Never had Reed Harwood wished so fervently for death. But then Reed had never before wallowed in his own filth and the filth of others, bruised, battered and broken in the worst hellhole imaginable. Nor had he suffered days, weeks, of total darkness in a black, suffocating pit.

Reed had lost all track of time. He couldn't even recall how long it had been since Napoleon's agents had seized him, charged with him spying for England and taken him directly to Devil's Chateau, the unofficial name of the prison perched on a windswept cliff on the coast of France, without benefit of a trial. Six months? Nine months? It was impossible to judge the passage of time when one day was much the same as the next.

Though the beatings had stopped a week ago, at least Reed thought it had been a week since his arm had been broken, his body was still a mass of throbbing pain. His brutal jailors cared nothing for a man's dignity or pain as they wielded their weapons of torture. As he had been told repeatedly by sadistic guards, he and his fellow inmates would die in this prison. What did it matter if it was sooner rather than later?

There was no reprieve. Reed had been caught, charged with spying for England and buried alive in the hellhole in which he now resided. Reed couldn't even proclaim his innocence for he had been working as a British operative, assigned by a secret division of the Foreign Office to ferret out Napoleon's secrets. He had been chosen for the assignment because his French grandmother had taught him to speak flawless French. For nearly a year he had successfully posed as a Frenchman in Paris and spied for the Crown.

Then someone had betrayed him.

Reed let out a groan. It rose up and mingled with various sounds of misery emanating from his fellow prisoners. There were six of them locked in a dank cell strewn with filthy straw. Three buckets for human waste sat in one corner, befouling the air they breathed. Reed didn't know how many prisoners occupied Devil's Chateau but suspected there were many cells just like the one he now called home.

Reed raised his eyes to the single window high up in the cell and breathed deeply of the meager supply of the fresh, salt-tinged air. That brief breath of sea air was the only thing that had sustained Reed and kept him sane. He tried not to dream of home for he knew his destiny was to die in Devil's Chateau.

Reed welcomed death, sought it even. Why was he still alive? He tried to laugh but it hurt too much. For some reason the life force within him refused give up. He raised his good arm, not recognizing the bony appendage that once was thick with muscles. His flesh had melted, revealing the boney structure of his six foot two frame.

He had been betrayed.

Perhaps the reason he clung tenaciously to life was to hunt down and destroy his betrayer.

Reed heard a shuffling sound and glanced at the emaciated figure beside him. "Are you all right, Leclair?" he heard himself ask in an unfamiliar voice very different from his usual deep tones.

"As well as any man can be in this hellhole," Doctor Leclair croaked. "How is your arm? I set it the best I could with what little I had at hand."

"You did well, mon ami, thank you. Lucky for us Luchien was on duty when you asked for pieces of wood to use as splits. The others would have laughed at you and watched me die of infection."

The doctor sighed.

"I know what you're thinking," Reed rasped. "We're going to die anyway."

"It is true, mon ami. I am to meet my maker simply because I treated aristocratic patients who had escape Madame Guillotine and you will die for spying for England. God willing, one day Napoleon will be defeated. No matter the outcome, France will never be the same after the Reign of Terror that tore our country apart."

Reed closed his eyes, wishing he could bid his brother goodbye before he breathed his last. Reed loved his brother, Jason Harwood, Earl of Hunthurst. Jason had tried to talk Reed out of taking on such a dangerous assignment but Reed, reckless that he'd been, had refused to listen. Napoleon was heading for war with England and Reed wanted to help defeat the self-proclaimed dictator in any way he could. Reed's flawless French gave him an edge over other British agents.

Reed wondered if Jason had produced an heir yet. His brother had been sickly all his life but had seemed to rally when he had wed Lady Violet Dewbury. Perhaps taking a wife had been the turning point in his health. Reed's thoughts slammed to a halt. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered to a man hovering on the brink of death.

The door rattled. A flickering light flared near the entrance. Reed blinked then blinked again. He must be hallucinating. He could swear he saw a female being ushered into he cell by the guard, Lucien. A woman dressed from head to toe in unrelieved black, her face hidden by a heavy black veil, appeared hesitantly into the circle of light.

Ross heard the doctor suck in a breath then exhale sharply. "Do you see what I see?" Reed asked.

"Oui, I was wondering when she would return. It's been several months since her last visit."

"The Black Widow," Reed breathed. He had heard prisoners speak in hushed voices about the woman but had never seen her.

The doctor's voice trembled. "Oui. She is the woman known as the Black Widow. I have been here a year, more or less, and have seen her but twice in all that time. I wonder who she's come for this time."

Reed watched the Black Widow through shuttered eyes as she spoke in low tones to the guard. Reed's brow puckered in concentration. "I heard rumors about her. I understand she selects a man from among the prisoners, makes him her love slave and kills him when she tires of him."

"Hence the name Black Widow," the doctor said wryly. "I cannot vouch for that part of the story, however. What I do know is that money changes hands and her retainers carry the man of her choice away. To my knowledge, the poor hapless devil is never heard from again."

Reed glanced at his cellmates. Like him, they were pitiful specimens of manhood. Most were emaciated and near death. He couldn't imagine a woman gaining pleasure from any of these men; most of whom could barely raise their head let alone their cocks. Did no one except him think that strange?

"Our cellmates seem to fear her; they're cringing away from her."

"Can you blame them? Fear of the unknown, you know."

The hum of voices ceased. Lucien and the woman were no longer conversing. The Black Widow took the lantern from Lucien and walked slowly into the cell. Reed tensed as she approached one of the prisoners, peered into his face, and then moved on to the next poor soul.

Reed studied the pert tilt of her shapely bottom as she bent to her task. The woman was small and shapely, not even her widow's weeds could disguise her womanly curves. Had Reed been half the man, no, a quarter of the man he once was, she would have piqued his interest. Though Reed couldn't recall the last time he'd had a woman, the Black Widow stirred nothing even remotely akin to desire. But he was curious. Not even the specter of death hovering over him could dim his interest in this unseemly female.

"She's coming this way," Leclair hissed. "I wonder if anyone has struck her fancy."

Reed found the energy to chuckle, though it hurt his broken ribs to do so. "Only a woman with a twisted mind would want one of us. We're filthy, emaciated, broken men, with one foot in the grave. In my case, one foot's in the grave and the other is ready to slide in to join its mate."

Reed fell silent. Talking had exhausted him. He closed his eyes, balancing on the edge of unconsciousness. A gentle hand on his shoulder drew him from the brink. Slowly he opened his eyes, blinking in the bright light of the lantern. At first all he could see was black, unrelieved black, from the top of her head to black boots and hands encased in black gloves.

She peered into his face. Though the veil hid her features, it could not disguise the youthful outlines beneath. What would a young woman want with broken men? He could almost feel her eyes piercing into him. He breathed a sigh of relief when she moved on. But to Reed's consternation, after she looked over the last of the six men, she returned to him.

Lucien, the guard, who waited impatiently near the door, cleared his throat. "Have you made your choice, Madame? You've rejected men in all but this cell block. 'Tis unwise to linger too long. The warden could return at any time."

The Black Widow placed the lantern on the floor near Reed's face and bent to peer into his eyes. "Are you Reed Harwood?" Her English was flawless, without a trace of accent.

Startled, Reed rasped, "Who wants to know?"

"Answer my question," she ordered.

Reed saw no reason to lie; he was already a dead man. What more could anyone possible do to him? "Aye, I am Reed Harwood. What is it to you?"

"It matters very much to me, my lord."

The woman rose and picked up the lantern. "This one will do, Monsieur Lucien."

Her French was also flawless, Reed noted.

"You're making a mistake," Reed rasped. "I am as close to death as a man can get. You will gain no pleasure from me."

"Let me be the judge of that."

Reed gave a hoarse cackle. "I am incapable of giving you the pleasure you will surely demand of me. Nor am I willing to pay the price."

The woman hissed in a breath and shook her head as the prison guard joined her.

Lucien gave an incredulous snort. "You want that one? I beg you, choose another, Madame. As you can see, this one is not long for this world."

"Is that your only objection?" the Black Widow asked sharply.

Lucien gave a Gallic shrug. "It matters not to me. These men," his gesture took in all six prisoners, "are meant to die in Devil's Chateau."

The Black Widow withdrew a fat purse from her pocket and giggled it before Lucien's greedy eyes. "I've added a bit more this time. Will you turn it down?"

Lucien plucked the purse from her fingers, hefting it in his palm. I will take it and gladly. A humble jailor cannot afford to turn down bribes. Take the man and welcome to him." He shuddered. "I cannot imagine what pleasure you will gain from him. In any case, he will soon die. You will save me the trouble of digging a grave."

Reed listened carefully to the exchange. Was he missing something here? He could think of no reason the widow would choose him, or any of these men, for that matter.

"Summon my servants," Madame ordered.

As if accustomed to her demands, Lucien walked to the cell door and beckoned. Two men entered. They appeared to be ordinary French peasants, wearing rough clothing and wooden clogs on their feet.

"This one," the Black Widow said, pointing to Reed. "Be careful, he appears to be badly injured."

The two men bent toward Reed. Reed stiffened. "Do I have a choice?"

"None whatsoever," she whispered in English. "You are the one I have come for. If you wish to live, do not struggle."

Reed couldn't have struggled had he wanted to. He did, however, gasp in pain when the widow's servants gently lifted him to his feet.

"Be careful of his arm," Doctor Leclair admonished. "It's broken. It wasn't easy setting it with what little I had to work with."

The widow stared at the doctor a moment then nodded.

"Good luck, mon ami," Leclair called to Reed as Madame's servants half carried half dragged Reed from the cell.

Reed must have lost consciousness, for when he awakened he found himself lying in a swaying cart on a thick pallet of straw, covered by a warm blanket. Daylight had fled; Reed gazed up at the star-studded sky and wondered what in God's name he had gotten himself into.

Fleur Fontaine removed her hat and veil and shook out her tangle of lustrous ebony curls. Each time she walked into that maelstrom of human suffering she died a little inside. She thanked God her husband's death had come quickly. No man deserved to be treated like an animal, or beaten simply because he was an Aristocrat. More importantly, no man deserved to die in Devil's Chateau. Unfortunately, she couldn't rescue everyone.

Fleur lived in constant fear that one day her identity and work for England would be discovered. For the past year she had lived the life of an anonymous widow, residing in a small cottage with her servants near a prison for political prisoners on a sparsely populated spit of land hugging the French coast. The bribe money that felicitated the release of prisoners came from Lord Porter's agency, as did the names of the men she was to rescue from Devil's Chateau.

Lord Reed Harwood was the third man she had spirited out of Devil's Chateau, and in the worst condition. She prayed Doctor Defoe would be able to save him, for according to the last communication she received, Harwood was a man of some importance.

"How is he tolerating the ride, Antoine?" Fleur asked, addressing the man riding in the back of the cart with Reed. The other man drove the wagon along a road that followed the cliff.

"He's still alive, countess," Antoine said. "More than that, I cannot say."

"We'll be home soon. Doctor Defoe should be waiting for us. I summoned him from the village before we left."

Fleur sighed and fell silent, overwhelmed by pity. Reed Harwood had suffered more than any man should have to suffer. At one time he must have been a handsome man, one much sought after by women. Now he was a shell of that man, filthy, emaciated and sick. His flesh sagged on his long frame, his gray eyes were dull and his black hair matted and lusterless.

The driver veered off onto a dirt lane. The night was so dark Fleur could barely see the small stone and wood cottage until it rose up before them.

"The doctor is here," Antoine said, pointing to a horse tethered to a tree near the front door.

The door opened; a weak light leaked through. Fleur hopped down from the cart without help. A short, thin man stepped into the night and approached them.

"Did all go well? Did you find who you were looking for?"

Though Fleur trusted Doctor Defoe, she had been instructed not to reveal the identity of the men he treated. She paid him well for his discretion and he appreciated the extra coin.

"I found the man but I'm not sure he will live."

"Everything is prepared. Have your servants carry him inside. I won't know what I'm up against until I examine him."

Fleur watched as her two servants lifted Reed from the cart and carried him inside the cottage. A plump older woman met them at the door, an expression of immense relief creasing her brow.

"I have returned safely, Lisette, you can cease fretting now," Fleur greeted.

"Why must you do this, ma petite?" Lisette chided. "I live in fear of the day you will not return."

"You know I do this to avenge his death. We will speak of this later. I must attend the doctor."

Fleur hurried after Doctor Defoe and his patient, arriving in the bedchamber just as Harwood was eased onto the bed. Lisette followed close on her heels.

"Hot water, plenty of it, and clean cloths," Defoe barked. "The man reeks; his flesh is covered in filth."

Lisette hurried off to do his bidding.

"Antoine, fetch two splints for my patient's arm. You know what I require," Defoe said.

"What can I do?" Fleur asked.

"Right now, nothing." Defoe wagged his head. "Look at him. The poor man's been starved and beaten. What a terrible waste."

"Can you save him? He will need nourishing food and rest while his bones mend."

Defoe said nothing as he continued his examination. "Two broken ribs," he enumerated. His probing elicited a moan from Reed. "They will have to be bound. The bruises will heal but it may still be too late to save him. Youth is on his side; the will to live beats strong within him."

Lisette returned with hot water and cloths. She pushed Fleur aside and began stripping off Reed's ragged clothing. "Go change, ma cher. I will help the good doctor while you rid yourself of the prison stench."

Lisette was right, Fleur thought. She had brought the stench of death and offal with her. "I won't be long," Fleur said as she hurried off.

Fleur took the time for a thorough wash and change of clothing. Staying in character, she donned a plain black gown with no embellishment. She would continue to wear black until her job here was finished.

Fleur's thoughts returned to Reed Harwood. His pitiful condition led her to believe he had been harshly treated since his arrival at Devil's Chateau, though he hadn't been at the prison during her last visit about eight months ago when she had bought another Englishman's freedom.

Did Lord Harwood know what had happened in England to make his rescue imperative? She doubted it. The communication she'd received said that he had been working as an agent in Paris and had literally disappeared from the face of the earth. Fleur had been informed that Devil's Chateau was one of the last places left to look for him and it was there she had found him.

Before Fleur returned to the sickroom, she wrote a hasty note to her contact and sent Antoine on his way to deliver it. The note reported Harwood's rescue and as well as his serious condition. She also explained that if Harwood lived, it would be several weeks before he could travel.

When Fleur returned to the sickroom, Lisette had washed the patient and thrown a blanket over his nude form. With the dirt removed, it was easy to see that Harwood had once been a handsome man possessed of an admirable physique. If he recovered and regained his lost flesh, he would be an extraordinary specimen of male virility. But that was beside the point.

"How is he?" Fleur asked.

"Weak," Doctor Defoe said. "He couldn't have lasted much longer. Whoever set his broken arm did a remarkable job considering what he had to work with. I'm astonished it didn't become affected.

"As for his broken ribs and various external injuries, they will heal. I'm more concerned about losing him to severe malnutrition." Defoe shook his head. "He must be an extremely stubborn man to hang on as long as he has."

"Treat his injuries, Doctor, that's all I ask. I will nurse him back to health and Lisette's cooking will fatten him up."

"Don't feed him anything heavy or rich at first, mind you. Broth and gruel and plenty of liquids. I'm sure he'll let you know when he's ready for solid food."

"Thank you, Doctor." She handed him a heavy purse. "I appreciate your coming out this time of night and maintaining secrecy."

"I'm no more a fan of the current government than you are," Defoe snorted. "I'll leave a salve for his bruises and laudanum. Sleep is essential to his healing; give him laudanum as necessary but use it sparingly. It is highly addictive. I'll be back in two days to see how he is progressing."

The doctor left. Fleur looked on as Lisette fussed with the patient.

"We've done all we can for now," Lisette said, moving away from the bed.

"I'll sit with him while you prepare a nourishing beef broth. I expect he'll want some questions answered when he awakens."

Fleur pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. She didn't know much about Reed Harwood except from what she'd learned from secret communications. Harwood, working as an operative for England, spoke flawless French and had gathered valuable information for the Crown. His father had been an earl and the title had passed to his brother. No one seemed to know what had gone wrong or how Harwood had ended up in Devil's Chateau.

Fleur studied Reed's features; the dark slash of his eyebrows, the thick black hair, the full lips and sunken cheeks, trying to imagine what he had looked before Devil's Chateau. Did he have a wife? she wondered. Was he betrothed? He looked to be somewhere between twenty five and thirty, give or take a year or two. Most men his age were wed or betrothed.

Fleur half rose from her chair and leaned close when Reed opened his eyes. They shone like pure silver in the candlelight.

Full consciousness returned slowly to Reed. With great effort, he cranked his eyes open and feared he was dreaming. Gone were the rough stone walls, the foul straw upon which he had lain more days than he cared to count. It was too quiet. There was no moaning, no sobbing, and no pleading. All Reed heard was blessed silence.

The overwhelming stench of death and decay was gone. He had lived with the smell for weeks, months. He sniffed the air, recognizing the scent of flowers, sweet clean linen and...he was lying naked on clean sheets!

Reed tried to speak but no sound came forth. His throat was raw and his mouth was filled with cotton.

"Would you like some water?"

Ross turned his head toward the dulcet female voice and wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Nothing this side of paradise could sound so sweet. Reed nodded, praying his dream would go on forever.

He watched the woman tip up the pitcher on the bedside table and pour water into a glass. Then she slipped an arm under his shoulders to lift his head while she held the glass to his lips. Reed realized this was no dream when he felt her soft breasts pressing against his cheek. The water tasted sweet and pure, unlike the dark, murky liquid that passed for water in prison. And the woman smelled of...flowers.

"More?" the woman asked when Reed drained the glass.

Reed shook his head. "You...speak...English."

"I was born in England. How do you feel?"

"I...hurt, but I can't recall when I didn't hurt. Am I dreaming?"

"No, this is real. The doctor has already seen you and left you in my hands. If you're in pain I can give you some laudanum."

"Later. Who are you? Where am I?"

"What do you remember?"

"Being in a dark pit and wishing for death."

"Is that all?"

Reed frowned, searching his memory. Suddenly it came to him. The Black Widow. He searched her face. She wasn't wearing a veil now and what he saw stunned him. Flickering candlelight revealed the Black Widow to be young and lovely. Pale skin, ebony hair falling in curls around her face, long sooty eyelashes and full lips. She was a raving beauty.

"Are you the Black Widow?" She nodded. "I don't understand. Why would you want a dying man? What good am I to you? If pleasure is the price you demand for my freedom, I fear the price is too high. I'm in no condition to please either of us."

"It's good to know the persona I fabricated is working. My name is Fleur Fontaine. I am English by birth. My late husband was a French count; he went to the Guillotine during the Reign of Terror. He arranged for my escape but was unable to save himself."

"I'm sorry," Reed murmured. "Why are you doing this? Why me? I understand none of this."

"I don't expect you to, not yet. Enough questions for now. You're in pain. Let me give you some laudanum. When you awaken, I will feed you some broth that Lisette is preparing as we speak. You are dangerously malnourished. And if you are to return to England, your broken bones must heal properly."

Reed watched as she mixed laudanum with water and held it to his lips. He drank, grimaced, and at her urging drank some more. After a few minutes, Reed's eyes grew heavy. "Fleur," he murmured. "Flower. It fits. You smell like flowers."

Fleur's smile bathed him in sunshine despite the darkness closing in on him. "And you, my lord earl, need to rest."

Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Reed wanted to tell her he wasn't an earl, and that the title belonged to my brother, but his mind had shut down.

Fleur bent to brush a lock of hair away from Reed's forehead then quietly tiptoed from the chamber. He had spoken, which was a good sign. He also expressed curiosity, another good sign.

Fleur made her way to the kitchen. The rich beef broth simmering in a kettle over the hearth smelled delicious. Fleur hoped that nourishing food and good care would snatch Reed Harwood from the brink of death and so he could return to England in full health.

The last man Fleur had rescued hadn't been in prison long and was able to return to England within a fortnight. Fleur feared Harwood wasn't going to be as lucky. Her main worry was discovery. How many times could she bribe Lucien before the authorities caught up with her? Before she was imprisoned as a spy herself? Fleur sighed. She couldn't think of that now. Not when she had someone more important than herself to protect.

Lisette turned from the pot she was stirring when she saw Fleur. "How is the patient?"

"He's sleeping. I gave him laudanum; he should until morning."

"Morning isn't very far off, ma petite. Go to bed. There is nothing more you can do. The broth simmers nicely and will be ready when he awakens."

Fleur yawned. "I should sit with him in case he takes a turn for the worse."

"Let Gaston sit with him tonight. He can see to his needs better than you. You need your rest. Going into that prison again must have been difficult." She gave Fleur a little push. "Go, I will fetch Gaston."

Fleur gave in; there was no arguing with Lisette where Fleur's health was concerned. "Very well. Tell Gaston to call me should he need me."

Fleur made a detour to the sickroom before retiring to her own chamber. Though his lordship was sleeping, he moved restlessly in the bed, moaning softly. She heard him mutter something and leaned close to listen. Shock rolled through her when she heard his words.

"Betrayed. Got to tell Porter. Dying...dying..."

Fleur's hand went immediately to his brow, expecting to feel the heat of fever, but his skin was cool to her touch. She could only imagine what he'd been through. Something about this man struck a cord in her that went beyond pity. Something about the new Earl of Hunthurst was different from the other men she had plucked from prison and sent on their way to England.

The observation remained a mystery when Gaston arrived in the sickroom and urged Fleur to seek her own bed. Fleur didn't know what she would do or how she would proceed without her faithful Lisette, Antoine and Gaston. They had fled with her after her husband had been taken away and remained after she began her undercover work for Lord Porter.

"Call me if there is a change in his condition," Fleur told Gaston.

"Of course, countess."

Fleur considered correcting him about addressing her as countess for the Reign of Terror had stripped the title from her, but she decided it would do little good. To her faithful servants she would always be Countess Fleur Fontaine.