The doctor arrived quickly, a tribute to the persuasions or threats of Rafe's valet. Told only that the patient had been caught in a riot, the physician examined her while Rafe paced restlessly in the overfurnished drawing room.
After an endless time, the doctor emerged to say, "The young lady was very lucky. Apart from some bruises and a headache, she'll be fine. No broken bones or signs of internal injuries."
Examining his disheveled patron, the doctor added, "Should I examine you also? You don't appear to have escaped unscathed."
Rafe made an impatient gesture with one hand. "There's nothing wrong with me. Or at least, nothing to signify," he qualified. Now that his anxiety was allayed, he became aware of aches and bruises all over. It was like the time he had been thrown from his horse during a steeplechase race, and half the field had galloped over him.
Sending his valet back to bed, Rafe built a fire in the small hearth, then took off his coat and boots and settled down with a glass of brandy in a chair by the bed. He didn't want Maggie waking in a strange place with no familiar faces, so he would sit with her until she was conscious again. As he stretched his long legs out before him, he thought humorlessly that she might hate him, but at least he was familiar.
He sipped his brandy, wishing he could obliterate the image of his bullet smashing into Lemercier's skull. Since he couldn't, he forced himself to look directly at the fact that he had killed a man. Would shooting the Frenchman in a less lethal place have been equally effective? At the time, he had acted from pure instinct, and obviously his instincts were savage. At least, they were where Margot was concerned. If he had had a cannon, he would have fired it into that mob in order to save her.
Wearily he rubbed his temples. The shooting had been necessary, and in the same circumstances he would not hesitate to do it again. Yet taking a human life was not an act that could be dismissed as if it had no significance. Perhaps some day he would ask his friend Michael Kenyon, who had been a soldier, if one ever became used to killing.
Or perhaps he would not ask. There seemed to be a large number of questions he didn't really want answered.
He was dozing when faint, restless movements woke him. Sitting up, he saw that Maggie was writhing back and forth, fear rippling across her face and her breath coming in gasps. As he watched, she twisted violently and began to scream, the same blood-chilling cry of panic that she had made in the plaza.
Coming instantly awake, he propelled himself from his chair to sit on the edge of the bed. "Maggie, it's all right!" he said sharply. "You're safe here."
Her eyes opened, but they were dazed, without recognition. As she drew her breath for another scream, he shook her shoulder. "Wake up, Maggie. There's nothing to fear."
Slowly her gaze focused on him. "Rafe?" she said uncertainly. Feebly she pushed herself to a sitting position.
"Yes, my dear. Don't worry, apart from a bang on the head nothing happened to you." He spoke softly, but his words must have brought back memories of the riot. She began to cry, crumpling forward as racking sobs shook her.
Rafe drew her into his arms, and she clung to him like a drowning woman. In a remote corner of his mind he was mildly surprised by the degree of her distress. The tough-as-leather countess had seemed equal to anything.
But this wasn't the countess, it was Margot, and she was hurting terribly. He held her shivering body close, murmuring a soothing flow of platitudes and reassurances. When her sobs abated, he said, "Lemercier was the one that turned the mob on you. Did you see him?"
She nodded, her face hidden.
"If it's any comfort, justice was visited on him rather quickly."
Startled, she looked up. "Did you…?"
"With your pistol," he said. "Pure poetic justice." Succinctly he described what had happened, and how he had managed to get them away.
Satisfaction flickered across her face, but it quickly vanished. "I keep seeing them," she said unsteadily. "The faces and the hands, all reaching for me____________________No matter how hard I try, I can't escape. And then, and then…" She buried her face against him again.
Stroking her hair, Rafe said forcefully, "Maggie, it's over, and you're safe. I won't let anything happen to you."
She lifted her head and looked at him, her pupils so distended that her eyes looked black. In a wavering voice, she said, "Rafe, I… I want you to make love to me."
Chapter 15
In a day full of drama, nothing had been as stunning as Maggie's words. Incredulously Rafe said, "Do you know what you are saying?"
Though her long fair lashes were clumped with tears, her eyes were bleakly aware. "I know what I am asking, and I know it isn't fair to you, but I want to- need to-forget."
Her voice trailed off and she shuddered, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them to renew her plea. "Rafe, if you have ever cared for me at all…"
Still he held back. Despite his vivid fantasies, he found that he didn't want to take her like this, when she was injured and terrified. He wanted her to desire him as he desired her, not see him only as a way to block out unbearable memory.
She reached out and brushed his cheek with her fingertips, her expression desolate. "Please, I beg you…"
Rafe couldn't bear to see her fierce pride broken. Turning into her hand, he kissed her palm and whispered, "Oh, God, Margot, I've waited so long. So very, very long…"
The desire that had been consuming him for days flared to white heat, and for an instant his vision blurred. More than anything on earth, he wanted to bury himself inside her-to lose himself in passion. Yet this was not the time for a wild, heedless coupling; if he was to help her, he must be stronger and calmer than she.
He took hold of her shoulders to draw her into a kiss. As soon as he touched her, she began shaking.
He became absolutely still. "Is that desire or fear?"
Not meeting his eyes, she replied, "A little of both."
How strange to think that the evening before, he had wondered if he might be capable of rape; the mere thought that Margot could fear him was like a red-hot poker in his belly.
While he was trying to decide what to say, she raised her hand to brush nervously at her hair. The sleeve of her gown slipped a little, revealing an ugly bruise on her forearm.
When he saw the purple-blue splotch, he dropped his hands from her shoulders. The knowledge that strangers had hurt her made him want to do murder. "This isn't a good idea," he said tightly. "I don't want to do anything that you'll regret later."
"I won't regret this." She took his hand and clasped it to her heart. "I need to remember that… that not all men are vicious brutes."
Unable to keep an edge from his voice, he said, "Given that I'm a selfish, arrogant, conceited rakehell, are you sure that I'm a good choice for restoring your faith in men?"
Her face flooded with color. "I'm sorry for what I said. I… I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Yes, you did, and with some justice. I'm certainly selfish, definitely arrogant, and quite possibly conceited." He made a show of pondering. "I'm not sure I'll admit to being a rakehell-I like to think that I practice my vices in a civilized fashion."
"Then I'll retract that particular insult." She offered a tremulous smile. "Truce?"
He had wanted to amuse her, but when he looked into her smoky eyes, he saw devastation. Chilled, he realized that the only thing holding her together was willpower, and even the steeliest will had its limits. If she was not brought back from the precipice of fear, she might fall into the abyss.