His activities as a Juarista nearly cost them both their lives. That separation, when he had been sent to a hellish prison, was only the first of so many since then. Yet somehow they always managed to survive, to end up in each others arms again. Even after this last separation, when Ginny had stormed out of New Orleans with Andre Delery and he’d thought he would never see her again, part of him had known he would. Maybe that was the reason he had taken their children from Ginny’s aunt in France, bringing them to England. He knew she would search for them once she left Stamboul.

It rankled that, until so recently, she had been living in a sultan’s harem with Richard Avery, Lord Tynedale—his grandfather’s son. It had been Avery who was responsible for informing the Russian ambassador to Turkey of Ginny’s need to leave Stamboul when revolution loomed. As the Russian tsar’s illegitimate—but favored—daughter, she incurred ongoing interest from both the tsar and Russian authorities.

Steve had gone to Stamboul to find her when news of the impending Turkish revolution was given to him, and he had missed her. Instead, he had met General Ignatiev, a Russian officer sent by the tsar, who had helped Richard Avery arrange for Ginny’s flight from Stamboul when it became apparent she was in grave danger.

She always seemed to emerge from disaster unscathed, a phoenix rising from the ashes.

It was difficult to recall that she had been blind for a time, that Avery had been the man to take care of her. Now she gazed up at him with a familiar sparkle in her clear green eyes, a half smile curving her sensuous mouth.

“As long as you are meeting with gentlemen, and not one of the ladies who look at you so greedily, I will share you. But do not forget that you are going home with me, Steve Morgan.”

Though she said it playfully, tapping him with her folded fan, there was steely determination in her tone. He grinned.

“I have a feeling I would regret it very much if I were to find companionship elsewhere tonight. Would you use the little knife you no doubt still carry?”

“Perhaps…or perhaps I would come after you.”

“It would not be the first time.”

“Ah, and has Concepciόn—I mean, Lady Marwood—ever forgiven me for that? I did not hurt your old friend, after all, though I was greatly tempted.”

Steve laughed softly, and spread his hand atop Ginny’s shoulder, fingers digging gently into her skin. “No, I don’t think Concepciόn will ever forgive you for besting her. She did not expect a gringa to outfight a gypsy.”

Green eyes narrowed slightly. “It seems that she wasn’t the only one to underestimate me.”