The firing squad was drawn up in a line facing the back of the compound. He found mild pleasure in the knowledge that Wu Chong's wall would be damaged.

As he crossed the compound between half a dozen guards, a drum began to beat in time to his footsteps. Barummm. Barummm. Barummm. The death march.

Surrounded by his court, Wu Chong sat on a dais overlooking the execution ground. Kyle was brought to face him, and the sergeant growled, "Kowtow!"

He'd been willing to offer a mark of respect when first captured, but not now. When the seconds dragged and he didn't prostrate himself, the sergeant shoved him hard between his shoulders. Expecting it, Kyle pivoted and slammed his elbow into the man's throat, laying him flat and gasping on the paving bricks.

The other guards leaped for the prisoner, but the prefect snapped an order and they refrained from striking him. A high-ranking officer drew his sword and approached, the blade pointed like a cattle goad.

Ignoring the officer and his sword, Kyle crossed the courtyard to stand in front of the wall. As a Renbourne, arrogance had been bred into his marrow. He used every shred of it now. Wu and his people might despise him, but they'd not forget him soon.

He turned to face his executioners, glad they hadn't heard of the custom of blindfolding a condemned man. He didn't want to miss his last sight of the world.

The dozen matchlock muskets carried by the firing squad were primitive by European standards and not very accurate, but they would suffice. The barrels looked enormous. Any one of them was capable of blasting a fist-size hole through him. He hoped enough musket balls would strike to end it quickly.

Wu Chong's face radiated evil pleasure. God help the people of Feng-tang who lived under his authority.

Last words were also traditional, but there was hardly any point when no one present would understand them. The only one who mattered was, please God, safely away. Travel safely, Troth, with all your strength and cunning. And when you reach England-be happy.

At a signal from their officer, the soldiers raised and aimed their weapons, faces flat and emotionless under their spiked helmets.

Wu Chong chopped his hand down and barked a command.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my soul.

A crowd had gathered outside the walls, silently waiting for Feng-tang to be cleansed of the foreign devil. Troth stood apart from the others, so tense her bones might snap if someone spoke a hard word to her. Surely in the last day Wu Chong had realized the folly of killing a European. Even now he might be reconsidering his sentence.

Inside the walls, a harsh voice shouted, "Fire!"

A volley of gunshots shattered the morning air with thunder, echoing from the stone walls of the compound. As dark smoke wafted upward, Troth jammed her knuckles against her teeth to suppress her agonized cry.

Kyle Renbourne, Viscount Maxwell and lord of her heart, was dead.

Chapter 27

England

Christmas Eve 1832

" 'And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.' "

As the vicar's sonorous voice filled the small stone church, Troth closed her eyes and drank in the familiar words. When she was a child, her father would always return to Macao to spend the holidays with his family, and on Christmas Eve he read the nativity stories to his household in a voice not unlike that of the Warfield vicar.

Seated in the family pew between Dominic and his sister Lucia restored the sense of belonging that had vanished with her father's death. During her years in Canton she'd privately read the nativity stories from her father's Bible at Christmas, but it hadn't been the same. Tonight she felt like a Christian again. Her father would have been pleased.

In true Chinese fashion, her reverence for Kuan Yin and the Buddha were undiminished by her joy in Christmas. Kyle had understood her need to honor both spiritual paths-in fact, he'd shared it-but she doubted that many other English people would. Perhaps Meriel might-Troth suspected that her sister-in-law was more pagan than Christian. Tonight, though, the countess was entirely proper, listening to the service and choir like a serene, silver-haired angel. She was even wearing shoes.

The service ended. Voices softer and smiles warmer than usual, the worshipers left the church to return to their homes. Carriages waited for the Warfield party, but when Troth saw that a light snow was frosting the hills, she said, "I'll walk back. It's not far, and the night is so pretty."

To her surprise, Dominic said, "I'll join you, if you don't object."

"Of course not." She took his arm, and they made their way to the footpath that led to the estate, traveling half the distance that the carriage road did. As always, she found bittersweet pleasure in Dominic's company. Though she tried not to think of Kyle, in the snowy night it was impossible not to dream of what had never been.

They were halfway to Warfield when Dominic said quietly, "The holiday makes everything worse. I keep thinking that last year at this time, Kyle was alive. He spent Christmas in India, and wrote me that he missed having a proper English celebration. He… he promised he'd be here for Christmas with the family this year."

"He was looking forward to coming home and seeing you all." Troth's fingers tightened on Dominic's arm as she recognized why he'd wanted her company. As the only person at Warfield to have seen Kyle in seven years, her presence brought him a little closer to Dominic. "Strange to think that a year ago, I hadn't even met Kyle. How could such a short acquaintanceship make such a difference?"

Dominic smiled a little. "Meriel turned my world inside out in a matter of days. Love does that." His smile faded. "In my heart, I still can't quite believe Kyle is dead. Sometimes at night I feel like I could reach out and touch him. He doesn't seem gone, but there's an… an ache in my spirit when I try to find him."

She understood that ache well. "Perhaps that's proof that the spirit survives death. Somewhere he still exists, feeling sadness for what he has left behind."

Dominic glanced at her. "Do you really believe that?"

She sighed. "I want to."

They came to a stile. Dominic climbed over, then gave her his hand to help her across. Knowing him had helped her understand Kyle's gentlemanly manners, and why it had chafed him not to treat her with the gallantry he thought a woman deserved. She'd loved those occasions when Kyle had cared for her as if she were precious porcelain. Such a lovely contrast to the masculine life she'd lived for too long.

Her skirts brushed snow from the stile as she stepped down to the ground. Only a fluffy inch or so had fallen-just enough to change the wintry hills to fairyland. "Kyle said that if you didn't believe I was his wife, I should ask you about the time you were trapped in the Dornleigh priest hole. You never doubted. Surely it must have occurred to you that I was an impostor."

"Never." Dominic took her arm again as they approached an icy stretch of path. "Your love for him was unmistakable. No impostor could have shown that."

Troth blinked against stinging eyes. Had she been so transparent? She wondered if Kyle had known how she felt about him. At the time she had tried desperately to conceal her unseemly emotions. He'd wanted a guide and a mistress, not a lovesick woman. She'd used all her carefully honed skills of deception to show him the face he wanted to see.