Troth brushed down the donkey with shaking hands. Gods, but it had been hard to leave Maxwell! She had wanted nothing more than to draw him to the bed so that he could teach her of the mysteries between man and woman. But that embrace had happened too abruptly. Instinct told her that there must be more between them than passion, or a bedding would leave them awkward and guilty: she'd feel awkward, and he'd feel guilty. In any case, the timing was wrong.

By the time she finished grooming the donkey, the beast was sleeker than it had ever been in its lowborn life. She left the stable, which was an open shed to the left of the main entrance. The gate was closed now that night had fallen, and a single wavering torch illuminated the courtyard.

Luckily, only a few rooms of the Inn of Heavenly Peace were occupied tonight, which meant that she and Maxwell would have some privacy. They were becoming skilled at conversing in voices so low that no one more than a few feet away could hear, but a momentary lapse could have serious consequences.

She stopped by the kitchen and collected the tray of food she'd ordered earlier from the innkeeper's wife. When she returned to the room, she saw with a pang of regret that Maxwell had made a pallet on the floor for her. Obviously he'd recovered from his earlier passion.

After she entered he dropped a heavy wooden bar into the brackets on each side of the door so they were secure. Then he began unwinding the bandage. "I've wanted to take this off for hours."

She tried not to stare as the familiar features emerged from behind the dusty gauze. Gentle, doddering grandfather disappeared, replaced by a man in the prime of his strength. When he removed the wig and ran his fingers through his hair to loosen it, she wrenched her gaze away before she could make a complete fool of herself. "A good thing no one can see in, Grandfather. Just remember that while the rooms on both sides of us are empty, sounds will carry far in the night."

He lit the small oil lamp in the center of the low table as she transferred the dishes from the tray to the table. It was humble fare, rice and a mixture of chopped vegetables flavored with ginger, along with a teapot and utensils. This was the real China, just what he'd wanted. She sat cross-legged by the table, searching for a neutral topic. "In the north, where winters are cold, the beds are built of brick so that small fires can be built underneath for warmth."

He folded himself down on the side of the table opposite her. "This could be useful in England. We have hot-water bottles for the feet, but they cool quickly."

"My father used to talk wistfully of the cool mists of Scotland. He never mentioned hot-water bottles." Glad that no strain lingered from what had happened earlier, she poured tea for them both and prepared to enjoy the simple food and Maxwell's company.

Awkwardness returned at bedtime. Suppressing a yawn, Maxwell said, "I'm ready to retire. Good night." Then he sat on the pallet and pulled off his shabby shoes.

"I'll sleep on the floor."

He set the shoes neatly by the wall. "No."

"The bed is more comfortable," she protested. "You should have it whether you are grandfather or lord."

"Outside this room, we are in China and I will do as you say. But when we are in private, you are a lady and I am a gentleman," he said firmly. "And a gentleman always gives the best place to the lady."

In Macao she'd seen how Europeans were elaborately protective of their womenfolk, as if the females were made of glass, but such behavior was so alien to Chinese custom that even the idea discomforted her. "I will not be able to sleep if you are not comfortable."

He rose and gave a graceful bow. "Alas, my lady, my conscience shall torment me horribly if I sleep on the bed. You must agree to my wishes if you don't wish to be cruel." He offered her his arm. "Let me escort you to your place of rest."

His courtly manner brought a smile to her face. Feeling like the lady he called her, she placed a light hand on his arm. "I yield to your gilded tongue, my lord, but I fear that I shan't sleep a wink."

He gazed down at her, humor bright in his eyes. "I'm tired enough to sleep on sharp stones, so you might as well get a good rest, too." He escorted her the half dozen steps to the bed, then left her with another bow. "Shall I put the lamp out?"

"Please."

He pinched out the flame. In the near-total darkness she heard him strip off the outer layer of his clothing before he lay down on the pallet. She removed her own outer garments, then stretched her tired body on the lumpy mattress that covered the bed.

Though she ached with tiredness, she couldn't relax, and not only because of her discomfort at having superior accommodations. She lay staring upward, acutely aware that he was only a few feet away. Memories of his embrace were painfully vivid.

Why had she foolishly pulled away? Partly it had been her sense that it was too soon, but also, she realized, there had been some fear-of the act itself, of the unknown, of Maxwell, who fascinated her but was in many ways a powerful, enigmatic stranger.

Now, too late, she cursed herself for her misgivings, for he had hungered for her as much as she had wanted him. If she'd been a little braver, she might be lying in his arms now. The knowledge made her ache with emptiness. Such a moment might not come again, for he was no randy lecher who'd bed anyone, and she was hardly woman enough to lead a disciplined man astray.

As the minutes stretched interminably, she wondered if she should make an advance tonight, while memory of their kiss still lingered. Though she would risk humiliating rejection, that would be better than knowing that she had not even tried.

She was tired, so tired, of waiting and wanting.

Not having quite enough courage to act boldly, she decided to leave it to fate. His breathing was slow and steady. If he was asleep, she would try to sleep herself. But if he was awake… She murmured, "My lord?"

"Yes?"

The sound of his deep voice sent a jolt of determination through her. She slipped from the bed and stretched out beside him on the pallet. Laying a tentative hand on his chest, she said haltingly, "You desired me earlier. I… I am here now."

He muttered an oath. "I deserve to be whipped for my behavior." His arm came around her with gentleness, not passion. "Your… generous offer is very tempting, but I can't accept. Though here women may live to serve men, English gentlemen are not supposed to take advantage of young females. You will have a new life and new opportunities in Britain. To lie with me now might damage your future."

She buried her face against his shoulder, dizzy with the pleasure of being so close. She loved his scent, so male and provocative, and the size and strength of his hard body. "There are no guarantees of what I will find in the land of my fathers. I am not a desirable young girl, my lord, and no man has ever shown interest in me. You did, at least a little." Her mouth twisted. "Or was that only because you were still feeling the heat of the harlot's touch?"

His other arm came around her, but it was still not a lover's embrace-even with no experience she could tell the difference. "I find you very desirable, and I swear that many men in Britain will feel the same. You need not give yourself to me because you fear there will never be another man for you. Believe me, your greatest difficulty will be in choosing the mate you want most."

How politely a gentleman lied. Trying to keep the tears from her voice, she whispered, "Don't British men have concubines? I would gladly be yours, if you would want me now and then."

His hand stroked down her arm, the warm palm sending tingles through her. "It's true that some men have mistresses, Troth, but infidelity is a sin. If I had a wife, I would never dishonor her so."