breastbone begin to clench and burn. He would be forced to resort to a bland diet, he thought gloomily. "I ask myself," he said, still watching the paddock, "I ask myself why all your life you have made everything so goddamned bloody difficult."

"So disown me," his son said.

They stood in silence. The earl finally said, "May I ask in precisely what manner you are accused of attempting to do Miss Elizabeth an injury?"

"I thought she might like to ride with me." He shrugged. "She seemed to enjoy it."

"I must suppose that you did not consider the danger, should you fall?"

'This horse is the best blood in the desert," the viscount said coldly. "She's trained to perfection. She didn't bolt in the face of Ibrahim Pasha's guns-or when a screeching harpy in a widow's cap came screaming at her either. I wasn't going tofall off."

"Anything can happen on a horse. Even the best trained. You know that.""Very true. And the house might burn down, and lightning might strike, and the skymight fall."

If the earl had not taken a secret pride in his son's superb horsemanship, he wouldhave answered more pointedly. But he was aware that, in fact, Miss Elizabeth couldnot have been in more competent hands. Instead he said, "Lady Winter is anextremely conscientious and devoted mother. I can find no fault with her precautionsregarding Miss Elizabeth. You will not discover that child roaming about unattendedor neglected in any way."

"Does she ever get out of her room?" the viscount asked dryly."Lady Winter is very cautious of the peril of childhood illness."His son turned his head. "Does Beth get out of her room?" he asked more sharply."Her mother takes no risks of infection. I believe that is wise of her, at this season in particular."

Arden stared at him with narrowed eyes, and then turned back to watch the horse.There was a dangerously forbidding set to his jaw and mouth."At least you might have put a cap on her," the earl said, attempting lightness.

'There's a sharp wind."