Their speed increased. A small huddle of houses flew past the window, scatteredgray huts on the moor, two men running alongside the train and falling behind as itplunged down a sharp slope, flying ever faster. Over the sound of the rails, there wasa sharp report and shouting from behind.

"Will they shoot him?" Zenia cried.

She craned to find the horseman; caught him in glimpses as the train hurtled down into a tree-studded ravine. He was a perfect target-color against gray and black, but the train was moving fast, swaying and jostling, and he was galloping, flashes of brilliance through the bare trees.

"My God, what a horse that must be!" someone cried.

There was another crack of gunfire that made Zenia flinch. "Madman!" she whispered under her breath. "Allah protect you!"

"Have no fear, ma'am!" The captain patted his heavy hand on her knee. "I believe he's alone, the crazy devil."

Zenia did not even turn to look at him. She was straining to see the horseman, listening for more shots. The train hit a short level space and charged upward, the slope suddenly becoming steep, robbing the engine of momentum. There was a third shot, and a fourth, as the trees thinned and the robed horseman broke into the open, pacing the train. A sound like a collective groan came from the second-class wagon. The horseman turned in the saddle. Zenia heard him yell a desert war cry, pointing his rifle in the air over the wagon and firing four shots one on another like a triumphant boast.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!" Zenia sobbed under her breath. "What are you doing?"

"Damn, the fools are out of ball," the captain reported from his vantage. "They should have waited for a clear shot, the lubbers!"

As the train's speed was choked by the slope, the rider drew closer. The engine labored, slower and slower. She could see the horseman's eyes now, his eyes that seemed to laugh inhumanly within the mantle. The white horse moved in a powerful easy gallop, hooves flying over rock and snow, leaping a ravine, keeping a steady bearing with her window.

"The brakes, man!" the engineer cried. "For God's sake, if he does not prepare, we'll roll back!"

The brakes' squeal answered him. The violent rocking turned to a shudder as the train ground toward a painful halt. Zenia knew the horseman now with the certainty of blind fury, of terrible excitement. He reined the Arab sharply toward the cars, ranging close alongside, and leaned to open the carriage door beside her before the train's motion had ceased, holding his rifle trained for any threat from the men jumping out of the second-class wagon.

The train stopped with a jerk at the same instant the door flung wide. "Unhand her, you gypsy blackguard!" the captain shouted, lunging to prevent him as the horse jostled up to the door and the brilliantly robed and masked reincarnation of Haj Hasan reached for Zenia, his free hand closing on her arm and yanking her brutally forward.

She was so afraid that someone would shoot him, or he would shoot them, that she could find no voice but to scream, "No!" amid the struggle of bodies trying at once to interfere.

"Oh, yes," he snarled. "I will have you."

The gentlemen were all trying to pull her back, but he suddenly let go of her and leveled the rifle into the car, bringing all motion to an abrupt stop. The mare's nostrils flared, puffing jets of steam.

"Now," he said. "You will kindly free my wife to accompany me."

"Your wife!" the supervisor exclaimed.

Zenia could see some of the second-class passengers running up. A wave of the rifle barrel in their direction made them falter. The railway employees were shouting up near the engine, but amid the clash of metal and the anguished screaming whistle of the locomotive they seemed fully occupied with preventing the train from sliding backwards.

"Move!" Hasan bellowed at Zenia, tearing down the mask of the kuffiyah. "Will you give them the whole bloody day to reload?"

Seeing his face, the darkness and bright flame, his demon alive and burning in him, living on outlawry, on senseless peril-the hysteria that had been pressing and swarming at the back of her throat burst free. "Damn you!" she screamed, her voice rising even above the. wail of the steam.

The mare threw her head, eyes rolling amid the shouts and commotion. The dull pop of a misfire made him glance away toward it.

"Wolf cub!" he yelled. "Yallah!"

She plunged forward, tearing free of the sea captain, tripping, falling into Lord Winter's hold. "Damn you," she shrieked as he lifted her, denying her feet their last solid support. "Damn you, damn you!" she cried, clinging to his shoulders as he swung her onto the mare, burying her face in the free woolen folds of his cloak. "Why do you do this to me?"

She felt the horse whirl beneath her. She felt his grip holding her before him. A gust of wind sent the cloak flying back, showing her the train immobilized, suspended halfway up the overpowering slope, everyone gaping at them in the winter afternoon. And that was the last glimpse she saw of any of them, for he took her at a gallop up the slope past the paralyzed locomotive. At the top he halted, grinning like a savage back at the figures that bundled futilely after them on foot. The countryside echoed to the blasting cascade as he emptied the rifle at the moor and sky.

"Very amusing," Zenia said tightly, finally taking command of her voice as they rode through the falling snow. "And now if you will convey me to Grosmont, I will join Mr. Jocelyn as I intended."

The grip on her waist tightened. "Mr. Jocelyn is not there."

Zenia sat up straight, the cold wind stinging her cheeks. "What have you done to him?"

"Why, nothing. No doubt he is reposing happily in Edinburgh."

"But-" She paused. "Edinburgh?" she asked, with dawning suspicion.

"Why should he be anywhere else?"

She stared across the purple-gray moor. She thought of the letter from Mr. Jocelyn, written and signed by a secretary, the precisely assembled tickets that had brought her here to this exact time and isolated place.

"You stole my letter," she cried furiously. "My God, you will do anything! Anything to take Elizabeth. Were you so sure I would bring her in spite of any advice? How well you know me! I very nearly did, but Mrs. Lamb foiled you there! You might have had Elizabeth, assuming she was not killed in that mad attack-"

He brought the mare to a sudden halt. "I didn't intend her to come," he said sharply. "Nor did I intend there to be shooting. The guards don't carry guns; it was some pot-valiant lobcock with a pistol in second-class who started shooting, and that rattlepate of an engineer who did his best to smash the train!"

"Then why were you waving your rifle?" she shouted, dashing snow from her cheeks.

"Oh, for your amusement," he said caustically.

Zenia half-turned in the saddle. She could not see his face, only his jaw and mouth and the bright colored wool about his throat.

"Foolish of me," he said, his voice harsh. "I meant to ride down beside the train, meet you at Goathland, and carry you off. Very romantic, you see. Mr. Jocelyn would never think of it."

"Of course not," she cried. "He is perfectly sane!"

The flakes of snow flew against Lord Winter's jaw, white crystals that poised for a moment and then melted on his skin. "Yes," he said tightly, "and if it had been up to him, you'd still be cowering in a corner at Dar Joon, wouldn't you?"

"At least," she said, turning to face the front and pulling the edges of her bonnet close, "I would not be riding through snowstorms in the midst of nowhere!"

He brought his cloak up, drawing her back against his chest and covering her with the dark, loose folds, lifting his arm to envelop her mouth and chin and shoulders. He pressed his open palm against her face, holding the cloak there against the wind. Through the layers of wool and silk, she could smell his scent. She could feel the pulse of his inner wrist against her cheekbone, the familiar life of him.

He bent his head, nuzzling his mouth to her jaw and throat. "There are other things you won't be doing with Jocelyn," he murmured, his voice low in his chest. "Because I'll kill him first, and then you."

Zenia drew in a breath, her body responding to his as it always did, against her will and judgment. "He told me that he prefers no physical intimacy in marriage," she said coldly.

'Then he's a liar," Lord Winter said, warming her cheek with his words. "Or something else."

"He is a good, kind man, who will give Elizabeth and me a safe home. He would not threaten to kill me."

"But does he know what he's bargained for? Does he know who you are going to be, once you have your fill of a safe little home in Bentinck Street?"

"I could never have my fill of it."

"You told Mrs. Lamb you were the only one who knew me." He held her, his arm taut. "But you've forgotten the other half of that balance, Zenia. You've forgotten that I know you too."

A strange shiver, something deeper than the cold, seemed to seep into her limbs and heart. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean," he said softly near her ear, "that I am your demon. In you and beside you and over you. Run where you will, little wolf, but I am always with you."

Zenia began to tremble. 'That is superstitious nonsense."

"Did you really think you could marry Jocelyn and live your paltry life in Bentinck Street? Did you think I would not haunt you and maul you to the death if you did it? I would not let you slip out of my claws. Look where you are at this moment."

"Enough talk of demons! It's Elizabeth you want, not me!"

"Elizabeth is made of you and me. And you've been mine since I dragged you up in the dark outside Dar Joon, crying that you saw a djinni."

She remembered the night and the demon coming for her; the sound of hooves and then his voice. Her whole body was shaking. It is the cold, she thought, but his heat radiated into her.

"All my life has been a hunt," he murmured into her shoulder and throat. "I have hunted for you over half the earth, and hell too. Bentinck Street is not nearly far enough to run."

She gasped, "I'm afraid of you."

He gripped her closer, his arm about her neck. "I tried to be a civilized creature. I tried to live your safe little life, and you ran to Mr. Jocelyn when I couldn't be what you want. Now I'm what I am, and I'll make you what you are. I don't plan to be merciful."

CHAPTER 27.

The snow was flying so thick that she could only see the cottage as a glowing window in a black shape below them. It sat under the lee of a hill, a sudden lull in the wind, so that the flakes fluttered down gently instead of driving past as he guided the mare down the slope.

A few black-faced sheep huddled in the windshadow of the house, rising quickly to their feet and staring. He halted before the door, loosening his hold on her, his cloak crackling with icy stiffness. She gave a sharp whimper as her numbed toes struck the ground.

'There'll be a fire inside," he said briefly. "I'll put the mare in the lean-to."

Zenia could hardly make her fingers close as she pulled back the latch. But there was a startling transformation inside the thick stone wall-outside was desolation: hurtling snow and near darkness; inside was an orange glow and the smell of warm bread, the fire leaping in the huge brick hearth as if it had only recently been fueled.

Its light showed the whitewashed walls of one room: clean but haphazardly furnished with scarred chairs of ornate design, mended and remended, their gilt worn away except in the deepest cracks. A four-poster bed with three thick, heavily carved bedposts and one plain spar was hung with mismatched curtains, some of watered sky-blue silk and some a faded brown check. A thick Turkish carpet laid over the flagstone floor showed the same hand-me-down history, apparently perfect except for one large corner that the bed could not quite conceal, burned away to an uneven, blackened edge.

Sweet-smelling loaves of bread lay on the table in a floury pile. As Zenia stood with her cloak and bonnet drooping and thawing, her hands and feet in agony with the return of warmth, a white cat stared at her from the red damask seat of one of the armchairs. It stood up, revealing a cat-shaped depression in the upholstery. Zenia gazed back at it, dazed with exhaustion and cold and hunger, hardly able to think what to do first.

Hinges squealed as Lord Winter pushed aside a long curtain and came in through the door beyond the hearth, a strange figure, snow-crusted, alien to this English setting in his colored desert robes and kuffiyah bound about his head by a gold-and-black cord. He dumped a load of wood by the fire, loud clunks that made the cat leap up onto a window-sill. Ice fell from his cloak in small rushes onto the hearth.

Layers of wool and silk could be warm enough, even in the sharp frozen nights of the northern deserts, but they did not keep out the wetness. His black hair was damp, clinging in curls to the back of his neck as he pulled off the headscarf.

"You may stand there dripping if you like," he said, facing the fire, "but I am going to strip down to a dry layer."

Zenia looked about, already aware that there was no privacy here, short of joining the horse in the lean-to. She watched, shivering, as he pulled the robes over his head, down to an English shirt and breeches under it all. As he emerged from the last long white desert gown, he looked over his shoulder at her.

"I told you I wasn't feeling merciful," he said. "Shall I undress you before you catch your death, or will you do it yourself?"

Zenia pulled the bedraggled ribbon on her bonnet free. "I suppose it does not occur to abductors to provide dry clothes for their victims."

He waved at the bed. "You may have all the quilts you like."

With a surge of irritation, Zenia hung her bonnet and cloak on the hook beside the door and sat down, unlacing her boots to free her aching feet. He knew her, after all -quite every inch of her. What point was there in privacy? She worked to reach her buttons, but what was difficult in any case proved impossible with numb and clumsy fingers. She made a sound of frustration, turning away toward the bed.

"You must undo them," she snapped.

He came up behind her and released the buttons and hooks. Zenia stared at the bed, her chin lifted, ready at any moment to step away if he attempted to make love to her.

He did not. He only said, untying her corset, "I don't know how you can bear this rig."

It was far from her favorite item of Frankish clothing, but she said nothing. When it was all loose, she leaned over, dragging the dress over her head. She spread it carefully over a chair to dry and laid the corset across another.

She could feel him watching her. She still had more clothing on than she had ever worn with him in the desert, layers of petticoats and two shifts, one of thick linsey-woolsey, but there was something about the way that he stood still, an artificial stiff casualness in his stance, that made her well aware that she was offering a provocative picture.

So, she thought angrily, let him be provoked. As for his great worldwide search for Zenia-he had not even recognized her for a female the first three months she had known him. And she was too tired and shaken to spend energy on bashfulness. After such cold, the warmth seemed to wrap about her, seeping into her brain. She did not care if it was immodest; she only wanted to dry before the fire.

As he sat down, chasing the cat from its red damask chair, Zenia bent to pull off her petticoats and the damp woolen shift. For an instant the air felt cool on her bared skin, sending an uncontrollable shiver down her back. She could feel her breasts fill the linen undershift as she leaned over and lifted its skirt, releasing her garter.

He stood up again, with a faint curse under his breath. Zenia stretched out her leg and rolled her wet stocking down it.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

"Extremely," she said, without looking up as she sat down and worked the stocking from her toe.

After a moment, a cracked plate adorned by the familiar Belmaine arms hit the tablebeside her with a chunk. It had a piece of bread and dollop of butter on it. A glass ofcider from a small keg arrived with the same brusque thump.

Zenia ate, wriggling her cold bare toes, wincing at the pain. She glanced up to findhim gazing at her with a look that burned like the painful new warmth in her limbs."What is this place?" she asked, avoiding his eyes."I used to come here to shoot," he said briefly. "Red grouse.""What do you intend to do with me?"

"Marry you, little wolf. Unless you drive me to worse.""And what is worse?" she inquired acidly. "Your contract in which I am to go to theContinent, or else be prosecuted for fraud?"

He looked at her sharply. "You saw that?""Of course I saw it. Mr. Jocelyn explained everything about it to me. Everything."He swore softly. "You were not meant to see it. It was a mistake." His eyes slid away from hers. "I mean for us to marry.""So that you may take Elizabeth if you please.""Damn you, I mean for us to marry," he said angrily."Will you force me?""Yes." He made a hard chuckle through his teeth. "Oh, yes.""You can't," she said. "It is not legal."He smiled coldly. "You've been listening to too many lawyers." He sat back in the chair opposite, the soft high collar of his shirt falling open. With a slow look beneath

his lashes at her, he said, "And you're living dangerously, for a reluctant woman."Zenia turned away to the fire, watching the orange and yellow flames that castshadows across his drying robes and her dress.

"But I think you like living dangerously," he murmured. "I think you're not quite thedemure little lady Mr. Jocelyn believes."

"I am a lady. I can be one.""A lady," he said, "would not sit there in her shift with a man who isn't her husband.A lady would have swooned aboard that train, not damned me while she threwherself in my arms. A lady," he said with particular emphasis, "does not intentionallyshow her garters."

"Did I ask you to stop a train?" she demanded vehemently. "Did I ask you to make atarget of yourself for anyone who wants to shoot at you? Did I ask you to carry mefor miles in a snowstorm, until I'm half-frozen and soaked to the skin? Did I ask youto steal my letter and send me on this preposterous journey?" She stood up, hervoice rising sharply. "What choice do you ever give me in your madness?"

"Why, Miss Bruce, I had barely inaugurated the most decorous courtship, planned, scheduled and approved by A Lady of Quality and conducted entirely by the book -" He rose too, leaning across the table-"when what to my dismay I discover you asking another man to wed you, by God!" He slammed his fist on the table. "So that for your damned gentlemanly behavior! Perhaps it works with real ladies, but it's a smashing disaster with you!"

"Because you are not meant to court me!" she cried. "Marry Lady Caroline! Marry someone who can go with you and be what you want!"