She crossed the room and sat down gingerly on the chair he had indicated. "Jane."

"Jane what?"

She didn't reply.

"You're right, of course. Under the circumstances, last names are a formality that are a bit bizarre, but I find myself wanting to know more about you." His brow creased in concentration. "Jane . . ." The frown vanished and he snapped his fingers. "Jane Barnaby. Patrick Reilly. The railroad."

Her eyes widened in surprise.

He chuckled. "You didn't think I'd make the connection? Your accent is neither English nor Scottish and, though Reilly's never brought you to the Officers' Club, there're not that many Americans in Kasanpore. You'd be surprised how much gossip is floating about town about Reilly and his 'ward.' "

She flinched. "You're wrong, I'm not surprised."

"Is it Reilly you're hiding from?"

"Of course not."

"Then why are you—"

"And why are you in Kasanpore, Mr. MacClaren?"

"Ah, the offensive," he murmured. "I was expecting that move earlier." He took another sip of his wine. "I'm trying to get an appointment with the maharajah. I've had little luck as yet."

"Why do you want to see him?"

"He has something I want." He paused. "Perhaps you could intercede for me. I hear he comes often to examine your progress on the railroad."

"Which never pleases him." Her hands clasped together on her lap. "I'd be the last one to influence him."

"Too bad." He casually lifted one leg, and the sole of his foot began to rub back and forth on the flat surface of the mattress. "I suppose I'll just have to look for help elsewhere."

Her stare was drawn by the motion of his foot, the flexing calf muscles, the contrast of warm, golden skin against the white of the sheet. She quickly shifted her glance up to the bandage she had noticed earlier. "How did you hurt your shoulder?"

"I allowed myself to become distracted and received a severe lesson for my carelessness. It won't happen again." He suddenly set the glass on the table by the bed and swung his legs to the floor. "I'm becoming restless, aren't you? Let's get out of here."

"We have to wait for Zabrie."

"I don't like waiting." He strolled over to a chair in a shadowy corner of the room and picked up a white linen shirt. "I don't like locks." He was dressing quickly as he spoke. "And I particularly don't like the idea of a vengeful lover rushing in to skewer me. Under the circumstances, I believe we should both leave the premises." He sat down on the bed and pulled on his left boot. "Pity. It's not at all what I had in mind for the evening."

"How are we supposed to get out? Both doors are locked."

"We still have a window."

"We're on the second floor."

He drew on his right boot. "A circumstance which can be overcome."

"I have no intention of breaking a leg trying to jump to the ground."

"I would have expected you to be more determined."

"I'm determined to get the railroad built, and I can't do that by becoming a cripple."

"The railroad." He smiled as he rose to his feet. "I forgot about your railroad." He moved toward the window. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you don't injure yourself irretrievably." He sat down on the windowsill and swung his legs out the window. "As far as I can make out, this room must face to the rear. There seems to be an alley below." He wrinkled his nose. "Yes, definitely an alley. The odor is the same the world over."

She followed him and peered over his shoulder. Moonlight revealed the narrow alley he had mentioned, but it seemed very far down. "Are you mad? How are you—"

He jumped to the ground, landing with knees bent and immediately went into a somersault and roll. Then he was springing lithely to his feet and moving to stand beneath the window. "Jump."

She stared at him with open mouth. "How did you do that?"

"Never mind that now. Jump. I'll catch you."

She looked at him uncertainly.

"You won't be hurt. Trust me." When she still hesitated, he explained impatiently, "When I was a lad in London I earned my living as a street acrobat for a while."

The agility she had just witnessed certainly bore testament to his claim. She hesitated, but with freedom in sight she had no desire to sit and wait for Zabrie or be discovered by Pachtal. She sat on the windowsill, her legs dangling over the edge as he had done.

"Good," he said. He held up his arms. "Now come to me."

The ground was looking farther away every second.

"What are you waiting for? Just remember to push away from the windowsill when you jump so you won't hit the wall."

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed away from the sill.

For an endless moment she was falling through space.

Ruel plucked her from the air. "Got you."

Then he staggered, cursed, and fell in a heap to the ground.

"Ouch," he grunted. "Damn, that hurt."

It took a moment for her to get her breath back. Then she rolled off him and struggled to her knees. "I thought you said you were an acrobat."

He scowled. "I didn't say I was a good acrobat. That was when I was fifteen and I never could catch worth a tuppence." He rose painfully to his knees. "That was why I quit after six months and became a running pat-terer."

She glared at him. "You bloody fool. I could have broken my neck!"

"But you didn't." He grimaced. "I'm the one who fell on my nether parts into a pile of Lord knows what."

"How could you take such a—" She broke off and started to laugh helplessly at the foolish sight they must have presented, kneeling there facing each other among the garbage and dung. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her and she realized for the first time how intimidated she had been by the man. She had never before met anyone quite so splendid or enigmatic as Ruel MacClaren and it was a relief to see the human side of him.

He tilted his head, and a slow smile lit his face. "I've never heard you laugh before."

"That shouldn't surprise you since we've known each other less than thirty minutes."

He got up and helped her to her feet. "I don't think you laugh over-frequently." He turned away and moved down the alley toward the corner of the building. "Let's get away from here before your lover appears. I have no desire to incur any more bruises on your behalf."

She was immediately jarred back to reality by his words. Sweet Mary, how could she have forgotten the danger Pachtal posed? Yet, for an instant she had forgotten it. She had felt young and happy . . . and strangely safe.

"I told you I wasn't hiding from a lover." She quickly followed Ruel down the alley, rounding the corner just behind him. "You didn't listen to— Look out!"

A knife descended out of the shadows, arching toward Ruel's unprotected back.

No time to think. Instinctively she threw herself between Ruel and the dagger, trying to push him aside.

Agony took her breath away as the dagger sliced through her upper arm. As she staggered to the side she caught a blurred glimpse of the assassin. Tall, thin . . . the white folds of a turban. Pachtal, she thought dazedly, it had to be Pachtal.

She dimly heard Ruel mutter a curse as he whirled on the man, one hand darting out to grasp the wrist holding the knife, the other closing on the man's throat.