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neck and with incredible strength brought him round to face her. "I know you know," she whispered, almost inside his brain.
    "Stanbridge!" he cried, and collapsed beside her. Betrayer! His eyes filled.
    "That's better," Asharti soothed, stroking his head. "I'm surprised you had so much resistance left in you. You'll leave tomorrow for England, with a letter."
    He raised his head. Leave? He shut down the hope that might just show in his eyes. Leave her? His betrayal had earned him freedom. Guilt washed over him.
    "But first, tonight, you must be punished for your resistance."
    Davie blinked as the tiny house and the smell of blood flickered back into his consciousness. He pulled his mind away from El Golea before he could relive that punishment. But Asharti could never be banished for long. He was doomed to relive that time again and again, maybe for the rest of his life.
    Rufford gripped Davie's arm. "She's dead. I saw her die."
    Davie closed his eyes once. "Is she? She seems fairly alive to me."
    Rufford took a breath and sat up. His body was covered with scars that were disappearing fast. Davie saw the older scars, though, that he had first seen when Rufford dragged himself in off the desert in El Golea, twin circles at throat and groin and the insides of his elbows, jagged tears in his pectorals and his thighs, scars of a whip across his shoulders. They were made before he gained his power of healing. They said he knew what serving Asharti meant. "There is life and… love after Asharti. Take it from me, Ware." His eyes were blue pools of pain and determination.
    Davie chuffed a bitter laugh. "Are you sure? We're barely hanging on against her leavings, and I'm not sure you can last much longer."
    "I'll hold out. I have to."
    I'll go to Northumberland , Emma thought. Surely things will be better at Birchwood .
    She tossed her gloves on the dressing table. She was still agitated from leaving Bedford House in a huff. Flora, her maid, unpinned her bodice and untied her skirts. She let the skirt pool at her ankles. Flora helped her shrug off the bodice and unlaced her corset, saying nothing. "You may go, Flora." Emma drew the chemise over her head and slipped on the nightdress Flora had left.
    Things wouldn't be any better in the country.
    Love didn't come along every day. But against all odds, Emma had found love. She loved Davie. Probably had loved him for years. That was why she never mistook girlish crushes on a man in a uniform or with a handsome face for real love, and why she could refuse dukes and poets in the face of betting at White's. And since she'd found love, she wasn't content to be a spinster.
    She wanted more of the feeling she got when Davie took her shoulders or brushed his lips across her hands. Much more. She wanted Davie in her bed making love to her, and at her side at the breakfast table planning their day. She wanted to share his life, and give pleasure and comfort to him in all the ways a woman could. She wanted to grow old with him and wise.
    She crawled into the great bed in the room reserved for the lady of Fairfield House. A fire crackled in the grate, its warmth proof against the capricious March winds.
    The worst of it was that Chlorinda and Miss Campton thought her a rebel because she was willing to be a spinster if she couldn't have love. No, the worst was that she thought herself a rebel. What had she done but refuse a few offers of marriage that were distasteful to her and occasionally speak too bluntly to be conventional? What kind of rebellion was that? It hadn't cost her anything. And what if she set up housekeeping on her own so Richard could retire to Northumberland with Damien? Would that be rebellious? Hardly.
    No, rebellion would be chucking it all to go after the man she loved.
    She sat up. The room seemed to expand and contract around her as everything changed. Her mind darted in a thousand different directions.
    Why not? What did she care for danger, or hardship?
    But what if he