"You're dressed like a provincial. They'll probably laugh at your expense. Ignore them."

"Are those stepping stones to the other side?" She pointed at a series of high, squared-off stones set like miniature tank traps in the street.

"Yes."

"The street stinks. Worse than London."

Several people crossed on the stones, with pedestrian traffic flowing first one direction then the other as people took turns. Those who were impatient braved the muck.

"Yuck. This place is filthy!"

"No, actually it's very clean. State-owned slaves periodically clean the streets and the Cloaca Maxima is still in use in Rome even in our time."

"The what?"

"Main sewer of Rome. Just how much reading did you finish?"

"-Uh-..." She took, advantage of a switch in traffic flow to cross the paving stones. Malcolm, caught in a crunch of people, had to resort to wading across at street level just to keep up with her.

"Hsst! Slow down!"

She glanced back and slowed down for all of three minutes, then the lure of more delightful sights down the street caused another lapse. She drew ahead again, paying no attention to Malcolm struggling along with their luggage. Malcolm held his temper and followed, wondering how long it would take her to admit she was in trouble:

She negotiated the dogleg around the end of the Circus just fine, despite the inattention she paid to the directions he'd given her. Malcolm didn't begrudge her the awed stare at the immense arena's facade. A single-story building ran around the outside, crammed with shops selling everything from baskets to hot sausages. Shopkeepers on the mezzanine above. Entrances near each led directly into the arena-level seats behind the podium wall. Stairs led upward to the second and third tiers where the one bleachers of the center sections gave way to bleachers rounding the semicircular end High overhead, three stories up, rose the colonnade and wooden arches which surmounted the end of the arena.

Margo walked with her neck cricked, staring upward and bumping into Romans who grinned and nudged one another.

"Barbarian's new to town."

"Wonder what gods-forsaken corner that rube's from?"

"Bet his eyes are about to POP'"

"Hey, meretrix! Take a look at the barbarian. Could be a good prospect!" This latter was shouted to a nearby woman in a short tunic. She ogled the Palmyrene "boy" hopefully. Margo, oblivious, passed the whore without noticing. Malcolm winked at her. "Maybe later?" he said in Latin.

The woman laughed. "Cheap enough for you? Or expensive enough for him?"

Malcolm grinned. "You look good to me, but who knows what a Palmyrene likes? Sheep, maybe?"

She laughed and passed the joke on to another loitering whore nearby. Several Roman men also laughed, overhearing the exchange.

Margo, oblivious, trailed a wake of good-natured laughter at her expense. She found the Via Ostiensis without difficulty. But she was so busy gawking at the sights, she didn't pay attention to the markings on the buildings when the Via Ostiensis apparently veered southwest. Margo committed the classic folly of taking the wrong fork in the road, wandering enthralled from one shop to the next. Malcolm, sweating under the weight of the luggage, let her walk all the way to the end of the Via Ardeatina. When Porta Ardeatina grew visible in the distance, she paused, then stared uncomprehendingly at her surroundings. She ended with a beseeching look at Malcolm.

"Where are we?"

He caught his breath. "You tell me."

Margo widened pretty green eyes. "What? Don't tell me were lost? I thought you knew Rome?"

"I do.. l know exactly where we are. We're about a hundred yards from the Porta Ardeatina on the southern edge of Rome. Hell and gone, I might add, from the inn."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Margo, I was under the impression you'd learned something from your experiences in London. Was I wrong?"

Margo had the good grace to flush bright red

"Pay attention to what you're doing. " He said it quietly but with enough force to make her hang her head "I refuse to believe Sven Bailey has trained you for several weeks, yet neglected to mention that little gem of survival wisdom."

Margo's flush deepened. "No harm done. We weren't mugged or anything."

He could have pointed out that she wasn't carrying anything heavy and so wasn't in a fit position to judge harm done, but he'd voluntarily assumed the weight of responsibility when he'd decided to teach her a little object lesson.

"Not yet," he pointed out. "But you still need to pay attention, Margo. There are consequences to everything you do--or, don't do. As a scout, you won't have me along to bail you out."

She huffed as only Margo could do. The elegant folds of her costume flounced with the movement, leading Malcolm's attention badly astray from the lesson at hand When Margo pouted, Malcolm was hard pressed to keep his attention on the job at hand-or anything else, for that matter.

All right, eyes front and center, Malcolm! You were hired to play teacher, not Don Juan. But darn it... all that spirit and tenacity and the occasional flashes of warmth and brilliance, glimpsed behind the pert facade and the periodic deep-seated hurt in her eyes, had come gift wrapped in such a pretty package ....

None of which was her fault.

Maybe Kit picked the wrong guide for this job.

"Okay," Margo sighed. "I screwed up again. It's my fault, I admit it But I am here to learn. So show me."

He found it increasingly difficult to remain firm with her. "All right. This time, follow my directions."

Malcolm was tempted to make her retrace her steps and follow the route he'd given her. Instead, he deliberately took her through a maze of narrow, cramped side streets that wandered in zigzags up and down Rome's hills and valleys, just to underscore the lesson in paying attention. They finally emerged on the Via Ostiensis near the Ostian Gate. He led her back north again, to the place. where he'd meant for her to leave the Ostian Way, where they should have circled the Aventine Hill. By the time they reached the inn, Malcolm's shoulders ached

"You're late," the Time Tours employee said sourly, glancing at Malcolm for an explanation as he checked off their names against his master list.

"Object lesson," Malcolm said shortly, offering no further excuses. He retreated to their assigned room and dropped their luggage to the tiled floor then sat down on a wooden bed frame, not even bothering to locate the rolled-up bedding first. He could feel the pull of tired muscles from his neck to the middle of his back. When Margo came in, she caught him working his shoulders in circles. Her face flamed again.

"Are you hurt?"

Contrite as a child, now that the damage was done. He studied her silently. She was biting her lower lip. Malcolm had forgotten how very young eighteen was, with its mixture of invincible assuredness, fragile emotions, and the desperate need to be taken seriously even when caught in complete ignorance.

Malcolm sighed. "Not much."

She glided across the room in a ripple of Parthian folds, then knelt behind him. Before he could protest, she was rubbing his shoulders. Malcolm shut his eyes. God ... She was surprisingly skilled, working hard knots out of aching muscles from his neck to the middle of his back. Where'd you learn to do that, little girl? When her touch lightened to the merest whisper across his neck, Malcolms insides reacted mindlessly. She didn't know what she was doing to him

Did she?

Malcolm shot to his feet. "Gotta see about lunch," he mumbled, bolting for the safety of the crowded. dining tables. The last thing any of them needed was for him to lose control. If Malcolm ever kissed her the way his body demanded she be kissed ...

He called to mind Kit's blackest glower and held it firmly in place. Grandpa, Malcolm warned himself solemnly, would not be amused.