The only man in the world… Shuddering, she buried her hands in his hair and traded thought for rapture.

They dozed after making love, coming awake when a string of firecrackers exploded in the street just outside their window. Troth stirred in Kyle's arms, saying sleepily, "We can eat from our saddlebags. Then I can ravish you."

"What a wonderful offer." Kyle kissed the exquisite curve of her shoulder lingeringly, tempted to agree. Instead, he swung from the bed. "But I'm hungry, this is the only festival I'll see, and I can perfectly well be ravished later."

Suppressing a yawn, she rose and pulled on her clothes. "What an indefatigable tourist you are, my lord."

"Guilty," he said with a chuckle as he watched her dress. He didn't bandage his eyes until every lovely inch of her was covered. It was powerfully erotic to be the only one who knew the beauty concealed by her shapeless garments.

He wondered for the thousandth time if he should ask her to be his mistress back in England, but the answer was always the same. She was a lover beyond compare, as witty and kind as she was passionate, but as his mistress she'd once more be relegated to a half-life, barred from polite society. She deserved better than that-not only respect, but also the opportunity to meet a man who would love her as she deserved.

What would it have been like if he'd met her before he'd met Constancia? The thought was so disorienting that he suppressed it. Constancia had molded him into the man he was now. Without her influence, he wouldn't have been worth knowing, She had taught him to love-then taken his heart with her when she died.

It was the only ill turn she'd ever served him.

Troth swallowed the last bite of her honey roll, glad Kyle had persuaded her to come out. The streets crackled with merriment, lanterns lighting the night, peddlers selling delicious tidbits, and old men gambling in corners with their cronies. A fortune-teller tugged at her sleeve. "Tell your fortune, young man? Wealth and pretty concubines surely await you."

Troth shook her head. "Sorry, Grandmother, I'd rather not know what the future holds." Which was the truth, she thought wryly.

Taking a firm hold on Kyle's arm, she continued on until they reached a puppet theater. No language was required to appreciate the farcical story of honorable men, beautiful women, and evil sorcerers. She was impressed by Kyle's ability to keep his head bent feebly while drinking in every detail through the layer of gauze.

The show ended and she dropped a coin into the basket carried around by a small daughter of the troupe. Moving on, she bought two tiny cups of rice wine from a vendor, who dipped the fiery spirit from a deep jar with a lacquered ladle. Kyle was so taken with the ladle that he signaled for another cup even though the first one left him gasping. Troth grinned; rice wine was closer to brandy than to European wines.

The thunder of drums began reverberating through the narrow streets. "The parade! Come, Grandfather, so we can find a spot to watch."

Ruthlessly using Kyle's apparent age, she managed to get them a good vantage point. First the drummers marched by, booming in perfect unison. Then dancers capered past in flamboyant costumes. A group of black-robed Manchu Bannermen, the imperial soldiers, passed, and then the prefect himself in a sedan chair.

Dressed in brilliantly embroidered robes and surrounded by his entourage, Wu Chong nodded graciously to the people of his city. His eyes were snake cold, though; Troth didn't envy the wives who had failed to give him the son he wanted.

Pipes, drums, and cymbals heralded the appearance of the lion dancers. Troth caught her breath, excited as a child when the huge lion leaped into view, firecrackers banging around its feet, the brilliantly painted head snapping at masked dancers who teased the beast with fans. The costume cloaked two acrobats, and their feats turned the beast into a creature of dangerous legend as the crowd roared with delight. She watched with one hand locked in Kyle's, glad the crowd was so thick that no one would notice.

When the lion had passed, they joined the throng that followed it to the main city square. Under exploding fireworks, the prefect paid the lion dancers by tying a red bag full of money at the top of a tall pole. The lion reared up, lunging repeatedly until the lead dancer snatched the bag. The crowd cheered wildly, then broke into smaller groups to continue celebrating throughout the night.

Tired but exhilarated, Troth took Kyle's arm and headed toward the inn. Luckily, she still had enough energy to ravish him…

Disaster struck with lightning swiftness. They were a block from the inn when a group of drunken carousers approached from the other direction. Troth drew Kyle to one side of the street. From the tautness of his arm, she knew he was alert to possible danger. Shouting and singing, most of the group had passed when one drunk shoved another, sending the second man stumbling into Kyle.

"S-sorry, Grandfather." One of the drunk's thrashing hands became entangled in Kyle's queue. As he lurched away, the wig ripped from Kyle's head, along with the hat and some of the gauze bandages. As Troth gasped in horror, the drunk stared stupidly at the swinging wig. Then he raised his gaze, his jaw dropping as he recognized the alien cast of the features that had been partially revealed. "A Fan-qui spy!"

As his friends turned and crowded around, the drunk clawed at the disordered bandages. Kyle tried to twist away, but in the process more bandages were dislodged, clearly revealing his European face.

There was a hiss of shock before one of the drunks snarled, "Filthy foreign pig!"

"Fan-qui! Fan-qui!" The gang lurched forward in an attack.

Using fierce street-fighting blows, Kyle knocked three men down while Troth took care of three more with wing chun. Catching her glance, he snapped, "Come on!"

Together they raced down the street. She cried out as a stone punched her between the shoulder blades, and she saw two missiles strike Kyle. They swerved into a narrow, trash-strewn alley as the drunks came in pursuit, baying like killer hounds.

A left turn, a right, another right. Heads popped from windows as people looked out at the commotion. Kyle might have been able to escape notice under other circumstances, but not with bellows of "Fan-qui!" echoing through the narrow alleys.

Drums began to beat, and Troth realized with despair that the soldiers who'd marched in the parade had been pressed into the manhunt. They swerved into another heavily shadowed alley, stumbling through the dark and debris only to find that it was a dead end, blocked by a squat old house. Gasping for breath, Troth panted, "That roof is low. We can go over."

"No." Chest heaving, Kyle stopped beside her. "With the whole city searching, there's no way I can escape-I'm too blatantly foreign. They'll lock the city gates until they find me. The only reason for running was to get you away."

She grabbed at his waist, frantic to find the pistol he carried. "You're armed. We can still escape!"

"A few bullets are no help against a mob, so there's no point in killing. Now go!"

"I won't leave you!"

"You damned well will!" A shout rose from the far end of the alley. Before she could protest again, he gave her one swift, hard kiss, then caught her around the knees and tossed her up so that she was within grabbing distance of the lowest tiled roof. "Get the hell out of here! You'll have to get back to Canton to arrange my release. The viceroy will love the loss of face this will cost the Europeans, but I'll be all right."

"B-be careful!" Recognizing that he was right but hating to leave him, she scrabbled onto the tiles and over the ridgepole, then flattened herself on the far side of the roof and watched. Despite his optimistic words, there was a real chance that he'd be torn to pieces by the mob, and she knew that he recognized the danger. If he was assaulted, she'd be back over the roof and fighting by his side.