Her eyes squeezed shut, but couldn't prevent tears from sliding down her cheeks. "It is a greater honor than I ever dreamed of, my lord. I will gladly be your wife, even if only for a few hours."

He thought of his wedding to Constancia, performed by a Spanish priest as she lay dying. This time, he was the one who would end the marriage by death. He had no talent for being a husband. "The honor is mine, my dear girl."

"How do we marry ourselves?"

"Take both my hands."

She stood on tiptoe and stretched her arms, which were just long enough so they could hold hands. The position flattened her across his body. Nice. "One of the traditional forms of Scottish marriage calls for holding hands over running water," he said wryly as the rivulet behind him flowed down the wall and between their feet. "We've got that if nothing else."

She bit her lip. "How can you joke at such a time?"

"I'd rather you remembered me smiling. There will be time enough later for tears." He interlaced their fingers. "My dearest Troth Mei-Lian Montgomery, I pledge you my troth. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

She smiled up at him through her tears. "I was named for my father's sister and grandmother. I always liked being called Troth."

Hugh Montgomery must have seen into the future, for if ever a woman deserved her name, it was this one. Honest, loyal, and brave to the backbone. "Now make your pledge to me, my dear."

Voice trembling, she said, "Kyle Renbourne, I pledge you my troth, to be my lord and husband as long as we both shall live."

"You have the ring I gave you in Canton. It will do nicely for a wedding ring."

She reached under her tunic, and after a moment extracted the golden Celtic knotwork band from one of the compartments of the money belt. She kissed it, then held it to his lips so he could do the same before she slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand, where it hung loosely. She pulled the ring off and returned it to the safety of her money belt. "I don't want to lose it. I'll have it made smaller in Macao." Nor was it safe for her to wear a piece of Western jewelry until she'd left China.

But the deed was done, and it seemed very right that a Scottish ring symbolize their union. "Please kiss me, wife," he said softly. "We have a few minutes still, and I'd like to spend them with you holding me."

Her mouth sought his with aching tenderness. Amazingly, desire flared, undimmed by the prospect of death. Or perhaps death sparked passion, a bright flame defying the oncoming dark.

She felt it, too. Her mouth trailed sweet kisses across his prickly, unshaven chin, then downward. " I had not known a male body could be so beautiful, my lord husband," she murmured, her breath warm in the hollow of his throat. "No other man will ever bring me such pleasure."

"Don't say that!" He caught his breath as she parted his slashed tunic and pressed her lips to each bruise and laceration. "Mourn me for a while, but your life must not end because mine has. Search for love, because it's the most precious gift life offers."

"Don't speak to me of other men, you fool! For now, there is only you."

She tongued his nipple, the scalding pleasure obliterating his pains. Her hands slid downward, skimming his belly as she unfastened his damaged trousers. He closed his eyes, giving himself up to sensation as she stroked his heated flesh.

Then she took him in her mouth. He gave a choked cry, feeling as if he would burst from his skin. His hips began pulsing between her and the wall as passion coiled tighter and tighter. He couldn't bear for it to end, so he used the control he'd cultivated in the last weeks to stay on the knife edge of ecstasy. "Christ, Mei-Lian," he gasped, "you will kill me with the sweetest of weapons, and God bless you for it."

Sensing that his control was on the verge of fracturing, she straightened and stripped off her trousers, leaving him throbbing in the cool air for a moment. Then she locked one arm about his chest and wrapped a strong, supple leg around his hips. With her other hand she guided him into the liquid heat of her body. She made a slow tease of it with small movements that drew him in a fraction of an inch at a time.

When he could endure it no longer, he thrust away from the wall and buried himself fully inside her. The intimate clasp almost destroyed him, but she held absolutely still, her only movement the exquisite pulsing of her flesh around him.

She waited until she sensed that it was safe before she began tightening her internal muscles in a voluptuous rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart to the hammer of his. One spirit, one flesh. Her husband. Only passion existed, life so intense that it denied the future and the unbearable loss looming ahead.

"Troth," he groaned, starting to pull back. "Beautiful Willow."

"If I am your wife, give me at least the hope of a child," she said fiercely as she ground her hips into his, pinning him against the wall as their bodies clashed in mutual frenzy. Yin and yang fighting for completion, until they both spun out of control into a place where there was only shattering rapture and heart-stopping wholeness.

Trembling, she clung to him as she gasped for breath. They'd both be on the floor if not for the ruthless support of the chains. His heart pounded under hers, intensely alive, his lungs heaving like hers.

The knowledge of waiting death was a knife searing through her soul. She tightened her embrace. Surely he was safe as long as she held him. Together they were immortal, for they had shared more than mortal joy…

He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you, my dearest friend," he murmured. "You've given me the kind of pleasure most men don't find in a lifetime."

She forced back her tears, for she did not want him to go to his death with only the memory of her weeping. Slowly she untangled herself from him, almost unable to bear the separation. Her hands shook as she straightened his garments, then donned her own. He watched her, his blue eyes amazingly calm. He made her think of an angel in chains, undefeated and unbearably beautiful.

At the far end of the corridor, a closing door thumped shut. "When you reach England, go to my brother Dominic, Lord Grahame, at Warfield Park in Shropshire," he said swiftly. "Have you got that?"

"Lord Grahame, Warfield Park in Shropshire," she repeated. "Will he really believe I am your bride?"

"For my sake he will. If he doesn't… well, ask him about the time he got trapped in the priest hole at Dornleigh. He'll believe you then."

"What other messages shall I carry?"

"Give my father and sister my love, and my apologies for not managing better." Kyle's eyes closed for a moment. "I… I wish so much that I could put my arms around you, but I can't. Will you hold me for the time we have left?"

Blinking back more tears, she embraced him, memorizing his scent, the taste of his skin, the feel of his taut muscles. She wanted to cry out that she loved him, but knew that would only increase his burdens. He mustn't know the depth of her anguish.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, drawing closer. Tenderly she cupped his genitals, praying that they had made a child. "Good-bye, my dearest lord." She kissed his lips. "I swear to accomplish what you have asked."

His warm lips lingered hungrily. "Farewell, my dearest girl. Travel safely."

The key turned in the lock. She released Kyle and pulled her wide hat down to conceal her ravaged expression.

The door squealed open and she walked out without looking back.

Farewell, my dearest love.

By sunrise Kyle was in a weary state of grace, bolstered by resignation and the sweetness of his hour with Troth. He stood quietly as the guards released his chains, though his muscles ached from the long hours of being immobilized. In silence he walked from the dungeon, up the stairs, into the courtyard where pure dawn light touched the curving roof of the prefect's palace with enchantment. It was a lovely place to die.