THE
BELOVED ONE

By

Danelle
Harmon

*
* * * *

PUBLISHED
BY:

Danelle
Harmon

The
Beloved One

Copyright
© 2012 by Danelle Harmon

License
Notes

This
ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be
resold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If
you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for
your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

~~~~

Table Of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

About the Author

More Titles by Danelle
Harmon

THE BELOVED ONE

By Danelle Harmon

Book 2 of the De
Montforte Brothers Series

~~~~

Prologue

The moon was rising.

Earlier in the day, and
throughout much of the previous one, it had been raining.  Now, the last clouds
filed swiftly out to sea, riding above trees still bare of leaves and allowing
the moon to turn the steeples, rooftops and cobblestoned streets of Boston to
silver.  In the harbor, the bows of the great warships swung slowly around as
the spring tide began to come in.  In timber-framed houses all across the town,
lamps glowed at doors, faint candlelight shone from behind windows, chimneys
spewed wood smoke toward the stars.  All was peaceful.  All was quiet.  The
town was settling in for the night.

Or so it seemed.

History would remember two
lanterns hung in the Old North Church, the midnight ride of Paul Revere, and at
daybreak, the battle of Lexington and later, Concord, that would open the
American Revolution.

But there were some things it
would not remember.

On the second floor of Newman
House, whose owner resentfully let rooms to the King's officers, a captain in
the proud scarlet regimentals of the Fourth Foot sat at his desk, finishing the
letter he'd begun earlier to his family in far-off England. . . .

Newman House, 18 April, 1775

My dear brother, Lucien,

It has just gone dark and as I
pen these words to you, an air of rising tension hangs above this troubled
town.  Tonight, several regiments — including mine, the King's Own — have been
ordered by General Gage, commander in chief of our forces here in Boston, out
to Concord to seize and destroy a significant store of arms and munitions that
the rebels have secreted there.  Due to the clandestine nature of this
assignment, I have ordered my batman, Billingshurst, to withhold the posting of
this letter until the morrow, when the mission will have been completed and
secrecy will no longer be of concern.

Although it is my most ardent
hope that no blood will be shed on either side during this endeavour, I find
that my heart, in these final moments before I must leave, is restless and
uneasy.  It is not for myself that I am afraid, but another.  As you know from
my previous letters home, I have met a young woman here with whom I have become
attached in a warm friendship.  I suspect you do not approve of my becoming so
enamoured of a storekeeper's daughter, but things are different in this place,
and when a fellow is three thousand miles away from home, love makes a far more
desirable companion than loneliness.  My dear Miss Paige has made me happy,
Lucien, and earlier tonight, she accepted my plea for her hand in marriage.  I
beg you to understand, and forgive, for I know that someday when you meet her,
you will love her as I do.

My brother, I have but one
thing to ask of you, and knowing that you will see to my wishes is the only
thing that calms my troubled soul during these last few moments before we
depart.  If anything should happen to me — tonight, tomorrow, or at any time
whilst I am here in Boston — I beg of you to find it in your heart to show
charity and kindness to my angel, my Juliet, for she means the world to me.  I
know you will take care of her if ever I cannot.  Do this for me and I shall be
happy, Lucien.

I must close now, as the
others are gathered downstairs in the parlour, and we are all ready to move.
May God bless and keep you, my dear brother, and Gareth, Andrew, and sweet
Nerissa, too.

Charles

"Captain?  Forgive my
intrusion, sir, but everyone's waiting downstairs for you.  It's nearly time to
leave."

"Yes, I am sensible to it.
I shall be down directly, and do thank everyone for their patience with me,
Ensign Gillard."  The captain scanned his letter.  "Not worried about
tonight, now, are you?" he asked conversationally, not looking up as he
folded the correspondence.

"Well, not exactly worried,
sir, but . . . well, do you have a bad feeling about this mission?"

Lord Charles raised his head and
regarded him quietly for a moment.  "And here I thought it was me,"
he admitted, his expression both amused and reassuring.

""Everything will be
all right, won't it, sir?"

"Of course, Gillard."
The smile broadened.  "Isn't it always?"

"Yes.  Yes, I suppose it
is."  Gillard grinned back.  "I'll leave you now, sir."

"Thank you.  I shall be down
in a moment."

Gillard closed the door, and
dipping his quill in the ink once more, the officer wrote his brother's address
across the front of the letter:

To His Grace the Duke of
Blackheath, Blackheath Castle, nr Ravenscombe, Berkshire,
England

There.  It was done.

Putting down his pen, Lord
Charles Adair de Montforte rose to his feet, picked up his hat and sword, and,
leaving the letter propped on his desk, strode boldly out of the room, down the
stairs, and to his fate.

A fate so tragic that even
Gillard's premonition could not have foreseen its very horror.

~~~~

The waiting was terrible.

Fourteen-year-old Will Leighton
lay stretched out flat on his stomach behind a granite wall, his musket propped
between two boulders and trained on the ominously still road along which the
King's troops would come.

Easy! he told himself, his
heart pounding.  You're a man now!  A grownup!  But he was so tense he
felt sick.  So jittery he kept forgetting to breathe.  Off to his right,
several others, all members of the Woburn militia under Major Loammi Baldwin,
also lay hidden.  None of them looked as nervous as he felt.  Eyes flinty
beneath their tricorns, they stared toward the road.

Waiting.

Will tried to imitate their
gritty expressions, but all he could hear was the fierce pounding of his
heart.  His elbows dug into the spongy, rain-soaked earth.  Dampness seeped up
through his clothes, chilling his skin, making him shiver.  In the maple above,
a chickadee flitted from branch to branch, trilling its innocent song:  chickadee-dee-dee;
chickadee-dee-dee.

And from fifteen feet away, Baldwin
spoke the words they'd all been waiting for:

"Here they come.  Get ready,
boys, to let 'em have it."

And now Will felt a sensation
like needles prickling all up and down his spine as he heard it too:  Dogs,
barking an alarm from somewhere down the road.  Distant shouts, sporadic
musketfire, the steady rattle and stamp of hundreds of approaching men.  Will's
hand went sweaty and began to shake.  Any moment now, the king's troops, on
their way back to Boston after what everyone said was terrible fighting at Concord,
would come around the bend and into view.

He swallowed, the taste of fear
metallic on his tongue.  Nearby, his cousin Tom narrowed his eyes, spat, and brought
his musket to full-cock.

"Oh, we'll let 'em have it,
all right.  Come on, you bastards . . .  We've been waiting for this moment for
years."

And come they did.  Will's eyes
widened and his heart quailed as the troops, nearly a thousand men strong,
streamed around the bend like a river of blood.  They were an awesome and
terrible sight.  Mounted officers in scarlet coats rode alongside them waving
swords and barking orders.  Sunlight flashed from bayonets, gorgets and pewter
buttons.  But closer scrutiny revealed the signs of battle.  Many, limping
painfully, had all they could do to walk; others were borne on litters and in
carts, and still others were so bloody that their breeches, snow white only
hours earlier, were as red as their wool coats.  There was exhaustion in their
eyes.  Desperation in their faces.

But Will, who'd heard all about
what had happened at both Lexington and Concord earlier this day, felt no pity.

And neither did Baldwin as he
roared, "Fire!"

From both sides of the road, a
barrage of musket shot slammed into the unsuspecting troops, catching them in a
deadly crossfire.  Horses, screaming, bolted in terror.  Soldiers fell dead as
colonial muskets banged out, instantly cutting them down.  Redcoat officers,
shouting commands, sent their horses charging to and fro, trying to restore
order and organize the troops into fighting formation, and soon answering
volleys of shot were plowing into the surrounding trees and enveloping the
rocky pasture in thick, acrid smoke.

Discharging his musket and
retreating behind a massive oak, Will reloaded, his hands shaking so badly that
he spilled half his black powder down his leg.  He rammed the ball and wadding
home, his nerves shot as all around him yelling minutemen ran past, diving
behind rocks and trees to aim and fire and reload once more.  He brought his
musket up again, just in time to see a wild-eyed young ensign break rank and
sprint toward them from out of the drifting smoke, leaping a stone wall and yelling
at the top of his lungs, "Come out and fight fairly you cowards, you
damned rebel wretches!  Show yourselves and do battle like brave men, not
skulking Indians!"

"Gillard, get back!"
shouted a redcoat captain, splendid in scarlet and white, the blue facings of
his uniform proclaiming him to be one of the King's Own — and sent his horse
charging down on the runaway ensign at a full gallop.

Tom narrowed his eyes and raised
his musket.  "He's mine, the son of a bitch."

And fired.

Will would remember it for the
rest of his life:  The deafening roar of Tom's musket.  Half the young ensign's
face going up in a fountain of blood.  His body seeming to trip and somersault,
rolling over and over in the just-greening grass before it slammed up against
the granite wall that Will had just vacated.

"Got 'im!" crowed Tom,
thrusting his musket skyward a second before a ball sliced through his neck,
instantly killing him.

Will had no time to react, for at
that very moment the captain's horse exploded out of the smoke, sailing over
the stone wall like an apparition.  Five feet from where the ensign lay
screaming in agony, the captain pulled the animal up and leaped from the
saddle.  Ignoring the lead whining about him, he ran to the young soldier,
lifted him in his arms and carried him back toward the fretting, wild-eyed horse.

Will stood transfixed.  Never had
he seen such steely courage, such selfless devotion to a subordinate.  The
captain's hawkish face was hard, his eyes the December-ice clarity of
aquamarine, and as he turned his back on Will and gently hoisted the soldier up
into the saddle, Will knew he was going to have to kill him.

He leaped out of hiding.

Fired.

And oh my God missed.

The captain turned his cool,
level stare on Will, one pale, arched brow lifting with the sort of surprised
annoyance that any well-seasoned warrior might show a colonial bumpkin trying
to irritate the finest army in the world.  Will's stomach flipped over.  Nausea
strangled his throat.  Too terrified even to reload, he froze as the captain
picked up his ensign's musket and trained it dead-center on Will's chest.  The
blue eyes, so competent, so self-assured, so very, very dangerous, narrowed a
second before the redcoat would have blown him into eternity.

"Don't shoot!" Will
squeaked, and his voice cracked, revealing his age — or rather lack of it.

The captain realized Will's youth
at the same moment the weapon discharged and jerked the musket skyward, trying
to deflect his fire.  Flames roared from that long and terrible muzzle,
shooting straight over Will's head.  The gun's fierce kick, combined with the
unnatural angle at which it had been fired, threw the officer off balance.  As
he stepped backward to regain it, his heel sank into a hollow in the soft April
earth and he fell straight into the wall of granite, the musket flying from his
hand and the back of his skull striking one sharp, lichen-caked boulder with an
awful, thudding crack.  For a moment, he seemed to gaze up at Will in
astonishment as he lay there spread-eagled against the rocks; then the pale
blue eyes lost focus and clouded over, their thick lashes coming down like a
curtain on the last act as his head slid sideways, leaving a smear of blood on
the boulder behind him.

For a moment, Will stared at the
dead man in horror.

Then he turned and fled.

Letter from General Thomas
Gage, Commander-In-Chief of His Majesty's forces, to Lucien de Montforte, His
Grace the Duke of Blackheath . . .

My dear Duke,

I regret to inform you that
whilst on a mission to Concord to seize arms that the rebels had
secreted there, your brother, Captain Lord Charles de Montforte, was engaged in
fighting and fatally injured.  From all accounts, His Lordship fought bravely
and selflessly, bringing glory to his family's name and tears throughout his
regiment upon confirmation of his death.

Enclosed herein is the
regimental gorget taken from Lord Charles's body immediately prior to burial in
Concord, along with a letter that his servant, Billingshurst,
found propped on his desk the day of his death.  His dress regimentals will
follow.  I hope that these will bring you some comfort in this darkest of
hours.  Your brother was greatly respected and admired by both superiors and
subordinates; he was ambitious and supremely confident in his own abilities,
but like the best-loved commanders, never crossed that fine line into
arrogance.  He was an asset to this army, to his country, and a beloved friend
to all who knew and served under and with him.

Respectfully yours,

Genl. Thomas Gage

Chapter 1

"Make sure you whip the
butter well when you churn it this morning, Amy.  And for goodness sake, do add
more salt this time," sniffed Mildred Leighton as she strode huffily past
her sister.  "There's nothing worse than bland butter, and you never do
seem to get it right."

"Oh, and Amy, since you're
doing the washing today, don't forget my blue petticoats.  There are mud stains
on the hem and they look positively dreadful," added Ophelia, coming
downstairs and going straight to the looking glass on the wall.

"Yes,  Ophelia.  Yes,
Mildred," sighed the thin figure, stooping nearly double beneath the
lintel of the keeping room's massive fireplace.  Pushing the iron crane off to
one side, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and, kneeling on
the sooty bricks, began shoveling ash from out of the pit beneath the bake
oven.

Ophelia, vainly fluffing her
blond curls until they haloed her face, turned from the looking glass and
regarded her half-sister with disdain.  "And make sure my petticoats are
ready by tomorrow afternoon.  Matthew Ashton has promised to take me for a
drive, and I want to look my best."

"Matthew Ashton?"
hissed Mildred, outraged.  Already a bold and enterprising young sea captain,
Matthew would someday inherit his father's Ashton Shipyards — and was probably
one of the best catches in Newburyport.  "How dare he ask you and not
me!"

Amy thought it fine time to
interrupt before things degenerated into a cat fight.  "Perhaps Matthew
will ask you next week, Mildred," she soothed.

Mildred turned on her.
"Just because your one and only friend on this earth happens to be
Matthew's sister — that bad-mannered little hoyden, Mira — don't think that
makes you an authority on Matthew."

"Or an authority on
men," added Ophelia.

"Amy?  An authority on men?"
Mildred shrieked with laughter.  "The only men Amy might ever become an
authority on are the sort that work along the docks and ogle her!"

Both Mildred and Ophelia
guffawed, pitiless as Amy's cheeks reddened beneath their sooty glaze of ash
smoke.

"I don't know how you can
stand there and laugh, when Will's still not back from Uncle Eb's and for all
we know, something awful might've happened to him," she said, thinking of
the rider who had galloped through Newburyport late last night with the news
that fighting had finally broken out down at Lexington and Concord between the
redcoats and local militia groups.  "Cousin Tom was in the Woburn
militia.  They were in the fighting, and you know as well as I do that where
Tom leads, Will is sure to follow."

Her half-sisters stared at her
coldly.  "My, my, aren't we the righteous one," sneered
Mildred, hands on her hips.  "Instead of fretting over Will, why don't you
worry about poor Ophelia and me and let out my jacket?!"

"If she wasn't down at the
harborfront dreaming of places she'll never go and men she'll never meet, she'd
have gotten it done yesterday like she was supposed to," said Ophelia,
with a haughty glance at the gaunt figure still on her knees on the ashy
firebox.  "You'd better get your head out of the clouds, Amy, because you
have a better chance of snaring the moon than you do a respectable man, and
don't you forget it."

Amy went silently back to her
chores.  They were right, of course.  She was wasting her time, dreaming about
things that would never be.  But how could she not dream, when reality
was nothing but boredom and drudgery?  She was resigned to the fact that she
would live and die a spinster, just as she was resigned to the fact that, for
the remainder of Papa's life, she — less than a daughter, yet more than a
servant — would keep house for him, cook his meals, and help him write his
sermons now that his eyesight was beginning to fail.  In return, she would
always have a place to live.  Hers wasn't such a bad lot, really; after all,
she had a roof over her head and decent food in her belly.  But lately, she
found herself wanting more, and long after the household went to bed, she would
lie beneath the covers and dream of what her life would be like if only she
were pretty and respectable like her sisters.

If only she was like the other
young women of Newburyport, entitled to the same dreams that they had. . . .

Finally, breakfast was ready.
The Reverend Sylvanus Leighton, pale and haggard from an obviously sleepless
night, joined them in the keeping room and gave thanks for the meal, adding a
special prayer for Will's safe return.  Then, painfully aware of the empty
place that Amy had set for his one and only son, he stared dejectedly out the
window.  The cornmeal mush, fried to a rich, golden brown and cut into slices,
lay undisturbed on his plate, floating in the maple syrup like boats at low
tide.

Amy could not stand seeing him
suffer so.  She reached out and impulsively put a hand over his, knowing, even
as she did, that he would probably pull away.

He did.

She drew her hand back and pasted
a smile on her face to hide her hurt.  Why should she have expected any
different when it had always been this way?  "Eat, Papa," she said
gently, tucking the offending hand between her knees and trying to pretend the
incident hadn't happened.  "Starving yourself won't bring him back to us
any sooner."

Ophelia snapped, "Maybe he would
eat, if only he had some fresh butter for his breakfast —"

At that very moment, Will's dog Crystal
— who'd been sulking ever since Will had left for Woburn to help Sylvanus's
brother Ebenezer with the spring planting — shot out from beneath the table,
and, paws skittering for purchase on the wide-boarded floor, tore through the
parlor.  Barking joyously, the dog flung herself against the door.

"Will!" Amy cried,
leaping up and nearly upsetting the table as her half-brother ran inside, Crystal
barking and tripping up his feet.  All out of breath, he charged into the
keeping room.

"Where have you been?"
Sylvanus demanded, worry and relief making his voice harsh.

"Look at you, you're covered
with dirt!" shrieked Ophelia.

"And blood!"
wailed Mildred, clapping her hands to her cheeks.

"I just came in off Ashton's
schooner, up from Boston . . . I was in the fighting yesterday," he panted,
grabbing his father's hand and pulling him back toward the still-open door.
"You've got to help me, Pa, got to send Amy to fetch the doctor!  I
brought a friend home with me and if we don't do something to save him, he's
going to die!"

~~~~

"Should've called the
undertaker, not me," said Dr. Plummer, as he watched Sylvanus and Will
carry the man through the door.  "That young fellow's deader than
dead."

"He ain't either!"
cried Will, head twisted round to look behind him as, his arms locked beneath
the stranger's armpits, he backed into the keeping room where Ophelia and
Mildred, busily crunching bacon, gave shrieks of horror and leaped to their
feet.

"William Leighton!  How dare
you bring that . . . that man into this house!" they screeched.
Neither rose to help, and neither moved their chairs out of the way to ease the
trio's progress to the table.

That task fell to Amy, who did it
hurriedly and without needing to be told.  Standing back, she glanced anxiously
at Will's friend as they brought him near.  His hair, which had been combed
back and tied at the nape with a black taffeta ribbon, had come loose and now
hung in bloody swatches over his face, concealing all but the tip of his nose
from Amy's curious gaze.  He wore muddy breeches of white leather, and a
sleeveless waistcoat of ragged olive-green homespun was loosely buttoned over a
bloodstained shirt.  His frame was lean, his build powerful, wide across the
upper body, narrow at the waist and hips, and so long in the leg that she knew
his feet would hang over the edge of the table when they set him down.
Probably a farmer, she thought, accustomed to hard work.

But as they carried him past, the
his dangling hand brushed her skirts, and Amy's eyes went wide.  No farmer she'd
ever met had hands that looked like that.  Long, elegant fingers.  Clean skin
devoid of dirt and scars.  Short, well-scrubbed nails that were filed smooth
and obviously well cared for.

Her gaze lifted to Will's — but
he and Papa were already hoisting the fellow up onto the table.  As they set
him down, the lolling head fell back over Will's arm and revealed a face that
took Amy's breath away.  Her hands flew over her mouth.

He was breathtakingly handsome.

Absolutely, positively,
indisputably, beautiful.

Dr. Plummer, however, took no
notice of the fact.  "What happened to him?" he asked, bending over
the man's face, lifting one eyelid and peering into the sightless, rolled-back
eyes.

Blue, Amy thought, noting
their extraordinarily clear color before Plummer let the eyelid slide shut once
more.  Oh, God, don't let him die — with those looks, he'll make all the
beautiful angels in heaven envious and there'll be war up there all over again.

"He — he f-fell during the
fighting and hit his head," Will stammered.

"How?"

The boy shrugged, his gaze
darting away.  "Don't know."

"How long has he been
out?"

"Since yesterday, when it
happened."

"Yesterday!?"

Will reddened.  "Y-yes,
sir."

"This man should've been
seen to immediately!  Why the devil didn't you get him to a local doctor
instead of lugging him all the way up here?"

For answer, the boy only
swallowed and hung his head.  He looked absolutely miserable.

Ophelia, however, had no pity for
either her brother or his injured friend.  "Really, Will, I don't know
what's got into you, bringing him here when you should've just let him there to
die.  After all, America needs good, competent men defending her, not clumsy
oafs who injure themselves at first opportunity."

"Maybe he injured himself so
he wouldn't have to fight," scoffed Mildred.  "The
coward."

"He wasn't a coward!"
Will exploded.  "He was a fine man, with more courage than a dozen
lions!"

Dr. Plummer impatiently motioned
for them to be quiet, then laid his finger on the injured man's wrist, feeling
his pulse.  He straightened up, frowning.  "Well, he's alive all right,
but if I can save him I doubt he'll be a-thankin' me for it.  Come, come, let's
turn him over so I can have a better look at the back of his head.  What's your
friend's name, anyhow?"

"Er, Adam.  Adam
Smith."

"Well, let's get Mr. Smith
settled comfortably on his stomach with his head turned slightly to the left.
Yes, that's good.  Perfect.  Now, someone get me a candle so I can better see
what I'm a-doin' here."

Adam, his right cheek pressed
against the oak tabletop, did not look quite so handsome from the back.  In
fact, he looked downright terrible, and Amy gasped as they all got a good look
at the wound that had felled him.  Low down on the back of his head and
slightly off center to the left, a gash, nearly three inches long, was still
oozing blood out into the tangled blond hair and down his neck.  Plummer drew
his bushy brows together and began probing the wound.  A moment later he
straightened up, wiping bloody fingers on his leather apron.

"I'll have to trepan him,"
he declared.  "His skull is fractured and chances are there's blood
pooling just beneath the break.  If we don't drain it off the brain, he'll
die."

There was a temporary silence as
everyone digested Plummer's words.

"Maybe we ought to just . .
. let him die in peace," Will mumbled, his cheeks coloring as he heard the
callousness of his own words.  As Amy and Sylvanus turned horrified stares upon
him, he added, lamely:  "Especially since he isn't going to make it,
anyhow . . ."

Plummer blew out his breath.
"Well, Reverend?"

"I say trepan him — and let
the decision rest with God, not us, as to whether he lives or dies."

"He won't be the same as he
was before this happened to him," Plummer warned, resting a possessive,
almost affectionate hand over the gaping wound as though he couldn't wait to
get started on it.  "You know that, don't you?"

"We have to give him the
chance.  After all, the poor fellow did do what he could for America, didn't
he?"

Amy was the only one who saw her
brother wince as though he'd been struck.  Ophelia and Mildred were too busy
making their exit.  Sylvanus was still looking at the stranger.  And Dr.
Plummer was laying things out on the table:  a linen rag, a razor, two long
metal retractors with hooked ends, and the trephine — a small, ring-shaped saw
with a handle in the center and deep, jagged teeth designed for grinding a
small plug out of a person's skull.  Amy looked at it and felt her knees go all
wobbly.

Don't you dare get squeamish! she
berated herself, fiercely.  She gazed down at Adam, whose long eyelashes just
brushed the table.  Poor Adam with the blue, blue eyes that might never open
again.

Her heart ached with pity for
him.  "I'll help you if you need me to, Dr. Plummer," she said
quietly.  "Just tell me what I have to do."

Five minutes later, Sylvanus, who
couldn't stand the sight of blood, made his excuses and Amy found herself
pressed into service.  Under Plummer's direction, she fetched a bowl of warm
water and a pillow from her bed while Plummer went outside to have a few pulls
on his pipe — no doubt to steady his own nerves, Amy thought.  Racing back
downstairs, she gently lifted Adam's head, put the pillow beneath it, and then
eased him back down so that his brow was cradled on soft down instead of oak.
Involuntarily, her hand smoothed the hair back from his temple, as though she
could comfort and encourage him for the ordeal that lay ahead; then she
dampened a rag and washed the wound, trying not to look at the blood and water
running in halting pink streams through his pale hair.

Plummer returned, rolling up his
sleeves and grimly eyeing his patient as though trying to determine the best
way to approach the task ahead of him.  Amy's heart begin to pound with
apprehension.

"Stand at the head of the
table, Amy, and put your hands on either side of his head to steady it,"
the doctor directed.  "Good."  Wiping the razor on the leg of his
breeches, he shaved the area around the wound with as much skill as any
barber.  Amy watched the soft clumps of hair tumbling forlornly down over her
knuckles, falling on the pillow, the table, the floor.  Finally Plummer set the
blade aside.  "There.  That ought to do it.  Now, brace his head real
steady, Amy, and don't let it move."  And then, noting her pallor, he
added, "You don't have to watch if you don't want to."

She didn't want to — but she
could no more look away than she could stop breathing.  It was as though by
finding the courage to watch, she was somehow going through this ordeal right
along with him.  To look away and abandon Adam to such a thing, to allow him to
suffer it all by himself, seemed cowardly.  She would be brave — for him.  And
so she held his head and held up her own and forced herself to take deep,
steadying breaths as she watched Plummer draw his scalpel and make his first
cut.  As the doctor progressed, first with scalpel and then with the trephine,
Amy found herself gently talking to the unconscious man as though she could
somehow soothe him.

"He'll not hear you,"
Plummer grunted, leaning his weight into the trephine and rotating it,
"but if it makes you feel better, go ahead and talk to him."

"It does make me feel
better.  And maybe he can hear me. . . after all, who's to say that he
can't?"

"What a fanciful girl you
are," Plummer said, amused.  "But the best assistant I ever had.
Now, keep your wits about you.  We're almost there."

Amy no longer wanted to look.
She squeezed her eyes shut and locked her knees together and it was then, as
she stood there holding so tightly onto Adam's head that her arms began to
ache, that she noticed that his breathing had changed.  Her eyes flew open.

"Dr. Plummer?"

"For God's sake, girl, not
now."

"His breathing — it doesn't
sound the way it did a moment ago . . ."

Still gripping the trephine,
Plummer paused only long enough to note that Amy was correct.

"Tarnal hell, I'm losing
him."

Amy, fingers entwined in Adam's
hair to better anchor his head, the terrible grinding vibrations of the
trephine coming up through her palms, shut her eyes and prayed like she never
had in all her seventeen years.  Please don't die, she begged silently,
pressing her palms to Adam's ears and willing her own life into his fading
body, please, please, don't die . . .

But Adam's soft respirations were
coming more and more slowly, growing ineffective, growing faint.

Please God.  Oh, please, give
him a chance, I beg of you —

"Pay attention there,
Amy!" barked Plummer, his upper lip beaded with sweat as he tossed the
trephine down on the table.  It began to roll away.  Impatiently he slammed it
back down.  The trephine rolled again, this time falling off the table and
hitting the floor.  Plummer swore and left it there.  And now Adam was no
longer taking shallow little breaths, but gasping desperately, trying to draw
air into his dying lungs.  Tears stung Amy's eyes, burned in her sinuses.  She
had seen fish in buckets die like that; to see a man going the same route,
especially one as strong and handsome as this one, filled her with an
unbearable agony.

"The devil take it,"
Plummer swore, grabbing up the scalpel and prying the plug of bone loose.
"Damnation!"

And now even the erratic gasps
were coming slower and slower.  Amy sniffed back the tears.  Oh, God help her,
this was awful, awful, awful —

"Come on, damn you,
breathe!" Plummer all but yelled, his voice rising in urgency as Adam gave
a final, heavy sigh and fell still.  He watched the trickle of red, red blood
oozing up and out of the gaping wound.  "Breathe!"

But as each moment filed past,
Adam did not move, did not breathe, and Plummer's frozen, rapt expression began
to melt into despair.  He stood staring down at his patient, hands clenched and
a myriad emotions crossing his face, before his shoulders finally sank and,
looking haggard and old, he swore beneath his breath and turned away in defeat.

"Call in the undertaker,
then," he said bitterly.  "I've lost him."

Chapter 2

Will fled.  Plummer wiped his
brow and trudged off to tell Sylvanus the bad news.

And Amy was left alone with Adam.

She stood there with him for what
seemed like a long time, her hands caught in his bloody hair, her palms still
pressed to his ears as though she could keep the life from leaving him.  As she
stared down at his body, its fragile warmth still caught between her hands, its
still face buried in her pillow, her throat closed on a harsh sob.  He couldn't
be dead, he just couldn't, he was too young, too strong, too handsome —

But he was.

Gently turning his head and
coming around to his side, she bent, bringing her cheek to his cheek, her
temple to his temple, and let the tears come.

And it was then, with her damp
face pressed to his, that she felt the tremulous fluttering of a pulse, soft as
a butterfly's wings, beating in his temple.

She pulled back.

"Adam?" she whispered,
barely daring to speak.

Another moment passed.  And then
his shoulders rose on an inhalation of Herculean proportions, rising up, up,
up, only to settle back down on an equally huge exhalation.

"Breathe, Adam!  Oh, please,
breathe!"  And then, when he didn't, Amy put her lips next to his ear and
yelled, straight into his head, "Breathe!"

Adam breathed.  Plummer came
charging back in, Sylvanus right behind him.  Seeing the rise and fall of
Adam's shoulders, Plummer hurried forward, opening his bag as he went.  Adam
was coming back to life — literally — beneath Amy's bloodstained fingers.  She
returned to the head of the table, put her cheek next to his, and unable to
contain her excitement, unable to stop the tears from coursing down her face,
coached each slow, gathering breath by matching it to her own.

"Breathe . . . breathe . . .
breathe . . ."

Each respiration was stronger
than the last.  Whispering words of encouragement, Amy stroked the sides of
Adam's head with her thumbs, marvelling at the strength and will of a man who
could come through what this one just had, and live.  She looked up at the
doctor and laughed with joy.

"Oh, Dr. Plummer — you did
it, he's breathing!"

"We did it," he
corrected with a wry smile, and reaching into his bag, extracted a handful of
lint.  He was just pulling off a wad of it when tremors began moving through
Adam's body, ending in twitches of his fingers, a jerk of one leg.

"What's wrong with him
now?" Amy cried in alarm.

"Nothing."  The doctor
smiled.  "He's just waking up."

"Waking up?"

"Yes.  Once I took the
pressure off his brain by releasing the blood clot, it's only natural that he
regain consciousness.  That is, if God wanted him to live."

"Obviously, God does
want him to live!"

A groan of pain came from deep
within the pillow.  Quickly, the doctor plugged the wound with lint and
threaded his needle, preparing to stitch it shut.  Adam was flexing his fingers
now.  Trying, weakly, to raise his head.  Plummer pulled the wound shut,
pinched it with one finger, and stabbed the needle through.

Adam's whole body jerked, his
hand flailing blindly before hitting Plummer's wrist with nearly enough force
to break it.  The needle went flying, only to be jerked back by the thread.
Plummer let out a curse, and Adam began thrashing about.

Amy couldn't hold him down.

"Keep him still, Amy!"

She threw her full weight across
him, trying desperately to restrain him.  He fell back to the table,
struggling, as both Will and Sylvanus added their weight.  Her heart pounding,
Amy leaned down and put her lips against Adam's ear.  "It's all
right," she soothed.  "You're going to be just fine, but you have to
be still!  We're not trying to hurt you.  I know how frightened you must be,
but the doctor must do this in order to save your life."

A muffled groan came from deep
within the pillow.

"Dr. Plummer?"

"What, Amy?"

"He's suffocating; can we at
least let him turn his head so he can breathe?"

Plummer pushed back.  "Aye,
go on."

Gently lifting Adam's head, Amy
turned it so that his right cheek lay on the pillow.  The pale blue eyes were
wide and staring, the handsome face flushed and damp with sweat.  "Just
give him a moment," Amy pleaded, noting Plummer's impatient scowl.  She
dipped the rag in clean water and tenderly wiped Adam's cheek and brow.  "That's
not too much to ask, is it?"

Plummer nodded his assent and
allowed Sylvanus to draw him off into the parlor.  No sooner had they left than
Amy noticed Will, his face like paste, standing nearby.

"Will, what is the
matter?"

"Nothing," he
whispered, staring down at his friend.  "Nothing a'tall."

Amy gave him a sharp glance, then
returned her attention to the man who lay on the table.  "It's all right,
Adam," she murmured, stroking the damp hair that still adorned all but the
back of his head.  "Just relax."

Adam stared fixedly at the wall,
his lips just grazing the bloodstained pillow.  "Not Adam . . .
Charles."

It came out Chaaahles, on
a deep and startlingly elegant drawl that left the "r" from the name
and marked him as anything but the rebel they'd all assumed him to be.

Amy's jaw dropped open and
horrified, she whirled to stare at her brother.  "He's a —"

"Redcoat."  Will went
green and shot a terrified glance at the door through which the doctor had just
passed.  "An officer, if you must know."  He hugged his arms to
himself and stared at Amy, his lower lip thrust out, his eyes both fearful and
defiant.  He looked like the frightened child he was.  "What would you
have me do, leave him out in a field to die?"

Amy, paling, grabbed Will by the
sleeve.  "Do you realize what you've done?"

Will looked as though he were
about to cry.  "Now you know why I was half-hoping he wouldn't make
it."

"Why on earth did you bring
him home?"

"I felt guilty."

"For heaven's sake,
Will!"

Beneath them, the officer lay
quietly on the table.  In despair, Amy realized he must've heard every word —
and known they were his enemy, long before they could say the same about him.
Lying gravely wounded and separated from his countrymen, his army, and
everything familiar to him, helpless and at the mercy of the very people who'd
declared themselves to be his enemy, he must be terrified.  Waking up to what
he had, he probably thought they were practicing some wicked torture on him.

She touched his brow and gently
smoothed his hair back.  "Charles."

"Oh, Juliet, forgive
me," he whispered — and hooking an arm around Amy's neck, pulled her
roughly down against him.  Caught off balance and completely off guard, Amy all
but tumbled across his chest.  As she flung out an arm to stop her fall, his
lips found hers, and in the next moment, he was kissing her with a desperate
passion, one arm locked around her back like a vise.

Will ripped her from his
embrace.  "Don't you touch my sister, you damned lobsterback, you!"

"Will!" Amy cried.
"Can't you see he's mistaken me for someone else?  Leave him be, he's
clearly out of his head!"

"Juliet . . ."  The
officer sounded confused, groggy, his voice rising in worry.  "Juliet,
where am I?"

With a nervous glance toward the
door, Amy leaned down to whisper in his ear.  "Listen —" Her cheeks
were flushed, her pulse pounding madly; heaven help her, her legs were weaker
now than they'd been all during the surgery!  "I don't know who this
Juliet is, but I'm not her.  I'm Amy.  Amy.  Can you understand
that?"

He hesitated.  "Amy?"

"Yes, Amy.  Now listen to
me.  We're rebels and you're a king's officer, and you must say nothing to the
doctor about who you are or it'll be the end of us all!"

"I am not . . . such a fool
as that," he murmured thickly.  "But if you would be so kind . . . as
to bring me a candle . . . I shall take great comfort in being able to see
you."

Amy exchanged glances with Will.
The candle was three feet away from his staring eyes.

"You see, it is frightfully
dark in here . . . and I . . . I am afraid . . . that your doctor cannot see
what he's doing."

Will blurted, "But the
candle is —"

Amy clapped her hand over Will's
mouth and slowly shook her head from side to side, warning him not to say any
more.

"Don't worry, Charles,"
she said gently.  "When the doctor comes back, I'm sure he'll have a
candle for you to see by."

His hand found hers and pulled it
down to his lips.  "You . . . my dear angel . . . are a great comfort to
me."

"Amy, quick, Plummer's
coming back!" Will cried.

"All right, let's get this over
with," muttered the doctor, composed once more as he and Sylvanus strode
back into the room.  "At this rate I'll be here 'til dinnertime."

Amy pulled her hand from
Charles's.  Then, with gentle pressure, she guided his head back to center so
that his brow lay once more in the cradle of the pillow, which she adjusted so
that he could breathe.  A redcoat.  Not just any redcoat, but an officer
who was probably, judging by those beautifully groomed hands and the elegant
cadences to his speech, a member of the upper ruling classes, no doubt with
blood as blue as his eyes.  God help them!  What were they going to do?

But injured though he was, he had
enough presence of mind not to betray himself or the two youngest Leightons by
speaking in front of Plummer — and for that Amy uttered a silent prayer of
relief.  He didn't move a muscle as the doctor resumed stitching up the wound,
merely suffering his fate with stoic resolve and never realizing that just
above him, Amy was reliving that brief, desperate kiss that he had claimed.  He
never saw her flushed cheeks, never knew that her tongue had come out to touch
and taste the lips that he had mistakenly claimed.  And in that moment Amy,
remembering his hard strength, the roughness of his cheek against her own, suddenly
wished that she was the owner of the name he had uttered . . .

Juliet.

She was daydreaming again.
Mentally chastising herself as Plummer tied off the last stitch, Amy realized
that the splendid body beneath her had relaxed, seeming to sink down into the
table as the officer fell unconscious once more.

His irrepressible strength had
finally failed him.

Two minutes later, it was all
over, and the poor ravaged head was wrapped in a bandage and left to rest on
the bloodstained pillow.  With a trembling sigh of relief, Amy bade Dr. Plummer
goodbye and watched as Sylvanus walked him to the door, thanking him for his
services and resting a hand on the doctor's shoulder.

Then she turned to Will.

"You, my brother, have some
explaining to do," she murmured, and taking his arm, hustled him outside.

Chapter 3

From far, far away, Charles
became aware of the smell of wood smoke, coming to him through the darkness in
which he lay.  He wasn't sure if it was a dream or not.  It was a pleasant
smell, maybe cherry, maybe apple they were burning, and he could hear the
sizzling snap of the log, feel its warmth hot and dry against his face.

Eyes shut, he lay there on his
stomach facing the fire, floating in a state that wasn't quite sleep, wasn't
quite wakefulness.  Back and forth between the two he drifted.  He sensed the
passage of time, and people around him, and more time passing, and someone
tending to him.  He slept.  He dreamed.  And eventually consciousness came
within reach, teasing him with its elusiveness, flitting away, floating ever
nearer until he was able to wade his way into the midst of it.

"Billingshurst?" he
whispered, calling for his batman.

Silence.

"Billingshurst . . . where
are you?"

But there was no Billingshurst,
nothing familiar, no one here.  Charles raised his head, only to suck in his
breath in agony.  Stabbing pain lanced his skull, as though he had a hundred
hangovers all concentrated into one killer headache, but that made no sense to
him at all.  He liked a glass of port or sherry once in a while, or even an ale
with the villagers back home in Ravenscombe, but he, unlike his younger brother
Gareth, wasn't a three bottle man.

Confused, he tried to make sense
of things.  There was a thin mattress beneath his body, and beneath that, a
hard floor.  Thirst ravaged his mouth, and a host of scents invaded his
nostrils; drying herbs and baking bread, a pudding boiling in a pot, and over
everything, a heady wash of tar, fish, tidal marshes, and clean salt air.  He
heard the distant tolling of a church bell and wondered if it was Sunday.  Or
who had died.  Or if he had perhaps died, and this was what hell felt like.

"Billingshurst . . . anyone
. . . oh-h-h-h, damn."

Nothing but the chattering of a
flock of sparrows somewhere outside.

He turned onto his side, his
shirt bunching and twisting beneath him.  There was a blanket covering his
body, a pillow beneath his ear, and a strange, naked chill against the back of
his aching head.  And yes, he could feel the blazing warmth of the fire against
his face, making the skin feel tight and dry —

But he could not see it.

He opened his eyes.

And still could not see it.

He ignored the sudden butterflies
in his stomach and chastised himself for a fool.

I am dreaming.  Something
monstrous has happened to me, and if I lie here long enough, I shall remember
what it is . . . meanwhile I will close my eyes and go back to sleep, and when
I wake everything will be as it was, with Billingshurst shaking my shoulder to
rouse me for the day.  Yes, I shall just go back to sleep, and when I wake,
everything will be just as it should be.

He drew the blanket over his
head.  He was probably just having a nightmare.  It would pass soon.  Until
then, he would rein his mind into obedience and force himself to think of
things that brought him comfort and happiness.  England . . . his family . . .
and Juliet, whose eyes had filled with joyous tears when he'd got down on his
knee and asked her to marry him.  Had it only been last night?  How far away it
seemed now, almost as though it had never happened — but he could feel the
empty place on his finger where his signet ring should have been, and saw
again, in his mind's eye, the way her hand had trembled when he'd taken the
ring off his own finger, slid it over hers, and then brought her finger to his
mouth and kissed it.  He thought of the joy on her face, the twang of her
colonial accent, and the baby she would give him in a mere six months.  That
was the only part of the whole thing that seemed unreal, but he knew it
couldn't be:  after all, the baby was the reason he'd asked her to marry him,
wasn't it?  Marrying her so that she would have a husband, and the baby, a
name, had been the right thing to do.

And Charles always did the right
thing.

God help him, but his head hurt.
It hurt so badly that the pain was shimmying down the back of his neck and
spine, seeping into his gut even, and making him feel nauseous.  This was no
dream.  It wasn't even a nightmare.  It was worse.  He wished he could go back
to sleep, but that blissful state eluded him, and the consciousness he had
fought so hard to reach now held him securely in its grasp and would not let
him go.

And now footfalls approached,
reverberating beneath his ear.  They were soft and tentative, making a board squeak
here and there but otherwise trying to pass behind him without disturbing him.
Charles tensed, eyes open and staring into the gloom beneath the blanket as he
waited for the unknown person to continue on.  He felt exposed.  Caught off
guard.  Defenseless.

The footsteps stopped.  Then they
continued toward him, very slowly, very carefully.  He sensed the person's
nearness as he — or she — crouched down behind him and put a hand on his
blanket-clad shoulder.

It was a she.  He could tell that
just by the softness of the hand and the sharp, sweet scent of something —
bayberry, was it? — that drifted from her clothing as she knelt.

"Are you awake?" the
"she" asked, proving her gender without a doubt.

She sounded much like Juliet;
same provincial drawl, same inflections to her speech and the way she
pronounced her words.  But her voice was of a slightly lower pitch, soft and a
little breathy.  It wasn't Juliet.  His heart fell.

"Yes," he murmured.

She hooked her fingers over the
edge of the blanket and slowly pulled it down over his shoulder.  He threw an
arm across his eyes, unwilling to face the truth.  She touched his wrist, and
impatiently, irritably, he shrugged her off.  If she wasn't Juliet, she had no
business touching him.

"My name's Amy," she
said gently.  "Amy Leighton.  I've been taking care of you for the last
week.  Do you remember me?"

Amy . . . Amy. . . .  He frowned,
trying to recall a memory that was just beyond his grasp.  "I . . . I am
unsure."

"You woke for a little while
this morning and spoke to me then."

"I . . . do not
remember."

"Do you recall the surgery,
then?"

"No."

"What about your name?"

He didn't answer.

"Please, sir, can you tell
me you name?"

He groaned, the expenditure of
even this much mental energy taxing him beyond the limits of his strength.
"I . . . would rather not."

She pulled the blanket back up to
his shoulder and said gently, "I already know that you're a king's officer
who fell during the fighting near Concord."

"And I know that
you're a Yankee . . . probably a rebel."

"Yes.  But that doesn't mean
we want to harm you, keep you prisoner here, or make you suffer any more than
you already have.  Heaven knows you've been through enough.  We're good people,
sir, and wish only to restore you to health."  The girl paused a moment,
as though having a difficult time trying to decide what to tell him next.
"Please — you suffered a terrible injury.  I only want you to tell me your
name so I can be assured that you are . . . well, functioning as you should
be."

"Miss Leighton . . . I am
very weak.  My head aches.  It hurts to think, even.  Hurts even more to
speak.  I . . . I am not up to an interrogation."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
be thoughtless.  I was just concerned, and, well, anxious after your well-being
. . ."  Her hand briefly touched his shoulder, then she pulled back, away
from him.  "Shall I leave you to sleep, then?"

"I suspect I . . . have
probably slept enough."  He lay there, drained of strength, his eyes
pinned shut beneath the weight of his arm.  "How long was I out?"

"Three days."

"Three days!"

"The doctor said you were in
a coma."

He lay there, too weak to even
think about all that must've gone on in those three days since tensions had
finally exploded between the army and the Yankees.

"And where am I?"

"Newburyport, about forty
miles north of Boston."

That made no sense at all to
him.  His memory struggled to piece together the maps he had seen of the
colony.  Wasn't Newburyport on the seacoast, and a significant distance from
both Concord and Boston at that?  If he'd fallen at Concord, what the devil was
he doing up here?

She accurately interpreted his
silence for confusion.  "My brother was in the fighting at Concord, too.
He brought you home to us after you were injured," she explained.
"This is where we live.  My father's the minister of the Church of All
Souls."

"I . . . see," he
murmured, not quite seeing at all.  Who were these people?  Why wasn't he with
the troops in Boston?  What the blazes was going on here?  He lay there for a
moment, arm still draped over his eyes, trying to make sense of things that
made no sense at all.

"Will you tell me your name,
sir?"

Oh, bugger it.  She was a
persistent little thing, and he was of no mind or strength to resist her
determination. "Charles," he rasped, turning over onto his back.
"Charles Adair de Montforte."  And then, hoping to head off any more
questions he was too weak to answer, he added, "I was born in the year
1752, my home is in Berkshire, England, and I am a captain of infantry in the
Fourth Foot."  He paused, exhausted simply by the effort of speaking.
"Does that satisfy you that I am still in control of my faculties,
madam?"

"Oh yes," she breathed,
and he heard the smile and relief in her voice.  "Oh yes, indeed!"

But Charles was beginning to fear
that he didn't have much to smile about.  He had yet to open his eyes.  And he
wanted to be alone when he did.

"I . . . am grateful to you
for your kindness, Miss Leighton, but I feel frightfully unwell, and I would
like to be left alone for a while."

Silence.

"That is, if you do not
mind."

"Are you going to go back to
sleep?"

"No, I shall get up and
stretch my legs, I think."

"Then . . . I don't think
I'd better leave you.  Not yet, anyhow.  You might need me."

Need her?  How
presumptuous — he didn't need anyone.  Irritated, he lowered his arm
from his face, pushed himself up on one elbow —

And saw nothing.  Just a darkness
that was like a night without stars, a well without bottom, a horrible expanse
of nothingness without depth, without texture, without anything.

Charles went very, very still.
Everything inside of him — his heartbeat, the course of blood through his
veins, his very thoughts, even, seemed to stop.

"Miss Leighton?"

"I'm here."

"Why can't I see you?"
he asked, greatly confused.  "Why can't I see this fire I feel against my
face, or the birds I hear outside, or this room in which I find myself?  Is
there something in my eyes?"  His looked around, stunned.  "By God,
woman, what has happened to me?"

He heard the rustle of her
skirts, smelled bayberry as she knelt down beside him and took his suddenly
cold hand within her own.  He rubbed his eyes and stared, blinking, into the
blackness, trying to see beyond it.  But it was there when he turned his head
to the right.  It was there when he turned his head to the left.  It was there
when he opened his eyes as wide as they would go and looked where she should
be, and it was there no matter where he directed his open, staring gaze.  A
deep, involuntary shudder drove through him, and cold sweat broke out all along
his spine, turning his insides to ice.  He yanked his hand from hers and
reached blindly up and out into the darkness.

"There is nothing wrong with
your eyes, Charles," she said quietly.  "You fell and hit your head
on a rock and were left for dead.  My brother went back after the fighting
passed, saw that you were alive, and brought you home to us, thinking you could
be saved."  Her voice grew even more gentle.  "The doctor has been
visiting every day . . . he warned us that if you ever woke at all, it was
likely you might not be able to see . . . that your eyes would be fine, but
your brain might not be able to tell what they were seeing.  Does that make
sense to you?  It doesn't to me, but then, I'm not a doctor. . ."

"No.  No, I cannot accept this
. . ."

"You had a blood clot
beneath your skull, and the doctor said that if he didn't release it, you'd
die.  He had to trepan you."  Again, she took his hand, squeezing fingers
gone as cold as marble.  "I'm sorry.  We did everything that could be done."

"This — this is unreal, it
cannot have happened to me, there is no room in my life for this!"

"Is there anything I can
do?  Anyone I can contact, write a letter to, summon for you?"

"No — dear God, no .
. ."

"Please, calm down,"
the girl murmured, her hand stroking his shoulder as he stared blindly about
him.  "You've had a terrible shock and now you must rest, get your
strength back —"

"Get my strength back?  For
what?  I'm blind, blind, what the hell good am I if I can't see?!"
He lunged to his feet, pushing this way and that with his hands in a frantic
attempt to get his bearings.  He took a step, lost his balance and fell,
crashing heavily to the floor.  There he lay, fighting the panic, the emotions
that were rushing down on him.

"Shhhh.  It's all
right."  She was there, crouching down beside him, her irritating little
hand on his arm, his back, stroking him as though he was a baby.  Soft fingers
brushed the hair off his forehead, rubbed the back of his neck in a gentle,
soothing motion.  "Just be still.  You're not alone.  I'm here."

He was sharply aware of the
floorboards, hard beneath his cheek and smelling faintly of dust and pine.  He
was embarrassingly aware of the fact he wore only a long, nearly knee-length
shirt.  And he was very aware of her hand, soothing him, stroking him.
Normally he would have resented such womanly coddling — even from Juliet — but
in his shock and grief he was powerless to do anything but lie there and allow
it.

The girl Amy tried to put a hand
on his shoulder in comfort.

"Leave me!" he said
hoarsely, embarrassed by his shameful display and angrily twitching his
shoulder to throw her off.  He buried his face in his hands.  "Oh, please,
just go away and leave me to die."

The girl said nothing, which made
him all the more angry, all the more afraid, all the more frustrated by his
sudden helplessness.  He hated himself for it.  Hated himself for this shocking
loss of control.  But most of all, he hated himself for what had happened to
him because it was, after all, his own damned fault.

Cruel, cruel memory!  He
remembered the boy jumping out and shooting at him.  He remembered jerking his
musket up at the last moment so that he wouldn't kill the lad, and then losing
his balance, falling backwards and hitting something so hard that a million
lights had exploded in his head.  What a clumsy fool he was.  What an inept
excuse for a soldier.  He'd always wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.  Well,
he'd gone out, all right.

In a blaze of humiliation.

Sitting up, he gazed miserably
into the darkness, trying to get used to it and knowing he never could.  Imagine,
an entire life with nothing before you but this.  No light, ever again.  No
colors, ever again.  No faces of those you love, no knowledge of what your baby
will look like, no career, no future, no independence, nothing.

He took a deep, shaky, bracing
breath.

Ever again.

Outside, the sparrows were still
chattering; for them, for the girl beside him, for just about everything on
God's earth, life went on as usual.  How could everything be so complete and
utterly normal, when for him, things would never be the same?

He heard liquid pouring into a
vessel of some sort, and then the girl's voice, subdued, sympathetic.

"Here, drink this.  It'll
make you feel better."

He shut his eyes, unable to
speak.

"Please, Captain.  I know
you've had a shock, but you should be grateful that you're alive."

"Grateful?  Grateful?
Did it ever occur to you that I'd prefer to be dead?"

"I'm sorry.  I . . . I
cannot imagine what you must feel, right now."

"Indeed, you cannot.  I am a
captain in the King's Own.  I had a fine career, people who depended on me, and
the sweetest girl in Boston just accepted my hand in marriage.  Now I doubt
whether I can so much as feed myself without mishap — let alone lead my troops
into battle or suffice as anything resembling a husband or a father.  No,
madam, you cannot imagine what I feel right now.  You cannot imagine it at
all."

"But these are early
days."

"Right.  Early days.  I
suppose the doctor thinks I will recover my sight tomorrow, eh?"

"The doctor thought you'd
never wake up.  The fact that you have is a miracle in itself."

"You will understand if I
don't quite consider it a miracle."

He dug the heels of his hands
into his eyes, and rested his head thus, his fingers splaying up through hair
that felt thick and disgustingly greasy.  His fingertips encountered a bald
spot, and, pushing his hand further back and over his crown, he discovered that
an area the size of his fist had been shaved.

And there — ouch — stitches,
swelling, soreness.  Ah, yes.  Of course.  They would've had to shave his hair
off in order to cut a plug of bone out of his skull.  The very idea was
horrifying.  Bitterly, he wondered if he'd lost his sight before the doctor —
no doubt some inept, ignorant provincial — had got to him, or after.

Despondently, he asked,
"What happened after Concord?"

She gave a heavy sigh.
"Your army retreated to Boston, suffering heavy casualties along the way.
The countryside is still in an uproar, post riders have been racing through,
and God only knows what will happen next."  She paused.  "Would you
like something to eat?"

"No."

"A little water to drink,
then?"

"I do not want
anything."

"But you must be hungry . .
. thirsty . . ."

"Please, child.  Just leave
me alone."

He needed to grieve in privacy,
to try to come to terms with what had happened to him, to think what to do
next.  He needed to contact his commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel
Maddison; he needed to get a letter off to Lucien in England; and oh, God, he
needed Juliet.  Badly.  He dug his knuckles into his eyes to stop the sudden
threat of tears.  Oh, so very, very badly —

He wiped a hand over his face, and
as he did, his elbow hit a tankard the girl, who was getting to her feet, was holding,
sloshing its contents all down his chin and neck.

Charles's temper, normally under
as tight a control as everything else about him, exploded.

"Plague take it, woman, just
leave me the devil alone!  I am in torment enough without someone trying to
nanny me!"

"I'm only trying to help —"

"Then go away and leave me
be, damn you!" he roared, plowing his fingers into his hair and gathering
great hunks of it in his fists.  "Go away, go away, go away!"

Stunned silence.  And then he
heard her get to her feet.

"I'm sorry, Captain de
Montforte.  I should have realized that you'd need time to come to terms with
what's happened to you."  A pause.  "I'll leave this jug of hard
cider next to you in case you get thirsty.  It's not as potent as rum, but
maybe it'll let you escape from your troubles for a while."  Her voice had
lost its sparkle, and Charles knew then — much to his own dismay and
self-loathing — that she was a sensitive little thing beneath that
cheerfulness, and that he'd hurt her feelings.  He suddenly felt like a
monster, especially when her voice faltered and she said, "I'll be just
across the room, peeling vegetables for supper . . . if you need anything, just
call and I'll be right there."

She walked away, and he dug the
heels of his hands into his useless eyes and let self-disgust consume him.
With vivid clarity, he saw the face of his brother and heard again the words
with which Lucien had proudly seen him off to America:  "Godspeed then,
Charles, and return to us crowned in laurels.  You are a de Montforte.  I
expect nothing less than glory from you.  Especially from you."

Laurels.  Glory.  He
hadn't even seen proper action.  He bit savagely down on the inside of his
cheek and felt sick with shame, for he had never failed anyone before.

Ever.

Now, he'd failed not only his
family, but his country, his reputation, his men.  He had ruined his life and
nearly killed a young boy as well.  It was beyond unbearable.  He tried to
block out his last, painful memories, but all he could see was poor Ensign
Gillard charging into that rebel-held pasture and straight toward his death.

Over and over again.

Behind him, he heard the sound of
a pail being set down on the floor, and then the rapid scrape-scrape-scrape
of a knife over vegetables.

He remained where he was, suffering
in silence.

The scraping went on.  Stopped.
Became a rapid chop-chop-chop.  Stopped.  There was the sound of
vegetables being tossed into a pot.  More scraping.  More chopping . . .

And absolutely nothing from the
girl.

With a weary sigh, he lay down on
the pallet and pulled the blanket back over his shoulders.  "My apologies,
Miss Leighton.  You are kinder than I deserve, and my anger is not with you,
but myself."

He heard the thunk of more
vegetables landing in the pot.  "There's no need to apologize, Captain.
After what's happened to you, no one's expecting you to behave as you normally
would."

"Had I behaved as I
'normally would,' I would not be in this predicament," he said bitterly.
"Furthermore, it is humiliating to find myself so dependent on people who
are not only unknown to me, but who owe me nothing."

"You are wrong, Captain.  We
owe you everything."

"I am a 'redcoat,' Miss
Leighton.  No longer your protector, but your enemy."

"And I am the sister of a
fourteen-year-old boy who thought war was the way to prove his manhood.  He
was the one who shot at you, Captain de Montforte.  He was the one whose life
you could've snuffed out in a heartbeat, but decided instead to spare at the
last moment, and for that, sir, we owe you everything."

"You mean to tell me that
your brother was the one who —"

He broke off as a door slammed
and sudden, impatient footfalls reverberated across distant floorboards.

"Amy?  Amy, where are
you?" shrilled a young woman's voice.

He heard Amy catch her breath; a
second later the footfalls stormed into the room.

"Amy!  Oh, there you are,
tending to that horrible drain upon our resources again.  I wish he'd just
hurry up and die so that you'd get back to our needs.  I told you I
needed you to dress my hair since I'm going out this afternoon, but you haven't
even got out the curling iron, have you?"

"I've been busy with other
things, Ophelia."

"Yes, that stupid oaf Will
dragged in!  I want you to fix my hair!"

"And I want her to
get supper going!" snapped another female, her voice as sharp and
impatient as the first.  "Here it is, nearly three o'clock, and you still
haven't collected the eggs, made the beds, or even started the stew —"

"I'm doing it now —"

"You aren't either, you're
down here fawning over your pet man again!"

"And why not, he's the only
one she's ever likely to get!"

"Why don't you get yourself
a dog instead, Amy?  At least you'll get some response!"

Vicious laughter rang out and
Charles, who hadn't moved, felt Amy's humiliation as keenly as if it were his
own.  His heart started a slow, angry tha-dump, and his fists clenched
involuntarily as he stared into a fire he could not see.

"Please, stop," he
heard her plead.  "You don't know what you're saying —"

"But I know what I'm
seeing.  Always got your silly head in the clouds, haven't you?  I'll bet
you're sitting down here daydreaming, gazing at that useless creature and
pretending he's your suitor!"

"Ha!  That sure does explain
why she's barely left his side, doesn't it?  You know you're scraping the
bottom of the barrel when you have to start pretending someone who's too
senseless to know any different is your lover, ha ha ha!"

Charles had had enough.  He
raised himself on one elbow.  "I beg your pardon?"

Behind him came a shriek and a
splintering crash as one of the two newcomers dropped something to the floor.

"Heaven above, he spoke!"

Charles kept his back toward them
so they couldn't see his blindness.  "Yes, I believe I did," he said
in his frostiest drawl.  "I also believe I heard you maligning this dear
angel in a way she does not deserve."

He could sense Amy's cringing
embarrassment.

The two females were speechless
with shock.

"Will you not apologize to
her?" he asked with deadly softness.

"Apologize?  To Amy?
Whatever for?"

"Captain, please — my
sisters, they . . . they don't know what they're saying."

"The devil they don't.  You
deserve an apology from these two termagants and I will see that you get
one."

"Termagants?!  How dare
you!"  Angry footsteps came right up behind him.  "Just who do you
think you are, anyhow?  Imposing on us, partaking of our Christian charity and
now putting on airs and insulting us!  Why, just listen to that impossibly
fancy accent of his, Mildred!  He thinks he's above himself!"

"Thinks he's above us!"
cried the other, mimicking Charles's expensively educated, aristocratic
speech.  "So where are you from, anyhow?  Regardless of what Will
said, I can tell right now that you're no farmer, and you're not from Woburn,
either!"

"You are correct.  I'm no
farmer, and I am not from Woburn."

"Who are you, then?  Answer
me!"  The girl stamped her foot.  "Answer me now!"

"No!  Don't tell them!"
gasped Amy.

"Shut up!" snarled the
one called Ophelia, and Charles heard the sharp crack of a hand meeting flesh,
and Amy's cry of pain.  Everything inside of him went cold with a deep, black
rage.  How dare they hurt her.  How dare they.

His back toward them all, he
summoned his strength and began to pull himself to his feet.

"You tell us who you are
right now or I'm going to go get Papa!"

Charles kept rising, the blanket
sliding off his shoulders, too angry to care that he wore nothing but this long
shirt.

"You're not even from around
here, are you?  Are you?"

"How very astute you are.
For a provincial, that is."

"You're as much a provincial
as we are!"

He laughed softly.  "I think
not."

"What?"

"Go get your father."
And then, when no one moved, "Now."

The girl fled the room.
"Papa!" she cried in a piercing shriek that made Charles's head ache
all the more.  "Pa-paaa!"

Sylvanus, sitting outside beneath
an apple tree and trying to work out a theme for Sunday's sermon, jerked his
head up as Ophelia, bawling like a cow needing to be milked, came flying to the
open door.  Raising his eyes to God in a silent plea for patience, he put down
his notes.

"For the love of heaven,
what's going on in there?"

For answer, she burst into tears
and ran back inside.

Sylvanus abandoned his sermon and
followed, dragging his feet all the way.  The first person he saw was Amy,
hands steepled over her mouth.  She stared at him like a rabbit caught in a
snare, and it was then that he saw Ophelia and Mildred near the keeping room
fireplace and shrinking back from —

Praise the Lord!  Will's
friend was conscious and on his feet.  His spine, as straight as the back of a
pew, faced them all, and his bearing was one of pride, outrage, and the sort of
well-bred elan not often found amongst people of Sylvanus's acquaintance.
Barely able to contain his excitement, Sylvanus came up behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Smith, thank the
Lord you're awake!  Will is going to be absolutely delighted that his friend
has finally returned to the land of the living!"

The young man's profile was
severe, his jaw clenched with impatience as he fixed his gaze straight ahead.
"Will?"

"Yes, Will!  Don't you remember?"

"I beg your pardon, sir, but
I am not acquainted with anyone named Will, and my surname is certainly not Smith."

Sylvanus blinked, slightly undone
by the anger in the man's tone.  "Well, of course it is . . . Will said so
himself . . ."

"What madness have I
woken to?"  The stranger pressed his fingertips to his temples, as though
his patience with the lot of them had finally reached its end.  "My name,
sir, is Lord Charles Adair de Montforte.  I am a captain in His Majesty's army,
my home is in Berkshire, England, and my brother Lucien is the fifth and
current duke of Blackheath."  The proud head turned to regard him, the
clear blue eyes staring straight over Sylvanus's right shoulder and through the
wall behind him.  "And who, pray tell, are you?"

Chapter 4

A redcoat.  A blind
redcoat.  A blind, aristocratic redcoat.  Oh dear, oh, dear, oh dear . .
.

"Amy.  Go find Will and
bring him to me immediately."

"Oh, Papa, please, be easy
on him, he only did what he thought was right —"

Sylvanus kneaded his brow.
"Don't argue with me, Amy.  Just go get him, now."

Amy found her brother outside in
the barn.  He was gathering the eggs she should have collected this morning,
trying to help her with duties that, because of the captain, she could no
longer keep up with.  Amy's heart went out to him.  Poor Will was ravaged by
guilt from all corners.  He took one look at Amy's face and froze with his hand
beneath a hen's breast, earning a vicious peck on the back of his hand for his
hesitation.

"It's time, Will," said
Amy, taking the basket from him.  "The captain's awake, and Papa wants to
talk to you."

Her brother swallowed, made a
brave but pitiful attempt to square his shoulders, and followed her back into
the house, Crystal trotting at his heels.  Sylvanus was waiting by the door.
He gestured for Will to precede him into the keeping room where Lord Charles,
his back to them all, sat on his pallet before the fireplace, decently covered
in one of Sylvanus's old banyans.  Ophelia and Mildred stood with folded arms
in the corner, and the air was so thick with tension that Amy almost expected a
lightning bolt to slam down out of the ceiling.

Sylvanus poured himself a mug of
hard cider and took a seat.  Then he looked up at Will, his face confused,
saddened, mirroring betrayal.  "Out with it, son.  Before your family,
before this fellow you brought home, and before God."

Will took one look at the
expectant faces around him, and, his eyes filling with tears, blurted out the
story for all to hear.

"I didn't know what else to
do, Pa!" he said, stroking the dog's head and gulping once, twice.  "I
couldn't just leave him there, not after he saved my life!  He was dying, and
no one should have to die alone!"  And then, between apologies to his father,
to the stone-silent captain, and even to God for sneaking off to fight without
Uncle Eb's knowing, Will finally broke down in great wracking sobs that testified
to the anguish in his soul, burying his face in Crystal's neck.

Amy glanced at the captain.  He
hadn't said a word throughout Will's confession, neither batting an eyelash nor
moving a muscle, merely sitting there on his pallet with his back to them all.
It was as though he'd already given up on life, already given up on hope, and
that what had happened in his past was now irrelevant.  Glancing at him,
Sylvanus raked a hand through what was left of his hair; then, ushering Will to
his feet, he sent the boy to bed.

An awful silence remained in his
wake.

Sylvanus picked up the poker and
stabbed at a burning log.  "I just don't understand it.  He's never given
me a spot of trouble.  Always been a good lad, always did the right thing, and
now . . ."  He took off his spectacles and rubbed wearily at his eyes.
"And now, I don't know what to do with him.  I just don't know . . ."

"After what he did to Lord
Charles?  Punish him, I say!" snapped Ophelia, her eyes softening as she
gazed at the silent figure on his pallet.  "Poor, poor Lord Charles!"

"Yes, what a noble sacrifice
our brave friend has made!" Mildred gushed.  "His eyesight for Will's
life.  Oh, Lord Charles, how ever can we thank you?"

Amy wasn't surprised when he
didn't answer them.  A half-hour before, he'd been a drain upon their
resources.  A half-hour before, they couldn't wait for him to hurry up and
die.  Now that he was Lord Charles, everything had changed.  As a
handsome and no doubt very wealthy aristocrat, he was marriage material, an
object of competition between them both, the ultimate prize to be won.  The two
were out to impress him, and they wanted blood to do it.  Will's blood.

"What are you going to do,
Papa?" Ophelia demanded, trying to pressure her confused and hapless
father into a decision.

"I . . . I don't know."

"Please, Papa, have mercy on
Will," said Amy, interceding.  "After all, he's only fourteen.  He
was alone and scared, and he didn't know what else to do . . ."

Ophelia rounded on her.
"How can you defend him so?  Haven't you any thought for poor Lord
Charles?  If Will had taken our gallant captain to Boston and handed him over
to the king's troops instead of bringing him all the way up here to Newburyport,
he would've been treated for his injuries that much sooner!  He would've woken
up to find himself amongst people he knows and trusts, instead of strangers
whom he must think of as the enemy.  Your concerns are with the wrong person!
Lord Charles is the injured party here, not Will!  Will ought to be whipped for
what he did, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!"

"What do you mean, Will?  Amy's
the one who deserves to be whipped!" hissed Mildred, eyes gleaming as she,
too, turned on Amy.  "I'll bet you knew who Lord Charles was from
the start, didn't you?"

"I knew he was a redcoat,
yes, but I didn't see a need to say anything —"

"Didn't see a need to say
anything!  You stupid, unthinking, idiot, Newburyport is a rebel town!  We even
had our own tea party last year!  What happens if someone finds out we're
harboring a king's officer?  And what about when Dr. Plummer comes back to
check on him?  All Lord Charles has to do is say hello, how do you do, and the
doctor's going to know immediately that he's no rebel a'tall!  You've
put us in as much danger as Will has, Amy, for keeping your silence!"

"And unlike Will, you're
old enough to know better!"

Amy bit her tongue to hold back
her angry retort.  Of course she hadn't said anything to Sylvanus, but that was
because Will had begged her not to.  Unbidden, her mind drifted back to that
desperate, tearful conversation she and Will had had in the barn, just
following Charles's surgery . . .

"Swear you won't tell Pa,
Amy!  Oh, please Amy, don't tell him, he won't understand and since the
captain'll probably die anyhow it doesn't make a bit of difference —"

"Will, why did you even bring
him here?"

"I had to," he'd said
miserably, his eyes filling with tears as he sank down on a bale of hay, his
head in his hands.  "Oh, Amy . . .  I thought war was going to be
glorious.  I thought it would feel good to kill one of those bastards, to know
I'd done my part for America, but when it came down to it, and I saw people on
both sides dying horribly all around me . . ."

"It suddenly wasn't so
glorious anymore," she'd finished.

"It was awful," he'd
sobbed, tears squeezing out between his fingers.

"Tell me what happened,
Will."

And he had.

"I wanted to hate the
redcoats, Amy, I wanted to kill one, but how can you hate and kill someone you
feel nothing but admiration for?  When that young soldier ran away from the
safety of the troops, the captain was just like the shepherd who leaves his
flock to save a single lost sheep, heedless of all the bullets flying around
him.  I've never seen courage like that, Amy . . .  And just as he was putting
his soldier up over the saddle, I got a hold of myself and thought, here's my
chance to kill one, to kill a really important one and do my part for America
so that everyone'd be p-p-proud of me . . ."

Tearfully, he'd told her what had
happened next, how the captain must have realized his youth and in the last
moment, spared his life, only to fall backwards against the wall.  He told her
how, long after the fighting moved on and the fields and woods had gone quiet,
he'd gone back.  "I had to —" he'd choked back a sob — "had to
see for myself j-just what I'd d-d-done to him."

"It's all right, Will.
Don't cry . . . you're too big to cry now and besides, it's not your
fault."

"But it is my fault,
Amy!  It's like when you go hunting and you kill something for the supperpot.
You know you have do it, and you get all excited when you pull the trigger, but
when the bird goes up in a little puff of feathers, or the beautiful deer
stumbles and goes down, there's a big part of you that hopes that when you get
there, you was just imagining that you hit it . . . that it'll have recovered
and got away . . . or that you killed it cleanly so it didn't suffer."
He'd passed the back of his sleeve across his nose.  "The captain didn't
get away, and I didn't kill him cleanly.  He was still lying there, right where
I'd left him, with blood from his head all over the lichen on the rock behind
him.  And the worst part of it was, that horse of his never did leave him, and
was still standing there guarding him like some big dog, with the dead soldier
still lying across the saddle right . . . right where the c-c-captain had
p-p-put him.  I couldn't just leave him out there to die, Amy.  I just couldn't
. . ."

"But how did you get him
home without anyone stopping and questioning you?"

"One of our men was lying
dead nearby, so I swapped the captain's red coat, gorget and hat for the other
fellow's waistcoat … took him to Uncle Eb's and told him he was a friend and
then went to Boston and got a boat home.  Oh, Amy, what am I gonna do?"

She had pulled him to his feet.
"We are going to go right on letting everyone believe the captain's
a rebel," she'd said briskly, thinking, like Will, that he would probably
die anyhow.  "It'll be our little secret . . ."

And it had been — until now.

And now the chance for defending
herself was past; with the captain awake and listening, it seemed cruel and
insensitive to admit that they'd pretty much expected him to die.  No.  She'd
take whatever punishment was coming her way, if only to spare his feelings.
He'd been through enough, the poor man, still sitting on his pallet with his
gaze turned toward a fire he could not see and his mind as far away as England's
misty shores.  Totally oblivious to everything.  Totally uncaring.

Sylvanus put down the poker.
"Will's guilt is punishment enough for what he's done.  But Amy —"
his voice turned plaintive, — "Amy, you should have known better.  You
should have come to me immediately.  Why didn't you?"

"I'm sorry, Papa.  Will
begged my silence, and I — I thought that he should be the one to tell you, not
me . . ."

"I thought that Will
should be the one to tell you, not me," mimicked Mildred, nastily.
"If something bad comes of this, it's going to be all your fault, Amy!
Papa's right, you should've known better!"

"Nitwit!"

"Imbecile!"

Tears stung Amy's eyes.  She was
accustomed to getting abuse from her sisters, but oh, lordy, it felt a hundred
times worse to get it in front of the captain.  She glanced up at Sylvanus for
help, but she should have known better than to look for it there.  He stood
confused and uncertain, unwilling to make a move in any direction, and treating
this problem as he did all others that involved the raising of his children;
that is, by ignoring whatever he found unpleasant in the hopes it would go
away.

But Ophelia didn't go away, and
neither did Mildred.  The former shot Amy a look of loathing, then crouched
down before the captain.  "Now, you mustn't worry, Lord Charles," she
crooned, in a voice that was meant to be reassuring but, addressed as it was to
a proud king's officer, came out sounding patronizing.  "I know you must
feel very sad and sorry for yourself right now, but we'll take care of you, and
you can be certain that no harm will come to you here.  Everything will be just
fine."

The captain ignored her.

"Did you hear me, Lord
Charles?  I believe I'm talking to you."

He only stared straight ahead and
blinked, the exaggerated sluggishness of the action only emphasizing the
extraordinary length of his lashes, the aquamarine clarity of his eyes.  He did
not turn his head to look Ophelia's way, or even acknowledge that she had
spoken.

This was a situation Sylvanus did
know how to deal with.  "Leave him alone, girls," he said gently.
"The poor fellow has had a shock and needs to rest.  Can you not see
that?"

Ophelia shot her father an angry
look.  Then, sweetly addressing Lord Charles once more, she cooed, "Well
then, perhaps I can get him something with a bit of laudanum in it so that he
can sleep."

Mildred pushed her sister aside.
"No, no, Ophelia, I can get that for him."

"You're going to Lucy
Preble's poetry reading, you don't have time to see to Lord Charles's wishes as
I do."

"And you're going out
driving again with Matthew Ashton!"

Sylvanus said, "I think Amy
can see to Lord Charles's needs just fine."

"Now Papa, you know
that Amy has so many other things to do, she doesn't have time to see to
him," Ophelia protested.  She gave her father her sweetest smile, but
above it her eyes were harder than stone.  "We only want to help her
out."

"Yes, help her out,"
put in Mildred, not wishing to be outdone.

"Divide his care between the
three of you then," he said wearily.  "But if there's anything, er, delicate
that needs doing, leave it to Amy.  There are some things the two of you just
shouldn't be seeing."

Ophelia and Mildred giggled.
Sylvanus turned away.  On his pallet, Lord Charles remained unmoving, and as
Amy looked from him to her sisters, both of whom were regarding her, she saw that
their eyes gleamed with malice and loathing.  Don't think we're going to let
you take care of him, those glittering eyes warned.  He's ours,
now.

He's his fiancée's, Amy
wanted to retort, taking a certain delight in anticipating their response when
they found that out.

Sylvanus eased himself down into
a chair.  "And now, I'd like to speak to Captain de Montforte in
private," he said, reaching for his cider.  "Mildred, go get ready
for your reading.  Ophelia, you've got an outing with Matthew Ashton to prepare
for."

"But Papa —"

"Come now, girls, go.  I
wish to speak to our guest alone."

"What about Amy?  Why does she
get to stay?"

"Because she's making
supper.  Now hurry up, or you'll be late."

They pouted.  They pleaded.  But
for once Sylvanus didn't give in to them.  As soon as they stormed from the
room in a huff, he turned to the lone figure sitting before the fire.

"I am sorry, Captain
de Montforte," he said.  "This cannot be easy for you, and you have
my sympathies for your plight."

There was no response from the
captain.

"Dr. Plummer wants you to
rest for the next fortnight, but after that, we need to think about getting you
back to the army in Boston," Sylvanus continued.  "If you ask me,
your spirit's taken a far worse blow than the back of your head, and I think it
would do you a world of good to be with your own people."  His voice
gentled.  "You need to be with friends, not strangers."

The captain only blinked again in
that slow, exaggerated way he had, and continued staring into nothingness.

Sylvanus, growing worried,
glanced at Amy, who shook her head and motioned with her hands to let the man
alone.  But out of guilt for his son's part in this tragedy, Sylvanus
persisted.  "I know you must be eager to return to Boston, and as much as
I'd like to take you back there myself, I just can't leave my flock, I can't
spare my son, and it is, of course, unthinkable that I allow my two daughters
to bring you . . . though if you're determined to go, I suppose I could
always send Amy."

The captain, still staring
straight ahead, finally spoke.  "Is Amy not your daughter also?" he
asked flatly.

"Er — well, uh . . . she
bears my name, yes.  But she doesn't have a reputation to consider, as do
Ophelia and Mildred."

"All young women have
reputations to consider."

"Yes, but Amy is — well,
never mind, Captain.  Suffice it to say that, unlike her sisters, Amy's
reputation does not demand careful care and protection."

Amy wanted to die.

The captain's jaw hardened.

And Amy, seeing it, quietly
stirred the stew in its big black kettle.  "Papa, if Lord Charles wants to
go to Boston, I can take him anytime he wants to go —"

"No!" barked
their guest, startling her with the vehemence of his tone.  He glared
sightlessly into the flames, his fists clenched.  "I will not allow
it."

Sylvanus began, "Really,
Captain, Amy's a very capable young woman —"

"Precisely that, she is a young
woman, and Boston is a den of rascals, sailors, blackguards and scum.  It
is no place for her, and since I've been rendered useless in my ability to
protect her, I will remain here until someone can come up from Boston to
collect me.  I will not see her life or virtue risked on my account.  By
God, I will not!"

Sylvanus's brows shot straight to
the roots of his sparse white hair.  And Amy, who had never before had anyone
defend her in such a gallant way, had never thought of herself as a woman
worthy of "protection," and had never been the focus of such gentlemanly
concern, widened her eyes and put her hand to a suddenly fluttering heart.

"Papa," she said
carefully, "Lord Charles has just woken up.  He is exhausted, upset, and
needs time to rest.  Time to come to terms with what has happened to him.
Maybe you should have this conversation with him later."

Sylvanus, his face white,
nodded.  He made a comment about getting back to his sermon and hastily exited
the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

Once he had gone, Charles's
shoulders rose on a great sigh of weariness, then fell.  There was no pride to
maintain, now.  No reason to show strength where none was needed.  He put his
head in his hands and stayed that way for a long time, not saying a word while
the girl moved about the room, quietly performing her slave-duties.  But he
could not get her out of his mind.  Her humiliation had been, and still was,
nearly palpable.  The way her sisters had attacked her, the way her apathetic
father had failed to defend her, the way her cowardly brother had allowed her
to shoulder blame that was his and his alone, gave him a tangible outlet for
anger which heretofore, had no other but self-pity.  They were a pack of wolves
after a little fawn.  They were horrible.  And as she silently went about
preparing supper, Charles decided that he had never disliked anyone as much as
he did these people who called themselves her family.

The stew was thick and bubbling,
the bread a lovely golden brown, and the fragrance of beef, onions, and herbs
filled the keeping room before he finally spoke.

"Miss Leighton."

He heard her crossing the room,
the brush of air against his face as she knelt down to his level, taking the
hand he held out to her in silent apology.  "Yes, Lord Charles?"

"I am sorry for embarrassing
you so.  Forgive me."

"Oh, there's nothing to
forgive," she said, squeezing his hand and then releasing it.  "I
know you're not angry with my family, but with your circumstances —"

"On the contrary, Miss
Leighton, I am furious with your family.  I do not know if I can suffer them
for the remainder of my stay here."

"I don't mind bringing you
back to Boston, then, if you want to go —"

"Damn it, girl, don't fuel
my fury with such remarks!"  Charles dug his fists into his eyes and then,
in a calmer, quieter voice, murmured, "I need you to do me a
kindness."

"Certainly."

"Can you read and
write?"

"Yes."

"Providence smiles on me at
last.  I need someone to pen three letters for me.  Will you do that?"

"Oh, yes.  We can do them
right now, if you like.  Supper won't be ready for a while, and I'm just
tidying up a bit, that's all . . ."  He heard her jump to her feet.
"I'd be happy to write your letters for you, Captain de Montforte, even
post them for you in the morning —"

"No.  You have more than
enough to do.  Let your sisters post them."

"I don't mind, really —"

"I mind.  Let them do
it."

"Well . . . all
right."  He heard the whisper of her petticoats, caught the tantalizing
scent of bayberry mingled with warm, soft female as she came close.  His
senses heightened, his skin warming at her nearness, and Charles frowned,
disturbed by his reaction to her.  "Now, if you'll take my hand, I'll
bring you into Papa's study, where there's pen and paper."

He extended his hand up toward
her voice, unaware that she, at the same time, was beginning to lean down.  His
fingers plunged through cloth and into the plush softness of a breast, and he
heard her surprised gasp as he jerked his hand back, curling his fingers into
his palm, into a fist, and cursing himself for his inadvertent liberty.

"Miss Leighton, I am dreadfully
sorry —"

"N-no, you couldn't see what
you were doing, there's nothing to be s-sorry about," she managed, in a
breathless little voice.

"Shall we try again?"

"Yes — " a nervous
little laugh — "yes, let's."

He tentatively extended his arm.
God help him, the feel of her breast, so soft, so firm, so ripe, was still
seared on his fingertips, imprinted on his brain.  Charles didn't even realize
his hand was still fisted until he felt her gently prying apart his fingers.

It was all he could do not to
pull her down into his arms, to put his hands all over her so that he could
see, through his touch, the face of this woman who had done so much for him,
who was the only light in his world of darkness, who seemed to intuitively
understand and protect for him those things he needed most.  Dignity.  Rest.
Space to heal.

But he could not put his hands on
her, of course.  He could not go about touching people.  He could not, would
not, go about touching young women, especially those to whom he wasn't engaged
to be married.  And so he rose to his feet, taking care that he didn't put
undue pressure on her hand and thus throw her off balance, and then stood there
swaying a little with disorientation, weakness, and a renewed pounding of his
head.

"Can you manage this, Lord
Charles?"

"Yes — just give me a
moment."  He took a few deep breaths to steady himself.  She remained very
still beside him, just holding his hand, letting him get used to the feel of
being on his feet once more.

"I am ready now," he
said.

She squeezed his hand and took a
step.  He, in his stockinged feet, followed.  How very strange it felt to move
through this impenetrable blackness.  How very strange it felt to entrust your
steps, and more importantly, your direction, to another.  And how strange it
was to put such confidence in this small, albeit strong, little hand.  She did
not try to hurry him, but merely stayed with him, holding his hand and
reassuring him by her very presence that he was not alone.  He kept moving.
His head swam with dizziness and his skin prickled with apprehension that he
would bump into something and fall, that he would trip over something and bring
them both crashing to the floor.  But no.  He tripped over nothing, and she
stayed right beside him.

"We're at the door to the
study now, Lord Charles.  It's open.  If you shuffle your feet, you'll find the
doorjamb and it won't trip you up."

He did, and there it was, just as
she'd warned.  He lifted his foot, walked over the tiny obstacle that, in his
infirm state, would have been enough to send him sprawling, and began to move a
little more confidently.  The girl kept pace beside him.  He felt like a big,
blundering fool for clutching her tiny hand as though it was the only thing in
the world worth hanging onto, but he couldn't help it.

It was.

"We're here," she
said.  "If you turn to your right and back up a bit, you'll find yourself
against Sylvanus's favorite chair.  It'd be a good place for you to sit and
dictate to me, I think."

He did as she suggested, and
there it was, the stuffed edge of a chair, pressing against the back of his
legs.  Suddenly weary, he put out one hand, found the arm, positioned his body,
and very carefully lowered himself down.  It was amazing how much thought was
needed for acts to which he wouldn't have given the merest consideration,
before.  But the chair was deep, the stuffing soft and lumpy with age and use,
and it swallowed him up like a mother's arms might a babe.  Charles sighed and
leaned his aching head back, and it was only then that he rather reluctantly
released the girl's hand.

"Are you all right, Lord
Charles?"

"My head," he
murmured.  "It's killing me."

There was a slight hesitation;
then he caught her scent as she leaned toward him, felt the warmth that
surrounded her body a second before her fingertips moved gently over his brow,
his temples.  Instinctively, he leaned his head into that cool, soothing touch,
but caught himself just as his cheek met the palm of her hand.  Stiffening, he
pulled back — to throbbing pain and a desperate wish to feel that caring touch
once more.

A desperate wish that he didn't
want to acknowledge.

He heard the sound of a chair
being pulled out, a drawer opening, an ink bottle being uncapped, papers being
slid about.

"I'm ready," she said.
"Are you?"

"Yes."  He sighed and
let his cheek rest against the threadbare back of the chair.  It smelled of old
man.  Old fabric.  Old horsehair.  He could fall asleep here, and when this was
done, he probably would.  "The first is to my commanding officer in Boston,"
he said wearily.  "The second, to my brother Lucien in England.  And the
third —" Shame sliced through him.  Juliet had trusted him to take care of
her and her unborn baby, but with that one stupid move in a rocky field near Concord,
he had let her down, just as he had let down his family, his men, and everyone
else who depended on him.  He couldn't take care of her and a baby, now.  He
couldn't even take care of himself.

Somewhat hoarsely, he finished,
"The third is to my fiancée, Juliet."

He closed his eyes and in a
detached, resigned voice that revealed none of his anguish and grief, began to
dictate.

She proved to be a wonderful
letter-taker.  Better, even, than Billingshurst.  She didn't need him to spell
the difficult words.  She didn't ask him to repeat himself.  And she didn't beg
him to slow down, her pen only moving faster and faster to keep up with him.
And as he heard his voice droning lifelessly on, and her pen dutifully
scratching away, a sense of release, of calm, finally began to overtake him.
He was finally setting things in motion.  Tomorrow, the letters would be on
their way, and his life would begin to look up.  Lieutenant Colonel Maddison
would send someone to bring him immediately back to Boston.  Juliet would be
there waiting to care for him.  And when Lucien got his letter, neither hell
nor high water, rebels nor revolution would keep the duke of Blackheath from
coming straight to America to bring him back to England.

Home.

Charles heard himself dictating
the final address; then the sound of her rapidly moving pen blurred into
nothingness, and nothingness claimed his exhausted brain.

He slept.

And Amy, feeling a heavy sense of
wistfulness as she finished the last letter, thinking what a lucky, lucky girl
this Juliet Paige was to be affianced to such a worthy man as this, looked at
the figure sleeping in her father's chair, his unkempt blond hair falling
haphazardly over his brow, his neck at a most uncomfortable angle, and felt
something catch in her throat.

He defended me as though I was
a real lady.  He stood up for me at risk to his own situation.  He is brave and
selfless and kind, and he actually made me forget who I really am.

Very quietly, she tiptoed across
the room, picked up the blanket that lay across the back of the sofa, and
returning to the captain, placed it gently over his sleeping body.

And then she left the room,
taking care to close the door behind her.

Chapter 5

Captain de Montforte slept
through supper.  He slept through the Bible reading that followed it.  He slept
through a squabble between Mildred and Ophelia, through Amy quietly putting a
final log on the fire that danced and smoked a few feet away from his
stockinged toes, and finally, through a silent procession of family members
creeping past him on their way up to bed.

As she passed her father's desk
Ophelia, carrying the cat, spied the captain's three letters propped against a
candlestick.  Swiftly, and when Amy's back was turned, she swept them up and
hurried upstairs.

She had them opened and read
before she even reached the landing.

Mildred was stripped down to her
stays when Ophelia entered the room.  The two sisters unlaced each other.
Grumbling about how Amy had always used to come in with the bed warmer before Lord
Charles's arrival, Mildred slipped beneath the quilts of the bed they both
shared and gasped at the feel of the icy sheets against her skin.  Ophelia
quickly followed her in, and the two snuggled together for warmth, the cat
under the covers with them.  Downstairs, they could hear the squeak of the
floorboards as Amy moved about.  And they could envision her gazing dreamily at
Lord Charles, and fancying him as she had no right to do.

The thought made them both angry
and nauseated.

"Listen to her down there,"
Ophelia said hatefully.  "Fussing over him, making him cozy, digging her
way under his skin like a tick.  I nearly strangled myself on that stupid
string she's rigged up so he can find his way around.  Next thing you know,
she'll be sleeping on his pallet to keep him warm!"

"It makes me furious to see
how nice he is to her.  Can you believe the way he defended her this
afternoon?  I nearly fainted with shock and disgust.  He treats her like she's
some well-bred lady, whereas us —"

"Whereas us, he won't even
speak to."

Mildred jerked the covers up to
her chin.  "If only he knew what she really was, he wouldn't even
suffer her to talk to him, let alone take care of him."

"Not that it's going to
matter one way or another."

"What are you talking
about?"

"Our resident aristocrat
already has himself a fiancée."

"What, some snob of a
noblewoman over in England?"

"No, some hussy down in Boston
named Juliet Paige."  Ophelia leaned over and retrieved the letters she'd
put on the night table.  "Here, read these.  They're the letters he had
Amy write for him that we're supposed to post."

The chilly air outside the covers
forgotten, Mildred sat up, pulled the candle close, and read each letter.  She
skimmed through the one to Lord Charles's commanding officer, showed markedly
more interest in the one to the duke, and narrowed her eyes as she read the one
to his fiancée.  By the time she finished it, her face was twisted with spite
and jealousy.

She hurled the letters across the
room.  "I wonder what she looks like, the little twit!"

"The tail end of a donkey,
probably."

"I bet she's no better than we
are . . . yet she's the one who'll get to be called lady . .
."

"And live in a grand
house."

"And have clothes that cost
the earth."

"And servants she can order
about like an army."

"And a husband that looks
like Lord Charles . . ."

A charged, resentful silence
stretched between them.

"Know something,
Millie?"

"What?"

"I hate her."

"So do I."

"And I don't think we ought
to post those letters."

"We have to.  How else are we
going to make him like us, if not by doing favors for him?  Don't be a dolt,
Ophelia, we have to post them."

"No, Millie, don't you
be a dolt.  Blind or not, Lord Charles is an aristocrat, and my sights are set
a lot higher than the local fishermen, artisans and seafarers!  Do you think
I'm just going to sit here and let him slip through our fingers so some stupid
cow down in Boston can have him?"

Mildred shot a nervous glance
toward the door.  "What do you have in mind?"

"A plan.  A plan so good
that she'll never have him.  A plan that will keep him here long enough
for one of us to get our claws into him and a ring on our finger.  Now listen
up, and listen good . . ."

~~~~

At two o'clock in the morning
Charles, still in the chair, finally woke to a house that had gone dead-quiet
and the nearly unbearable weight of his own thoughts.

Someone had covered him with a
heavy wool blanket.  His skin was sensitive to the fabric — it made him itch —
and he wondered if it had been the blanket, or the vivid, disturbing dreams,
that had finally roused him.  They were still with him, those dreams.  In them,
his hand was once more plunging accidentally into Amy Leighton's breast . . .
but this time her gasp was not one of surprise, but of desire.  This time, she
had responded by wantonly pressing herself into his hand, her nipple going
pebble-hard against his stroking fingers, her flesh filling his palm, even as
she'd slid her hand down his belly, her fingers touching, stroking, rubbing him
until —

Zounds, he was hard.  Hard!  Horrified
at his body's betrayal, he shook his head, trying to clear it.  What the devil
was wrong with him?

Disgusted by the dream, his
reaction to it, and yes, his disloyalty to Juliet for even having it, Charles
stirred in the chair, trying to ease the heaviness in his loins.  It was only
when he forced himself to contemplate the bleakness of his situation — and his
future — that the unfulfilled ache finally eased, succumbing to the mental pain
that annihilated everything else in its path.

He rested his cheek against the
back of the chair, thinking.

Thinking, perhaps, too much.

You've really gone and done it
now, haven't you?

He had always prided himself on
the fact that he was a man who did not make mistakes, but in the last three
months — starting with what he had done to Lady Katharine Farnsley — he had made
a lifetime's worth of them.

All his life he'd tried to be the
best that he could be.  He had won his mother's love and his father's
admiration by constantly doing good, doing well, just plain doing.  In
his own mind, failure had not been allowed.  After a while, failure was not
expected.  And he had known then, as he knew now, that failure was the one sure
way to lose the respect and affection that others had for you.

And you've failed splendidly,
man.

What would become of him now?

His life as he'd known it was
over.  From now on, he'd be dependent upon others for his very existence.  What
would he do, where would he go?

They were frightening thoughts,
but Charles met them with complete calm.  It would be difficult, maybe even
impossible, but he had to accept what had happened to him and get on with
things.  It wouldn't be easy, but he knew that if he looked toward the future,
and found and focused upon a goal to get himself past this sudden calamity that
had been visited upon him, he might survive.  He would never be
"Major" de Montforte, but he could work on making himself as
independent as possible with the least burden to others.  That alone would be a
challenge — and a worthy accomplishment.

I will beat this thing, he
vowed savagely.  And he had plenty of people in his life to help him do it.  He
had Amy Leighton.  He had Juliet.

And he had his family.

They would be there for him.
They would help him get through this, to rebuild his life, to make him whole
again.

He couldn't help but wonder how
each of his brothers would react if this had happened to them.  It was hard to
imagine Lucien as blind; Charles wryly doubted that neither God nor the devil
would dare saddle the duke with such an infirmity.  What about Andrew, his
youngest brother?  Andrew aspired to be an inventor.  Andrew had a clever mind
and a wonderfully active imagination — no doubt he would invent some
contraption to help him get through life with the minimum of discomfort.

And then Charles thought of
Gareth, and a fond smile came over his face.  Where Charles was serious and
guided by ambition, Gareth, only a year his junior, had always shunned
responsibility of any kind.  He had run wild through childhood, through
university, and now, through early adulthood, raising havoc from Lambourn to London
as the leader of a group of equally dissolute friends calling themselves the
Den of Debauchery.  Gareth's carefree nature, his delight in daredevil pranks
and reckless tomfoolery was something that Lucien railed about in every letter
Charles received from him, but despite that, he was the brother that Charles
loved most — and the one whose nature he wished he could emulate in this, his
hour of darkest despair.

Gareth wouldn't be sitting here
feeling sorry for himself.  He'd find a way to laugh at his problems.  And
whereas the idea of dining with his hosts distressed and unnerved Charles, to
whom the thought of spilling food all over himself was horribly embarrassing,
he knew Gareth would probably make a joke out of it, and delight in making a
spectacle of himself.

Oh, if only he could be
that way!

Well, at least he'd be home with
them all soon, for he had little choice but to resign his commission in the
army and take Juliet and himself back to England.  But was there anything there
for him?  He envisioned himself once again at Blackheath Castle, ferociously
guarded by Lucien, shielded from society, and living out the rest of his days
as a recluse in the ancient home where he'd grown up.  At least Juliet would
have a happy social life there, in company with his sister Nerissa.  Though
Charles himself could no longer take care of her — or a baby — Lucien and his
two other brothers certainly could — and would.

Gareth.  Gareth would make life
bearable.

Buoyed by thoughts of his family,
Charles stirred, stretched, and winced at the sudden pain that blazed through
the his head.  Blindness was bad enough; was he to have a damned headache for
the rest of his life, as well?

"I think," he muttered
beneath his breath, "that if I had a gun I'd put myself out of my
misery."

"And I think,"
said a soft feminine voice, "that if you had something to eat, you'd feel
a whole lot better."

Amy Leighton.  With a violent
start, he remembered his dream.  Dear God, had he said anything in his
sleep?  Had he called her name?  And heaven help him, had she seen the jutting
hardness of his erection?

No.  There was the blanket —
thank God.

"Hello, Miss
Leighton."  He gave a faint, almost rueful smile, and just as a precaution,
pulled the blanket more securely over himself.  "You weren't supposed to
hear that."

"And you weren't supposed to
say it."  There was a soft rustle of petticoats as she got up.  "I
saved some stew for you. . .  it might be too much on your stomach right now,
but the broth itself might be a start.  Would you like me to fix you
some?"

"Later."

"How about some hot water so
that you can wash?"

"Not right now."

"Something to drink?"

"Actually, I would like —
that is to say, I —" he faltered, scowling.  "I need some
privacy."

"Yes, of course," Amy
said, in understanding.  Unwilling to leave him alone so soon after his
shocking discovery, she had been trying to pass the night in a nearby chair.
Now, she went up to him, took his hand, and coaxed him to his feet.  He was not
yet able to judge his proximity to other people; as he straightened to his full
height, his lips nearly brushed her temple and remained only inches away, fully
within that unseen but deeply felt area of private space that surrounds every person
— that surrounded Amy.  Her face warmed.  She stepped involuntarily back,
assailed by memories of what that mouth had felt like against her own.

Oh, what she wouldn't give to
have him kiss her again!

Amy! she scolded herself,
shivering the thought away.

"Are you cold, Miss
Leighton?"

"A little," she fibbed,
not wanting him to know the effect he had on her.  As it was, the mere warmth
of his hand over her own was making jelly of her knees and butterflies of her
heartbeat.  She must ignore these — these feelings!  Putting a safe
distance between them, she led him back out to the keeping room, where she
guided his hand toward the length of yarn she'd tied around a nail while he'd
slept.  She closed his fingers around it, and released his hand.

"What is this?"

"Yarn.  I've strung it from
here, to the door, and from there, to the privy outside.  I thought you might .
. . well, I thought you might appreciate it," she finished lamely, as an
odd, cold look came over his face.  She hoped she hadn't offended or embarrassed
him.  She was only trying to help.  To give him confidence to find his way
through his strange new world with more independence than fate had dealt him.

"Thank you," he said
tightly, and then, looking sleep-rumpled and faintly scandalous in his stockinged
feet, worked his way down the rope and outside.  Amy got out a bowl for the
broth she hoped he would eat.  She worried about him out there.  Hoped he
wouldn't trip over anything, or grow suddenly dizzy and fall.  It was all she
could do not to go to the door, but she knew she must not hover too much, nor
be so helpful that she was stifling.  Lord Charles did not need a nanny.  What
he needed was independence, and the realization that he wasn't as helpless — or
useless — as he seemed to think he was.

And most of all, she thought
fiercely, he needed to eat.

Two minutes later, he came back
in.  "I think I will have that water in which to wash, now," he said,
removing the banyan.  "And then, if it pleases you, I will eat."

"Oh, yes, it would please me
very much, Lord Charles!"

He smiled tightly.  "I am
only doing this for your sake, Miss Leighton.  Not my own.  I really have no
appetite.  But, you've gone to such trouble on my behalf, I feel obliged to
repay your kindness."

She took the banyan from him and
draped it over a chair.  "I hope you don't mean that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, I hope you don't
mean that.  I want you to eat because you need to eat.  Because you need
to regain your strength.  If you don't do it for yourself, Captain de Montforte,
then do it for your fiancée.  After all, what would she think if we were to
send you back to her all skin and bones?"

"God knows what she's going
to think as it is," he said cryptically.  "But you are entirely
correct, Miss Leighton.  I will have some of that broth, for her sake — as
well, of course, for yours."

"And I will get that
hot water for you," she said, springing up and hastening toward the
hearth.

"Please.  There is no need
to rush on my account."

"Yes, but —"

"Miss Leighton."  He
smiled grimly.  "You may be your family's slave, but you are not
mine."

"I'm not a slave."

"No?"

"Slaves labor but don't get
paid.  Slaves are often mistreated.  Slaves have no time to themselves, exist
to serve the needs of others, and are not appreciated."

"Yes.  My point
exactly."

Amy cheeks burned with
embarrassment.  Though she was tempted to challenge the remark, and angrily at
that, she didn't want him asking questions she had no wish to answer.  Better
that he didn't know the truth about her — then, at least, he'd continue to be
kind to her, to talk to her, to treat her as though she was something precious
and special.

Besides, he was bound to find out
about her shameful beginnings, anyhow.  Ophelia and Mildred would make sure of
it.  Quietly, she went about getting him his hot water.

"Miss Leighton?"

"Yes?"

"Have I offended you?"

"No."  And then:
"But I'm not a slave, I have a nice home here, and I have nothing to
complain about, so please don't make my business your own, Captain.  Now here's
your hot water, soap, and a towel, and when you're finished, I'll see you eat whether
you want to or not."

His elegant brows rose in
surprise and amusement.  "I beg your pardon?"

Good heavens!  Had she really
been so rude?  "I said, I'd like to see you eat something," she mumbled,
embarrassed.

"My dear Miss Leighton.  I
daresay I liked it better when you were snapping at me!"

"I wasn't snapping . . . was
I?"

His lips curved in a smile; a
real one this time, and one so rich and warm and wonderful that it made the sun
shine like July in Amy's heart, warming her from head to toe.  "You
were," he said mildly, "and I must confess I much prefer your temper
over your meekness.  Snap at me all you want.  And snap at your sisters, too.
If you'd only turn some of that mettle on them, perhaps they'd treat you with
the respect you deserve."

She went quiet.  Too quiet.

"Miss Leighton?" he
asked, plunging his hands into the bowl of water and then searching around for
the soap.  "Now have I offended you?"

"No . . . but they will
never treat me with respect, because . . . well, because I don't deserve
any."

"What an absurd thing to
say!  Why the devil do you think that?"

"Can we please change the
subject?"

He sighed, found the soap, and
bending his head toward the bowl of water, lathered his face, ears, neck and
nape.  "Very well, then.  If that's what you want, I shall endeavor to
keep my curiosity, and my protests, to myself."  Gripping the sides of the
washstand for balance, he lowered his head into the bowl, vigorously soaped
both his hair and his shorn scalp, and reaching blindly out for the pitcher,
poured the entire lot over his head.  "However," he said, sputtering
as water ran down his face and into his eyes, "I will warn you right now
that I will not suffer things as cheerfully as do you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that if I perceive
an injustice toward you, I will not let it pass without remark."  He
straightened up, gingerly towelling his head and the still-raw stitches.
"Now, if I might have some privacy?"  He grinned.  "The rest of
me needs washing as well."

Amy blushed.  "Yes — yes, of
course.  Would you like me to fetch the tub?"

"No, I can make do with
this, until tomorrow.  There's no need for you to put yourself to the trouble
of hauling in a bath for me."

"But —"

"Miss Leighton."

She sighed.  "Very well
then, Captain de Montforte.  I'll just get you some more hot water, then — and
a clean new shirt."

"A heavenly suggestion, but
I'm afraid that I only have the one."

"No.  You have three."
She grinned and straightened the cuff of her short-gown as he turned toward her
in surprise.  "I did some sewing these past few days while you lay
senseless."

"What?"

"I made you two new shirts,
and by the end of next week, you'll have a waistcoat, a frock, and a second
pair of breeches."

He actually blushed.
"Breeches?  How did you . . . get the fit?"

If he was red, Amy was even
redder.  "I um . . . measured your leg while you slept."

"Did you now?  Well . . . if
I might have my original ones in the interim, it would make me feel a bit more
. . . covered."

Her cheeks were blazing.
"Of course — I'll be right back."

A moment later, she was handing
him both a fresh shirt and the breeches that Will and Sylvanus had removed from
his inert body, freshly cleaned and white once more.  Hoping to save both of
them further embarrassment, she quickly changed the subject as he placed the
clothes on the floor beside his foot.  "I hope you like the things I'm
making," she stammered, trying to fill the awkwardness left by the recent
turn of their conversation.  "I know you're probably used to fine silks,
velvets and satins, but homespun and various sorts of wool are really about all
we have, I'm afraid . . ."

"Miss Leighton."

"Lord Charles?"

He gave her that special smile
that melted everything inside her.  "You are an angel.  And don't forget
it."

You are an angel.  And don't
forget it.

If the smile had set her heart
a-twirl, then a compliment like that was enough to spin her off her feet.
Thank heavens he couldn't know how the simplest things he did and said, affected
her!  Leaving him to his ablutions, she slipped into the parlor, shutting the
door behind her and leaning heavily against it.  She tipped her head back and
put a hand over her rapidly pounding heart.

She was all out of breath.

Beyond the door, she could hear
him moving about.  A curse as he bumped his elbow on something.  And now,
splashing.  Pauses as he scrubbed himself.  More splashing.  Amy couldn't help
it — her knees grew weak as unbidden, her mind conjured up deliciously wicked
images of him, tall, strong, virile and — oh! — stark naked.  Her blood went
all hot and prickly at the thought and she put her palms to her suddenly warm
cheeks.  Stop that! she told herself.  She shouldn't be fantasizing
about Lord Charles; he already had a fiancée, and besides, he was so far beyond
her reach that she might as well dream of touching the stars.

Presently, the splashing stopped,
and there was silence.  She imagined him towelling himself dry.  She imagined
him feeling about, trying to find his clothes.  And she imagined him donning
his new shirt, the tiny stitches she had made, the fabric she had cut, lying so
intimately against his clean, warm skin —

"Miss Leighton?"

She jumped guiltily and yanked
open the door.  There he stood, barefoot and bare-chested, clad only in his
breeches and nothing else.  With his fingers, he had slicked back his wet hair,
and there was an apologetic little smile on his face.  He was holding the damp
towel in one hand.

Amy swallowed and stared.  Oh,
please God, don't let me be thinking of him the way I'm thinking of him.  He
has a fiancée who loves him; this is wrong, wrong!

But she couldn't help the
direction of her thoughts.  Not with him looking the way he did.  Stray bubbles
of soap still clung to shoulders that were wide and powerful, clung to upper
arms strapped with muscle, clung to the damp hair on his chest and now rode a
trickle of water down his concave belly and toward his waistband.  Amy's gaze
followed the trickle, arrived at that waistband —

And froze.

"You m-missed some of the
soap," she said faintly.

"Yes, I know.  Do you think
you could wipe it off?" he asked, offering the towel.

Amy hesitated.  Now that he was
awake and capable of feeling her touch, now that she knew he had a fiancée, and
now that she had these — these thoughts about him, she didn't think
touching him was such a good idea.  It was one thing while he was unconscious
and somewhat anonymous, but not now.  Not now, with her body responding to him
the way it was, not now with the knowledge that he had a fiancée who loved
him.  If she were Juliet Paige, would she want some other woman wiping soap off
her man?

Certainly not!

"Miss Leighton?"

"Y-yes?"

He smiled in a pained sort of way.
"My skin, perhaps because I am fair, is not as robust as the rest of me.
It is sensitive to soap residue.  Though I cannot see it, of course, I know
that I haven't got it all off because I am starting to itch like the devil, and
I'm afraid that if something isn't soon done about it, I shall end up looking
as though I have the pox."

Amy gulped.  "Do you think
Juliet will mind?"

"Mind what?"

"Well, the soap . . . my
wiping it off seems to be a rather intimate gesture, and I don't want to do
anything that wouldn't be right . . ."

"Miss Leighton, what the devil
are you on about?  You've cared for me these past days and probably saw things
no gentle maid should have seen, and now this?  You're only wiping off soap,
for heaven's sake, not kissing me —"

"I've already done that as
well."

"What?"

"Well, you kissed me,
I should say.  Quite without my knowing you were going to do so, and while you
were half out of your head and thinking I was your Juliet."

"I do not remember kissing
you, so therefore, it doesn't quite matter, does it?"

It matters to me.
"Well . . ."

"Miss Leighton?"  He held
the towel straight out.  "Please.  I am on fire.  In another five minutes
I shall be covered with tiny red spots.  Surely, wiping excess soap from my
skin is nothing more intimate than what you've been doing for me during the
entire time I lay ill?"

"Yes, but then you were
unconscious . . . and then, I didn't know you had a fiancée."

"My fiancée is not so
jealous, or lacking in confidence, that she would regard such a favor on your part
as an intrusion or a crime," he said, beginning to sound impatient.

Amy bit her lip.  "Very well
then," she said, and reaching out, took the damp towel.  She dipped it
into what remained of the clean hot water, wrung it out, and gingerly touched
it to his neck.

Suds glistened there, caught in
the little grooves between tendons and muscle.  He stood still and relaxed as
she wiped them away, though Amy, racked by involuntary little shivers, was not
so composed.  He was just too close.  He was just too handsome, especially with
his wet hair slicked back and making the hawkish features of his face, with its
aristocratic nose and those deceptively lazy, clearer-than-water, blue eyes,
all the more pronounced.  He loomed above her in a way that made her feel both
protected and awed, and his nearness made her breathless, hot, and prickly with
awareness.  She clamped her knees together.  Could he hear the way her heart
was suddenly pounding?  Could he feel the heat that must be coming off her?
And oh, Lord help her, could he guess her wicked, sinful thoughts?

Again, she dipped the towel in
the bowl, wrung it out, and with trembling fingers, drew it out over his
collarbone.  She wiped down his shoulders and upper arms, her touch growing
more confident, her gaze growing reverent, as she went.  Oh, such muscles he
had, sharp with definition and hard as marble, even at rest!  Oh, how tall and
very manly he was!  She cleaned the frothy suds from the inside of his elbow,
then pulled the towel down his forearms and out over his wrists.  What would
those arms feel like around her?  What would the touch of those fingers be like
against her cheek?

Stop it, Amy!

Somewhat belatedly, she realized
that he was no longer quite so relaxed, his body tensing, his mouth going a bit
rigid.  Guilty panic filled her.  Oh dear, she wasn't working fast enough; no
doubt the soap was bothering him, and he was fighting to keep still.

"Are you finished, Miss
Leighton?"

"I'm — I'm getting
there," she managed.

"Good . . . I am, er, growing
itchy."

Back into the water went the
towel, and now Amy drew it down his chest, wiping up stray soap as she went.
Damp gold hair sprang back in the wake of the towel, and she could feel his
heartbeat just beneath her fingertips.  Was it her imagination or was it
pounding as rapidly as hers?  And was it her imagination, or was he breathing
just a little bit hard, like herself?

Hurry up!

Oh, God, it was an effort to make
her respirations sound normal!  She glanced up at his face, hoping he hadn't
noticed, but he was still staring straight ahead, his firm, sensual lips so
close she could easily have stood on tiptoe and kissed them.  His jaw, which
needed a shave, was only a few inches away.  And his eyes . . . romantic eyes
they were, of the palest shade of blue beneath long straight lashes, the outer
corners slightly down-tilted and lending him a lazy, almost sleepy expression —
though the clear, crystalline quality of their color banished any thought that
the mind behind them was anything but sharp.

Wouldn't you love for him to
kiss you again, Amy?  Wouldn't you just love that, you wicked little creature?

Mortified, Amy tore her gaze
away, rinsed out the towel, and ran it down his ribs.  Only a few bubbles left,
thank God.  Only a few little trickles —

And one of them was going
straight down the trail of hair that led from his navel and disappeared beneath
the waistband of his breeches.

Amy, her hand and the towel on
his stomach, froze at the same moment his hand shot out to grab her wrist.

She might have been imagining his
pounding heartbeat.  She might have been imagining the rigidness of his
stance.  She might even be imagining that his breathing sounded raspy and
harsh.

But she wasn't imagining the huge
bulge just beneath the waistband of those breeches, a bulge that swelled and
strained the fabric and told her that everything she'd thought was imagination
was not imagination at all.

She gasped and dropped the towel,
her hand covering her mouth.

"I guess this wasn't such a
good idea, after all," he said softly, bending to retrieve it.

"I . . . guess not,"
she stammered, horrified.

He offered a pained little
smile.  "Forgive me, Miss Leighton — I am only a man, and blind as I am, it
is far too easy to imagine that your touch is that of another.  I did not
intend for this to happen.  I did not mean to offend you."

"N-no offense taken."

For the sake of her modesty, he
turned his back on her, quickly and discreetly ran the wet towel beneath his
waistband to catch the trickle of soap, and then, turning, held it out to her.

Amy stared at it for a moment,
her cheeks burning as she thought of where that towel had just been; then she
took it and put it in the bowl, everything inside of her shaky and feverish.

"Miss Leighton?"

She gulped, swallowed, and did
not allow herself to look at him.  "Yes?"

"If you would be kind enough
to hand me that fine new shirt you made me?"

Her face flaming, she grabbed it
and thrust it into his hand before leaping back, careful not to look below the
level of his chest.  It took him a moment to get it over his head and once he
did, he quickly pulled it down, leaving it loose outside his breeches for
reasons that were obvious to both of them.

He smiled, the gesture both
rueful and boyishly innocent.  "Shall we forget this ever happened?"

"Yes, C-captain, I — I think
that would be best."

His smile broadened and he
offered his arm with a casual, yet studied gallantry that melted what was left
of her heart.  "Good.  Now, I think I will have some of that broth you
promised . . . if the offer still stands?"

Chapter 6

He might've been able to easily
forget it, but Amy couldn't.

It was just as everyone had
predicted.  She had bad blood.  Hot blood.  Lustful, wicked, wanton blood.  The
sins of the father had come back to haunt her.  She, like him, was a carnal
savage.  She, like him, was immoral.

She was a horrible person.

Oh, God, forgive me, please.
I didn't mean to do what I did, I'm so sorry, I never wanted for that to happen
. . .

"Miss Leighton?"

She led him to his chair, hoping
he hadn't noticed her silent tears.

He remained standing.  "Miss
Leighton, are you all right?"

"Of course I am," she
said briskly, hoping she sounded convincing.  "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I pray you are not upset by
what just happened between us."

"No, Lord Charles, besides
it was my fault, not yours —"

"Oh, for God's sake, it
wasn't anyone's fault!  A man is a man is a man, Miss Leighton, we respond to
certain stimuli and there isn't a blasted thing we can do about it.  It's a
physical reaction, nothing more, so stop blaming yourself, would you?"  He
massaged the back of his head.  "'Sdeath, if anyone's to blame, 'tis me.
I should've known better."

"Please don't be angry, Lord
Charles —"

"My anger is not with you.
And please, call me Charles.  Given that you're the poor soul stuck with the
tasks of bathing, babying, and all but bottle-feeding me, we damn well ought to
dispense with formalities, don't you think?"

He looked annoyed.  Disgusted.
Deciding it was wisest to say nothing, Amy ladled out some broth from the stew,
fetched the bread she'd kept warm in the oven, and brought both, together with
a mug of hard cider, to the table on a tray.

The captain was still standing.

"Aren't you going to sit
down?" she asked.

"Yes, but only after you
take your own chair."

"You don't have to wait for
me."

"I am a gentleman, Miss Leighton.
I will wait for you whether you wish me to or not."

Amy stared at him as though that
terrible blow had robbed him of more than just his sight.  No one ever waited
for her to sit down.  Everyone started eating the moment Sylvanus finished
saying grace, and if Amy wasn't in her seat by then, they began without her.
And now here was this son of a duke, this English aristocrat who was supposed
to be their enemy, treating her with a respect and kindness she had never
known.  Treating her as though she were a real lady.  She shut her eyes for a
brief moment, savoring the feeling for the precious thing that it was.

Then, her heart beating just a
little bit faster, she pulled out her chair and sat down, pressing her hands
between her knees.

"Are you seated,
madam?"

"I am."

He nodded and then pulled out his
own chair.  Amy, still reeling over his chivalrous treatment of her, gazed
longingly at him and then, shutting her eyes for a moment, let her mind wander,
allowing herself to pretend that she was the lady of the house, and he, her
dashing, impossibly handsome, husband . . .

Oh, Juliet Paige, you are the
luckiest girl on earth!

She opened her eyes to reality
and instantly sobered.  The captain was frowning down at his tray.  His face
tense, he slowly felt about until he located the napkin she'd placed by his
plate, and unfolded it in his lap.  His uncertainty was apparent, his fear of
making a fool of himself, obvious.

"Would you like me to leave
you, Captain de Montforte?"

"No, I would like you to sit
there and join me."

"But I'm not hungry —"

"Neither am I, damn it, but
you asked me to eat and so I will."  He swore bitterly to himself and
rested his brow against the heel of his hand, the picture of remorse and
self-disgust.  "I'm sorry.  That was uncalled for."

"It's all right."

"No, it is not all
right."  His hand went to the back of his head, rubbing the area
distractedly; how much pain he was in, she could not even begin to imagine.
"It is unlike me to be such a beast.  I do not set out to hurt people's feelings,
especially those of kind young women who are only trying to help me.  Please
forgive me, Miss Leighton.  I have not yet come to terms with my fate, and I
must confess that, much to my dismay, I am not handling this very well at
all."

"You're handling it better
than would most people I know," she offered.

"Regardless, I am not
handling it to my own satisfaction.  That, coupled with the fact it's my own
blasted fault that I'm even in this predicament, is putting me in a very ill
temper indeed."

"You blame yourself for
this?"

"Of course I do."

"But it was an
accident!"

"Regardless."

"You can't go back and
change what happened, so why not just forgive yourself and try to make the best
of things?  Aren't you as deserving of forgiveness as anyone else?"

"No.  I find it far more
difficult to forgive myself for my mistakes, than others for theirs.  They are
allowed to make them.  I am not."

He was still rubbing the back of
his head.  She watched his fingers sliding up through his damp hair, and wished
she dared offer to take over that task for him.

"Your head hurts, doesn't
it?"

"As well it should,
considering the fact there's a hole in it."

"You'll feel better after
you eat something."

"Do you think so?"  He
tried to smile.  "I am not so sure about that.  Besides, I rather suspect
that feeding myself is going to be the supreme test of what remains of my
abilities."  He felt for, and found, his spoon.  "You will not assist
me, though.  I will not allow it."

"I wouldn't dream of
it."

"Good."

Amy knew that his pride would be
better served if she kept silent.  Still, she cringed when he tentatively
explored the tray's contents tray with his fingertips, accidentally plunging
one of them into the still-hot broth and, jerking back, nearly upsetting the
mug with his wrist.

"Don't look," he said
gruffly.  "I am about to make a complete fool of myself."

"As long as you eat something,
I don't care what you make of yourself."

"Oh, I'll eat all right, if
it bloody well kills me."

"It won't."  She
grinned.  "Besides, I'm a good cook."

"Then I shall determine to
do your efforts justice, Miss Leighton."

"Amy."

He smiled tightly.
"Amy."

And with that, he lowered his
spoon.  Hit the side of the bowl and nearly overturned it.  Tried again and
this time, found his target.  He raised the dripping spoon, then paused and
looked in her direction.  His eyes were so clear, his gaze so direct, that for
a moment, Amy thought he could see her.

"You're watching me."

"Yes.  I want to see that
you eat it, just as you promised."

"The only thing you'll see
is me making a damned mess," he said irately.

"Maybe.  But you'll get it
right eventually, I just know you will."

He shook his head, dismissing her
faith in him, and brought the spoon to his mouth.  It tipped slightly, and
broth trickled down his chin and onto his shirtfront.  A very tight, very
strained, very determined smile gripped one corner of his mouth, and Amy knew
then that he was not a man to give up on something once he put his mind to it.
He tried again.  Spilled more stew.  Swore roundly.  And got it right the third
time.

Amy's shoulders, which had been
tight with tension, relaxed.

"This is gorgeous," he
said.  "Thank you for keeping it warm for me."

"You're welcome."  She
watched him eat, admiring the shape of his fingers against the spoon, the easy,
aristocratic grace of his movements, the way his hair, so thick and bright, was
now drying in rich gleaming waves around his face.

"What is Juliet like?"
she asked, a little wistfully.

He looked up.  "Sorry?"

"Juliet.  I was just wondering
what she's like."

"Rather like me, I should
say.  Or rather like I was before I got hurt."

"You're the same man you
were before you got hurt, Charles."

"Don't be fanciful, child,
I'm not, and I never shall be."  He dug his spoon into the broth, more forcefully
than he had before.  "As for Juliet —" he paused, as though the
subject was a private one and he was unsure he wanted to discuss it —
"she's a pretty girl with dark hair and fine green eyes.  Your voices are
similar, which is why I must've mistaken you for her when I, uh . . . when I
kissed you."

"You must love her very
much," Amy said, wishing that she had fine green eyes instead of
huge, brown, boring ones.

"I do.  And still I got her
with child.  Fine way to show someone you love them, eh?"  His face looked
suddenly bleak.  "I cannot imagine I'll make much of a husband, now, and
even less of a father."  He stopped, surprised at how much he had
revealed.

"I think you'll make a wonderful
husband."

Lord Charles looked up at her
emphatic tone, and Amy blushed a hundred shades of crimson.

"And father," she
added, lamely.

His unseeing gaze remained on her
for a long moment.  And then, with an amused little smile, he looked down and
resumed eating.

"I'm sorry," Amy
stammered, blushing.  "I — uh — I didn't —"

"Do you know, I think I
shall have a second helping, after all," he said briskly, deftly cutting
off her lame apologies and saving her from further embarrassment.  Amy's heart
swelled with gratitude even as she chastised herself for her impulsive words.
Given what her sisters had said about him being her "pet man," and
now the silent amusement in that one long gaze, he must certainly know the
secrets of her foolish heart.  Oh, what must he think of her?

"Miss Leighton?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin,
terrified that he'd been able to read her thoughts.

"If you don't mind, I would
love a bit more of this," he prompted, gently, holding the bowl between
his cupped hands.

Warm smile.  Warm eyes.  Warm
heart.

Would those beautiful hands be
warm as well, touching her in places that no man ever had before?

"Yes — yes, of
course."  Red-faced, she rose, fetched his empty bowl and hurried to the
kettle that still hung over the dying fire.  "After all, we wouldn't want
to send you back to Juliet looking as though we'd starved you.  She'd think we
Americans are a horrible sort."

"Oh, I doubt that.  Juliet's
as American as you are."

"She is?"

He looked up as Amy set the bowl
before him, a faint smile on his face.  "Of course.  Did you think
otherwise?"

"Well, yes . . . I mean,
you're a king's officer . . . I thought she must've come over from England with
you."

"Heavens, no.  She's the
daughter of a Boston storekeeper."

"Not an aristocrat like you,
then?"

"No, thank God."

Amy giggled.

"What's so funny?"

"For being an aristocrat
yourself, you don't seem to like them much."

"Oh, it's not that.  I was
just thinking of the woman I would have had to marry had I not uh, got Juliet
into trouble."

"Had to marry?  Do
you mean you got someone else in trouble as well?" Amy asked, her mouth
agape.

"Good God, no!"  And
then, incredulously: "What sort of man do you think I am, anyhow?"

She went crimson.  "I — I
didn't mean it the way it sounded . . . but if you did get someone else
in trouble, I wouldn't hold it against you, or like you any less —"

"I did not get anyone else
in trouble, I can assure you."  His lips were twitching, as though he
found this whole discussion both ludicrous and amusing.  "But as a second
son, raised to take over as duke should anything happen to Lucien, I have
certain responsibilities toward my family.  One of these was that I marry Lady
Katharine Farnsley, whose father's lands border our own.  We were promised
since birth, and a union between the de Montfortes and the Farnsleys would have
been quite advantageous.  But Boston is a lonely place for a man who's far from
home.  And Juliet — " he smiled, affectionately — "Juliet's a very
pretty young woman.  Shunning the destiny that was planned for me, and
betrothing myself to a Yankee instead, was about the most rebellious thing I
have ever done in my life — and I imagine it will not sit well at home when
Lucien learns of it."

"What difference does it
make what Lucien thinks?" Amy asked, confused.  "Shouldn't you marry
whoever you please?"

"I am not one to disappoint
my family, or their expectations of me."

"Won't Lucien get to marry
whom he pleases?"

"I doubt that Lucien is
inclined to marry at all.  He has yet to find a woman who is his equal."
He bent his head and absently stirred the broth, his spoon clinking softly
against the bowl.  "I was never happy about the idea of marrying
Katharine, anyhow.  She is heavily dowered, yes — but that asset is outweighed
by the fact that she is also a shrew, and I must confess that I'd as soon wed
her as I would one of your equally awful sisters."

"Lord Charles!"

He merely raised a brow, amused.
"Yes?"

Amy couldn't help her little
giggle.  Charles grinned in return.  And then he seemed to sober a bit as he tore
off a bit of bread and went back to his meal.  "Tell me, Amy, what do your
neighbors think about the idea that your father is harboring a redcoat?"

"They don't know, and I
don't think he plans to tell them."

He looked up in sudden alarm.
"Oh, no.  This will not do.  He must tell them."

"I think he means to let everyone
go on believing you're Adam Smith from Woburn, and as soon as it's convenient,
have Will bring you back to Boston with no one the wiser.  Sylvanus means well,
truly he does, but I doubt he's aware of the consequences of keeping silent
where you're concerned."

"Then I must convince him
otherwise.  By allowing them to think I'm someone I'm not, he is not only
putting himself, but his family in danger.  What will his trusting flock think
if they were to learn from anyone but your father that he, their minister, has
been deceiving them all along?"  He shook his head.  "Far better, I
think, that he tells them who I am immediately."

He went back to eating his broth.

"But — but Lord Charles —"

"Yes?"

"Aren't you worried about
what the townspeople might do to you?"

"No."  He gave a
bitter, humorless smile.  "Besides, my dear friend — what can they do to
me that I have not already done to myself?"

Chapter 7

The week that followed was not
easy for anyone.

Lord Charles was not in a good
mood.  Between his persistent headache, worry over Juliet, and impatience with
his condition, he soon fell into a black depression.  Will slunk past him like
a puppy afraid of a beating.  Ophelia and Mildred fled the room in tears when
their persistent efforts to gain his attention yielded them a verbal mauling
that no one but a British aristocrat could've given so well.  Sylvanus's
attempts to give Biblical solace were rebuffed, and even Crystal the dog avoided
the silent figure who refused to eat with them, refused to communicate, refused
to do anything but sit on his pallet and growl at anyone who dared try to speak
to him.

There was only one person whose
company Charles welcomed, and that, much to her sisters' confusion and wrath,
was Amy, with whom he stayed up long after the others went to bed, quietly
talking.

A week after he'd woken up,
things finally came to a head.

Amy had roasted a joint of beef
for supper.  Sylvanus was at the sideboard carving it, and Amy had gone out to
the larder for some milk when the captain got up from his pallet and approached
the table.

Crystal thumped her tail against
the floor and watched his progress.  Mildred and Ophelia, already seated,
exchanged hopeful, excited glances.  Will grinned widely.  Sylvanus turned around
with the platter of meat and halted in surprise.

And no one said a word.

Amy came in, carrying a pitcher
of milk.  "Lord Charles?"

"I will dine with the family
tonight," he said tersely.

Amy didn't miss the excited elbow
jab that Mildred gave her sister.  She set the pitcher down, and, slipping her
hand into Charles's, guided him to his place.  Her sisters' eyes narrowed with
malice at the familiarity that she and the captain shared.

He stood stiffly by his chair as
Amy hurried to the sideboard for a bowl of potatoes.

Ophelia was beside herself.
"Oh, Captain, we're just delighted that you're finally joining us
for supper!  Why, it must have been horrible, eating all by yourself all these
nights!"

"I have not dined alone, and
the company was quite enjoyable, thank you."

"We're having roast beef
tonight, Lord Charles," Mildred announced, as though the smell that wafted
throughout the house was not enough reason for Charles to guess that fact for
himself.

"I wouldn't have
known."

"I just adore roast
beef," she continued breezily.  "It is one of my absolute favorite
dishes."

"Mine too," Ophelia
added.  "Do you like roast beef, Captain?"

"I do.  And did you cook it
yourself, Miss Leighton?"

"Oh no, Amy makes all the
meals around here."

"So I've noticed.  She is a
very accomplished cook."

"Oh, she's passably
fair," Ophelia said, with an airy little laugh.  "I'm a better one,
when I put my mind to it."

"Are you?  Perhaps, then,
you should put your mind, and your hands, to it tomorrow.  I daresay I would
enjoy sampling your efforts and deciding for myself whether or not your claim
is a valid one."

Ophelia's smug smile promptly
vanished.  She was trapped, and she knew it.

Will saw instantly what the
captain was up to.  "What a good idea!" he said loudly, earning a
vicious glare from his sister.  "You haven't cooked anythin' in ages,
Ophelia!  Why, I'll bet you're so out of practice that even the water won't
remember how to boil for you!"

"I'm not cooking unless
Millie helps me!"

"Do you mean that Mildred
can also cook?" Charles murmured, raising his brows.  "Dear me.  I
didn't know that either of you possessed such . . . talents."

"Of course I can cook!  And
I can make anything that Ophelia makes taste like slops in comparison!"

"I should like to see you
try!" snapped Ophelia.

"Yes, so would I,"
mused Charles.  "But since you are both so eager to prove your culinary
expertise to me, perhaps Ophelia can cook tomorrow, and Mildred can have her
turn the following day."

""I can't cook
tomorrow, I have other things to do.  Besides, Amy does the all the
cooking around here."

Charles smiled thinly.
"Yes, so I've noticed," he murmured.  And then, his voice hardening,
"As well as all the baking, sewing, mending, cleaning, washing, weaving,
marketing, and soap-making.  Rather a lot for one woman, isn't it?"

Ophelia stiffened.  Mildred
sucked in her breath.  Will coughed, Amy quietly went back to the sideboard for
the gravy, and in the awkward, tension-filled silence, Sylvanus decided it was
high time to give blessing for the food.

"Dear Lord, we are gathered
around this humble table tonight to give thanks for this meal and —"

"I beg your pardon?"
said Lord Charles, still standing behind his chair and looking properly
outraged.

Sylvanus's head jerked up.
"Captain?"

"Your daughter has not yet
taken her seat!  Where, sir, are your manners?"

"I — uh . . ."
Sylvanus reddened.  Mildred and Ophelia stared at the captain as though he'd
lost his mind.  Will's lips twitched, and, as everyone watched, the boy got
silently to his feet, went around to Amy's chair, and stood behind it as she
took her seat, her cheeks pink with gratitude and embarrassment.

"Thank you, Will," she
murmured, her gaze lowered.

Will returned to his seat.

The captain, finally, took his.

And after a rather stilted blessing,
the meal was consumed in silence.

~~~~

The following morning, Amy rose
early and, creeping past the lightly snoring figure on his pallet, slipped out
the door.

She quickly performed her morning
chores, finishing all before the sun was even a red glow in the sky.  Then,
eager to make the most of her freedom before everyone was up and demanding
breakfast, she hurried through a still-sleeping Newburyport and toward the
Ashton's big Georgian house on High Street.

Mira Ashton was not exactly the
sort of friend that the Reverend Leighton would have chosen for her, but as the
daughter of one of Newburyport's most prominent citizens, there was little he
dared say about it.  The truth was, Mira — a scrawny, hot-tempered hoyden who
dressed in her brother's clothes and swore like a sailor — didn't give a hoot who
Amy's real father was, accepting her as a friend when most people in Newburyport
wanted little, if anything, to do with her.

This morning, Amy's heart could
no longer contain the tumult that had been building within it since Lord
Charles's arrival.  She had to talk to somebody, and her outspoken friend was
the obvious, the only, choice.

She arrived at the Ashton's house
just as dawn was painting its white clapboards in shades of rose.  Inside, an
argument was ensuing between Ephraim and his son Matt, and Amy could hear it
clear through the heavy door.

No doubt, the neighbors could
hear it too.

"I don't give a rat's ASS
what you think, you ain't goin' down to Boston to join the rebels, you hear
me?!  I need you around here, and besides, if ye're gonna go fightin' the lobsterbacks,
I want you doin' it in a ship, not as part of a damned army!"

Old Ephraim was at it again.

"Don't you dare tell me what
to do, you cantankerous old goat!" Matthew yelled back.  "If I want
to join the army, I will!"

"You go joinin' that army
and the first thing ye're gonna do is git yerself kilt!  I raised you as a
seafarin' man and that's where ye'll serve America best!"

More yelling, this time Mira's
voice joining in the clamor.  Taking a deep breath, Amy reached up and banged
the knocker.

Inside, the racket stopped and a
moment later Mira herself opened the door, her board-straight hair hanging over
one stormy green eye, her chin stuck out and her very stance belligerent.
Behind her stood her brother Matt, his red hair wild, his face so angry that
his spectacles were steaming up.

"Amy Leighton!" boomed
Ephraim, coming around the corner.  "Come on in and have some breakfast
with us.  Mira's made cornbread and there's plenty left over."

Amy had no doubt that there was
plenty left over; it was a known secret that Mira couldn't cook to save her
life.

"Actually, I came to have a
word with Mira —"

"It ain't about one of those
bleedin' cats the two of you keep rescuin', is it?"

"No, Captain Ashton.
Another matter entirely."  God help her, what would he think if he knew it
concerned one of the "lobsterbacks" he and his son wanted to kill?

"Just gimme a moment,"
Mira said, grabbing her brother's waistcoat and throwing it on over her shirt.
No gown and petticoats for her; no jewelry, ladylike caps, or powder on that
impossibly thick straight hair.  Leaving her father and brother to their
argument, she slammed the door behind them, and moments later, they were at the
riverfront.  There, gulls wheeled above their heads, their feathers gold in the
rising sun, and the incoming tide sucked and burbled around the pier.

"All right," Mira
announced, picking up a stone and skimming it out over the water.  "What's
buggin' ye, Amy?"

"Can I swear you to
secrecy?"

"I swear on my mother's
grave, my father's ass, and every freckle on my brother's butt that I won't say
a word."

"Good."  Amy sighed and
sat down on the grass, spreading her checked linen apron over her petticoats
and fiddling with the hem.  "Mira, you know that fellow Will brought
home?  The one who got hurt at Concord?"

"The one who nearly died
fightin' those blasted Brits?"

"Um, yes."

"Aye, of course.  Whole
town's been talkin' about him and waitin' for him to wake up so they can give
him a hero's welcome."

Amy cringed.  "Well, he's
woken up — but I don't think they're going to give him a hero's welcome."
She tried to choose her words carefully.  "And, he didn't nearly die
fighting the king's men."

"No?"

"He is a King's man.
A captain in the Fourth Foot."

"What?!"

"The brother of an English
duke, in fact.  He got hurt because he was trying to save Will's life, and Will
felt so guilty and beholden to him that he switched his clothes with a dead
rebel and brought him home thinking Sylvanus would know what to do."

"Holy shit!"

"Now that he's awake, he
thinks Sylvanus should go before his parishioners and tell everyone who he
is."

"Damn right he should!
Bleedin' hell, I'll throttle Will myself for dragging him up here in the first
place!  A Brit!  What in tarnal creation was he thinking?!"

"Mira, please!"  Amy
grabbed her friend's arm as she leaped to her feet.  "Lord Charles is a
good man.  He's kind, and brave, and caring of others.  He is also very much in
a hell of his own already.  He doesn't need you, or anyone else, going over
there and causing him any more trouble."

"Oh, I'll give him trouble
all right!  I'll stick a gun against his ear and finish what was started at Concord!"

"Mira, he's blind."

"What?"

"I said, he's blind.  Just
as the doctor predicted he would be if he ever regained consciousness."

Mira's warlike stance relaxed.
She was a patriot, but she wasn't heartless.  With a sigh of exasperation, she
flung herself back down on the grass beside Amy.  "Well then, I guess he
ain't much use to anybody then, is he?"

Amy would have disputed that, but
she did not want, or need, Mira flying off in an ardent rebel huff, wreaking
dissent and damage like a loose cannon.  "Let's just say that he's no
threat to America in the state he's in," she said.  "But that's not
what I want to talk to you about."

Mira wrapped her arms around her
scrawny knees and cocked a brow at her friend.

"I've got this problem, you
see, and I thought that maybe you'd know what I should do about it."

"Go on."

"He's —" Amy was
blushing now, head bent as she rolled and unrolled the hem of her apron between
thumb and forefinger — "he's terribly handsome, you know."

"You in love with him?"

Leave it to Mira not to waste
words.  "I . . . I think I might be."

"Bleedin' hell Amy, you do
have a problem."

"I know.  And the thing is,
he's engaged to someone else.  A colonial girl, down in Boston."  She
looked up at Mira, her eyes desperate.  "I shouldn't be feeling this way,
Mira.  He's not mine to dream over, he's not mine to think about, he's not
mine, period — and yet I can't stop dreaming about him, I can't stop thinking
about him, and just being in the same room with him is torment because I find
myself wanting to do all these lustful, wicked things with him.  I'm wanton,
Mira, the fruit of sin, and already I'm going the same route as —"

"Oh, not this again, I won't
hear it."

"Mira, you know as well as I
do that the circumstances of my birth are no secret!  This — this wantonness is
just what Sylvanus always predicted for me, and it's all because I've got the
blood of a —"

Mira put up a hand.  "You
say he's handsome?"

"Yes."

"Kind?"

"Oh, yes — he defended me
against my sisters, refused to let me slave over him, complimented me on my
cooking, managed to trap Ophelia and Mildred into doing some work, and set an
example at table last night over how he thinks I ought to be treated."

"Well, hallelujah."

"What?"

"And you wonder why the hell
ye're havin' lustful thoughts about him?!  Bleedin' hell, Amy, if I was in yer
shoes, had a family like yours, and a man treated me like that, I'd be
all over him like cream on milk."

"Mira!"

"Well, I would.  And ye know
something?  I think that if he wants to treat ye nice, you damn well oughtta
let him do it.  Ain't no one else in that house who does, and maybe the rest of
'em will learn by his example.  Hell, he might be a damned Brit, but if he can
do that much for ye, then he's got my eternal gratitude."

"So you won't say anything
to anyone about him?"

Mira hooked her hair behind her
ear and chewed her lip for a moment.  "Aye, I'll keep my trap shut.  But
you'd better not let Sylvanus keep him a secret for too long, Amy.  The
truth'll come out eventually, and when it does, Sylvanus is gonna rue the fact
he kept his silence."

"Yes.  That's what the captain
said, exactly."

Mira grinned.  "Handsome,
kind, and smart.  I tell ye, Amy, if that girl down in Boston ever
decides to let him go ye'd better get your claws into him post-haste.  I can
just see it now.  Amy Leighton, a lady!  Amy Leighton, sister-in-law to an
English duke!  Amy Leighton, finally able to look down her nose at all the
people who had nothin' to do with her all these years!  Bloomin' tarnation,
won't you have the last laugh!"  She grabbed Amy's arm.  "Now,
let's go.  I've a mind to meet your captain and have a good gawk at him
myself!"

~~~~

Charles sat up on his pallet,
rubbing the back of his ever-aching head and throwing off the last cobwebs of
sleep.

He had been dreaming.  About Amy.

Again.

In this one, she'd started by
massaging his pain-wracked head . . . then his shoulders, his chest, and
finally that part of him that was as hard as a brick every morning when he woke
up, flushed, trembling, and drenched in sweat.

That part of him that was as hard
as a brick, now.

He cursed and rested his forehead
in the heel of his hand.  His anger was not with her, of course, but with
himself — and his own failure to meet his lofty standards of mental
discipline.  He ought to be dreaming about his fiancée — and damn it, why
wasn't he? — not this young woman he couldn't even see; he oughtn't even be thinking
about her!

What does she look like?  What
color is her hair?  Is it short or long, soft or silky, coarse and curly or
fine and straight?  Is she thin or plump, bird-boned or solid, flat-chested or buxom,
pretty or plain?

He groaned as war raged within
him, the higher planes of his mind fighting with the baser desires of his
body.  Those things didn't matter!  He wouldn't let them matter!  But
the questions continued, fired at him from something deep inside of himself
that he did not understand:

What does she feel like, how
soft is her skin?  What does she taste like, how does she kiss, and oh, God,
would she be as ardent a lover in person as she is in my dreams?

And, some far more sobering
thoughts:  Why does she hold herself in such low esteem?  Why do those
horrid sisters hate her so?  Why is her father so apathetic, why does she call
him "Sylvanus," and why does everyone treat her so badly?

"Captain?"

He let his fingers slide from the
back of his throbbing head.  "Good morning, Reverend."

"Would you like some
coffee?"

"Yes, thank you, I would
indeed. "

Sylvanus pulled out a chair.
"I just roused my daughters, and they'll be down shortly to get it
started."

Charles raised a surprised brow.

"I, uh. . . got to thinking
about what happened at the table last night, Captain.  I saw what you were
trying to do.  You were right to take us all to task the way you did, though I
admit, it was a bitter pill to swallow, at the time."

"The best medicines usually
are," Charles said, carefully.

"My daughters — it's my
fault they're the way they are, you know.  When my wife died, I threw myself
into my calling in an attempt to escape my loneliness.  As a result, I didn't
devote as much time to my family as I should've done, appeasing my daughters'
pleas for attention with candy and trinkets, when it was obvious that what they
really needed was love and discipline."  He sighed, heavily.  "It's
no wonder they've turned out the way they have.  No wonder they're now so spoiled
that I'll probably never find husbands for them.  I . . . just don't know how
to handle them anymore."

Charles smiled, some of his
hostility toward the reverend thawing.  "Asking them to help Amy around
the house is a start."

"Yes.  A start, though I suppose
that making them do it will be harder than getting eggs from a rooster.  Still,
thank you for showing me what's really going on under my own roof, Captain.
And, for listening to the troubles of an old man."  He rose to his feet
and lightly touched Charles's shoulder.  "I'll let you get your morning in
order."

He began to walk away, but
Charles stopped him.  "Reverend?"

"Yes?"

"There is a matter that has
been troubling me.  If I may speak freely?"

"Well, of course you
may," said Sylvanus, sitting down once more and adopting his minister's
voice as he prepared to hear Charles's problem.

Charles ran a hand through his
sleep-tousled hair.  "I understand that you mean to keep my identity a
secret," he said, getting straight to the point.  "I must ask that
you tell your parishioners who I am, immediately.  I cannot pretend to be
someone I'm not, and I cannot abide the thought of what your neighbors might do
to you and your family should a detachment of English troops come here to bring
me back to Boston — which, given the fact that I have sent a letter to my
commanding officer there, is not unlikely."  He turned his sightless eyes
toward where he knew the minister to be standing.  "For your sake,
Reverend, as well as that of your family, I implore you to confess the
truth."

Charles could almost picture the
reverend staring at him in dismay.

"But Captain, you don't
understand . . . this is a rebel town, ardently patriotic, and if I tell them
who you are —"

"They will appreciate your
honesty, and admire you for your courage.  Trust me, Reverend, it is far better
to confront a problem straightaway than to hide from it, to take the offensive
before it can sneak up and overwhelm you from behind."  Bitterly, he
added, "Had Parliament and our king only subscribed to such a theory,
perhaps your people and mine would not be at war.  There are lessons to be
learned in history; I only pray that you heed them, as I wish that we had
done."

Sylvanus was silent for a
moment.  "I will consider your advice, Captain," he murmured, deeply
troubled, and left the room.

Charles sighed.  He had done what
he could.  He lay back on the pallet, staring up into the darkness, feeling the
depression he'd tried so hard to keep at bay pulling him back into its abyss.
His head still hurt.  His thoughts were turning back toward Amy.  Bored,
frustrated, and with nothing else to do, he shut his eyes and willed himself to
go back to sleep until Awfeelia and Mil-dread rose to make the coffee, which,
if he were allowed a guess, wouldn't happen for at least another hour.

He'd just drifted off when the
door banged open and footsteps came into the keeping room.

"Lord Charles?"

"Amy."  He smiled
sleepily and rose up on one elbow, the blanket sliding down one shoulder.
"Good morning."

Temporary silence.  Charles was
unaware that Amy had a friend with her, and he was totally oblivious to the
sight he presented to the two girls, his hair tousled by sleep, his pale blue
eyes clear as aquamarine as a shaft of sunlight drove through the window and
caught him full in the face.  A sighted man would, of course, have squinted;
Charles did not, and instead, Mira and Amy were treated to a brilliant,
wide-open view of clear, intelligent eyes, romantically down turned at the
outer corners and fringed by long straight lashes tinged with gold.

"Hell and tarnation above,
Amy, ye sure weren't jokin'!  He's bleedin' gorgeous!"

"Mira!" cried Amy,
horrified.

Charles was hard-pressed to hide
his amusement.  He knew, of course, or had at least suspected, that Amy had a
girlish infatuation for him, and he'd tried his best not to embarrass her by
calling attention to it.  He determined not to do so now.

"And whom do I have the
pleasure of addressing?" he asked, still supporting himself on one elbow
and blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Mira, standing there with her
mouth open, was transfixed by that slow, deliberate blink.  In a heartbeat, she
saw what Amy had described:  studied thoughtfulness, kindness, compassion.  The
way the man lowered those long eyelashes over those translucently clear eyes,
then slowly brought them back up again, did something funny to her insides.
Cripes, no wonder Amy was smitten!

"Mira Ashton, patriot,"
she announced.  "I'm Amy's friend.  She tells me ye're a blasted Brit who
took it upon himself to be merciful to Will, so I guess I'll take it upon myself
to be merciful to you.  Besides, I hear ye're being nice to Amy, and
since everyone else in this house treats her like donkey dung, I figger the
least I can do is be civil to ye — redcoat or not."

"Mira!" Amy
gasped.

"Well, it's true.  Where are
those two bleedin' leeches, anyhow?"

Despite himself, and his
irritation with both the girl's language and her rather vexing use of the word
"Brit," Charles got to his feet and bowed, his spirits suddenly quite
buoyed.  If Amy had friends like this, maybe he shouldn't be worrying about
her, after all.

"Still in bed, I
daresay," he said.

"Good.  Amy came up with an
idea, and I'm here to see it carried out.  We've decided we're gonna take you
out sailin' so you can't sit here feelin' sorry for yerself."

"Take me sailing?"

"Aye, sailin'.  My father
builds ships, and I've got my own little boat.  It ain't more than fifteen feet
long, but it'll get us to where we wanna go."

Reluctantly, yet intrigued
despite himself, Charles asked, "And where is it we wish to go?"

"That don't matter none.
Now get your lazy carcass off that pallet, take Amy's hand, and come with me.
I wanna get her outta here before those two bitches wake up and start hollerin'
orders!"

Chapter 8

Eager to escape the house before
Amy's sisters rose, the three waited only long enough to grab some bread and
cheese from the larder, a jug of rum, and the blanket the captain had slept
beneath, as well as a cloak for Amy and the new frock of warm blue frieze she'd
made for their houseguest.

"It's likely to be chilly
out on the water this time of year," Mira had warned, importantly.

Amy didn't know whether to be
grateful toward or annoyed with Mira as, her hand tucked rather gingerly in the
crook of Lord Charles's elbow, the trio left the house.  She was horribly
embarrassed by what Mira had said.  And the captain himself was rather quiet.
Was he still feeling unwell, going along with this scheme only for her, Amy's,
sake?  Had Mira's remark about his being "gorgeous" offended him?

Oh, Lord, maybe this wasn't such
a good idea after all.

And now Mira, her stride faintly
belligerent, was walking several paces in front of them, deliberately leaving
Charles and Amy to their own devices.

Amy took the opportunity to stare
up at the captain as she strode along beside him, and felt her heart ache with
unrequited longing.  How easy it was to forget that he belonged to someone
else.  How tempting it was to pretend that he, a prince among men, a god among
mortals, belonged to her, Amy Leighton, who was beneath the contempt of even
the town's humblest bachelors.  And how very, very proud she was to be on the
arm of such a man as he.

Mira, as though knowing exactly
what Amy was thinking, flung her an impish glance from over one shoulder, and
immediately, Amy sobered.

I must stop this — he does not
belong to me!

All too soon, they reached the
banks of the Merrimack River.  The tide was going out and the scent of salt
hung in the air, mingling with the pleasant morning warmth.  Gulls cried
overhead.  A cormorant, regal in its black plumage, coasted in the current, and
then dived for a fish.

It was a lovely morning for a
sail.

Mira, striding along with a
self-importance that belied her small stature, headed straight for the pier.

"You two stay there while I
go get the boat ready," she called over her shoulder.

They paused, and Amy
self-consciously pulled her hand from the captain's, discreetly stepping away
from him.

"Are you sad, Lord
Charles?"

"What gives you that
idea?"

"You're awfully quiet.  We
don't have to do this, you know.  You've been ill, and perhaps I was wrong in
thinking you had the strength for it.  I thought the fresh air, and a chance to
get outside, would do you good."

"My dear Amy.  At risk of
sounding vain, which I am not, do I look as though I haven't the strength to
sit in a boat?"

"I'm sorry.  I just don't
want to cause you any more distress than you've already suffered, and . . .
well, Mira can be a bit brash."

"Far too brash for my own
tastes, yes, but she is good medicine for you, and this will be good medicine
for me."  He lifted his face to the early morning breeze.  "I
swear, if I'm forced to sit indoors for another day, let alone the next
fortnight, I shall go mad.  If nothing else, this may take my mind off
things."

Mira called from the boat.
"Come on!  I ain't standin' here all day waiting for ye!"

Charles offered his arm, and,
taking it, Amy led them down the pier.  Tethered to the supports at its end was
a floating platform, and upon this Mira stood, hands on her hips, her eyes
glinting with mischief and impatience.

Charles, of course, could not
know that.  He walked confidently beside Amy as they strode the length of the
pier, solid beneath his feet.  But as they stepped onto the unsteady platform
he immediately felt his balance fail him.  With nothing to anchor him visually,
he staggered, fell, and landed hard upon the sun-warmed wood, bringing Amy down
with him.  His face burning with humiliation, he allowed the two girls, both of
whom were giggling, to drag him to his feet.

"Oh, don't look so sour, you
silly nob," Mira scolded,  releasing his arm.  "Bleedin' hell, if you
English weren't so darned stuck-up in the first place, we probably wouldn't be
fightin' with ye."

"I beg your pardon?"

Amy, catching her friend's impish
grin, saw what she was up to and joined in.  "Mira's right," she
said, ignoring the captain's indignant scowl.  "You need to learn to laugh
at yourself, and now's a good time to do it.  Life doesn't need to be so
serious."

"I do not find it amusing
that I've been hauled to my feet by two girls who must be half my size,"
he said tersely, rubbing at a splinter protruding from his palm.  "I do
not find it amusing that I cannot see where I'm going, cannot see to walk a
straight path, and cannot see where this pier ends. "  His mouth
tightened.  "Will you laugh at me when I walk straight off this confounded
heap of wood and into the water?"

"Hell, I will,"
muttered Mira.

"That's not going to
happen," Amy declared, opening his palm and gently extracting the
splinter.  "Now come on, cheer up.  The sun's shining, the wind is high,
and we're going to have fun."

"Fun," he grumbled.

"Fun," said Mira,
gripping his other hand and, together with Amy, guiding him toward the boat.
Laughing, the two of them helped him down into it.

There Charles sat, hoping to God
he wasn't going to be sick with the unsteady movement of water beneath him, the
sudden vertigo he felt at not being able to see.  But he did not want to
disappoint Amy, who, he guessed, didn't get the chance to do things like this
very often.  She was sitting beside him, chattering happily to Mira, and
already she seemed different than she had back in that oppressive house;
brighter, more buoyant, more full of fun.  He liked her this way, and he found
her mood faintly infectious, despite himself.  He would not spoil things for
her by giving in to his own fears of shaming himself.

He heard a rope slipping, oars
thunking about, and then felt water moving beneath the hull upon which his feet
rested as the little boat slid out into the river.  He tensed, not enjoying
this feeling of being completely helpless and at the mercy of others.

Especially two young women.

"Gotta be careful of the
current in this river," Mira said importantly, " 'specially when the
tide's goin' out.  People drown here all the time and ye gotta know what yer
doin'."

He hoped she knew what she
was doing.

"Is it a big river?" he
asked politely.

"Aye, probably as broad
across as your Thames must be in London," she said, eager to prove that an
American river was every bit as good as a British one.  "Of course, we
ain't far from the mouth of it, so naturally, the Merrimack's quite wide
here."  He felt water rushing beneath him as she swung the tiller, and hoped
his knuckles weren't white as he reached out and found the gunwale.  "Amy,
tell him what you can see.  Paint him a picture instead of sittin' there like a
bump on a preacher's ass."

She did.  Charles, the sun
warming his upturned face, the wind playing with his hair, settled back and finally
began to relax as Amy's soft voice described their surroundings.  She told him
how the water, which was thirty feet deep out in the channel, was a rich cobalt
blue, and how little whirlpools of current were trailing in their wake.  She
told him about the marshlands on the opposite bank of the river, and how the
grasses there were glowing green and gold in the bright morning sun.  She told
him how they could see the steeples of Newburyport's churches from out here, and
the Beacon Oak that guided mariners in from the sea, and, as he commented upon
the ringing of hammers and growl of distant saws, of the shipyards that lined
the Merrimack's banks, one of which belonged to Mira's father, where the
Ashtons were building a fine new brig, Proud Mistress —

— "So my brother Matt,
who'll be her captain, can blow the tarnation out of you damned Brits,"
Mira supplied helpfully.

Charles merely smiled, refusing
to be baited, and Amy went on describing the scenery that they were passing —
the waders, sandpipers, and other seabirds near shore, feeding as the tide
began to ebb; the broad mudflats laced with little channels; and there, off to
starboard, the Joppa flats, where, at low tide, "you can dig the juiciest
clams this side of Ipswich."

Clams?  Charles felt a fresh wave
of nausea.  That was one food he vowed would never pass his lips.

"And that's Woodbridge
Island coming up off to starboard, and beyond that, the mouth of the river and
open ocean," Mira put in.  "I think it's best to come about now,
before — ho, what's this . . . shit!"

"What is it, Mira?" said
Amy, scrambling toward the stern.

"Something's tangled around
the bleedin' rudder!  Quick, help me get the sail down!"

The boat lurched and rocked as
the two girls tried to right the situation.  And Charles, listening to Mira's
increasingly potent curses, and Amy's sounds of dismay, had never felt more
helpless in his life.  He gripped the gunwales as the boat swung dizzyingly out
of control, stared into the black slate of darkness, and decided he would have
been better off staying home, safe on his pallet.

"You gotta knife on you,
Brit?"

"No, Miss Ashton,
unfortunately I do not.  Why do you need one?" he asked, deliberately
keeping his voice polite.

"There's a goddamned fishing
net tangled in the rudder, that's why!  We're driftin' downriver, and if I
can't find a way to get it off we're in deep shit!"

As far as Charles could discern,
they already were.

"Can you not steer it with
an oar?" he asked calmly, as Amy finished lowering the sail.

"An oar?  Are you joking?
With this sorta current?  There ain't no way an oar's gonna do a damned
bit of good —

"Mira, off to
starboard!"

"Cripes!"

There was a bone-jarring crash
and Amy was thrown violently across Charles's lap.  He had a sudden armful of
soft flesh, scrambling limbs, and a rounded derriere before she was up and off
of him, scrambling toward the bow.

"It seems that we have
landed.  Somewhere," he murmured, hopefully.

"We're stuck prow-deep in
the mudflats," Amy explained.  "We're going to have to push
off."

"Is it not wisest to stay
here where it is safe, rather than be swept out to sea?" he asked,
reasonably.

Mira snapped, "What, with
the tide goin' out?  Oh, what a sight that'd make, the three of us
stranded in a mile of clammin' flats!  If that happens, you can bet your ass
that everyone in Newburyport'll be telling my bleedin' father I ain't got no
business bein' in a boat after all, and then he won't let me go sailin' with
Matt on his new brig!  Grab an oar, Amy, and let's push outta here — if we're
lucky, the current'll carry us onto Woodbridge."

"Or the tip of Plum Island."

Charles, sitting patiently as
they struggled to get the boat out of the mud, raised a brow as he felt cold
water coming into his shoes.  "And what happens if we miss Plum Island?"

"You don't wanna know."

"Well, you might want
to know that the boat is now leaking."

Even so, Mira had too much pride
to change her mind.  A moment later, they were out of the mud, and the little
vessel was drifting helplessly downriver once more, Mira wrestling with the
oars and cursing a blue streak.

"Why don't you let me take
them?" Charles offered, positioning himself in the center of the hard
seat.  "Though I do not question your mariner's skills, Miss Ashton, I
daresay I am stronger than you, and I may yet be able to get us to
safety."

"Fine."  She shoved the
oars into his open palms.  "If I tell ye to push hard on the right one,
push hard; if I tell ye to push hard on the left one, you listen to me and
listen good — and if I tell ye to back water —"

"Yes, yes, I do
understand," he snapped, trying to hide his impatience.

But despite his best efforts,
Mira's hollered instructions, and the strength in Charles's arms, they missed Woodbridge
Island.  The sandy plate of land swept past them, and the great river carried
them ever further away from Newburyport, toward its turbulent mouth, and beyond
it, the open sea.

Plum Island was now their only
hope.

"Hold up on the sta'board
oar and push on the larboard!" Mira yelled.  "Now!"

Charles could feel the tide
fighting him, the ocean sucking the fast-flowing water past their boat and carrying
it right along with it.

"Harder, harder!"
cried Amy and Mira in unison —

With a lurching crunch, the boat
hit sand, its stern instantly swinging around with the current.

Mira leaped out of the boat,
nearly capsizing it.

"Hurry, Amy, help me get it
onto the beach!"

Charles, feeling helpless, could
only sit there as the girls tugged and wrestled the little boat further onto
the sand.

And then all was still.  Amy gave
a little giggle.  Mira joined her in a full-throated laugh.  A moment later,
the two of them were guffawing as though being stranded on some distant island
was the funniest thing in the whole damned world.

"Now what?" Charles
said irately, thinking this was not funny at all.

"Now we pull the boat onto
shore, free up the rudder, and wait for the tide to come back in — and carry us
with it."

Chapter 9

And stuck there they were.

Though Amy and Mira soon got the
rudder freed, the boat was not seaworthy, and there was nothing they could do
to make it so.

"Son of a bitch," Mira
swore, kicking the hull.

Charles was vexed past his normal
level of patience.  He disliked Mira's belligerence, disliked her brash overconfidence,
and mostly, he disliked her unladylike language.

"Can we not walk back to Newburyport?"
he asked tersely.

Mira turned on him.  "This
is Plum Island," she snapped.  "Island.  That means it's
surrounded by water, namely, the Merrimack on one side, the Atlantic on the
other, and Plum Island River in between.  I don't know about you, but I sure as
hell can't walk on water and I damn well ain't gonna swim it either!"

"Mira, please,"
said Amy, trying to mediate.

Charles took a deep breath.
Despite his own anger, he was too much the gentleman to respond to Mira's
inflammatory tone.  The situation needed immediate defusing, and trading
insults with the girl was not the way to do it.  Very calmly, he asked,
"If we're near the mouth of the river, why don't we remain here on the
beach and wait for a fishing boat or other vessel to spot us on its way out to
sea?"

Amy saw what he was up to.
"Yes, and we can have breakfast while we're waiting!"

"What if my bloomin' father
hears of this?"

Charles gave a tight smile.
"You can blame it all on me."

That satisfied the young hoyden.
Within minutes, tempers had cooled and they were all sitting on the beach,
eating bread and cheese and passing around the jug of rum.  Twenty minutes
later, the jug was half-empty, the two girls were getting giggly, and Mira was
bawling out sea chanteys whose verses were so ribald that Charles, keenly aware
of the innocent Amy beside him, felt the tips of his ears go red.

"So tell us what it's like,
growing up in a castle and havin' a duke for a brother," Mira asked,
finally tiring of her bawdy solos.

"I have nothing by which to
compare it, so I cannot answer such a question."

"I hear that you nobs grow
up with nannies and governesses and tutors — that so?"

"Yes."

"What are yer other siblings
like?"

Normally, Charles was very
private about family.  But the rum had made him feel pleasantly relaxed, these
girls presented no threat or intrusion, and perhaps it would take his mind off
Amy's proximity to his left shoulder — and the way that very proximity was
affecting him — if he talked about the four people he missed most in this
world.

Well, the four that he missed
most besides Juliet, he thought, fiercely correcting himself.

He kicked off his shoes, pushing
his stockinged toes into the warm sand.  "Well, first there's Lucien, the
eldest," he said, visualizing Lucien's austere face with its smoldering
dark eyes and flowing black hair.  "He was quite young when he inherited
the dukedom, and thus has a keen sense of responsibility — especially toward
the rest of us.  Unfortunately, he is can also be an autocratic monster with a
Machiavellian tendency to manipulate others for what he calls 'their own good,'
a trait which does not make him an easy man with whom to get along.  Or,"
he admitted with a rueful grin, "to live with.  The people back in our
local village of Ravenscombe call him The Wicked One."

"Why?"

"Because he's a lethal
duelist, a master strategist, and the last man on earth you'd want as an
enemy."

"Oooh, I'd love to
meet him," Mira said.

"You just might, because the
moment he learns of my fate, he'll be on his way over here to bring me straight
home to England."

"Despite the fact there's
now fightin' goin' on?"

"Yes,  If my brother is
determined to come for me, there is no force on earth that will stop
him."  He grinned confidently.  "Mark me on that."

Amy, beside him, broke off a
piece of cheese and pressed it into his hand, her fingers accidentally brushing
his.  "You have a sister too, don't you?"

"Yes, Nerissa.  She's the youngest
of us all."

"I wanna hear about
yer brothers," Mira said.  "Are they all like Lucien?"

Charles made a noise of
amusement.  "Thank God, no.  I'm the second oldest, and then there's
Gareth.  He's the black sheep of the family and leads a group of ne'er do wells
who've styled themselves after the Hellfire Club and call themselves the Den of
Debauchery.  Gareth is irresponsible and dissolute, and Lucien despairs of him
ever making anything of himself besides a general public nuisance — but I have
rather more faith in him than that."

"And what do the villagers
call him?"

"The Wild One."

"He sounds fun," Mira
said.  "Is he betrothed?"

Charles laughed.  "No mama
in her right mind would want their daughter married to Gareth.  His reputation
is not undeserved."  He leaned back, his elbows sinking into the sand, the
sun warming his upturned face.  "And then of course there's Andrew, my
youngest brother, who aspires to be an inventor and is, according to the last
letter I received from him, hoping to construct a flying machine."

"A flying machine?"
cried both girls in unison.

"Yes.  A preposterous
notion, isn't it?  However, I suppose that if anyone can do it, Andrew can.  He
has a clever brain, and did very well at Oxford."

"What's his
nickname?"

"The Defiant One."

"Why?"

"Because he is fiery and
independent, and is ever at odds with Lucien."

There was long silence.  And
then, softly, Amy said, "And what did the villagers call you,
Charles?"

Everything stilled inside him.
He sat up, feeling a sudden rush of self-loathing and loss.  "The Beloved
One," he said quietly.  Head bent, he picked up a handful of sand, letting
it trickle out through his fingers.  "Because I always did everything
right, always lived up to what everyone expected of me, always succeeded at
whatever I put my mind to — and never let anyone down."  He turned his
face toward the salty breeze.  "Until now."

Even Mira, recognizing the pain
in his voice, went uncharacteristically silent.

Amy, beside him, reached out and
touched his hand.

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

Mira got to her feet, making a
big pretense of brushing the sand from her clothes.  "Well, I think I'm
gonna walk over to the other side of the point and see if any boats are goin'
past," she announced briskly, realizing, perhaps, that two was company and
three a crowd.  "You two sit and chat for a while.  I'll be back — later."

Charles waited until she had
gone, and then rested his forehead in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he
murmured, staring down into the blackness.  "We were all having a good time,
and now I've ruined it."

"No you haven't."

"All my life, everyone
thought me perfect, confident, capable . . . and all my life I tried to be just
that, so that I would not disappoint.  People came to me with their problems,
consulted me for advice, depended on me."  He gave a bitter little laugh.
"Do you know what Lucien told me the day my regiment left England to come
to America?"

For answer, she reached out and
took his hand.

"He wished me Godspeed — and
then he said, 'Return to us crowned in laurels, Charles.  You are a de
Montforte.  I expect nothing less than glory from you.  Especially from
you.'"  He dug at the sand with his foot.  "And instead of laurels,
what will I bring back to my family?  Shame.  Pity.  Embarrassment.  I have
failed them, and I have failed myself."

"You made an honorable
sacrifice, Charles.  You put the life of a young boy before your own."

"I fell and struck a rock.
I seethe with humiliation when I think of explaining myself, and the
circumstances of my injury, to my superiors — let alone my family, all of whom
expected so very much of me."  He made a sound of disgust.  "Crowned
with laurels!  Indeed."

"Just because you
have such high standards of perfection, doesn't mean everyone else does."

"No, but they're accustomed
to certain behavior and actions from me, and neither my behavior nor my actions
give me any reason to be proud."

"Well, I'm proud of
you.  You have more strength, more courage, and more determination than anyone
I know."

He allowed a grim smile.  Of
course she would say that; given the girlish infatuation he suspected she felt
for him, such a defense came as no surprise.  And there was no use arguing with
her.  When you were infatuated with a person, you always saw them as something
more than they were; something almost god-like.  And Charles knew, more than
anyone, that he was not god-like at all.

Far from it.

They sat together, each all too
aware of the other's nearness, each respecting the unspoken boundaries that
forbid them to acknowledge secret yearnings, give in to forbidden desires.
Finally, Charles sighed and, with his finger, began tracing patterns in the
sand.

"Amy . . . may I speak to
you as a friend?"

"Of course."

"That first night after
discovering I was blind, when I accused you of being your family's slave and
you grew angry with me and told me to mind my own affairs —"

He sensed her going stiff beside
him.

"Well, I cannot help but
ask.  Why do you allow them to treat you so shabbily?"

She was so silent that he thought
for sure he'd offended her, and that she was going to get up and walk away.

Then, very quietly, she murmured,
"Because I have to."

"Why?"

"Because if I were to act
difficult and contrary, there's nothing to stop my sisters from convincing Sylvanus
to throw me out.  And since I have no hopes of marriage, I can't let that
happen.  I have nowhere else to go."

"What do you mean, you have
no prospects of marriage?  You're young, charming, and no doubt beautiful.  You
have your entire life before you!"

"You don't understand, and I
— I don't want to talk about this."

"No, I don't understand, and
how the devil can I, when every attempt I've made to have this
conversation with you ends before it even begins?"  Realizing that he was
getting angry, he took her hands within his own and squeezed them, willing her
to forgive him for his curiosity, his impatience, his interference.  "I
can't help but notice the way they treat you, Amy.  I have come to care about
you, and it hurts me.  It upsets me.  Can you not tell me why your sisters hate
you so?"

"I'm not really their
sister."

"What do you mean, not really
their sister?"

"Sylvanus is their father —
but he's not mine."

"So you're his stepdaughter,
then?"

"Not exactly . . ."

"Then who is your
father?"

She went silent.

"Amy?"

Her hands were trembling, and he
it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms, to comfort and hold and
soothe her as everything inside of him screamed at him to do.  Instead, he
folded her cold hands within his and very calmly, asked, "Can you not tell
me who your father is, Amy?"

"I can, but . . ."

"But what?"

Something came into her voice;
not quite fear, but shame.  Deep shame.  She whispered, "I'm afraid you
won't like me anymore if I do."

He smiled gently.  "Does
that matter?"

She swallowed.  "Yes.  It —
it matters a lot."

Ah yes.  That damned infatuation
again.  "My dear friend.  There's nothing you can say or do that will make
me dislike you, or cause me to forget all that you have done for me.  If you
want to tell me your secret, I vow to keep it safe."

"That's just it.  It's not a
secret.  Everyone in town knows about me, and they all have reason to treat me
as they do."

"Amy."

"Yes?

He pulled his hands from hers and
bending his head, rubbed at the back of his skull, which was now beginning to
throb incessantly.  "Please don't make me angry."

"I'm just telling the
truth."

"No, you're putting yourself
down and I don't like it.  Do you like it when I put myself down?  Do you like
it when I refer to myself as helpless and blind?"

"No, of course not, but
you're not helpless and your blindness may delay, but never deter, you from
your potential, whereas I —"

"Whereas you need a good
dose of self-confidence so that you'll stand up to people who treat you badly.
How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"And do you have a fair
face, Amy?"

"No.  I'm ugly."

"I suppose you're fat,
toothless, and scarred by pox as well, eh?"

"Not yet," she
murmured, but he heard the reluctant smile in her voice.

"So why do you think you're
ugly, Amy?"

"I just am."

"You just are."

"Yes."

"Are your sisters ugly?"

"No.  They're beautiful,
both of them, with perfect blonde hair and lovely eyes and skin as white as
milk.  It's a good thing you can't see them, otherwise you'd probably forget
all about your fiancée in Bos —" she trailed off, horrified.  "Oh,
Charles, I didn't mean that the way it sounded!"

He shook his head.  "I
didn't take it the way it sounded.  Now Amy.  Since you have eyes that work, I
want you to look at me.  I'm missing part of my hair, I have a hole in my head,
and my eyes must surely be staring into space.  Do you think I'm
ugly?"

"Oh, no, Lord Charles, they
could shave off all your hair and give you a dozen holes in your head and do
whatever they wanted to your eyes and you'd still be just as hands—"

She caught herself and gasped.
The air between them turned suddenly warm.

He couldn't help grinning.
"I'd still be just as what?"

"I can't say, I should never
have said as much as I have, I've embarrassed myself and now I'll embarrass you
—"

"I doubt that."

"Well, I was going to say
that you'd still be just as . . . just as handsome, but I don't want you to
think I'm trying to get under your skin as my sisters think to do.  They — they
look at you the way they look at dessert every night."

"Ah.  And did they start
thinking of me as dessert before or after they learned that my father was, and
now my brother is, the duke of Blackheath?"

"After."

"Women."  He sighed.

"You're kind, blue-blooded,
and look like some warrior angel fallen to earth.  You have to expect that
women are going to throw themselves at you.  Don't you find it
flattering?"

"No, I find it damned
annoying."

"Why?"

"I don't have time for it,
am not vain enough to appreciate it, and have no use for females whose interest
in me is predominantly based on the fact that my father was a duke."  He
pushed back a lock of hair that had come loose from his queue, continued
rubbing the back of his skull, and said wryly, "Perhaps now that I have a
hole in my head and can no longer see, they'll leave me alone."

"I doubt it.  You're still
handsome, you're still brave, and you still have the same father."

He laughed.  "Oh, Amy.  Why
is it that you can make the simplest statements sound so ludicrously
funny?"

"Do I?"

"Yes."  He smiled.
"And don't ever stop."

They sat quietly together.
Overhead, gulls wheeled, and the sea beat a rhythmic song against the beach.
Absently, Charles resumed massaging the back of his head, trying to banish the
pain that never seemed to let up beneath his skull.  He didn't even realize he
was doing it until suddenly her hand was there, her fingers encircling his
wrist.

He stilled, one brow raised.

"I know you're in
pain," she began, hesitantly.  "Every time I see you doing that, all
I want to do is try and find some way to make you feel better, but I . . ."
she released his hand.  "Well, you have a fiancée and I don't know if it's
right to touch you."  She swallowed.  "Is it right to touch
you, Charles?"

He frowned, considering the
matter.  "I suppose there's no harm in it, as long as my head is the only
part of me you touch."  He smiled.  "We really don't need a repeat of
what happened that night you uh, helped me with my bath, do we?"

"Certainly not!" she
agreed, with a nervous little laugh.

He bent his head, allowing her to
do what she would.  "Then go ahead, Amy.  Make the pain go away, if you
can."  He shut his eyes, already anticipating the relief her touch would
surely bring.

Amy, her throat suddenly dry,
stretched her legs out in front of her, then smoothed her petticoats and apron
over them.

"Is it, um, all right if you
position yourself so that both of us are comfortable, Charles?"

"What would you like me to
do?"

"Lie down, so that your head
is — well, resting in my lap."

Again, he frowned; then, torn
between a desperate need for relief and the worry that this seemingly innocent
gesture might not be such a good idea after all, he lay down in the sand with
his back toward her, gingerly resting his right cheek on her leg and settling
his left hand on her knee.

"How is that?"

"Perfect," she said —
and it was.

With caring, ever-so-gentle
hands, Amy untied his queue and drew her fingers through the thick, shining
waves of his hair.  He sighed, deeply.  His fingers curled briefly around her
knee, and then he gradually began to relax as she started combing his hair with
her fingers, knowing the gentle pulls against his scalp would be soothing in
itself.

"I think I feel better
already," he murmured.

"Do you want me to
stop?"

"God, no."

She smiled and continued her
ministrations, lightly drawing her fingers over his head and out through his
hair, over and over again, carefully avoiding the still-tender scar and
massaging his temple, his brow, his scalp, nape, and even his earlobe with a soft,
caring touch.  And as she worked, she gazed longingly down at him, wishing she
could look at him forever.  But he was not hers.  He could never be hers.  And
soon now, he would be going back to those to whom he belonged.  His oh-so-lucky
Juliet.  The family he so obviously loved.  And probably to England, never to
return.

Oh, why did it hurt so much?

Her chest constricted.  Sudden
tears made his image blurry, and she raised her head, blinking them away and
desperately hoping that Mira wouldn't come back anytime soon and cut short this
innocent intimacy that Charles had allowed them.

But Mira was nowhere to be seen,
and now a breeze came up, ruffling the folds of his shirt and stirring his hair
as Amy continued her gentle caresses.  Time passed.  His weight grew heavy
across her legs.  She hoped she was bringing him the relief he so desperately
needed.  She hoped he would let her do this again for him sometime soon.  And
she hoped there really wasn't anything wrong in this well-meaning action
with respect to his pledge to Juliet, because the feelings that made her skin
warm despite the nippy breeze, the feelings that made her breasts feel tight
and now brought a raw, tingling ache to her most private of areas, were not
right at all, and she began to understand just how her mother might have felt
all those years ago . . .

You'd better get up now, Amy.
Enough is enough.

She opened her mouth to rouse him
— and realized that his fingers were loose and relaxed across her knee, and
that he was taking the deep, rhythmic breaths of someone fast asleep.

Amy bit her lip.  She hadn't the
heart to wake him.  Not now.  Her gaze tender, she looked down at his firm,
slightly parted lips, the long, pale lashes lying against his cheeks, the
shoulders that rose and fell so gently.  His breath warmed the top of her thigh
through her petticoats.  Her heartache intensified, the back of her throat felt
raw.  It was all she cold do not to lean down and kiss his temple, but she
would not, she could not do such a thing, it just wasn't right.
Instead, she touched two fingers to her mouth, shut her eyes for a moment, and
then, so softly that it might have been the whisper of breeze, transferred the
kiss to his lips.  Her wistful gesture was enough to wake him.  He took a deep
sigh, slowly lifted his lashes, and, without moving his head, looked off over
the river's broad blue basin, a broad blue basin that he might never see.

His face was not just relaxed.
It was sad.

"Hmmm . . .  Your touch put
me to sleep, I think."  He made no attempt to get up.  "Thank you,
Amy.  You are very kind to me."

"You're not a hard person to
be kind to, Charles.  Besides, I've been no kinder to you than you've been to
me."

"And I would say the
same," he murmured, and let his eyes shut once more, though she knew he
was not sleeping.

"Charles?"

"Hmmmm?"

She gathered her courage.  "Earlier,
you told me how people treat you a certain way because of who your father was .
. ."

His eyes slowly opened.
"Yes."

"Well . . . people treat me
the way they do because of who my father was, too."

He was quiet for a moment.
"And who was your father, Amy?"

She took a deep, bracing breath,
and her hands stilled in his hair.

"A red Indian."

Charles, his cheek still resting
on her knee, waited for her to continue.  She didn't.  He waited another
moment.  She remained silent.  He heard the wash of the sea against the beach,
the roar of distant breakers, the high-pitched cry of a gull, and finally spoke
when it became obvious that no more was coming from her.  "Is that it,
then?"

"Yes."

He pushed himself up.  "You
mean to tell me the reason your family treats you like a slave is because your
father was an Indian?"

"Well, yes.  I don't know
what it's like in England, but here, Indians are treated like
slaves."

"But —"

"I know, you're wondering
how it happened, aren't you?"  She gave a pained little laugh, trying,
without success, to sound cavalier.  "Everyone says it was rape, but it
wasn't; Mama had been married to Sylvanus for three years when she met and fell
in love with my real father, a Mohawk, and the only reason people say it was
rape is out of respect for Sylvanus's feelings.  He let Mama keep me, but he
always took care to remind me that I was the product of sin, just to make sure
I tried twice as hard to do good, and not make the Lord any more unhappy with
me than He already is."

"What?!"

"I'm the fruit of a terrible
sin and that makes me unclean, don't you see?  My mother was an
adulterer.  My father was a savage.  Wanton blood runs in my veins.  And that's
why people treat me the way they do.  It's not their fault that I am what I am —
its mine."

"I have never heard such
complete and utter codswollop in all my life!"

"Don't you have a class
system in England?"

"Well, yes, of course, but .
. . for God's sake, this is different!"

"No it's not.  We have a
class system here, too, and Indians and people from Africa are at the bottom of
it."

"I cannot believe that a man
who calls himself a Christian would raise you to believe you're
responsible for something that has nothing to do with you!"

Her voice grew defensive.
"You mustn't blame Sylvanus.  He's a kind soul, and a forgiving one.  He
could've thrown Mama out, but he didn't because he still loved her.  He
could've thrown me out, as I must be a constant reminder of what Mama did, but
he didn't.  Instead, he took me in, gave me his name, schooling, and plenty of
food to eat.  No respectable man will ever marry me, but I have a home with
Sylvanus for as long as he remains on this earth, and that's more than a lot of
people in my position might have."  Her anger faded when he remained
still, shocked, and silent.  "Honestly, Charles, my life isn't so bad.  I
am blessed.  Really I am.  Please don't look so upset."

Upset?  Charles felt sick
to his stomach.  Felt sicker yet by her blithe acceptance of her lot.  And here
he was, wealthy, privileged, blessed with every material gift that God could
give a man, sulking because he'd lost his sight.  At least he had everything
else.  What did this poor little mite ever have?

Nothing.  Just gratitude for any
scrap of comfort.

He pushed his fist against his
brow, his heart feeling as though someone had dragged a rake through it.

"Charles?"

He lifted his head, staring
blankly into the nothingness.

"Charles, are you well?"

"No, Amy.  I am not well.  I
am sickened by what you've just told me, that's all."

"You don't need to feel
sick, it's not your fault that I'm a dirty half-breed —"

"Damn it, it's not your
fault either, and you're not 'dirty,' so stop allowing Sylvanus and everyone
else to convince you otherwise!"

"But Sylvanus is a man of
God, he knows what he's talking about —"

"Sylvanus is a narrow-minded
sod who's spent his life punishing you for something that isn't your
fault!"

His words rang in the air,
reverberating like the last clang of a bell.  "I'm sorry," he said,
shaking his head.  "'Sdeath, I'm sorry."  He grasped her hand, holding
it with a fierce strength.  "Amy, listen to me.  Listen to me.
Don't you ever let them tell you you're ugly!  Don't ever let them tell you
you're dirty.  You're a beautiful person, inside and out, thoughtful, sensitive
and kind.  I don't care what Sylvanus says, or what anyone else thinks.  You'll
find yourself a nice man to marry someday, and if your family's trying to
convince you otherwise, it's only because they have an unpaid servant in you
and they don't want to lose you."

He heard what sounded like a
gulp, then a sniffle.

"Amy?"

"I — I'm sorry, Ch-Charles.
No one's ever said anything like that to me before, and . . . and I j-just
don't know what to make of it —"

"Oh, God, don't cry.  I
don't know how to deal with tearful females, truly I don't."

"I c-can't help it, you're
being so nice to me, saying that I'm beautiful when really, I'm not, and —

"You are beautiful,
Amy, and don't you ever forget it."

"You can't say that, you've
never even seen me!"

"Come here."

"I am here."

"Come closer, then, and let
me judge the issue for myself."

She did.

"Now, place my hands on your
face."

Sniffling, she took his hands
within her own.  Or tried to, given that hers were half the size of his and
dainty as a bird's foot.

And then she raised them to her
face, placing one on each hot, tearstained cheek.

The minute he felt her flesh
beneath his, Charles knew this was a mistake.  A big mistake.  But to stop now
would crush her.

"Ah, Amy.  How can you think
you're ugly?  Your skin is so soft that it feels like roses after a morning
rain."

"It's too dark.  Bronzy.
Not at all the color of Ophelia's and Mildred's."

"And who says skin has to be
milk-white to be beautiful?"

"Well . . . no one, I
guess."

He gently pressed his thumbs
against her cheeks, noting that they were hot with blush, soft as thistledown,
and that the delicate bones beneath were high and prominent.  "And look at
these cheekbones!  I know women — aristocratic women, mind you — who'd kill for
cheekbones like these.  High cheekbones are a mark of great beauty, you
know."

"High cheekbones are a mark
of Indian blood."

"Amy."

"Yes?"

"Stop it."

"I'm sorry."

He continued on, now tracing the
curve of her brow, and the bridge of her nose.  He had lost his eyesight, but
it was amazing what his hands could see.

"You have a lovely
nose," he said.

"It's too strong."

"No it isn't.  Close your
eyes."

She did.  He could feel the
fragile veneer of her eyelids, trembling faintly beneath his fingertips, and
long, long lashes that brushed those cheekbones he had so admired.

"What color are your eyes,
Amy?"

"Brown."

"What color brown?  Brown
like conkers?  Brown like nutmeg?  Brown like black?"

"Brown like mud."

"Can you think of a more
flattering word?"

"No."

His hands moved out over her
face, learning its shape, before touching the plaited, pinned-up mass of her
hair.  It was straight, he could tell that much.  Shiny like glass, as soft as a
fern.  He wished it was down.

Good God, man, whatever are
you thinking?!

"My hair's brown, too,"
Amy said, her voice now a tremulous, barely audible whisper.

"Brown like mud?" he
cajoled.

"No.  Brown like black.  And
when the sun comes out, it's got reddish undertones."

"It sounds very
pretty."

"It's not, really.  It's
just hair."

"Just hair.  Do you ever
wear it down?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It gets in the way of
things."

"Don't you think that
someday, a man will wish to drag his fingers through all this hair?"

"No . . . no respectable
man."

He shook his head, his heart
aching for her.  "Oh, Amy."

He began to pull away, for this
act was starting to feel anything but innocent, but as he did, his thumbs
happened to brush the curve of her upper lip, the generous swell of her bottom
one, and with a start, Charles realized he was only inches away from drawing
her face close to his and kissing her.

Shaken, he pulled back.

"Are my lips all right,
Charles?" she asked, innocently.

"Yes, yes, they're fine.
Quite fine indeed."

"I wish they were more like
my sisters' . . . Ophelia's and Mildred's are soft pink the way lips are
supposed to be, but mine, well, they're just sort of a dark red —"

God help me.  At that
moment, Mira's voice echoed over the dunes.

"Amy!  Lord Charles!  Get
off your butts and get over here, quick!  Old man Lunt is coming in off the
ocean and he's seen me waving!  We're rescued!"

Charles shut his eyes on a silent
prayer of thanks.

Divine intervention.  And not a
moment too soon.

Chapter 10

Charles's warning had not been
wasted on Sylvanus.

That Saturday — after Ophelia had
grudgingly made (and burned) supper — he hastily rewrote his sermon, mustered
his courage, and at the pulpit the following morning, announced to his stunned
flock that Adam Smith was no farmer at all, but a king's officer and the
brother of a mighty English duke.

By that afternoon, all of Newburyport
came filing through Sylvanus's door.  Or so it seemed.  Some came merely to
gawk.  Some, impressed by the fact that Lord Charles was not only known to General
Gage, but the heir-presumptive to an English dukedom, asked him to plead their
grievances to such men of power in the hopes of preventing more bloodshed and
settling the differences between colony and Crown before things got even
worse.  And a few — the hotheaded patriot Matthew Ashton included — were
purposely rude to him, damning him for no other reason than the fact he was a
"redcoat" — though their treatment of him improved when their insults
and abuse failed to rouse anything from Lord Charles but polite sympathy for
their complaints.  By keeping a firm hold on his temper, by behaving like the
gentleman he was, and above all, by proving he was not a vicious and unfeeling
enemy but a man who had sincere compassion for their plight, he managed to keep
the Leighton family out of trouble for taking him in, and defused a situation
that might otherwise have become quite volatile.

Sylvanus, greatly relieved, came
to him after everyone had left.  "I can't thank you enough, Captain, for
convincing me to tell them the truth.  I feel as though a great weight has been
taken from my shoulders.  You were right all along."

Charles simply shrugged and sat
on his pallet.  "It was for the best, Reverend.  Sooner or later they
would have found out who I am, and then it would have been too late to save
your reputation, let alone their trust in you.  Because you were honest with
them, they will continue to respect and admire you."

"And I will continue
to respect and admire you, Captain.  You may be 'the enemy,' but when it comes
to courage, you've got more than any man I've ever met."  He reached out
to grasp Charles's shoulder.  "After Lexington and Concord, I must confess
that I didn't trust my neighbors not to do you harm."

But Charles had never had any
fear of that.  Indeed, the only thing he feared was the harm he was doing
himself.

The incident out on Plum Island
had unnerved him.  If he'd thought his dreams were hot before, they were
nothing compared to what they were now that he'd laid his hands on Amy's face
and had as good idea as any what she must look like.  He certainly knew what
she felt like.  Mornings found him hard with arousal.  His body jolted
to life the moment she walked into the room.  Desperate to find escape,
to find distance, to find the man he'd been before his life had been turned
upside down, he gratefully accepted the walking stick Will made for him from
the branch of an oak if only for the chance to get out of the house and away
from the source of his distress.

"It's nothing fancy,"
the boy had said, "but maybe it'll help you get around some."

And it had.  Soon, Charles could
navigate every room downstairs as well as the back garden.  He walked the route
to the church, the road down to the river, and even the pier from which Mira
Ashton had brought them on their calamitous escapade.  He spent as little time
as he could with the Leightons, distrustful of his thoughts, his reactions, and
his desire for Amy.  He was already engaged to Juliet, and he could not afford
to make a mistake for which he could never, not in a million years, forgive
himself.

"For a blind man," said
the people of Newburyport, amazed at his determination to overcome his
handicap, "he sure does get around!"

~~~~

Three weeks after his letters had
been posted, the first reply arrived.

It was Amy who brought it to him,
part of her excited for his sake, part of her dreading its contents.  She
hadn't seen much of him lately, and she almost wondered if he was avoiding her,
so much time did he spend away from the house.  And now this.  She knew he
wouldn't be with them forever, that he had a life beyond their little house in
Newburyport, but still, the idea of saying goodbye to him — a rare friend who
had somehow managed to make her sisters share the cooking, a friend who
defended her, encouraged her, made her feel a little better about herself, and
didn't judge her for the circumstances of her birth — filled her with
unbearable anguish.

She heard him calling out as she
entered the house.  "Amy?  Do you have the post?"

How hard he tried to keep the
eagerness and anticipation from his voice.  And how sad it made her to know that
in a few days he might be gone.  Taking a deep breath, Amy carried the letter
into the keeping room.

There, Lord Charles, ever
conscious of how his healing scar must look to those around him, ever careful
not to offend others' eyes, sat on his pallet, tying the shining gold waves of
his hair back and over the wound with a black ribbon.

"Is there anything for
me?"

"Oh, just a letter from Boston,"
she quipped, hoping the forced playfulness in her voice would keep him from
guessing how low she suddenly felt.

He was on his feet in a
heartbeat.  "Go ahead, Amy, open it.  Tell me what it says!"

Amy broke the seal, opened the
letter, and began to read:

My dear Captain de Montforte,

I am sorry to hear of your
fate, and am much aggrieved by the loss of your sight.  I am sure I'm not
telling you anything you don't already know, when I point out that an injury of
this nature renders you unsuitable to the army that you have previously served
so well.  Given the tumultuous situation here in Boston, and the
fact that you seem to be in very good hands where you are, I would advise you
to stay with the Leighton family in Newburyport until such time
as you might recover your sight, and your value to us.  In the meantime, I
convey my best wishes for a complete and timely recovery.

"Signed, Lieutenant Colonel
Maddison," Amy murmured, her own guilty gratitude that Charles would be
staying with them a bit longer, dashed to ribbons when she looked up and saw
the look of devastation, of stunned betrayal, on his handsome face.  Immediately,
she hated herself for her selfishness.

"I'm sorry," she said,
instinctively reaching out to touch his hand.

He jerked back.  And then he just
stood there, not moving, not saying a word.  He blinked, once, that slow,
studied lowering of long lashes that was so oddly characteristic of him, and
turned away, trying to hide the myriad emotions that shadowed his face —
confusion, denial, hurt, and finally anger.  Head high, he moved to the window,
placing his hands on the sill and turning his face up to the warm sunshine that
streamed through the panes.

"Well," he said,
quietly.  "I guess that's that, then.  It seems that you and your family
are to be burdened with me for a few days longer."

She went to stand beside him.
"No, Charles.  You are never a burden.  Please don't even think such a
thing."

"I should have known they
would do nothing to help me.  I should have known that my value to them was
determined only by my physical ability.  I should have known . . . and yet, I
had hoped otherwise."  He gave a humorless little laugh and shook his
head.  "Silly me.  Silly, silly me."

"They're the ones
being silly, not you!  Blind or not, I'll bet you're the finest soldier in the
king's army!  Why, if your Lieutenant Colonel Maddison knew you half as well as
we do, he'd realize you're not 'unsuitable' a'tall!  He's abandoned you, and I
know you'd never have done such a thing to one of your men!"

"I would have died
first," he admitted softly, and Amy knew then that he was thinking of the
young soldier he'd been attempting to rescue, the bullets flying all about him,
on that terrible day that had rendered him blind.  "But you must not judge
Maddison so harshly, Amy.  He is merely seeing to the needs of his
troops."

"What about your
needs?"

"My needs cease to matter."

"This isn't fair!" she
cried, her heart aching for him.

"What in life, is?  I
brought this on myself, Amy.  It is my fault, not Maddison's, that I find
myself in this predicament.  Therefore it is I, not him, who must pay the cost
for my clumsiness and stupidity."

"You weren't clumsy
and you certainly weren't stupid!  For God's sake, you spared the life of a
child!"

His mouth tightened and with a
little shake of his head he turned away, already weary of the argument.  He
would hear no more about it.  And Amy knew him well enough to understand that
to his mind, which tolerated nothing less than self-perfection, he was the one
at fault, the only one to blame.  He did not see his actions in saving Will as
heroic.  All he considered was that he had stepped backwards, lost his balance,
and wiped out the rest of his life.

"I refuse to allow you to
blame yourself for this," she said heatedly, wishing she could give this
Maddison fellow a piece of her mind.  "I refuse it!"

Very gently, and without facing
her, he murmured, "Though you have been of great help and comfort, there
are some things, Amy, that you cannot do for me.  Clearing me of blame is one
of them.  I am sorry."

And with that he walked away,
leaving her standing there all alone with the letter burning a hole in her
hand.

She hurled it into the fire and
watched the flames consume the offending vellum.

Take that, Maddison! she
thought angrily.  He's worth far more to me than he is to you, anyhow!

~~~~

Most of Newburyport had good
cause to hate the English army over the following weeks, each one devoid of
letters for Lord Charles, but full of news from Boston that was downright
horrible.  Boston was a seething hotbed of horror, under blockade.  And in
June, the patriots made a stand on Breed's Hill, and hundreds of men on both
sides — including the gentle, renowned Dr. Joseph Warren of the Americans, and
Major Pitcairn of the King's forces, who had made a name for himself during the
Concord expedition two months past — were lost.  It was a long, bloody battle,
and one that sent reverberations of hatred, sorrow, and grief rippling across
the Atlantic and down through every one of the thirteen colonies.

What had began as complaint had
become conflict, and what had become conflict was now downright war.

Upon hearing the news about Breed's
Hill, Charles sank even further into the depression that he'd been unable to
throw off since receiving the letter from his commanding officer.  Amy knew he
was worried about Juliet, but she also suspected he was mourning the loss of
friends, for rumor had it that the Americans, eager to wipe out enemy
leadership, had focused their sharpshooting skills upon the bright coats of the
British officers, dispatching those who wore them with deadly accuracy.
Hearing this, Amy had shuddered violently, for it wasn't hard to imagine
Charles out there with his peers, calmly giving orders one moment — and lying
dead on the ground the next.

For the first time since he'd
arrived here, she was almost thankful for his blindness.

And almost thankful that
Lieutenant Colonel Maddison now found him "unsuitable."  Although his
pride had been dealt a stinging blow by the army's rejection, at least he was
safe, and far away from the fighting that was tearing Massachusetts apart.

But the days passed, and no
letters came from either Juliet Paige or his family in England.  Though it was
still early to expect a letter from the latter, Charles was sick with worry
about his fiancée, tormenting himself with visions of her in a besieged and
war-torn Boston, carrying the bastard babe of a hated English soldier and
suffering the abuse of her patriotic neighbors.  Sylvanus tried to relieve his
distress by reminding him that Boston had been shut off from the mainland by
the British troops, so surely the post going in and out of the town must be
hampered as well.

But even such a rational
explanation could not ease Charles's mind.  Everyone noted the bleakness in his
eyes, the pallor of his skin, the fact that lately, he would only pick at his
food, and leave most of his meal uneaten.

And each and every one of them
began to worry.

"He can't go on like
this," Will told his father one day, striding purposefully into Sylvanus's
study and shutting the door behind him.  "We've got to do something, Pa."

Sylvanus, keeping his voice low
so that Charles, who seemed to have very keen hearing, could not hear their
conversation, murmured, "I can't make the post go any faster, Will."

"No, but you could let me go
down to Uncle Eb's and bring him back a surprise."

"A surprise?  What are you
talking about, son?"

"Well, this mornin', when
the captain and I were out walking, Mira Ashton went past on El Nath, that
mean-tempered black stallion of hers.  She stopped and good-naturedly harassed
the captain, as she usually does, about his being 'a Brit,' and while Lord
Charles was a-standing there, stroking the horse's neck, I saw such a look of
sorrow come over his face as you wouldn't believe.  Next thing you know, that
horse was rubbing its head all up and down his arm, and Mira was hollering
about the horse being a traitor to the rebel cause, and Lord Charles was smiling
a sad little smile and saying he never met a horse that didn't like him,
whether it was a rebel horse or not."  Will took a deep breath, looked his
father in the eye, and said, "I think I know of a way that might make him
happy again, Pa."

"Well, you've got my
attention," said Sylvanus.  "What do you have in mind?"

"Remember that day he got
hurt, and I took him to Uncle Eb's before bringing him here?  Well, there was
one thing that belonged to him that I had to leave behind, one thing that was
so big I just couldn't fit it on the boat."

"Don't tell me,"
Sylvanus said, taking off his spectacles and rubbing suddenly-weary eyes.
"His horse."

"Aye, Pa, his horse."
Will squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.  "I'm a-wondering if I can
go down to Uncle Eb's and bring it back.  Besides a letter from his fiancée,
there's probably nothing that'll cheer him up more than having his horse
back."

"But he can't ride it,
Will," Sylvanus said gently.  "Having it here will only remind him
all the more of the things he can no longer do, and make him feel worse than he
already does."

"But he doesn't have
to ride it, Pa.  Amy can — Mira taught her how, and she can give it all the
exercise it needs."

"Amy has enough to do
without exercising a horse, son."

"Aye, she does.  And this
might not be my place, Pa, but I think it's high time that Millie and Ophelia
did some of their own washing and mending."  He raised his chin.
"Amy never gets to have any fun, and it just isn't fair."

Sylvanus sighed and gazed at the
closed door, beyond which sat their silent guest.  He knew his son was right;
he also knew that all chaos would break loose if he imposed such a ruling on
his daughters, both of whom would object, and most violently at that.  It had
been hard enough just to get them each to cook a meal one day a week.  He
wished his Mary were here to guide him.  He wished he had the patience and
energy to stand up to their whining tantrums; and above all, he wished he could
get them married off.  Despite their beauty, despite the well-spokeness their
gently-bred mother had insisted that all her girls possess, there had been no
takers, and lately, he had begun to wonder if there ever would be.

Especially since they were no
longer interested in Newburyport's eligible young men, but only in the handsome
English captain, for whom they might as well not even exist.

Will was still standing there,
waiting.

"Very well then, son.  Go to
my brother and fetch the horse, but you are to come immediately back, is that
understood?"  He levelled a warning stare on his son from over the top of
his spectacles.  "No stopping anyplace along the way, no joining any
fighting, and no hobnobbing with the countryfolk.  I have not forgotten the last
time I allowed you to go to my brother's," he added, ruefully.

"I swear, Pa, I'll come
right back.  I've got no stomach for fighting anymore, I swear it, I
don't."

"You don't need to swear
to convince me.  Just go, come right back, and be safe."

"Thank you, Pa — I just know
this'll bring the captain 'round."

Will turned on his heel and made
for the door.

"And Will?"

The boy stopped.

"One more thing.  As you
pointed out, Amy has enough to do around here.  Therefore, you, not Amy, will
be the one taking care of the animal.  It will be your responsibility."

Will raised his head and squarely
met his father's gaze.  "No, Pa.  'Twill be the captain's responsibility.
He may be blind, but there's nothing stopping him from taking care of his own
horse."

And with that he left, leaving
his father staring after him.

He left for Woburn that evening.
And the following afternoon, the two letters that Lord Charles had been
awaiting for so long, finally arrived.

Chapter 11

Sylvanus was off visiting a sick
parishioner, Will hadn't been around since morning, and Amy had gone to
market.  Thus, it was the sisters who came back from town with the post.

"Why, Ophelia, would you
look at this!  Not one, but two letters for Lord Charles, and one all
the way from England!"

Instantly, he was on his feet.

"And what a fancy envelope —
do you think it's from the duke?"

"I don't know, Millie, but
that sure does look like a impressive seal on the back . . ."  And then,
Ophelia's voice dropping to a whisper, "Hurry, let's bring them to him
now, before Amy gets back.  Maybe if we're the ones to do him this small
favor, he'll pay us more attention!"

They charged into the room.
"Lord Charles, two letters have come for you and one's from England!  Do
you want us to read them to you?"

"Oh yes, please Lord
Charles, you never let us do anything for you and we'd be honored to perform
this small kindness —"

"Where is Amy?"

Ophelia made a scoffing noise.
"In town, no doubt trying to decide between cod and flounder for tonight's
stew."

Charles stood unmoving.  The
letters were personal and he didn't want anyone but Amy to know what was in
them — especially the one from Juliet.  But Amy was not here.  Amy wouldn't be
back for a while.  And Charles knew, much to his dismay, that he had neither
the will nor the patience to wait for her return.

He walked across the room and
leaned against the open door, keeping his back to the two girls.  "Go on
then," he said quietly.  "Open and read the one from England."

"What about the other, Lord
Charles?  Don't you want to know what's in that one as well?"

"I think I shall save that
one for later."

He heard them breaking the seal,
unfolding the letter, and Ophelia clearing her throat as she prepared to read.
He swallowed, hard, overcome by such a flood of gratitude and relief that it
nearly overwhelmed him.  Thank you, Lucien.  And thank God for you.  I knew
that you would come for me . . .  knew that you, and my family, would never let
me down.

He leaned his cheek against the
cool wood of the doorjamb and closed his eyes.

And then Ophelia began to read.

"My dear Charles," she
said, her voice sing-song with excitement, "You cannot imagine my distress
and disappointment when I learned of your recent exploits and injury at Concord.
As you well know —"

She paused abruptly.

"Go on," Charles urged.

"I, uh . . . don't know if
you want to hear the rest," she said slowly.

He frowned and straightened up,
turning on his heel to face them.  "Don't be absurd, of course I want to
hear the rest.  He's my brother, for heaven's sake."

Dear God, has something
happened to one of my family?

Silence, and Charles could sense
the two of them exchanging glances.  Hesitating.  Growing uneasy.  A tingle of
apprehension settled itself in the base of his spine.

And then Ophelia continued.
". . . As you well know," she read softly, "you have always been
the pride of our family, the one upon whom rested our hopes of glory.  When you
left for those godforsaken colonies, I felt confident in knowing that you would
do me, and our family, proud.  But it was not to be.  I am embarrassed by your
performance at Concord, humiliated by your actions in battle, and disappointed
that you — you of all people — have brought only shame upon us, when I
sent you away with the highest expectations of honour.  Had you sustained such
a grievous injury whilst fighting a worthy opponent, I would be inclined to be
more forgiving, but the knowledge that you brought on your miseries by your own
clumsiness, poor judgment, and hesitation, grieves me to no end.  I expected
more from you, my brother.  More from you than everyone else in this family
combined.  You have disappointed me, you have disappointed our family, and you
have disappointed the village that sent you away with such pride and high
hopes.  In closing, I hope you can understand that while you will always have a
home here at Blackheath, my own feelings are such that I cannot come personally
to America to bring you back.  I am sure you'll understand, and I wish you well
in your recuperation.  Until such time as we meet again . . . "

Charles stood frozen.

"Signed, Blackheath."

Silence, as Charles numbly tried
to digest what he'd just heard.  And then:

"He signed it Blackheath?!"

"Well, yes . . ."

Not Lucien.  Not Luce.  Blackheath.
Crushed, he wiped a hand over his face and pushed himself away from the
doorjamb, feeling as though everything he'd ever believed in had just been
ripped out from under him.  This was a bad dream.  This could not be
happening.  Lucien would never do this to him, never, not in a million years!

"There must be some mistake
. . ."  He shook his head and took a few aimless steps, trying to deny the
terrible words.  "I cannot believe he would be so cruel . . ."

Mildred's voice gentled with
sympathy.  "I read the letter just as he wrote it, Lord Charles.  Do you
want me to read it again?"

As if he could bear to hear those
damning words repeated!  As if he could stand the pain of such a brutal knife
to the heart all over again!  "No," he ground out, pressing two
fingers to his brow.  "No, thank you, once is quite enough."  And as
he turned away from what he knew must be their curious stares, he felt a
desperation that scared him, a raw torrent of pain clawing at his heart, making
his throat so tight it ached with desperate, unshed emotion.  Amy.  God
help him, he wanted Amy, needed Amy, with an intensity he could no longer
explain or ignore.

He straightened up and it was a
compliment to his self-control that he managed to keep his voice perfectly
calm, his expression perfectly still.  "Please — will you tell me when
your sister will return?"

"Around five.  But really,
Lord Charles, why wait for her when we're here to read the other letter for
you?"

He shook his head, desperate to
escape before his rising emotions tore him apart and embarrassed him.
Wordlessly, he held out his hand for both letters, shoved them into his pocket,
and, pausing only long enough to pick up his walking stick, strode out the
door.

"Lord Charles?" called
Ophelia, her voice anxious with worry.

He didn't answer, wanting only to
get away from them, to get away from everyone, and find a place to be alone
until he could come to terms with what his brother had written.

He did not know where he was
going.  People yelled at him to get out of the street, to mind the carriages
rushing past, to have a care where he was walking . . .

I expected more from you . . .
than everyone else in this family combined.  You have disappointed me, you have
disappointed our family, and you have disappointed the village that sent you
away with such pride and high hopes.

And that was the worst of it,
because he had never disappointed anyone in his life, and the word hung
suspended before him like a blazing sun on a hot summer afternoon:

Disappointed.  Disappointed.
Disappointed.

Cool wind now, and the scent of
salt marshes as he neared the river.  Gulls screaming, and the high-pitched cry
of the sandpipers.  And somewhere very near, the mighty river itself.  Charles
could hear it.  He could smell it.  A mile to the east, it widened into the
broad basin in which Mira had come to such grief, swept majestically around the
western side of Plum Island, and gave itself up into the embrace of the Atlantic.
Or so everyone said.

He heard water surging against
the pier, burbling and sucking around upright wood.  The tide must be high.
The cane swinging before him, he stepped out onto the pier and began to walk.
His footsteps sounded hollow on the planking, and through his soles he could
feel the swift outgoing tide thrumming against the supports as though trying to
carry away the whole lot.

He walked as far out as he could
go.  When he reached the end of the pier he sat down, and, turning his face
into the salty breeze, pulled out Lucien's letter, the initial tide of pain subsiding
as he tried to understand why his brother had treated him so cruelly.

He smoothed the heavy vellum.
What could have driven Lucien to be so lacking in compassion for the one
brother he'd always regarded as an equal, the one brother who had never given
him any trouble at all, the one brother that had been groomed since birth to
take over as duke should anything happen to him?

And then it came to him.

Had his depression, self-disgust,
and crushing sense of failure — all things that the old Charles had never known
— come through in the words he'd dictated that night in his letter to Lucien?

Probably.  And if not, Lucien was
more than capable of reading between the lines.

"Why . . . you conniving bastard,
you," he swore, partly in admiration, and partly in mounting anger.  The
devil take him, why hadn't he seen it before?  Lucien, with his manipulating
games!  Playing off people's emotions to get them to do his bidding!  Was it
conceivable that he'd employ such tactics on him, Charles?  Would he?
Lucien had never done so in the past, had never had any reason to do so — but
Charles had seen him practice it countless times upon his two younger brothers,
and once or twice upon his sister, and now, as he sat there on the pier and
considered this new possibility, he became increasingly certain that Lucien was
doing exactly the same thing to him.

The knowledge stung.

It hurt.

And most of all, it insulted.

"How could
you?!"  Charles crushed the letter in his fist, anger blazing through
him.  "Do you think that by wounding me with your insults, you can restore
me to the man I once was?  I may be blind, damn it, but I can see exactly what
you're trying to do and I don't appreciate it!"  The anger moved out into
his fingers, making them tremble; into his head, resurrecting the pounding ache
that was so easily called back during moments of stress.  "You and I have
always regarded each other with dignity, friendship and respect, but you have
cut me to the quick with this, Lucien!  I thought that you of all people would understand
what I'm feeling . . .  That you, of all people, would understand the hell in
which I've spent the past two months."  He drove his knuckles into his
useless eyes.  "You have let me down, and this, when I have never needed
you more.  The hell with you, then.  The hell with you!"

Balling the letter in his fist,
he hurled it far out over the water and buried his head in his hands.  And as
he sat there vowing never to return to England if this was a sampling of the
treatment his older brother had in store for him, he heard someone calling him.

His head jerked up.

Amy.

Feelings he could neither explain
nor rationalize crashed over him and in that moment, he wanted only the comfort
of her touch, the balm of her presence, and God help him, God forgive him, the
surrounding warmth of her arms.  He rose to his feet as her light footsteps
came running down the pier.

"Charles, what is wrong?
What are you doing out here?  Do you know how close you are to the edge?"

"I got a letter from
Lucien," he bit out in a voice hoarse with pain and anger, and it was all
he could do not to reach out for her, all he could do not to walk into the
embrace he knew she would never hold back.  "He has rejected me.  Insulted
me.  Affirmed the shame I've been struggling to overcome for the past miserable
months . . ."

"Please, Charles, take my
hand and let me lead you away from the edge."

He flung out his arm, palm up,
preventing her from coming any closer.  "No, Amy.  I cannot touch you, for
I have never needed you as much as I do in this moment, and God help me, if I
touch you I may find myself unable to stop touching you, and if that
were to happen I swear the guilt I already feel will be my undoing —"

"Charles, what are you
saying?"

"It doesn't matter what I'm
saying, Amy, sweet Jesus, forget I said anything and please —" he plunged
his hand into his pocket, found the letter from Juliet, and held it out to her —
"please, just read this before any more time passes, I beg of you, please
read it and show me that someone in my life still cares for me and that this
world has not been turned completely upside down, I beg of you Amy, read it and
read it now!"

He drew back, trembling, hands
pressed against his sightless eyes as he tried to get himself under control.
He felt her hands against his shoulders, heard her soft voice only inches away.

"Charles, please, it's all
right —"

"It's not all right,
can you not see?  My army has rejected me, my own brother toys with me in the
name of discipline, and here I am in my darkest hour and who is it that
I want to reach for, who is it that I want to hold, who is it that I need more
than any other person on earth?"

"Charles —"

"It's you, Amy, can't
you see it, can't you feel it, can't you understand that you are the very
center of my existence?!  You, not Juliet.  You.  God damn it, I need you."

He pushed away from her and bent
his head to his balled fist, his mouth twisted in pain and self-loathing for
these needs he could not control, these feelings he should never have.

"I'm sorry," Amy
whispered, reeling with shock at what he'd just confessed.  "I didn't know
. . ."

"Juliet is the one I should
want right now, not you," he was saying, hoarsely.  "It is she who
holds my heart, who wears my ring, who carries my unborn baby . . . Oh, God
help me, Amy, read the letter.  Read the damned letter now, so that I may be
reminded where my heart lies, so that I may be reminded of my promise to the
woman who loves me, so that I may be reminded of who I was and who I seek to
remain.  Read it so that I may know that she, at least, is still there
for me when everyone on whom I thought I could depend, has abandoned me . .
."

Amy, trembling and afraid, put
down her packages and silently took the letter from him.  The shadows were
long, the pier deserted, even the distant hammering from the Ashton Shipyards
had ceased.  Everyone had gone home for the night.  She slowly broke the seal
on the letter, scanned its contents, and, her eyes filling with tears, pushed a
hand to her mouth.

No.  Please God, no.

"Amy?"  He stood there
before her, his body rigid with anticipation, his mouth a slash of pain, his
eyes fierce with a desperate hope.  And Amy looked beyond his shoulder, at the
wide expanse of water moving slowly toward and past them as it pushed its way
out to sea, and suddenly felt a sense of menace.  Dread shivered through her
and she took Charles's hand.  It felt stiff.  Cold.

Like that of a man already dead.

He swallowed, and she knew then
that he already suspected the worst.  She squeezed her eyes shut on a film of silent
tears.  And then she quietly led him off the pier.  Onto the soft bank that
held back the river.  Up the slight slope to a patch of grass, where she sat
down and bade him to do the same.

She looked over at him.  His face
was totally expressionless.

"Go on," he said.
"Read the letter."

She did.

Chapter 12

Dear Charles,

I know it has been some time
since you wrote, and I hope you are still at the address you gave, for this
letter to reach you.  The time since we last met has been hell for me, and it
has been as much as I have been able to do to keep body and mind together,
never mind responding to your pitiful writings.

First I heard you were dead,
then I received your letter from Newburyport and learned that you
were blind.  I am afraid that the shock of these several pieces of news led me
to lose our baby, and I nearly died myself in the process.

The fact of the baby has not
gone unnoticed, of course, and enough people have associated this news with the
liaison I had with a king's officer, that my life, and that of my stepfather,
has become almost unbearable.

I realise now that I no longer
love you.  You have ruined my life with the baby, I have lost the respect and
the trust of our neighbours, and I have no sympathy for the self-pitying letter
you wrote after your ridiculous accident at Concord.  You are not
the man I thought you were.

In short, I intend to pick up
the pieces and try to make the most of what I have left, and I commend you to
do the same; however, do not make things even more unpleasant for either of us
by trying to contact me again.

Juliet Paige

Amy lowered the letter.

And then she looked at Charles.

He sat beside her, his hair
catching the last rays of the dying sun, his lashes throwing shadows across cheeks
that had drained of blood.  His face was frighteningly still.  His fingers were
interlocked in a sort of double fist, the knuckles showing white;
instinctively, she reached out to touch them.

They were trembling.

"I'm so sorry," she
whispered, wishing with all her heart that she could take this pain from him.
"About the baby, about Juliet . . ."  She squeezed his hand.
"You deserve so much better than this . . . "

His throat was working.  He
blinked in that painfully slow, studied way he had and pulled himself to his
feet, where he stood swaying a bit, his gaze fixed on a horizon he could not
see.

"You're a fine man, and if
Juliet can't see that, then she's not worthy of you . . ."

He stood there, just staring
emptily out over the darkening water.

"Please, Charles, say
something — you're frightening me."

He looked down at her then,
blinked, and for a moment, she almost thought he could see her, so true, so
deep, was his gaze.  There were tears in his eyes.  He smiled, gently —

And then, as though he could see
exactly where he was going, he began to walk toward the riverbank.

"Charles?"

And straight into the water.

"Charles!"

She leaped to her feet, grabbed
up her skirts, and charged after him.  "Charles, no!  No!"

He waded right up to his knees in
the salty outgoing tide, up to his thighs, staggering now, one arm thrown out
for balance, the other hand pressed to his eyes in a futile attempt to hold
back the tears.  Amy plunged in after him and made a desperate grab for his
arm.  He gave one raw, choking sob, and then half fell, half threw himself into
the current, which quickly caught him and began to sweep him downriver.

"Charles!" Amy
screamed.  "Charles!"

Terror gripped her.  Heedless of
modesty, Amy tore off everything but her stays and shift, leaped onto the pier
and pounded down its length as fast as she could run.

"Charles!"

Without breaking stride, she
flung herself off the pier and far out into the river, where the current ran
faster than it did near shore and would carry her down to him with utmost
speed.  Fighting her way to the surface, kicking furiously to speed her
progress, Amy angled out away from shore.  Already the current was carrying her
down toward the blond head.

Please, dear God, let me get
to him in time . . . he's lost everything, he doesn't know what he's doing —
please, God, he deserves better than this!

The river bore her steadily down
on him, frightening her with the immense power of hundreds of tons of water all
around her.  Salt stung her eyes.  Her skin ached with cold.  And now she was
coming up to him, now he was thirty feet away . . . fifteen . . . closer in to
shore than she was and not at the mercy of as much current.  Please, God,
don't let it sweep me past him!  She struck out against the flow, swimming
diagonally toward shore, crying, shouting, flinging out an arm in a desperate
attempt to reach him.  Her fingers hooked in his collar.  Held.  The rest of
her body swept past him, so that she was caught on him like a boat at its
mooring.

Both of them were going downriver
now.

"Damn you, Amy, leave me
be!" he shouted hoarsely.

"I won't let you die!"

"Damn you I want to
die!"

"You can't die, because
suicide is the same as throwing God's gift of life right back in His face, and
I can't let you do that, Charles, I can't —"

She cried out as his shirt tore
and she was swept away from him.

"Amy!"

The current caught her.  Gamely,
she tried to fight it, snatched at the mooring line of a schooner as she was
carried past, and missed.  Beneath her was some thirty feet of water, and whirling,
sucking tornadoes of current that were all going downriver with her.

"Amy!" he
roared, striking blindly out towards her.  "Amy, call to me, keep calling
so that I know where you are!"

"Charles!"

Oh no, oh please God, no!

She tried to swim diagonally back
toward shore, to work with the current instead of against it, but it was too
strong for her.  It pulled her long braid from its pins and out past her
fast-moving body; it dragged at her tiring legs and arms, bore her along like a
leaf on the wind.  She saw marshlands slipping past, a moored sloop, and
envisioned herself being carried straight out past the mouth of the river and
into the sea, never to be found, never to be seen again.  Oh, God help me,
please God, help!

"Charles!"

"Keep calling me, Amy, for
God's sake keep calling!"

"Charles!  Charles!"

She clawed her way around to face
him, and there he was, ten feet away . . . five . . . an arm's length . . .
reaching blindly out for her, his face a mask of desperation and terror that he
would lose her.  Amy, crying out, lunged toward him.  Their fingers met, were
ripped apart once more.  "Charles!"  And then his hand lashed out and
seized hers in a grip that nearly broke every bone in her wrist with the force
with which he claimed her.

Together they struggled toward
shore.  Amy's strength was all but gone.  Her lungs were heaving, her skin felt
brittle with cold, salt water blinded her.  But the grip Charles had on her
wrist would've anchored any one of the boats that they were slipping past.  A
powerful swimmer, he angled straight across the swift outgoing tide and brought
them safely toward shore.

And then there was mud beneath
their feet, then grass, and he had her in his arms and against his chest as he
waded out of the river, water streaming from his loose hair.

"Damn you for a little
fool!" he rasped, staggering up onto the bank with her.  And then, on a
harsh, anguished sob, "What the hell do you think you were
doing?"

His voice broke and Amy had no
time to answer him, for his mouth came crashing down on hers and she was
tumbling down to the soft bank.

"Charles!"

He buried his face in her
shoulder, great, racking sobs convulsing his body.  "Christ, to think I
nearly just lost you as well . . . I need you so badly . . . you're the only
one left to me . . .  I don't know what I'm doing, I don't want to live
anymore, I have nothing left to live for, I cannot go on —"

"Stop it!"

"I cannot fight this
anymore, I just don't have it in me, it's too much, just too much . . ."

"Yes you can!"

She pulled his head down and
wrapped her arms fiercely around the back of his neck.  He struggled for the
briefest of moments; then, with a harsh sound of defeat, he drove his mouth
against hers, his hand plunging into the sleek wet hair behind her ear, his
lips crushing hers with the desperation of the damned.  Amy's head fell
backwards, into grass and sand.  She felt his weight come down alongside of and
atop her, pressing her further into the damp earth, and now water was running
out of his hair, down his cheeks, around and into their open, searching
mouths.  She tasted salt, and the tears of his anguish; felt the heat of his
hand through her stays and the drenched cotton shift, and gasped as splinters
of delight shot through her blood, bursting out in all directions, centering in
a spot between her legs until she began to pant and writhe beneath him.

He tore his face away, his
breathing as harsh as hers, his expression anguished.

"Dear God, what am I
doing?"

She locked her arms around his
shoulders as he tried to move away, fearing he'd throw himself straight back
into the river.  "Charles, please!  I can't let you go!"

"You must, I need you — I want
you — I fear my despair, I fear my need, I fear the control they have over me
and my intentions . . . But oh, God, I need you . . . I want you . . ."

"I want you too,
Charles."

"You don't know what you
want, you don't know what you ask!"

"I love you, Charles.  I
love you."

He gave a harsh sob, and then his
mouth was against hers once more, kissing her hard and deep, his tongue thrusting
into her mouth and plundering it ruthlessly.  Her arms wrapped around his
shoulders, and then he was tearing his face away, only to drag fervent kisses
down the salty, chilled skin of her jaw, her throat, the point of her
collarbone.  He had her stays unlaced, the soaked, boned garment ripped open
before she knew what he was about, and now she felt his broad hand warming her
flesh, cupping her breast, his mouth and tongue hot against her skin, moving
lower and lower before finally fastening over her nipple and drawing both it
and the gauzy wet shift up into his mouth.  He suckled her hard.  Amy arched
upwards, a moan tearing from her throat as sensation exploded inside her.  She
drove her hands into his wet hair, holding him close, pushing herself wantonly
into him.  In seconds her skin was on fire, her insides a boiling cauldron, her
breathing raw and raspy.  And now his other hand was peeling the wet clinging
cotton from her legs, driving between her thighs, caressing them up the inside
and splaying fingers into the soft mound of curls between them, already slick
with desire for him.

"Oh, God, Amy, please
forgive me —"

His fingers plunged inside her.
Amy gasped and bucked upwards, his name falling from her lips, her fingernails
digging into his back.  A raw, burning ache radiated out from where his hand
was . . . from where his mouth was, gathering in a fierce, smoldering coil at
the apex of her legs.  She both fought it and strained toward it, not
understanding it but knowing only that she must have it.  Oh, heaven wasn't up
in the sky; heaven was the feel of this man kissing her breast; heaven was his
hand stroking her between her open thighs; heaven was the feel of his hot mouth
against her nipple; his body against her own, the confession that he needed her
—

Heaven was Charles.

And then she gave a muffled cry
as his thumb, which had been stroking her so intimately down there, hit
something she hadn't known existed and her senses began to splinter into a
thousand pieces of glass.  "Charles!" she half-gasped, half-sobbed,
and then, as his fingers kept stroking, stroking, stroking,
"Charles — Charles!"

"God help me," he
rasped, and as she convulsed with pleasure, he fumbled with his wet breeches,
groaned, and moved to cover her.  Something hard stabbed at the inside of her
thighs, at the hot and magical place he'd just shown her she had, and now his
shoulders were blocking out the sunset, the red and orange clouds behind him,
and he was moving into her, moving inside of her, filling her so full and stretching
her so wide, that she thought she would faint with the feel of it.  Wondrous
pleasure.  Hot, seething delight!  She ought to stop him, she knew that she
could, but no, no, oh please God no, this felt too good, this felt too right,
and if she could give him no other gift than her love, if she alone could at
least make him forget what the army, what Lucien, and most of all, what his
heartless fiancée had done to him, then God help her she would, she would, she
would, she would —

He thrust himself deeply inside
her, ripping a cry of surprise and pain from her lips.  The world stopped.  She
clung to him, tears in her eyes, her legs wrapped around his straining loins.
And then, slowly, he began to move his hips, to push himself deeper and deeper
inside of her, until the pain dulled and became pleasure once more, until his
breathing quickened and grew hoarse, until his lips came down on hers, kissing
her desperately even as she flung out a hand and he found it and their fingers
interlocked of their own accord, gripping, squeezing, knuckles whitening.  Now
he was thrusting, now he was pulling out, now repeating it, doing it again,
each long, slow surge growing more rapid, more powerful, than the one before —

"Oh, Amy —"

"Charles, don't stop, please
don't stop!"

"I can't — God help me, I
can't —"

With a cry, he gave one last
thrust, and she felt his seed warming and pulsing against the walls of her
womb, even as she felt her own muscles contracting and convulsing around him
with a force that left her gasping.  He pulled back slowly, and thrust ahead
once more before he collapsed, still deep inside her, bringing his mouth down
upon hers in a final, tender kiss.

A moment later she felt his
mighty shoulders shaking with grief for all he had lost — and wordlessly, Amy
put her arms around him.

Holding him.

Just holding him.

There was nothing that either of
them could say.

Chapter 13

He pushed away from her, finally,
and got to his feet.  His back was toward her as he buttoned his breeches.  The
silence, which before had been appropriate, now became awkward.  Uncomfortable.

Unpleasant.

They had to walk upriver to
retrieve Amy's clothes.  She crossed her neckerchief around her neck and
shoulders, filling in the bare skin, the swell of her breasts above the shift's
neckline.  She tied on her underpetticoats.  Laced her wet stays over her
equally wet shift.  Donned her over petticoats, tied on her apron, slipped her
arms into her open short-gown, and finally looked at Charles.  He was standing
a little distance away, staring emptily out over the darkening river.  One look
at his face convinced her that it wasn't a good time to talk to him.  Instead,
she picked up his walking stick, pressed it into his hand, and retrieved her
nearly-forgotten packages.

He was still standing there,
stone-faced, silent.

"Charles?"

He didn't answer.

"Charles, what is the
matter?"

"I should be shot for
what I have just done to you."

"What do you mean?"

He just shook his head, then
turned away.  Amy, wondering at his change in attitude and wanting only to
comfort him, touched his shoulder, but he flinched as if she'd burned him with
the end of a poker.  It was then that Amy realized the significance of what
they had done — a realization that grew all the more sobering when she happened
to glance up and see the distant spire of Sylvanus's church rising above the
trees and glowing white against the darkening sky.

Would God be angry with her for
what she had done?  Was she a sinner, no better than her mother and the man who
had sired her?  But if she had sinned, why had it felt so right?  Why hadn't
these feelings of apprehension and uneasiness affected her when she'd been
about to commit the act, instead of now?

She felt her soaked shift and
stays pressing against her body, the sea-salt drying on her skin, and a strange
rawness between her legs.  Her braid had come unpinned and now hung down her
back in a long wet rope.  Her lips felt swollen, her nipples still throbbed,
and she knew she must look a sight.

Reality closed in, and with it,
fear.  Would everyone in Newburyport suspect?  Would they point and snicker and
whisper behind her back that she was no better than her mother?  And what would
happen when they got back to the house?

"Come, I'd best get you
home," Charles ground out.

Side by side, but not daring to
touch one another, they walked back toward the road in silence.

"Charles —"

"I do not wish to talk about
it, Amy."

"But I just want to ask you
a question . . ."

"Go on then."

"Do you think that when we
get home, everyone will . . . will know?  That it'll be written all over my
face?  That . . ." she glanced down ". . .they'll be able to
tell?"

"No."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"But when a woman gives
herself to a man, don't you think people can take one look at her and know what
she's done?"

"No."

"But —"

"Amy, please."

She paused, staring up at him in
mounting confusion.  A few moments ago he'd held her as though he'd never let
her go.  Now, he only wanted to get away from her.  What had changed?

"Charles, will you please
tell me what is wrong?"

He, too, came to a stop, but
didn't turn around.  "I am a disgrace," he snarled.  "To my
family, to my rank, to myself.  I cannot forgive myself for what I just allowed
to happen between us."

"For what you just
allowed?"  She gave an incredulous little laugh.  "I was as much a
party to it as you were."  She blushed.  "Besides, I thought . . .
that you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed it?  Not only have
I ruined one young woman and got her with child, I have just ruined a second
and God knows, maybe got her with child as well!  What the hell difference does
it make whether or not I enjoyed it?  I behaved abominably!  I am disgusted and
ashamed of myself!"

"You were upset, I offered
comfort, you took it.  Besides, I wanted to do what we did."

"No, Amy, you're too
innocent to know what you want.  It was a mistake."

"It was not a mistake."

"It was," he bit
out, through clenched teeth.

Amy lifted her chin, her eyes
flashing with anger.  "You really do enjoy torturing yourself, don't
you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What happened between us
was beautiful.  You made me feel loved and special and needed, and that's a
feeling I've never had.  Right now, everything inside of me is still
singing with joy and it feels good.  It feels wonderful.  But you, all you want
to do is ruin it.  All you want to do is stand there and torture yourself with
guilt and hold yourself up to some impossible standard of perfection that no
one on God's earth can possibly hope to reach, let alone maintain.  Well,
Charles, I won't let you take this away from me.  I like feeling good.
I liked what we just did.  You can regret it all you want, but I'm not
going to."  She shoved a stray bit of hair behind her ear.  "In fact,
it will become my most treasured memory."

"You're too young, and too
naive, to know what you're saying."

"And you're too
caught up in your quest for self-perfection to appreciate something good when
it comes your way."

"And what if you're
pregnant?  Is that something good?  I seem to be quite adept at
impregnating virgins.  It will be interesting to see if you're so cheerful if,
a month or so from now, you find yourself kissing a chamberpot and wondering
where your missing menses have gone."

"I'll worry about that when
the time comes."

"I think you should worry about
it now."

"I have other things to
worry about."

"Such as?"

"The reception I'm going to
get when I get home."

"Indeed."  He gripped
her arm and pulled her forward.  "So let's stop arguing and get you back
before it grows any later."

He was silent all the rest of the
way home.  With each step they took, Amy's anger faded and her trepidation
grew.  Would Sylvanus notice her kiss-swollen lips and know immediately what
she had done?  Would her sisters take one look at her and see the truth in her
eyes?  And most worrying of all, what of Charles?  Would Sylvanus throw him out
of the house?

Or worse yet, force him to marry
her?

Amy shuddered.  She couldn't see
that happening.  What would Sylvanus do without her?  Besides, Sylvanus would
not play upon Charles's sense of honor by forcing his hand.  He would not
compel Charles, the impeccably bred, heir-presumptive to an English dukedom, to
marry Amy, a half-breed and daughter of sin, whose physical appeal couldn't
hold a candle to the other women of Newburyport, let alone England's
aristocratic beauties.

No, Sylvanus would not do that.

Would he?

They found the house in an
uproar.  Sylvanus was just about to go out searching for them.  Will still
hadn't returned from Woburn.  Ophelia and Mildred, who had peeled a few
potatoes but otherwise not lifted a finger to start supper, immediately rounded
on Amy, savagely berating her for her tardiness and her failure to start the
meal on time.

Charles turned on them.
"Leave her alone.  I took a walk, fell off the pier, and nearly drowned.  She
was the one who risked her life to rescue me.  She's the one who nearly
drowned herself.  Instead of standing there shouting at her, go get her a
blanket and stoke up the fire."

"What?"

"Now!" he
barked, his eyes blazing.

It was the voice of authority.
His captain's voice.  And heeding it, the two slunk away to do his bidding.

Charles slammed from the room.

"What troubles the
captain?" Sylvanus asked when they finally sat down to supper an hour
later.  He shot a glance toward the parlor, where Charles had retreated and
still remained.  "He seems most upset."

Amy stirred her chowder without
interest.  She was trying hard to keep her face downcast in the hopes that no
one would notice her kiss-reddened lips, or the guilty truth in her eyes.
"He had bad news from both England and Boston," she said quietly.
"I doubt he has much appetite."

Her sisters perked up.  "Boston?"

"Yes."

"What was the news?"

Amy was reluctant to say
anything, but everyone was gazing expectantly at her.  "His fiancée has
ended their betrothal and wants nothing more to do with him."

"Oh, good!"

Amy glanced up sharply.
"Oh, good?"

"Well, yes," said
Mildred, smugly.  "Now we have a chance at him!"

Amy's spoon crashed down beside
her bowl.  "How can you be so cruel?!  He's lost everything he owned,
everything he loved, and all you can think of is what you might gain
from his misfortune!  You should be showing him sympathy and compassion, not
trying to snare him in his weakest moment!"

"Amy!" sputtered
Sylvanus, nearly choking on a bit of fish at this completely unexpected display
of fire from the one member of his family that had never, ever, even raised her
voice to him.

Mildred and Ophelia were staring
at her in shock.

"Well it's true,
Father!" Amy said angrily.  "It's true and you know it!"

There was a moment of uneasy
silence before Ophelia, looking Amy up and down with a look of raking contempt,
finally spoke.

"Well," she said
haughtily.  "I'm sure Millie and I can think of ways where we can show him
sympathy and compassion, right, Millie?"

Mildred's eyes narrowed and her
smile grew sly.  "Oh, absolutely."

Amy had heard enough.  Seething,
she jumped to her feet, slammed her napkin down on the table, and stormed from
the room, leaving three pairs of surprised eyebrows raised in her wake.

"Well," said Sylvanus,
stunned.

"Well, indeed!  Are you
going to let her get away with that, Papa?  Are you?"

"As a matter of fact, I
am," he said, wearily rubbing his brow.  "It's obvious she cares for
the man and puts his welfare above her own.  I see no need to punish her for
it."

Mildred's lips thinned.
Ophelia's eyes narrowed.  Both of them clenched their fists beneath the table.

"Furthermore, I am unhappy
with the recent direction of this conversation," Sylvanus continued, in
the angry silence.  "The last thing Lord Charles needs or wants right now
is feminine attention."

"Don't be absurd, father, all
men need feminine attention," snapped Mildred.

"Yes, it'll make him feel
better, and reaffirm just how worthy he really is."

"I said, leave him alone.
The pain and suffering that man has endured over the past two months is enough
to break anyone.  He needs to be left alone.  He needs time to grieve.  You're
both to give him peace, do you understand me?  Peace."

Silence.

And then:

"Yes, Papa," the
sisters said, but beneath lowered lashes, their eyes gleamed with malice and
cunning.

~~~~

Charles needed more than just
time to grieve.  That night, as he lay on his pallet — which had been moved
upstairs into Will's room so that he might have more privacy — and stared into
the ever-present darkness, he realized he'd sunk as far as he could go.  For a
man who had always tried to be perfect, to do everything right, to be all that —
and more than — everyone expected of him, it was a bitter truth.

He had not learned from his
mistake with Juliet.  In a moment of passion, he had got her with child and
ruined her life.

And now, he might well have
ruined Amy's as well.

Oh, what had gone wrong with
him?  What had gone wrong with his life?

He thought back to the day he'd
met Juliet.  He'd been astride Contender, drilling his troops on snowy Boston
Common.  With that strange feeling of eyes on his back, he'd turned, and there
she'd been, a dark-haired maiden peering at him from behind the window of a nearby
store.  And there she'd been every day thereafter, secretly watching him, until
he'd finally entered the store on the excuse of a purchase so he could find out
who the devil she was and why she was so interested in him.  She had blushed
wildly when he'd walked boldly through the door, dropped a sack of flour she'd
been carrying, and began stammering foolishly — much to his amusement.  He had
vowed not to have anything to do with her, but he had.  He had vowed not to
strike up an acquaintance with her, but he had.  He had thought he was above
the carnal desires that made men do things they shouldn't — but he was not.  Boston
was a lonely place for an English soldier.  Juliet Paige was pretty, sweet-natured,
and eager to be in his arms.  Within a week, she was.  Within a month, he'd got
her pregnant.  He'd known from the beginning that she'd been infatuated with
him, but he had wondered then, and had wondered rather uneasily many times
since, if perhaps she'd been more enamored of the sight he'd made in his uniform
than she'd been of the man inside of it.

Never in a million years had he
thought she would betray him like this, but then, how well had he really known
her?  When he'd injured himself at Concord, they'd been acquainted for a mere
four months.  Their times together had been brief and, thanks to the explosive
political tensions in Boston, spent in the utmost secrecy.  Juliet had declared
her love for him.  But now, given the ease with which she'd thrown him out of
her life, Charles wondered if maybe she hadn't loved him after all.

But did you love her?

Of course he had.  Or so he'd
always told himself.  After all, he'd offered to marry her, for heaven's sake.
But was that because of love — or of duty?  When she'd come to him on the night
of the fateful Concord expedition, with the news that she was pregnant, there
was never any question in Charles's mind what he must do.  His betrothal to
Lady Katharine, planned for him by others and in place since his birth, had
ceased to matter, for Katharine was three thousand miles away, safe, and he'd
never loved her anyhow.  Juliet Paige was right there in Boston and expecting
his child.  His child.  Her needs, and their unborn baby's, were
paramount.  Katharine would find another suitor to marry; Juliet Paige, ruined
by "the enemy" and carrying his babe, would not.  As a gentleman,
Charles had done the only thing he could do:  offer to marry her.

But did you love her?

He wasn't sure, now.  Nor was he
sure if he was only questioning his feelings as a means of protecting his
heart, and his pride, from the pain of her betrayal.  Certainly, in comparison
to Katharine, he had loved her.  He had felt a need to protect her, to be with
her, and to do right by her, even going so far as to instruct her to go to
England and throw herself on Lucien's mercy in the event of his death.  But had
he mistaken the loneliness he'd felt in Boston — and then his overpowering
sense of duty — for love?

His head was beginning to hurt.
It was all too complicated, too confusing, and too wearisome to figure out.  He
had erred, though, and erred badly:  that he did know.  Always conscious
of his betrothal to Katharine, he had lived his life free of romantic
entanglements, and thus, didn't consider himself an expert in the area.  Unlike
his brother Gareth, he wasn't as seasoned a traveller along the highways and
byroads of pleasure and passion.  He had been pledged to Katharine, and that
was that.  With this aspect of his future already decided for him, he had seen
no need to pursue it further, and thus, life's more serious callings had taken
priority over any romantic entanglement that could only have ended in his
taking a mistress at best, or hurting some innocent young woman like Juliet — or
Amy — at worst.

Charles could not bear to hurt
people.

He could not bear this sense of
guilt and frustration at having messed things up so very, very badly.

There was nothing for it, then,
but severing himself from the possibility of ever erring this way, again.  It
was obvious that he had a certain weakness where pretty young women were
concerned; the fact that he'd deflowered not one, but two virgins was proof of
that.  And the way that Juliet, and now Amy, had reacted to him made him fear
that this could happen again.

I will never entangle myself
with a woman again, he vowed.  In fact, I think I have had enough of
relationships of any sort.  Every attachment I've ever known — with my family,
with Juliet, with my army — has brought me only hurt and pain.  No more.  Never
again.  I have always been self-sufficient.  I have always done my duty to
honor, integrity, and the expectations that others have of me as a gentleman.
From now on, I shall shun all attachments, for they can bring me nothing but
sorrow.

But then there was Amy.  Amy who
always treated him with respect, always believed in him, always brightened his
day just by walking into the room, always found him worthy despite his
shortcomings.  She had seen him at his very worst, both physically,
emotionally, and spiritually — and had not deserted him.  She had stuck by him
all these weeks when he'd been angry and hurting, a self-pitying wretch, a —
what was it that Ophelia and Mildred had called him before they knew that his
name was preceded by the word "Lord"? — "drain" upon her
resources.

Amy was nothing at all like
Juliet.

But no.  Amy was like
Juliet because she, too, was young and infatuated with him.  And she, like
Juliet, might let that infatuation get in the way of good judgment.  Charles
raked a hand over his face.  He could not deny his desire for Amy, nor hers for
him.  It frightened him, the loss of control he'd experienced after he'd
brought them both out of the river.  That wasn't like him at all.  He didn't
want to get yet another woman pregnant.  He didn't want to hurt anyone else.
And besides, he didn't have a thing to offer Amy.

Not a damned thing.

If only there was a way to leave Newburyport,
if only he could think of somewhere to go — for he knew in his bones that what
had happened once, would surely happen again.

Soon.

For Amy — innocent, willing,
naive, sweet-tempered Amy — was not safe from him.

And Charles wasn't safe from
himself.

Chapter 14

Amy passed that night in vivid
dreams.

In them, she was no lowly
half-breed, but a noblewoman in silks and satins, diamonds, powder and patches,
a woman who was every inch Charles's social equal.  In them, she'd been in his
arms once again, comforting him, seeking comfort from him, loving him as he
deserved to be loved, without feeling the guilt that she was not worthy of him,
not worthy of even fantasizing about him.  When she'd finally awakened to the
pink light of dawn, her heart had plummeted upon the realization that it had
all been a dream — until she'd stretched and felt the sudden, dull ache that
still lingered between her thighs.

Her eyes had flown open.  It had
all been real then.

Blessedly real.

A thrill raced through her.
Fired by the memories that they had made, reliving each moment of their
lovemaking over and over again, she danced and twirled her way through her
morning ablutions and all the way downstairs, careful not to wake anyone, her
petticoats flying and her cheeks glowing with color.

She had just sobered and got the
fire going when there was a creak on the stair and Will came dashing into the keeping
room, Crystal, her tail wagging, right behind him.

"Amy!  I got back late last
night and I've —"

"Shhhh!"  She put a
finger to her lips.  "Everyone's still a'bed."

"I've got the horse!"
he whispered, excitedly.  "Come on out and see him!"

Of course; she'd almost forgotten
that Will had gone down to Woburn for the animal.  Oh, this if nothing else
would cheer Charles up!  Checking the fire to be sure it was safe, Amy picked
up her skirts and ran outside to the barn with her brother.

"My goodness, Will, he must
be all of seventeen hands!" she gasped, amazed.  "How on earth did
you ever get up on his back?"

"It wasn't easy," he
admitted, patting the animal's sleek brown neck.  "Isn't he a beauty,
though?  Oh, I can't wait for the captain to see him!"  And then,
realizing what he'd just said, he added, "Well, you know what I mean . .
."

"Yes.  I know what you
mean."  Amy was still gazing up at the magnificent steed, who was
stretching his neck over the stall door and sniffing the equally curious Crystal.
Most of the horses she knew were sturdy, stocky, tough little animals as hardy
as the New England land from which they came.  Most were ill-proportioned and
rather ugly.  But this handsome stallion had obviously been brought from England
— and looked as aristocratic as its owner.

His dark chestnut hide gleamed
like glass.  His legs were long, his neck proudly arched, his small ears set
atop an expressive, intelligent head.  His eyes were like velvet, and he had a
perfect star in the middle of his forehead.  With his deep chest, laid-back
shoulders and sloping croup, he was obviously bred for speed and endurance.
Amy could see him on a race track.  She could see him galloping across an
English countryside with the hounds in pursuit of a fox.

And she could see him carrying
his master, splendid in his scarlet regimentals, into battle, and standing as
still as a rock as the bullets flew around him.

She reached out and stroked the
velvety nose.  "He's a beauty, all right."

"Come on, let's go wake the
captain!"

Together, they hurried back into
the house, Amy waiting in the keeping room while Will, taking the stairs two at
a time, went to get Charles.  A few moments later the boy was bounding back
down the stairs, a sleepy, tousled Charles a few paces behind him and stuffing
his shirt down into his breeches.

Amy's throat went dry.

"The devil take it, lad,
what time is it?" he grumbled, ruffling his hair and coming into
the keeping room, where Amy felt herself melting all over again just at the
delicious, sleepy-warm sight of him.  "'Sdeath, I haven't even heard the
damned cock crow yet."

"It doesn't matter what time
it is, Amy and I have a surprise for you!"

"I dislike surprises.  I've
had damn well enough of them lately."

"But you'll like this one.
Come on, let's go!"

Will grabbed his hand and Amy,
after a brief hesitation, grabbed his other; then, unable to conceal their
excitement and laughing at his half-hearted protests, they dragged him out of
the house, across the lawn, into the barn and straight up to the stall where
the huge stallion stood.

The horse's head jerked up at
sight of his master, and he began pushing his chest against the stall door in
his eagerness to get to him.  Will quickly opened the door and attached a rope
to his halter.  Then, eyes gleaming with excitement, he looked at Amy and
nodded.

"Give me your hand,"
she said, pulling at Charles's fingers.

"Madam, you already have
it."

"Yes, but relax."

"For God's sake, girl, I
don't have time for this nonsense —"

"Stop being such an old
grouch, you have all the time in the world."  And with that she pulled him
forward, and touched his outstretched fingers to the horse's soft, velvety
nose.

Charles froze, a look of stunned
disbelief coming over his face.

"Contender?"

Amy and Will glanced excitedly
between one another, watching, waiting, barely able to breathe.

"Contender, old boy . . . is
that you?"

The horse began stamping
impatiently, dancing in place and half-rearing in excitement, only to be
brought down by Will's firm hand.  Then he whinnied and lowering his head,
drove it straight into Charles's chest, rubbing up and down in delight.

Charles closed his eyes, his face
rigid with controlled emotion, his Adam's apple moving up, then down.  And Amy,
watching this emotional scene, felt tears shimmering in her eyes, and one or
two of them sliding down her cheek as Charles stood there with his horse, never
moving, only murmuring softly to him as he ran his palm alongside the animal's
jaw, up around his ears, and down the long, crested neck, over and over again.

"Contender.  Contender, old
fellow."  He continued stroking the animal's neck.  "I thought never
to see you again . . .  Pray tell, Will, where did you find him?"

"My uncle had him.  I went
down to Woburn and brought him back for you as a surprise."

"You should not have gone to
such trouble on my behalf, Will."

"I wanted to.  You've had
such a rough time of it lately, and we all thought that having your horse back
might perk you up a tad.  Besides . . . " Will looked down and began
kicking at a loose hank of straw.  "It was the least I could do, after
what I did to you back in Concord . . ."

Charles, hearing the guilt in the
boy's voice, reached out and found his shoulder.  "Will," he said
gently.  "You owe me nothing.  You never have.  What happened to me at Concord
was a direct result of my own actions, not yours.  You did nothing to bring on
my infirmity; instead, you acted as any Christian man would, putting aside the
differences between your people and mine, and doing everything in your power to
help me.  Anyone else would have finished me off right there — or left me to
the angry people of Concord.  You did not.  Instead, you chose to bring me home
at great risk to yourself, and endeavored to save my life — for which I shall
always be grateful."

Will swallowed hard and looked
down, both humbled and a little embarrassed by the captain's words.
"Thank you, sir."  He was still kicking at the straw with one foot, a
lock of unruly brown hair falling over his brow.  "It makes me feel a whole
lot better, hearing you say that."

"My only regret is that it
should've been said sooner."  He stood stroking the stallion's neck and
pulling at the animal's forelock with gentle hands.  "And that this horse,
like its owner, is going to be yet another burden upon you and your
family."

"Oh no, sir, he isn't a
burden, I brought him back with Pa's blessings."

"Even so, he will eat you
out of house and home, and I have no means of paying for his keep."

"Oh, don't worry about that,
Captain.  Pa said that as long as he can borrow him once in a while to make
calls on his parishioners, he'll pay for himself."

But Charles's smile faded a
little, and Amy saw the shadow of pain that darkened his eyes.  Did he not want
Sylvanus riding his beloved stallion?  Was he feeling guilty that Will had gone
all the way down to Woburn to bring the animal back?  Coming up behind him, she
touched his arm.

"Charles?  What is
wrong?"

That rueful little smile still in
place, he bent his head, looking down as though he could see the beautiful
animal whose broad forehead was pressed to his chest, and whose ears were only
a few inches from his nose.  "I cannot ride him," he said softly,
with one of his long, slow, blinks that lent him an air of studied sadness.
"As much as he means to me, as much as I've missed him, he is nothing more
to me than a pet, now —"

He never finished the sentence.
As though he'd taken violent offense at his master's words, the stallion flung
up his head, the blow catching Charles squarely beneath the jaw, snapping his
head back and sending him reeling backwards into Amy's arms.

She staggered under his weight.

"Will, help me!"

Her brother rushed forward, and
together they eased the captain down onto his back in the straw.  He lay
unmoving, his lashes still against his cheeks.  Blood gushed from his nose.

"Charles!"

Amy slid a hand beneath his nape
and lifted his head just as his eyes fluttered open.

"Oh-h-h-h," he moaned,
covering his nose with one hand and trying to stop the bleeding.  "Damn."

"Will, get some cold water,
quick!" Amy urged.  As her brother ran out of the barn toward the well,
Amy helped Charles to sit up.  Cradling him against her body and tipping his
head back over her arm, she tore off her neckerchief and pressed it to his
nose.

"You silly man," she
said, in gentle admonishment.  "I would've thought you knew your horse
well enough to realize he doesn't take kindly to insults, either to himself or
to his master."

"I didn't insult him.
"  His voice sounded nasally and thick.

"You insulted
yourself."

"I did not."

"You did.  You said you
couldn't ride him."

"I damn well can't."

"You damn well will.
My brother didn't go to all the trouble of bringing him back just so you could
do nothing more than groom and feed him."

"My dear Amy, please be
realistic.  I cannot ride him."

"Why not?"

"Because I can't see."

"So you can't.  But there's
nothing wrong with your legs —" she blushed hotly, remembering the feel of
them hard and strong against her own — "or your balance, or anything else
about you.  You simply can't see where you're going.  But Contender can."

"I shall not be able to
guide him where I wish to go, pull him up when he needs pulling up, anticipate
possible dangers to both himself and I."

"Then you can go out riding
with Mira and me, and we'll anticipate those things for you."

"But I shall look the fool,
up there on his back."

"You shall look
splendid."

"Amy," he said in a
patient, controlled voice, "you do not understand.  If something cannot be
done the proper way, it should not be done at all.  Since I cannot ride him the
proper way, I should not —"

"No, Charles, you
don't understand.  Sometimes there is no right way to do something, but
a whole parcel of varying ways.  So you can't ride him the way you used to.
You find a different way."

"But —"

"You're doing it
again," she scolded.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to be perfect.  And
taking yourself far too seriously.  Stop it."

He began to protest, then grinned
and gave her a half-hearted salute.  "Yes, ma'm."

At that moment, Will came running
back in carrying a swinging, sloshing bucket of water.  He set it down beside
Amy, who rinsed the kerchief in it, wrung it out, and pressed it to Charles's
nose.

Will knelt down before them,
peering at the captain with anxious eyes.  "Is it broken?"

"It is not," Charles
muttered, "though I am not so sure about my jaw.  Damned horse knocked me
out, I think."

"Shall I fetch the
doctor?"

"The doctor?"
Charles scoffed, greatly amused.  "For a bloody nose?"

Amy saw the chance to rescue poor
Will, who seemed at a loss for words.  "The doctor?" she
mimicked playfully, drawing out the first syllable as Charles had done.
"For a bloody nose?

Charles's brows rose, as though
he didn't know whether to laugh or take offense at Amy's exaggerated mimicry of
his accent.  He appeared to consider the matter for a moment before asking,
with studied politeness, "Are you ridiculing my accent, Miss Yankee
Doodle?"

"Me?  Never."

"Good.  Because you
colonials are the ones who do not pronounce your words correctly," said Charles
with a certain degree of hauteur, but a slow grin was spreading across his
face, one that put a dimple in his chin and made his eyes seem to glow with
inner warmth.  He looked up in Amy's direction and Will, hunkered down nearby
with his hands draped over his knees, saw that look, and the tender way his
sister was returning it, and decided that he'd rather be elsewhere.  Coloring a
bit, he got to his feet.

"Er, uh, I'm going to go in
and check on that fire," he said, taking Contender's halter and backing
the big animal back into the stall.  "What were you planning for
breakfast, Amy?"

She looked up at him, blankly.
"Breakfast?"

Will grinned.  "Yeah.  You
know, breakfast."

"Oh!"  Amy went as red
as the side of the barn.  "I was going to fry some eggs and have them with
porridge —"

"I'll go get it started and
put the coffee on to boil.  You stay here with the captain and make sure he's
all right.  C'mon, Crystal, old girl!"

"I'm fine," Charles
began, but the boy had already slipped away, leaving an awkward, expectant
silence in his wake.

A silence where Amy became
suddenly aware of the hard warmth of Charles's body, and the proximity of his
lips to hers, and the way the morning sunlight made all the stubble on his jaw
gleam like gold and begged her hand to touch it.

A silence where Charles felt the
soft press of a breast against the side of his head, and remembered again, the
taste and shape and silky-smooth texture of it beneath his lips.

This was not good.  Not good at
all.

"There.  The bleeding's
almost stopped," Amy said from just above him.  Her voice sounded slightly
breathy, a little nervous.

"Good."

"As nosebleeds go, this one
was pretty bad."

"Was it?  Surely, it could
not have rivalled the one my brother Gareth once gave me."  He gingerly
touched the side and bridge of his nose, neither of which, oddly enough, were
sore at all.  His jaw, however, and the entire top of his head, were another
story.  If Contender hadn't managed to crack a tooth with that blow, it would
be a miracle.

"Why did Gareth give you a
nosebleed?" she was asking.  "I thought the two of you were
close."

"We are.  But pugilism is
all the rage with English gentlemen, and my brother has an exceeding amount of
natural talent for it.  We used to practice together."

"Did you ever beat
him?" she asked, her voice sounding a bit calmer now that they were
discussing something safe and benign.

"Never.  But he never bested
me at fencing, so I daresay we're even."

He lay there for a few more
minutes, content to be in the cradle of her arms, her breast warm against his
cheek.  Too content.  He should get up.  He really should.

He would, in just a few more
moments.  When the temptation to stay within these arms could not be denied,
then he would get up.

"Amy, I er . . . that is to
say, what happened between us yesterday has been preying on my mind, and my
conscience.  I hope I did not hurt you."

"Oh, no, Charles.  Not at
all —"

"As you know, I pride myself
on my conduct, my restraint, my treatment of others, and yesterday — well,
yesterday I was not myself.  I don't know what or who I was, but I was
certainly not the man I am accustomed to being."  He reached up, searching
the empty space above him until he found her face, and let his fingers graze
her cheek.  "Forgive me, Amy.  I am making excuses for behavior that cannot
be excused.  Allow me to get straight to the point."  He trailed his
fingers down her neck, the outside of her arm, then found and raised her hand
to his lips.  "I have done you a terrible dishonor, and though I confess
my intentions are based more on duty, fairness, and a care for your own future
and reputation as opposed to any romantic inclinations I may feel toward you, I
know, nevertheless, that I must ask."

"Ask what?"  She
sounded genuinely confused.

"Drat it, girl, what do you
think?" he asked, trying to keep the frustration and impatience from his
voice.  And then, steeling himself:  "For your hand in marriage."

"Marriage?!"
She nearly dropped him.  "Good heavens, Charles, you can't be serious, I'm
the very last person on earth you should consider marrying.  You should go home
to Katharine Farnsley, you should try to win back Juliet, you should find
yourself some genteel English bride who'll do your name and rank justice."
She gave a nervous little laugh.  "Marry me?  How silly.  You
cannot marry me!"

"I certainly can, if you'll
have me."

"No, I will not have you.
Please don't be angry with me, Charles, but I know you're only offering this
because you're a gentleman and feel guilty about what happened yesterday, but
if I accept then I'll feel guilty as well, and then there'll be two of
us feeling guilty, and that just won't do.  Don't you see?  Oh no, Charles.
You're very kind for asking, and thank you for it, but I cannot marry you, I
simply cannot."

"Amy, you are
babbling."

"You've flustered me!"

"I am quite serious about
this."

"And so am I, Charles, truly
I am!  But your heart isn't in this.  You're only trying to make amends, but
really, you don't have to, I don't expect you to, I don't want you to.
Besides, you don't love me; you still love Juliet, and to marry me . . .  well,
that just wouldn't feel right."

"I don't know if I
still love Juliet," he said tersely.  And then, almost to himself:
"I don't know as if I ever truly did."

"What?"

"She filled a large hole in
my heart called loneliness," he said, trying to explain the feelings that
he was just coming to recognize, and just beginning to accept.  "She
flattered that part of me called male vanity.  She was kind and beautiful and
practical and resourceful, but . . . well, it seems as though I didn't know her
as well as I thought I did."

"Charles, what are you
saying?"

"Only that sometimes it's
easy to mistake need for love.  I needed Juliet, yes, but now I cannot help but
wonder whether I loved her the way I thought I did."

"Of course you did!  You were
devastated when you got her letter yesterday!"

"Yes — but was that because
of a wounded heart or wounded pride?"  He sighed and, picking up a bit of
straw, began twirling it around his finger.  "Of course you cannot answer
that; I cannot answer it, myself.  And now, I can only wonder if I am even
capable of loving anyone at all, after all that has happened to me.  You of all
people will understand if I find myself frightfully reluctant to get close to
another human being ever again."  He tossed the straw aside.  "I am
better off alone, I think."

"Oh, Charles . . ."  He
felt her hands pushing the hair off his brow, touching his cheek.  "God
didn't put us on this earth to be alone.  You deserve happiness just like
everyone else.  Please don't lose faith in humanity."

"Humanity?"  He gave a
dry laugh.  "Madam, I have lost faith in myself."

"You're allowing your
blindness to ruin your life."

"My dear girl.  It is not
the blindness, but that particular defect in my character that will settle for
nothing less than perfection.  The problem is not with humanity, but with me.
I expect too much.  Not from others, but from myself.  It is only lately, when
I observe the way I have thought about, and behaved toward you these past two
months, that I have come to realize that I'll never meet my own rigid
expectations of how I should behave."

"You have behaved
admirably.  You have nothing to be ashamed about."

"Nothing to be ashamed
about?"  He laughed without humor.  "I deserve what Juliet has done.
She deserves a better man than me."

"You're a wonderful man,
Charles, and one that will make some lucky girl very, very happy!"

"I am unfaithful, in thought
if not in deed."

"Charles!"

"It is true.  Since the
eighteenth of April, I have been pledged to Juliet, but do you know, Amy, how
often my traitorous thoughts have turned to you instead of her while I lay
awake — let alone asleep — in the middle of the night?  Do you know how I've
longed for the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand, the cheerfulness of
your spirit when mine could do nothing but dwell in the darkest depths of
despair?"  He pressed his fingertips to his brow in a gesture of defeat
and despair.  "No.  You cannot know.  And you cannot know how very
frustrated I have been, at my inability to turn my thoughts, and the baser part
of my nature, toward she whom I should have been thinking about, instead
of you whom I was helpless to stop thinking about."

"That doesn't mean you were
unfaithful.  Of course you'd be thinking about me.  I've been your eyes, your
confidant, your closest friend for the past two months."

"Amy.  Dearest Amy.  Only I
know the secrets of my heart.  And in my heart, I have been unfaithful, for I
have thought of you as more than a friend."  He shut his eyes.  "Much
more than a friend."

Amy, hearing the unbridled pain
in his voice, swallowed tightly.  She wished she could make him realize that
his thoughts were completely normal for a man in his situation, that he had
done nothing wrong — nothing at all.  But Charles was not like other men, and
as she sat gazing sadly down at him, her heart aching for him and the pain he
put himself through, she began to understand just what he'd meant.  The rigid
expectations he'd set for himself would allow him no happiness.

None at all.

Quietly, she took his hand and
clasped it in her own, wishing there was a way to make him see that he was a
far, far better man than he perceived himself to be.

"Amy, I want you to listen
to me.  To be practical here.  You may, even as we speak, be carrying a child
that will be a bastard if I do not wed you and give it its proper name.
Perhaps I, with both my physical and moral shortcomings, am not fit to marry
you, perhaps I am repeating my previous mistake, but damn it, I cannot bear the
thought of your raising a baby without a husband, a child without a father.  I
cannot bear the thought that I have taken your virginity and left you a ruined
woman.  And I cannot bear any more weight upon my conscience.  I swear, I
cannot."

"But Charles, isn't that the
same reason why you wanted to marry Juliet?  Because she, too, was with child?
It was a mistake then, Charles, and it would be a mistake now, because you're
not sure you loved her, and we know that you do not love me!"

"Amy —"

"Besides that, it would
never work because you're Quality, and I'm —"

"Don't say it," he
warned, growing angry.

"Not Quality," she
finished.  "You're the son of a duke, I'm the daughter of an Indian, and
besides, I can't marry you anyhow because if I did, then there'd be no one here
to take care of my family.  There'd be no one to watch over Sylvanus and make
sure he had proper meals and clean clothing, no one to find his spectacles when
he misplaces them, no one to help him with his sermons."

"Amy, your family does not
appreciate you!  They do not appreciate you one iota as much as I would!"

"Charles, I can't do
it!" she cried forlornly.  "It just wouldn't be right!"

She looked down at him.  He
remained staring angrily up at her, his empty gaze directed toward a spot just
over her right shoulder.

And then something happened that
she would never forget.

His gaze shifted, found her face,
and something in his eyes came suddenly into focus.

They remained staring at each
other for a tense heartbeat of a moment.

"A-Amy?" he breathed.

"What is it?"

He had gone very still, but the
focus in his blue, blue eyes was sharpening.  "I — I think — oh, dear God,
I think I am beginning to see you."

Chapter 15

And see her he did.

Her image, and the rafters of the
barn behind her, was shadowy.  The entire left half of his vision field was
still in darkness, but the right half was there, fuzzy, a bit dim, but there,
and by God, he could see her.

He could see her!

Slowly, as though touching it
might destroy the image, he reached up and put trembling fingers to her
forehead . . . her cheek . . . her nose . . . her lips.  The image did not go
away.  It did not waver.  And as he stared in wonder and a sort of frozen
disbelief, he saw the shyness and joy in the face that stared back at him.

A face that he was, after two
long months, seeing for the very first time.

He saw a square jaw and high,
prominent cheekbones that lent her a look of gauntness and strength; dark,
velvety-brown eyes fringed by long black lashes; a shy and smiling mouth; full,
dusky lips; and glossy hair the color of strong coffee, tightly braided and
pinned in a coronet around her head.  She was beautiful, even if not in the
conventional sense, striking, slightly exotic, with flawlessly smooth skin of a
slightly bronzed tone, not unlike that of a sailor who's spent his life in the
sun.

It was a lovely color.

A warm, toasted, caramel-color
that made him want to put his lips to it and kiss her all over.

"Amy," he repeated, in
a disbelieving whisper.  "I can see you."  He swallowed hard, and
traced the shape of her mouth with his fingers.  "I can see you."

And he could also see something
else.  Mist in those huge, soft eyes — and a sort of awkwardness, if not fear,
about his first visual impression of her.

"And just what is it you
see, Charles?"

"I see a beautiful young
woman — " he grinned — "garbed in the most singularly hideous gown
imaginable."

"Oh, Charles," she
cried, impulsively flinging her arms around him.  He embraced her in turn.
They remained like that, holding each other, both of them laughing and
rejoicing and rocking back and forth in the straw.

"It was that damned
horse!" he managed, setting her back to gaze into her rapt, mobile face.
"The blow must've done something, must've jarred something loose inside my
head.  Don't you think?"

"Either that, or your sight
was just plain destined to return anyhow.  Maybe God simply decided that the
time had come for you to have it back again."

"So that I could see
you!"

"So you could write your own
letters!"

"So I could find my way
without a cane!"

Laughing with joy, he hugged her
once more, then set her back, trailing his finger down her cheek, the edge of
her jaw.  Gently, he tipped her chin up so that her luminous gaze held his.
"And look into the eyes of the woman who has become my dearest and very
best friend."

And look he did; then, before he
even knew what he was about, he closed his eyes and kissed her.

Unlike the last time, when relief
had made them both desperate with passion, this was a slow, exquisitely sweet
kiss, a tender meeting of lips, a gentle wedding of souls.  His hand cradled
the side of her face, holding her head close to his; his thumb caressed the
hollow beneath one cheekbone and tested the dewy softness of her skin.  Her
mouth yielded beneath his; her tongue shyly came out, touched and tasted his,
allowed him to touch and taste in turn.  She tasted of sunshine, innocence and
sweetness, smelled of bayberry and soap, and he lost himself in the kiss, the
eager, but inexperienced feel of her lips beneath his, the way her hand went
with shy uncertainty to his chest, and then his neck, gently curling around his
nape and then sliding into the thick and shining waves of his hair.

Of its own accord, his hand
drifted from her face and down her neck . . . down her bare collarbone . . .
down over the lacy edge of her shift —

And froze.

What the bloody hell was he
doing?

Charles jerked away.  "My
dear Amy — I beg your forgiveness!" he said with controlled anger,
getting to his feet and shoving the offending hand behind his back.

She was still sitting in the
straw, her petticoats spread out around her, her face tilted up to him.
"Forgiveness for what, Charles?"

"Kissing you!"

She frowned, then she, too, got
to her feet.  She took a step toward him then stopped.  As though she didn't
know quite what to do with herself, she hugged herself, completely unaware that
the motion only pushed against her breasts and made them swell all the more
temptingly above her stays.  Charles felt his throat go dry and had to look
away.

"I don't see a need for you
to beg my forgiveness for doing something I enjoyed," she said, a bit
defensively.

"Don't you?"  He shook
his head and turned away, unable to look into those artlessly wide, innocently
lovely, eyes any longer.  "I seem to demonstrate a remarkable inability to
control myself when I am around you."

Needing to put distance between
them, he walked a little distance away, grinding the heels of his hands into
his eyes and trying to banish the memory of her sweet, trusting face.  When he
finally took his hands away, blinking, he saw that she was still watching him.
He could see the compassion in her gaze, her quiet sympathy for his plight.  It
was nearly his undoing.

He cursed beneath his breath and
went to stand beside Contender, whose head hung over the stall door.

"Charles?"

He shut his eyes as though in
pain.

"Chaaaahles?" she said
again, laughter brimming in her voice as she mimicked his accent.

He sighed.  And then he turned,
trying to be angry, knowing he could not be, steeling himself against all the
feelings that came crashing over him just by looking at her.

This was the woman who had
suffered through his surgery right along with him, who had pulled him back from
the brink of death, and later, from the deepest pit of despair.  This was the
woman who had helped him learn to cope with his limitations, who had always had
respect and compassion for his dignity and pride, who had done all in her power
to give him the independence he had needed.  She had stood by him when everyone
else had deserted him, she had brought laughter and sunshine into the darkest
days of his life, and now that he could see her he knew that his heart had no
chance against the beauty that shone just as brightly on her outside as it did
from within.

"Oh, Amy," he said, and
shaking his head, he folded his arms, leaned back against the stall door, and
looked down at her.

Just looked.

And Amy, smiling up at him, felt
everything inside of her begin to melt as she gazed up into that clear, quietly
observing stare.  He had the warmest eyes.  The warmest smile.  The warmest
hands.  And, toward everyone but himself, the very warmest heart.

The Beloved One, indeed.

The power of her love for him
nearly brought her to tears.

She sat there gazing up at him,
growing a bit self-conscious beneath that keen stare.  "If you don't blink
your eyes once in a while, you'll wear them out," she murmured, in a
little voice.

"I shall never blink
again," he said softly.  "I shall never sleep again.  After all these
weeks of darkness, I shall never close my eyes again.  Ever."

He said that now, but in her
heart Amy knew that his recovery was the beginning of the end of what they had
together — whatever that was.  He was free, now.  Free to stay, free to go,
free to do anything he pleased.  She didn't want to contemplate a life without
him in it.  She could not bear the thought of saying goodbye to him.  But she
was not so selfish as to chain him here, or to marry him just because he'd
offered it, and that, only to satisfy his sense of honor and correct a wrong he
thought he'd done her.  Men like Charles were not to be found in Newburyport.
He was priceless gold and he deserved to be amongst precious metals — not cheap
tin and pewter.  He was something that Newburyport had never produced, would
probably never see again, and he did not fit in here, would never fit in here.
She would not cry for what she had lost by the return of his sight.

Instead, she would enjoy what
time she had left with him, and rejoice with him and for him.

Even if it broke her heart.

Affecting a cheer she did not
feel, she pushed herself to her feet, took his hand, and tried to draw him away
from the stall.  "Then why are you wasting your time gazing at me?
Come, Charles, let's go and put your restored sight to work."

"Amy, really, I —"

"Come, I want to show you
everything!  Our shipyards, our churches, our streets and our people!  The
grand houses on High Street, the Beacon Oak, the tide coming in, the marsh
grasses swaying in the wind, the sea gulls, the sandpipers, everything!"

He smiled fondly.
"Everything?"

"Everything!  Why, let's put
a saddle on Contender, and bring him for a gallop along Joppa Flats where we
can watch the sun coming up and painting the water blue, the skies pink, the
masts of all the ships in the river, gold!  Don't you want to see color,
Charles?  Don't you want to see everything there is to see?  Hurry, let's go
before it gets any later!"

Eagerly, she pulled him away from
the stall.

"No," he said, with a
rueful shake of his head, "I daresay I should like to walk, instead."

"Walk?"

"Yes."

"But, Charles!"

He raised his brows.
"Yes?"

"You haven't ridden him for
over two months —"

"I know."

"Don't you want to
ride him?"

He shrugged.  "Maybe
tomorrow, Amy."  And then, offering his arm but no explanation for his
strange behavior, he escorted her out of the barn, turning his back on the
horse and ignoring the long, plaintive whinnies the animal gave as it watched
them go.

~~~~

She had not pressed him about his
reluctance to ride Contender, and though he knew she had probably guessed the
truth, Charles did not bring the subject up, either.

The sounds of the stallion's
distress as they'd left the barn had upset him more than he would admit, even
to himself.  What was wrong with him that he didn't want to get up on the animal's
back?  Why had he shunned something that he — a de Montforte! — had been doing
since he was old enough to walk?  The de Montfortes were horse-mad.  It was in
the blood.  And yet he had not wanted, had not been able to bring himself, to
ride the horse who'd been his most loyal friend for the past decade.

There is something very wrong
with you, man.  Something that goes a lot deeper than just the loss of your
sight.

And with rising dread, he knew
what it was.

He had lost confidence in
himself.

He, the man who, if he could have
chosen one word to describe himself, would have said "capable," was
now a bundle of self-doubt, rejected by everyone and everything he'd loved,
plagued by the bitter knowledge that he had let people down.   He had thought
that if he ever recovered his sight, his insecurities would have been banished
along with the darkness.  But now he could see, even if not perfectly, and his
confidence in himself was no stronger than it had been last week.

He was frightened.

Very frightened.

And here was Amy beside him,
another aspect of his life that spelled a decided and distressing lack of
self-control on his part, dragging him down the street and pointing out
everything under the sun to him . . .

"Look, Charles, just there
through the trees is the Merrimack River, and the fine brig that they're
building for Matthew Ashton!  And there is the little boat that we went sailing
aboard!  Oh, tell me, Charles, what do you think?"

He swallowed and tried to focus
on his surroundings, but already, he could feel the resentment building within
him.  Resentment because the only thing he wanted was freedom to rediscover
everything that had been denied him for so long; resentment because instead,
all he could think of was his shortcomings, his fears, all the mistakes he had
made, the people he had hurt, and most frightening of all, of the attraction he
felt for this girl breezing along beside him.

"Charles?"

"Yes, Amy, I am looking . .
. indeed, I am overwhelmed."

He tried to see beyond his own
inner torment.  He tried to take delight in the way the sunlight came through
all the leaves of the maples overhead, illuminating each fragile vein, making
each leaf glow from within; the way the marsh grasses all bent beneath the hand
of a gentle breeze; the way the sun drew shadows beneath each clapboard of the
timber-framed houses that lined this street.  And since when had water showed
so many variations of blue, from deepest azure to soft, pewter gray?  He looked
at everything — at the ships and boats in the river, the spartan New England
churches whose spires rose majestically above this bustling seaport, the sun
and salt-beaten piers, the humble colonial folk all going about their business
in homespuns, cottons, woolens and calicos. No priceless painting in Lucien's collection
back at Blackheath Castle could rival the beauty of this world that Charles had
rediscovered.

And no beauty presented to his
starving eyes could rival that of the girl who walked beside him.

He wanted her.

He could not help but want her,
even though her drab clothes did nothing to flatter her toasted-honey
complexion, even though Lucien would never, not in a million years, approve of
her as his wife, even though his heart was still sore from the wounds Juliet
had torn in it — which was reason enough not to want any woman ever again.

But he could no longer make his
mind obey reason.

And worst of all, he knew that
Amy wanted him as well.

~~~~

That night at the supper table,
as everyone celebrated the partial return of his sight, asking him what he thought
of this or that, asking him how it felt to be able to see once more, and, in
the case of the sisters, posing, preening and doing everything within their
power to gain his attention, Charles had had eyes only for Amy.  She had had
eyes only for him.  The tension between them, the force of the desire each had
for the other, was like an invisible thread growing tauter with every veiled
look, every furtive glance.  She watched him when she thought he wasn't
looking; he did the same, noting that her dark gaze was mischievous one moment,
laughing the next, and, on those occasions when she thought herself unobserved,
wistful and adoring and maybe even a little sad.  But Charles had been
watching.  Wishing.  And wanting, more than anything, to unwrap those coils of
dark, shining hair from around her head; to loosen and comb them out with his
fingers; to find out just how long that hair really was —

And to see it spread out on a
pillow beneath her.

By the time the evening ended,
Charles was in hell.

Long after everyone went to bed,
he left the house and walked down to the riverfront that he had visited so
often in his prison of darkness.  Under the faint glow of moonlight, he could
see the broad surface of the Merrimack, and the low, dark hills of Salisbury,
holding up the sky beyond it.  The stars looked down on him, twinkling
brightly, making him feel that there was no one else in this world but himself.

No one else in this world but
himself.

The answer came to him.

He had never known the bitter
taste of failure, but he knew it now — and he could not cope with it.  He could
not cope with its aftertaste of disappointment, he could not cope with the
thought of letting people down, and he could not cope with the physical and
emotional reactions he'd had to Juliet, and now felt himself having toward
Amy.  They were feelings he could not control, feelings that made him feel weak
and vulnerable and overwhelmed.  As a man accustomed to having control over
everything, it was a horrible and frightening thing to be buffeted about by
such a mixture of passions.  He was like Mira's boat that day the rudder had
snagged and the tide had swept them nearly out to sea.

He was not the man he had once
been.  His confidence in himself, which he had always taken for granted, was
gone.  He would not regain it here in Newburyport.  He would not regain it in Boston.
He would not regain it in England, where Lucien's disappointment in him would
probably end up killing him.

And he could not stay here and
risk hurting Amy as he had hurt Juliet.

As soon as he was sure she wasn't
pregnant, he would put a saddle on Contender, and go away.

Far away.

Where he hoped that God, and
introspection, and most of all distance from all temptations and hurts, would
restore him to the man he had once been.

Chapter 16

October, 1776

Nearly a year and a half had gone
by since Charles had left Newburyport, and for those he left behind, he seemed
to have vanished without a trace.

He did not go back to England.
He made no attempt to contact the family, the army, or the fiancée who had rejected
him.  Instead, he had bade a solemn goodbye to the Leightons, thanking them for
all that they'd done for him and steeling himself against the tears in Amy's
eyes before finally riding away, perhaps never to return.

He'd had no idea where he was
headed.  He had simply let Contender carry him where he might, looking for a
place where he could come to terms with all that had happened to him, retreat
from society, and avoid the hurt and suffering that relationships and
attachments had brought him.  Eventually — perhaps by accident but more likely
by some hidden design — he'd found himself in Maine, the vast wilderness where
Juliet had been born and raised.  There, he had fallen in with a pair of French
fur trappers and made a humble, lonely living.  There, in the endless forests
of cedar, pine and fir, where granite boulders were the size of houses, and the
trees were so densely packed that day became night, he had thought he might
find peace.  That his physical skills and mental resources would be tested such
as to prove himself capable once more.  That he would be able to forgive
himself for all the mistakes he had made, for the disappointments which had
reduced him to this wretched, insecure shell of the quietly confident,
supremely capable man he had always believed himself to be.

And that there, if anywhere, he
would forget about Amy.

But no.  About the only thing he
regained was, eventually, the full use of his sight.

For Charles, an aristocrat raised
to pomp and privilege in a gentle, mild country, had not been made for the
brutally harsh climate of Maine.  He had cursed its summer, filled with vicious
swarms of mosquitoes, midges, and biting flies that plagued him both day and
night.  He had shivered his way through the longest and most bitterly cold
winter he had ever known.  He had lain awake in the darkness beneath the stars,
his flintlock cradled in his arms, unable to sleep as he listened to the
endless and eerie howling of wolves.  And twice, because he had little sense of
direction in the vast woods, he had to be rescued by the grinning Frenchmen
when he didn't return to their camp by dark — a biting humiliation which stung
him as a man, as a soldier, and as an Englishman.

The trappers tried to dissuade
him and send him "back where he belonged," but Charles, angry with
himself for his inability to adapt, stubbornly persevered.  He lasted through
another Maine summer, learning to live off a diet of venison and berries and,
when they entered a town and sold their pelts, enjoying the finer things like
decent meals eaten off equally decent china, before venturing off into the
forest once more.  And each time they left one of those little outposts of
civilization behind and returned to the wilderness, Charles felt an
increasingly larger part of him straining to stay behind.  Wanting only to
remain in those warm, cheerful taverns drinking cider and sugared coffee,
instead of huddling around a smoking campfire slapping mosquitoes or trying to
stay warm.  Wanting only to sleep in a decent wood-framed bed with a feather or
even a corn-husk mattress, instead of wrapped in a blanket with pine needles
and moss and granite beneath him.  And as the days began growing cold at the
obscenely early date of mid-September, and he found himself hating this
bearded, buckskinned, shamefully unkempt creature that he had become, he
realized that clinging to this venture just for the sake of his pride was
nothing short of insane.

When they reached Bangor, Charles
retrieved Contender from the farmer who had been boarding the horse for him, bid
a fond farewell to the two Frenchmen and headed south, still wearing his
buckskins and a bitter cloak of defeat.  He blamed himself for yet another
failure in a life that, of late, had been filled with nothing but.  He didn't
know what to do, where to go.  But he knew that in March, the English army had
finally evacuated Boston and gone to New York instead, and so it was there that
he decided he would go, both anticipating a return to a life he knew, and
knowing, deep inside, that he no longer had what it took to be an officer.

~~~~

It took him several days to reach
Falmouth.  Portsmouth, whose inhabitants were busy fitting out privateers
against his own country's navy.

Newburyport.

His good sense told him he ought
to just take the ferry across the river and continue on, but when he saw
Newburyport's white steeples rising high above the gold, scarlet and orange
trees of autumn, he thought of Sylvanus, and he thought of Amy, and he thought
that he really owed it to them all to stop.  Surely he would be able to control
himself around Amy now — after all, it had been a year and a half since he'd
last seen her.  His feelings for her had probably faded.  And, for all he knew,
some lucky sod had married her and given her a fine family by now.

Or so he hoped.

It was growing dark by the time
he finally caught the ferry at Salisbury and crossed over the Merrimack to Newburyport.
As he reached the shore, he could not help but remember how it had felt to make
love to Amy on these very banks.  He could not help but wonder what she was
doing right now, at this very moment.  Would she be happy to see him again?
Angry that he had left in such haste?

With no small degree of
trepidation, he rode Contender through the darkening streets.  Work in the
shipyards had ceased for the night.  A church bell was tolling out the hour.
Most people were home eating their suppers, but Charles knew he did not pass
unobserved.  Curtains moved at windows that glowed with candlelight.  A
solitary carriage passed, slowing so that its occupants could get a better look
at him.  A few last people hurried home from market, and a group of swaggering,
already-drunk sailors eyed him with a mixture of distrust and curiosity as he
rode past.  One of them called out a challenge, ridiculing his frontiersman's
clothes and heavily bearded face.

The Charles of old would never
have allowed such a challenge to go unanswered.

The new Charles continued quietly
on.

He rode through Market Square and
headed up Fish Street.  The scent of wood smoke lay on the cold, brittle air.
There would probably be a frost tonight.  As he approached the Wolfe Tavern
there on the right, he found himself longing for something hot to drink, and it
was all he could do not to dismount and go inside for a mug of mulled cider or
even black coffee.  But passions against England were far stronger now than
they'd been when he had last been here, and he would instantly damn himself
just by opening his mouth.  He was an outcast, a man who no longer belonged
anywhere, and as he came up to the tavern, the sound of revelry within made
something inside of him ache and mourn for the days when he had been the most
popular person in Ravenscombe . . . the most popular member of the de Montforte
family . . . the most popular commander in the King's Own.

No more.

Never again.

He was just passing the tavern
when across the street, a sound caught his attention.

It was a woman, cloaked and
hooded, just coming out of an apothecary shop.  Charles saw the pale oval of
her face in the gathering gloom as she glanced about her; and then she hastily crossed
the street, and, a parcel in her arms, hurried along as fast as she could.

The door to the tavern opened and
a group of sailors, their voices raised in drunken song, stumbled out into the
night.

"Bugger me arse, if it ain't
the Leighton half-breed!"

They had seen her.  Amy.

She picked up her skirts and
began to run.

The sailors were drunk, but not
so foxed that they couldn't walk.  Couldn't run.  And run after her they did.

"Oy, girl!  Come to ol'
Jacko here!  I'll show ye those legs ain't meant for runnin!"

Charles sent Contender galloping
forward.  Amy darted into an alley.  The sailors, led by a towering, bowlegged
wretch with a long black pigtail, charged in after her.

Charles was right behind them.

Too late, the last of the pack
saw the huge stallion bearing down on them.  Contender's shoulder hit one of
them a glancing blow and sent him sprawling in the dirt.  Another dived out of
the way just in time to avoid being trampled.  And there, just ahead in what
was almost complete darkness, Charles saw the bowlegged seaman reach out, grab Amy's
flying cape, and jerk her savagely backwards.  She cried out and her little
package went flying.

Immediately, the man was upon
her.

"No!  Get off me, you horrid
beast!"

She was no match for him.  He
pushed her down hard, his laughter obliterating her screams even as one hand
tore at her cloak and the other grabbed her petticoats and flung them high.

"Jack, watch out!"

But Charles was already off
Contender, musket cocked as he ran toward the two struggling figures.  He
shoved the muzzle straight down into the seaman's nape.

"Let the lady go."

Jack froze.  Behind him, the
other seamen skidded to a halt.

Tension strummed the air.

Slowly, Jack turned his head, his
eyes glinting in the faint light as he gazed hatefully up at Charles.  Beneath
him, Charles could see Amy, her face pale with fright, her eyes wide and
staring.  She did not recognize her savior.

"Lady?" said
Jack, with an ugly sneer.  "Why she ain't no lady, she's nothing but a
half-breed slut who —"

He never finished.  Charles sent
his boot flying into the seaman's head, and drove him, sprawling and
unconscious, into the dirt.  Behind him he heard curses, and then running feet
as Jack's band fled, no doubt back to the tavern for reinforcements.

It was not, he decided, a wise
idea to remain here.

Holding his musket aside, he bent
and stretched a hand down toward the young woman who lay in the alley staring
up at him.  She regarded his hand blankly for a moment.  And then her gaze went
to his face, and in that moment, Charles saw recognition, disbelief, and pure,
unbridled joy fire her eyes as she tentatively reached up to grasp his offered
hand.

"Charles?  Is that . . . you?"

Chapter 17

With Amy before him, Charles
slowed Contender up before the Leighton's house three minutes later.  He sent
the horse trotting around the house and into the back garden; there, safely out
of sight from the road, he leaped down, pulled Amy from the saddle, and held
her against his chest as though he'd never let her go.

He was shaking with fury.

"Amy."  He felt the
blood pounding in his ears.  "Amy."  He rested his brow
against the top of her hooded head and just held her for a long, emotional
moment.  "What the devil would have happened if I hadn't chanced to come
along when I had?"

"Oh, they would've left me
alone, eventually," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.
"They just like to have a little sport with me, but I don't think they'd
actually —"

"Have a little sport with
you?"

"Well, not much.  You see,
last week Mira gave me a knife that I could've used if things got beyond my
control —"

"I'd say they were already
well beyond your control, madam, when I happened along!  Does Sylvanus know
about this?"

"No." And then, with a
little shrug of her shoulders, "You know he probably wouldn't do much
about it, anyhow.  I — I am not Ophelia or Mildred."

She said it without pity or
sadness; just a simple acceptance of her place.  "Oh, poppet,"
Charles murmured, his heart aching for her, and reaching down, he pushed her
hood back, cradled her face between his hands, and turned it up to his.

She was lovely.  The past sixteen
months had further defined her already striking features, but otherwise, she
was unchanged.  The same huge dark eyes still gazed up at him.  The same glossy
hair was still parted in the middle, plaited, and pinned up beneath a little
cap.  The same sweet mouth still warmed him with its shy smile.

The same craving to kiss it still
burned up his blood.

"Amy," he said softly,
as he lowered his head to hers, and before he even realized it, he was kissing
her with a hunger too long denied.  She melted against him.  Sweet, soft lips
clung to his with a passion that rocked him to his boots.  Her tongue came out
to touch, to taste, his, and he felt her hand against his heart, where such a
great swell of emotion rose that it nearly sent him to his knees.  And
somewhere deep inside of him, that part of him that he dared not listen to, and
had tried to ignore all these long, lonely months, sang with joy and leaped
with happiness and screamed that this was what he'd been searching for
all this time, this was what he had needed to heal, this — this quiet
love, this unconditional acceptance of all his flaws and weaknesses — was the
key to finding his way back to himself, and the man he had once been.  Oh,
Amy, Amy, Amy. . . .

So lost was he in the kiss, so
lost was she in returning it, that neither saw the figure who appeared at the
door and stopped short with a gasp.

Ophelia's eyes narrowed.

"Well, well, well," she
said nastily, as her half-sister jerked back, away from the disreputable
character she'd been kissing with such wanton passion.  "I send you to
town to bring back some headache powder for poor Mildred, and what do you do?
Return with this — this unkempt heathen who's as much of a savage as yourself.
To think you'd stand here right on our very own lawn, throwing yourself at him like
the shameless little whore that you are — Lord CHARLES!"  Ophelia
slammed a hand to her mouth, suddenly unable to breathe.  "My g-goodness,
I did not recognize you!"

And God help her, she probably
wouldn't have recognized him even in broad daylight, let alone the gathering
gloom!  The bright hair she'd last seen carefully combed and clubbed now hung
in rippling, unruly waves halfway down his back.  His face was bearded, he wore
a fringed buckskin coat, and leather breeches were molded to long, hard, handsomely
muscled thighs.  Ophelia could only stare, open-mouthed; why, he looked more
like a wild frontiersman than the crisply mannered, impeccably bred aristocrat
that she knew him to be!  But any doubt she had that he was Lord Charles de
Montforte, was banished without a doubt when he inclined his head and addressed
her in that same cool, detached manner he'd always used when speaking to her
and Millie.

That same cool, detached manner
he'd never used with Amy.

"My dear Miss Leighton.  It
seems that you are forever putting me in the position of having to demand an
apology on behalf of your sister."

"I — I thought you were
someone else!"

"Did you?  But I do not ask
your apologies on my behalf," said Lord Charles, his mild tone
belying the fact that his eyes had gone as cold as winter starlight.  "And
while you might have mistaken me, and quite understandably so, for someone
else, you knew very well who your sister was."

Indeed she had.  And as Ophelia's
gaze went to Amy, standing there with her lips looking dark and lush from
kissing the man that she, Ophelia, had wanted so badly and tried so hard to
get, the man that Amy certainly didn't deserve, the man that should have
been hers, Ophelia felt a jealous rage so dark and violent that it set her
to trembling right down to her toes.  Her eyes narrowed to slits.  How dare he
defend that little slut; how dare he!  And how dare Amy — dirty, vile,
whoring Amy — triumph where both she and Millie had failed!

Ophelia's chin snapped up.
"If you think I'm going to apologize to that half breed bitch, then
you've sadly underestimated me," she snarled, raking Amy with a look of
bitter loathing.  "I will not apologize to her now, tomorrow, or ever, and
why should I?  She's nothing but dirt beneath my feet and I hate her!  I hate
her and I always have!  She's the one my mother loved most, she's
the one that everyone says is so kind and good when we all know she's nothing
but a conniving little slut, and now she's the one you're kissing and
holding when you should've been kissing and holding me, and this after
all that Millie and I did to try to win you, after all the trouble we went
through to keep you here with us.  I can't believe you'd choose that disgusting
little creature over one of us!"

"Ophelia!" cried Amy,
aghast.

"Shut up!" screamed
Ophelia.  "You make me sick!  I hate you and I hate him for
choosing you when he should've chosen me!"  And then, because she
was past caring, because she was blinded by a vicious desire for revenge,
because she wanted only to cut and wound and devastate Charles as he had cut
and wounded and devastated her, she screamed out the terrible secret that she
and Mildred had kept for the past year and a half.  "And let me tell you
something else, Captain!  Those letters you wrote and the replies you
got from the army, your brother, and your dear, darling Juliet?  Ha, ha, well,
they were ours!  Ours!  Millie and I read those letters you wrote, and
we made up the replies so you'd stay here with us, fall in love with us, and
marry one of us!"

At that moment Mildred came
flying out of the house.  She grabbed her sister's arm, desperately trying to
quiet her.  "Ophelia, stop!  It's not worth it!"

"It is too worth it!  Anything's
worth it to punish him for choosing Amy over us!  I've never been so humiliated
in all my life!"

"What's going on here?"
cried Sylvanus, hurrying out of the house with Will and Crystal right behind
him.  "What on earth are you girls screaming about?"

But Charles was staring coldly at
Ophelia, his face completely devoid of expression, his eyes glittering with
pale blue fire.  And then, in a tone so dangerously soft that it sent chills up
the spines of everyone present, he murmured, "Is it true, then, that the
two of you have deceived me?"

Mildred felt all the little hairs
on the back of her neck go stiff.

"Have you?"

Amy, Sylvanus and Will regarded
the two sisters in horror.

Mildred bowed her head.
"I'm sorry, Lord Charles but —"

"Of course we did, you
fool!" cried Ophelia, swiping angrily at her tears.  "How often do
you think girls like Millie and I get the chance to net handsome English
aristocrats?  We never posted those letters for you!  We read them and listened
in on your conversations with Amy and we made up the replies, but you never
even suspected, did you?  Oh, how that poor silly chit in Boston must've
grieved for you!  I wonder if she bore you a boy or a girl?  I wonder if she
found someone else to marry so it wouldn't be raised a bastard?  I wonder if
she even survived the news of your death, but oh, what difference does
it make now, when you've long since forgotten her in favor of this — this
whoring little savage!"

"Ophelia!" cried
Sylvanus, but she turned and fled, sobbing, back into the house, leaving a
shame-faced Mildred all alone with everyone staring at her in horror.

Sylvanus, looking as though
someone had just punched him in the stomach, turned disbelieving eyes upon his
daughter.  "Is this true, Mildred?  Is it true that you girls never posted
those letters for Lord Charles, but made up false responses in order to keep
him here?"

Mildred squeezed her eyes shut.

"Is it true that you
willingly did this, and allowed him to think that everyone he loved, and who
loved him in turn, had betrayed him?"

Mildred's entire face seemed to
crumple before them; then, with a harsh sob, she pushed her fist to her mouth
and fled into the house after her sister.

A terrible silence remained.

Sylvanus took a deep, bracing
sigh, and as he released it, Amy saw, for the first time, anger coming into the
eyes she had always known as kind.

"I am ashamed and
embarrassed, Captain, by what my daughters have done.  I can assure you that
they will be dealt with severely.  I'm sorry . . . if there's anything I can do
—"

"There is nothing,"
Charles said stiffly, and then turned and walked a little distance away, his
back to them all.

Sylvanus took a step toward him;
then, thinking better of it, he went back inside, Will, with Crystal beside
him, following sadly in his wake.

And Amy was left alone with
Charles.

He took a few more steps, then
sat down heavily on the edge of the watering trough, his head in his hands and
his fingers splaying up through his hair.  He remained still for a long moment,
and when he finally raised his head, wiping both hands down his face and
blinking once in that slow, thoughtful way he had, Amy nearly cried for him.

"So the letters were never
sent," he whispered dazedly.  "What a terrible irony . . .  Dear
God.  Dear God, forgive me."

Amy quietly sat down beside him,
but he made no move to reach out for her.  He did not even look at her.  And
Amy knew that nothing she could say would take the pain away, or undo the
wickedness of what her sisters had done.  If he never trusted another human
being again, if he never opened his heart to anyone else after this, she would
not blame him one bit.  He had suffered more in this past year and a half than
any one person should have to suffer in a lifetime.

"How easily I have been
deceived," he continued, head still in his hands as he stared at the
ground at his feet.  "Why didn't I realize that your sisters were capable
of such treachery?  That the situation was ripe for them to behave as they
did?  But no.  In my despair, I never questioned the responses to my letters —
and no one will have questioned what became of me."

Amy knew he was right.  When
Charles had fallen at Concord, apparently dead, the army had gone on without
him.  When Will had gone back for him, he'd switched his regimentals for the coat
of a dead rebel.  And while the Englishman had been brought to Newburyport, the
American had been buried in an enemy's uniform in a grave near Concord.  There
was no reason for anyone to question the identity of the body that had worn
Charles's clothes.  There was no reason for anyone to think Charles hadn't died
that terrible day eighteen months past.

Especially as Charles, forsaking
those who had supposedly forsaken him, had made no further move to contact any
of them.

To all intents and purposes, he'd
simply vanished off the face of the earth.

To all intents and purposes he
was dead.

He got to his feet, his face
bleak with anguish.  "The consequences of my supposed death are too
horrific for me to even contemplate.  The suffering that my family must have
endured; the sorrow of poor Juliet. . . . oh, what a fool I am for not
suspecting deceit!  Did I have such little faith in those who loved me that I
believed everything I was told?"

Amy reached out and placed her
hand over his. Ice might have been warmer.  "Charles, you were blind.  You
could not see to read the letters, you could not have known they were false."

He shook his head, unwilling,
unable, to forgive himself or make excuses for the fact that he had doubted and
turned his back on his loved ones.  "No, Amy.  It is no use.  I have made
a grievous mistake in trust and judgment.  I have erred badly, and in so doing,
I have hurt the people I love.  I could not see to read those letters myself,
but I could hear the words they contained, and I should have had more faith and
trust in those whom I held dearest."

"But you couldn't have known
what my sisters did!"

"I should have
suspected," he said coldly.  "After all, I knew them to be selfish
and conniving.  And I should have known that my brother would never have turned
me away, that Maddison would have brought me immediately back to Boston, that
Juliet would never have behaved as she did.  But no.  I was so blinded by
misery that I couldn't see through it to the truth.  The truth being, that I
let them all down — my fiancée, who was left to fend by herself in a town that
had gone mad;  my family, who must have spent a terrible eighteen months
believing me dead; my troops, who had such faith in me and my judgment."
He shook his head.  "My judgment.  And all this time, when I thought
everyone had betrayed me, the harsh reality is that I have betrayed them."
He drew his hands down over his face and then lowered them, blinking.
"God help me.  God help me undo this wrong that has been done, to ease
those hurts that I have allowed to be done to others . . .  I must leave for Boston
at once."

~~~~

But Boston yielded nothing but
memories of another lifetime.  Others now inhabited the house where Juliet and
her stepfather had lived.  The general store where Charles had first met her
was now the shop of a silversmith who sold plates, bowls and engravings.  The
British army was gone, long since removed to New York, and the Common where
Charles had once drilled his men, the streets that he had come to know so well,
were ruled once more by the rebellious inhabitants who had once cursed and
taunted his army into not only that debacle called the Boston Massacre, but
this godforsaken revolution itself.

He knocked on doors and made his
inquiries, only to receive cold looks and tight lips through which no
information was forthcoming.  Though he no longer resembled the elegant British
officer who had once patrolled these streets with such confident aplomb, there
was nothing he could do to change his prestigious accent, an accent that would
take him far in class-conscious England, but which only brought him suspicion,
distrust, and doors slammed in his face, here.  There was no disguising the
fact that he was English, and high-born at that.  And there was no finding
Juliet Paige as long as the people he contacted kept their silence about her.

It was only when he finally ran
into an old widow named Murdock that Charles learned the horrible truth.  Mrs.
Murdock had known Juliet well, and she was all too happy to tell Charles just
what had happened to her . . .

Juliet's stepfather Zachariah had
been carried off by pneumonia last winter.  And in March, when the British army
and Loyalists had evacuated Boston, leaving it to the rebels, the unwed Juliet
Paige had taken the bastard baby that had won her the ostracism of her friends
and neighbors and gone with them, taking passage on a ship bound for England.

No one had heard from her since.

And as Charles stood on the wharf
and looked out across Boston's cold, gray harbor to the horizon beyond, he knew
why she had gone there.  He had told her that if anything should happen to him,
she was to go to England and throw herself upon the mercy and charity of his
family.  He remembered the dark premonition that he, like Gillard, had felt the
night before Concord, and the letter he'd sent to Lucien, imploring him to take
care of Juliet if ever he could not.

There was nothing for it, then.

It was time to return to his
family.

It was time to claim the fiancée
who had not deserted him after all.

It was time to go home.

~~~~

My dear brother, Lucien,

I do not quite know how to
begin this letter, especially knowing what you must believe — and what you will
think of me after you have read it through.  I hope to God my family has not
wept for me, as I do not deserve your tears, your concern, not even your
forgiveness.  I have much to say, and much to explain as regards my absence and
the unhappy fact that everyone seems to have believed me dead — but I dare say
that a letter is not the place to do it, and there are things I would speak to
you about only when I am back in England with my family.

To that end, I will be taking
passage home in two weeks, and hope to be with you all for Christmas.  Please
discard all memories of the man you once knew me to be; illness and
circumstance have made me but a shadow of my former self, and you should not
expect too highly of me when next we meet.

I look forward to seeing you
all soon.  May God bless and keep you.

Charles

Chapter 18

Charles was back in Newburyport
by that evening.

He told himself he'd only
returned because he needed to tell the Leightons what had become of Juliet.  He
told himself he couldn't just sail off to England without saying goodbye to
these kindly people who had done so much for him.  He told himself he owed Amy
a last farewell.  Then he would sever all ties to Newburyport, forcibly forget
what he and Amy had shared, and pick up his life where it had left off eighteen
months ago, even if that life was now guided only by duty — and not passion.

Unfortunately, things hadn't
quite gone to plan.

Within an hour of his arrival, he
learned that Sylvanus was punishing Ophelia and Mildred by assigning most of
the chores that had been Amy's, to them.  Subsequently, the sisters were
treating her worse than they ever had, blaming her for their enforced regime and
getting their revenge by ensuring that everyone in town knew of her
"wanton seduction" of Lord Charles.  As a result, Amy was now treated
as though she had the plague.  People crossed to the other side of the street
when she approached.  Shades were drawn shut within passing carriages.  No one
would even speak to her.

Her life had become miserable.

After supper, Charles went out to
the barn to feed Contender.  Amy followed him.  She knew he intended to leave
within the hour, and her heart was near to breaking at the knowledge that if
she did not gather her courage and act, she would probably never see him again.

She looked at him, clean shaven
once more, tall and handsome and leaning against the stall door as he watched
the horse quietly munching his hay in the velvety gloom.  His face was
pensive.  Unhappy.  Bleak.

"Charles?"

"It's cold out here, Amy.
You should go inside."

She joined him, respectfully
keeping a safe distance between them as she rested her arms atop the stall
door, her chin on her wrists as she followed his gaze to the quietly feeding
horse.

They stood quietly together, each
lost in their own thoughts.  Their private anguish.

"Charles," she finally
said, picking idly at a sliver of wood in the stall door.  "There's
something I must ask you."

"We are friends, Amy.  You
can ask me anything you like."

Friends.

She took a deep, bracing breath.
"You've known me for a long time, now.  You've seen what my life is like
and the way people treat me, and how much worse things are for me now than they
were the last time you were here."

His jaw hardened in recognition
of that fact, but he said nothing, merely staring absently at the horse, his
thoughts far away.

Amy dug at the sliver of wood,
trying to be strong, trying to believe that she really did deserve that for
which she was about to ask.  "As long as I stay in Newburyport, the shame
of my beginnings will always follow me, and things will never be any
different.  I have no hopes of marrying, everyone in town shuns me, and Mira,
my only friend, is always off at sea in her brother's brig."  She bent her
head, trying to sound cavalier instead of desperate, wanting only his help and
not his pity.  "Life has never been easy for me, Charles, but lately . . .
well, lately, it has become downright unbearable.  I've often thought that if
only I could get away from here, and make a new start where no one knows about
my beginnings, that things might be different for me.  That maybe I might have
the sort of life I've always dreamed of having."  She swallowed hard,
feeling the full weight of his gaze upon her.  "I — I hate to ask this,
Charles, but you're my only hope.  You — and England."

"Amy, what are you
saying?"

She turned her head and met his
piercing stare.  "That I want you to take me to England with you."

She saw him straighten up and
wipe a hand down his face, blinking once, as though her request had not only
surprised, but stunned him.  Then he turned away, raking a hand through his
hair, putting a few steps between them.  "Amy, I am promised to another.
Much as I wish to help you, I'm not sure this would be wise.  You know that I .
. . that I have feelings for you, but I am honor bound to keep my commitment to
Juliet, and having you near would only make things difficult.  I'm sorry, but
we must try to forget all that has happened between us."

"Oh, Charles, I would never
hinder your plans or do anything to jeopardize what is between you and Juliet.
After all that you've been through, you deserve to be happy.  But please don't
leave me here to molder where I'm neither loved nor appreciated; please take me
away, and let me have this chance at a new beginning, I beg of you."

"Doing what, Amy?"

"I would make a wonderful
lady's maid."

He stared at her.  "After
all these years of catering to your sisters' every whim, is that what you want?"

"At least I'd be getting
paid for it!  At least there would be no shame in it, or in who I am!  What
other chance do I have, Charles?  And even you must see that it's not an
unreasonable request.  Why, your sister could teach me all that I don't already
know, and once I'm accomplished, I will leave, Charles, I'll go work for
someone far away from you.  I'll remove myself from your life so that I don't
make things difficult for either one of us.  But please, Charles, don't go off
to England and leave me here, I simply couldn't bear it."

He kneaded his brow for a moment,
tortured by this decision he wished he didn't have to make.  Finally he gave a
defeated sigh, his breath frosting the air, the wisdom of his head fighting a
losing battle with the will of his heart.

In the end, he capitulated.  How
could he not?  How could he go away and leave this woman who was so dear to
him, who had done so much for him, to a life of servitude, misery and ostracism
when he alone held the key to her happiness, her hopes, her very future?

What, really, would it cost him
to bring her with him?

"Very well then, Amy.  I
shall go speak to Sylvanus about it."

"Oh, thank you,
Charles!" she cried, and stopped herself just before she would have flung
her arms around him.

He looked at her bleakly; then he
turned and walked away.

~~~~

Within the hour, Amy had packed
the few things she had while her sisters looked hatefully on and heaped insult
and abuse upon her head.  She hugged her misty-eyed brother and bade a silent
goodbye to a stunned Sylvanus; and then, turning her back on the only home she
had ever known, she'd gone with Charles to New York, where he'd met with his
superiors, accepted a leave of absence, and arranged for passage on the first
ship heading home to England.

The crossing took just over five
weeks.  For Amy they were wistful, lonely days, for Charles had arranged that
she have her own cabin, and she did not get the chance to speak with him
often.  Sometimes she would see him on the quarterdeck, conversing with the
ship's captain; sometimes she would see him at the rail, alone, the wind in his
hair and the wide, cold expanse of endless blue sea spread before him.  Her
longing for him was a constant ache in her heart, but she knew that he wanted
to be alone, and so did not seek him out.

She knew that he was avoiding
her.

And everything that made her a
woman told her why.

He did not love Juliet Paige.  He
might feel duty bound to marry her, he might feel responsible for her care and
welfare, but he did not love the woman with whom he'd had a brief and
impassioned romance two years past.  He did not love Juliet Paige, and Amy
knew, deep in her heart, that he loved her.

Knowing that this must cause him
guilt and pain, she determined to do nothing to encourage things any further
than they'd already gone.  Charles had enough on his mind, and on his
conscience, without the added anguish of trying to sort out his feelings for
her.  He was still betrothed to Juliet.  He had a baby to take care of, a baby
that he'd never even seen.  There was no room in his life for a romantic
entanglement with Amy, and Amy was not so selfish as to try to force him into
one.

She would go to England, then,
and seek employment as a lady's maid.  As she had done before, she would love
him from afar, doing her best not make his life any more complicated than it
already was.  And if sometimes the memories of the brief interludes they'd
shared became too painful, he need never know.  If her heart broke when she saw
him in the arms of his long-lost fiancée, she would smile for him and be glad
that he was finally reunited with her.  If she lay awake in her bed at night
and burned with the memory of all the times he had kissed her, of what it had
felt like to have his hands on her skin, her face, those areas of her body that
no man had ever touched before —or since — well, she would treasure those
memories in private.  She would never have Lord Charles himself, but she had
her memories, and those, she would forever keep close in her heart.

~~~~

It was gray and gloomy when the
ship dropped anchor in Portsmouth.  Charles wasted no time in rejoicing that he
was finally back in his beloved England; he wasted no time in appreciating how
lush and green its grass was in comparison to the brown, weather-beaten turf
they'd left behind in frozen Massachusetts.  Now that he was here, he only
wanted to get to Ravenscombe and to Blackheath Castle.

They hired a private carriage,
and, with Contender trotting along behind, headed north.  The sun did not come
out once, and, looking at Amy's enraptured face — which had been pressed to the
window in delight and wonder ever since they'd stepped into the coach back in Portsmouth
— Charles wryly decided not to tell her to expect it to.  At least, not until
April.

That was the way of an English
winter.

Thoughts of his family were
paramount on his mind.  Had they received his letter?  What would his
homecoming be like?

Unreasonably, a thread of
nervousness coursed through him.  He turned his face to the window, gazing out
at the downs as he tried to dispel it.  How silent they looked beneath the
brooding sky — timeless, changeless, majestic.  A glaze of white frost cloaked
them, and, bare of trees as they were, their noble brows blunted by time, they
looked invincible.

Like Lucien.

His wiped suddenly damp palms on
his breeches.  He had no reason to feel this strange anxiety, but he did, and
it was growing stronger the closer they got to Blackheath.  At dusk, they
passed through Lambourn with its familiar taverns, shops and buildings.  There,
the carriage broke an axle, forcing them to hire another to take them the rest
of the way.  Charles's apprehension settled in the pit of his stomach.  They
continued on through the downs, and now he felt strange palpitations in his
chest as his heart began skipping beats.  He told himself he was merely
excited.  But he knew it was something else.

And there, far out across a
darkening valley and commanding the countryside for miles around, was Blackheath
Castle.  Even from here, Charles could see the pennant, tiny with distance,
that flew above it.  Lucien was home.  In a few minutes, he would be reunited
with his family — and the fiancée who had loved him so dearly and so well back
in Boston.

Was that the reason for this
strange, unfathomable nervousness?  The idea of seeing Juliet again?

Didn't he want to see her?

All too soon, the wheels of the
carriage were crunching on the great drive of crushed stone . . . moving past
the ancient walls with their ivy-cloaked crenellations . . . through the
gatehouse and over the moat, past stands of copper beeches and now, pulling up
at the massive door, its thick, medieval oak strapped with iron and looking as
imposing as the castle itself.  Twin lamps burned above it, throwing a faint
glow on the stone steps beneath.

The carriage came to a stop.

"Here ye be, sirrah!"
called the driver from the box.  Charles stepped down, reached back inside to
help Amy out, and paid the driver.  He was a local from Lambourn and his name
was Paul Bosley, and Charles remembered the man's damp eyes when he'd sent his
son John off to join Charles's regiment — but Bosley did not recognize him.
His gaze was blank as he took the fare, touched his hat, and sent the coach
back off down the drive, leaving Charles staring after him in disbelief and no
small degree of confusion.

Did he look that much different
than he ever had?

Of course not!  He was not
dressed as richly or as elegantly as the old Charles would have been, but he
was neat and clean in his white linen shirt, knee breeches, and coat of dark
blue frieze; his hair was carefully combed and queued beneath its black
tricorn, and there was no reason why Bosley shouldn't have recognized him.

But he hadn't.

They stabled Contender.
"What magnificence," Amy was saying, jolting him from his thoughts as
they walked back to the castle.  She had paused, and was now staring up at the
twin crenellated towers that seemed to hold up the gloomy sky itself.
"Did you really grow up here, Charles?"

"Yes.  Though it seems a
lifetime ago, now."  He picked up her trunk and carried it up the stairs.
"I daresay it has not changed as much in five hundred years as I have in
twenty months.  Come.  Let's go inside."

The familiar door with its
massive oak timbers and iron hinges loomed before him.  For one brief, insane
moment Charles almost raised his hand to knock; but that was ridiculous.  He
was the long-lost son, come home at last.  Everyone would be ecstatic to see
him.  He, of all people, did not need to knock!

And so he turned the latch and
pushed open the heavy door, and there was the Great Hall's high, vaulted
ceiling of carved stone that he remembered so well; the tapestry on the wall,
the suits of medieval armor, the primitive weapons and shields, the mullioned
windows rising magnificently from floor to ceiling — and a liveried footman,
already leaping to his feet at the sight of Charles and Amy.  His face was
tight with disapproval and indignation.  "Sir!  This is a private
home, the residence of His Grace the duke of Blackheath, and you have no
business —"

Charles removed his
three-cornered hat.  "Simmons," he said gently.  "Do you not
recognize me?"

The footman came up short,
frowning.  And then his eyes widened and he paled to the color of milk.
"Lord Charles!" he gasped, bowing deeply.  "Is it really you?"

Charles, relieved, smiled
warmly.  "It is what remains of me, Simmons.  I have come home at
last."

"You — you're several days
earlier than the family expected you —"

"Yes, I know.  Is the duke
about?"

"Well yes, he's in the
dining room with your brothers and sisters —"

Charles smiled.  The man was
obviously befuddled, as he had only one sister.  But he didn't wish to
embarrass the poor fellow, or upset him any more than he'd already done by his
untimely arrival.  "In the dining room, you say?  I shall go to him,
then."

"Please, my lord!  Let me
summon him for you!"

"Come now, Simmons — I
hardly think that is necessary."

"B-but my lord, it is on His
Grace's orders.  I will return for you in but a moment."

And with that he hurried off,
leaving Charles staring after him in confusion and a slow sense of mounting
anger.

Let me summon him for you . .
. it is on His Grace's orders.  There was no need for Simmons to summon
anyone!  What the devil was going on here?  Why was Simmons treating him like a
visitor in his own home?  And acting so damned nervous?  Bugger this!  He
wasn't waiting for anyone!  Bewildered and upset by this strange treatment,
this total lack of fanfare when he'd expected everyone to be joyous at his
arrival, he offered his arm to Amy and strode across the polished marbled
expanse of the Great Hall, the empty suits of armor staring silently at him
through the black slits of their visors as though in silent disapproval.

"Charles," Amy
murmured, hurrying to keep up with him, "Perhaps we should wait . .
. after all, maybe your brother has a surprise in store for you and doesn't
want you to spoil it by rushing in unannounced —"

"My brother is treating me
with the formality due a visitor and I dislike it.  Come along, Amy, I wish to
get this over with and I wish to do it now."

His buckled shoes beating a
clipped tattoo, he strode down the shadowy corridors.  As he passed them,
servants stared at him with wide eyes.  "Hello, Puddyford.  Hello,
Rawlins," he heard himself saying, and though he greeted them warmly, the
smiles they offered him in return were nervous, and there was an obvious apprehension
in their faces.

By the time he reached the double
doors of the dining room, closed, unwelcoming, and stiffly guarded by Cooper, a
normally stone-faced footman whose eyes shot wide with surprise before he
schooled himself back into the deference expected from a servant, Charles was
quietly furious.  Why this tension in the air, this formal treatment, and this
pins-and-needles behavior from servants with whom he'd always had an easy,
informal relationship?

The devil take it, he would find
out what was going on and he would find out now.

"Open the door please,
Cooper."

"But my lord —"

"Open it now."

Visibly tense, Cooper turned and was
just about to push open the great doors so that Charles could join his family,
when the left one opened from within and Charles found himself eye to eye with
the brother he hadn't seen in well over two years.

"Lucien!" he said
abruptly, unable to keep the hurt from his voice at this treatment that had
been bestowed upon him.  "By God, what the devil is going on here?  What
is this business about my having to be announced, and to you my own brother, in
my own home?  Why would you keep me from joining you all in the dining
room?"  He clenched his fists, unable to keep the anguish from his rising
voice.  "Do you all hate me now?  Am I so terrible that you cannot forgive
me for the mistakes I have made?"

His anguished cry echoed down
the corridor.  Mistakes I have made? . . . Mistakes I have made? . . .
Mistakes I have made?

Lucien only stared at him, as
though he could not quite reconcile this desperate, emotional stranger with the
crisp and confident officer who had taken his troops off to America.  And though
Charles knew he was coming apart before Lucien's very eyes, he couldn't recover
himself, couldn't stop this spiralling freefall into pathetic behavior,
couldn't ignore the deep and indescribable pain in Lucien's black and suddenly
sympathetic eyes which told him that his brother no longer admired, but pitied
him.

"My dear Charles," he
said gently.  "My long-lost and much beloved brother."  He reached
out as though to embrace him — paused — and instead, laid his hand on Charles's
arm.  "It is not a question of whether or not I can forgive you," he
murmured, "but whether or not you will forgive me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Prepare yourself,"
Lucien said simply, and turning, pushed open the great carved door that had
swung shut behind him.

Chapter 19

But nothing could have prepared
Charles for what he found in the dining room.

The first thing he saw was the
candelabra, glittering at the ends and center of the table and drawing the eye
away from the friezed ceiling he remembered so well, the carved mantlepiece of
Italian marble, the centuries-old portraits, the drapes that fell in great
sweeps of burgundy velvet from ceiling to floor, all of which seemed impossibly
dark in comparison to the faces, glowing in the flickering light, that turned
toward him in stunned surprise.  It took Charles a moment to recognize each
one.  He never knew that Lucien came quietly up behind him.

In that brief, fleeting moment
that would remain amongst the most shocking of his life, ranking right up there
with when he'd woken to discover himself blind, he saw Nerissa, the sister for
whom he'd always had a soft spot, looking up at him with tears of sympathy in
her pretty blue eyes.  He saw Andrew, tall and handsome now, his brows raised
in surprise before he slowly put down his napkin and looked nervously toward
Gareth; and there was Gareth, for once not smiling, but looking almost sick
with uncertainty and embarrassment as he stared at Charles and then, with a
subtleness that did not escape his keen gaze, reaching out to cover the hand of
the woman beside him with his own.

A woman with dark hair and fine
green eyes.

A woman Charles had not seen in nearly
two years.

A woman who, as she slowly rose
to her feet and stared mutely at him, her face paling, one hand pressed to her lips,
could not conceal the fact that she was heavy with child.

"Juliet?"
Charles whispered, his stunned brain trying to absorb what he was seeing and
sort it out into something he could understand . . . trying to reason why she
was still pregnant when she should've delivered the baby months and months ago
. . . trying to put together the pieces of this puzzle that made absolutely no
sense.  "Juliet, will you not come and greet me?"

As though for approval, she
glanced toward Gareth, who had also risen and now stood almost protectively
beside her.  And as Charles's confused and uncomprehending gaze went from
Gareth's hand, which now supported Juliet's elbow, to his fiancée's swollen
belly and finally, to the high chair drawn up beside her which contained a
toddler whose curling hair was as bright a gold as Charles's own, he began to
understand.

It felt as though God had slammed
a fist into his stomach.

"No," he murmured,
shaking his head in denial and stepping backward, his gaze still fixed on
Juliet's gently rounded abdomen.  Involuntarily, his fists clenched and he was
suddenly afraid that he was going to call out Gareth, his own brother, right
here in front of everyone, for what he had done to her.  "No, I . . . this
cannot be —"

And then Lucien was there, his
hand like a vise on Charles's arm as he firmly turned him around and began
dragging him out of the room.  Charles resisted, trying to twist his head
around, unable to take his disbelieving stare from Juliet's belly, from her
face, from her eyes, which met and held his in a silent plea for forgiveness,
but Lucien only tightened his grip and pulled him away from the table.  Away
from the others.

Out the door, which he shut
behind him.

"Now you know why I did not
want you to charge unannounced into this house," he said quietly, as
Charles walked a little distance away and leaned his brow against his forearm,
and his forearm against the cold stone wall.  There he remained, head bent,
totally undone by the confusion and despair of his discovery.  "I am not
angry with you, and there is nothing to forgive.  But since you were unaware of
the situation, and Juliet is obviously in a delicate condition, you can be sure
that I would do everything in my power to protect you both from shock and upset.
I am sorry that you had to learn of things this way."

When Charles made no move to
acknowledge him, he turned to Amy.  "Who are you?"

Amy had stepped up beside
Charles, who stood with head bent, shoulders quaking.  "My name's Amy
Leighton," she answered.  "I'm a friend of your brother's."

"How close a friend are
you?"

"Well, that's hard to say,
really, because —"

"She's the only person in
this bloody world who hasn't betrayed me!" Charles shouted hoarsely, his
face still buried against his arm.  And then his raw, choking sobs reverberated
throughout the hall.

Lucien stood there for a moment,
his mouth tight, studying this wretched creature before him with a flat,
expressionless gaze that revealed none of the heartache such a completely
unexpected sight brought him.  This was definitely not the brother he knew.
The Beloved One was falling apart before his eyes, and any moment now the door
behind them would open and everyone would see this shocking, pathetic sight
that shook Lucien to his very soles.

That would not do.

"Come along, the both of
you," he snapped, and roughly seizing Charles's sleeve, dragged him away
from the wall.  His brother jerked angrily out of his grasp and tried to charge
back into the dining room, but Lucien anticipated it and nodded to the footman,
who moved to stand in front of the door.

"Let me through!  Damn you
to hell, let me through so I can give that — that bastard what he
deserves!"

"Charles."

Lucien's voice was like ice.  His
brother stopped short, his eyes bleak with anguish.

"I would prefer that you do
not make a scene," Lucien said in a quiet, controlled voice.  "At
least, not until after you hear me out.  Come, let us go to the library."

And with that, he extended his
hand, indicating that Charles precede him, and Lucien's astute gaze did not
miss how this Amy Leighton, who proclaimed herself a friend, discreetly closed
the distance between herself and his brother, there if he needed her, but
allowing him the dignity of his own private grief.

He made a mental note of that.  And
he made a note of something else as Charles, his head bent, turned on his heel
and started off down the hall.  His brother, who'd always been so capable, so
confident, so easily able to handle problems no matter how large or small, had
always walked with a quietly authoritative stride even before he'd bought his
commission and entered the army.  But now the proud shoulders were slumped, the
back no longer straight, and there was an air of defeat and despair about him.
Of insecurity.  Whatever had occurred in America must have been terrible
indeed.  Lucien set his jaw.  He would learn exactly what had happened to turn
Charles into this emotional wreckage — and then he would endeavor to find a way
to glue the broken pieces that had been his self-assured and admirable brother
back together again.

He ushered them both into the
library, shut the door behind him, and after bidding Miss Leighton to take a
seat, went straight to the decanter of brandy resting on a table before the
fireplace.  He filled a glass and offered it to his brother, who was walking
silently back and forth, his fingertips pressed against his bent forehead.

"Take it away," Charles
said.

"Drink it, it'll do you
good."

Charles merely paced the room
once, then came to stand before the fire, his elbow propped on the carved
mantlepiece, the heel of his hand shoved against his bent brow.  His back was
toward them both.  "Gareth," he snarled.  "That bastard, he got
her pregnant, didn't he?  I should have known such a thing would happen.  He's
always been The Wild One, recklessly out of control, priding himself on leading
that confounded Den of Debauchery and getting up to all sorts of mischief.  Now
he's had his way with the woman I sent to you for safekeeping, the woman who
deserved your protection, and it's his babe that's in her belly, isn't
it?"  He twisted to glare at Lucien.  "Damn you to hell, Lucien, how could
you allow such a thing to happen?"

"Sit down, Charles, and
drink your brandy."

Charles turned from the fire and
threw himself into a chair.  He picked up the glass of brandy and drained it.
He would not look at Lucien.

But Lucien was watching him, and
most shrewdly indeed.  Not much got past his enigmatic, heavy-lidded stare.
Now, he poured two more drinks, one for himself, and one for the young woman
whose dark, anxious eyes flashed briefly to his before returning once more to
Charles.  Lucien saw the way she was looking at his brother, and the way his
brother had taken the chair nearest hers, and suspected there was more between
the two of them than just "friendship."  Two years ago he would not
have approved of Charles being involved with a woman so far beneath him in
rank, and a Yankee at that.  But Lucien had, after Juliet, learned a thing or
two about American women, and he was not so ready to write off this young
provincial as he might have once been.

Especially as she might be useful
in his plans for Charles.

He offered her a glass of brandy,
picked up the other, and turned his black stare on his brother.

"You are not the man I once
knew," he said abruptly.  "You have changed since I last saw you, and
you have changed in a way that brings me great sorrow and distress.  I will
hear all about what happened to you in a moment.  But I think it best that I
satisfy your curiosity about what has transpired on this side of the Atlantic,
before I satisfy my own as regards what transpired on the other."

Charles merely sat there, staring
mutely, angrily into space.

"I said but a moment ago
that you have changed, Charles, but your brother Gareth has changed as well.
He is no longer the wild, irresponsible young man who gave me daily headaches,
spent his time in drunken debauchery and always came out the worse in the
inevitable comparisons with you.  He is no longer the black sheep of this family,
the never-ending source of despair and embarrassment.  He now owns a very
lucrative estate in Abingdon which he won back for this family through his own
courage and sacrifice, is a much respected Member of Parliament, and is a
father, a husband, and a man worthy of the de Montforte name.  I am very proud
of him."

Still, Charles said nothing,
merely staring at the bookcases with their ancient, leather-bound tomes without
seeing them.

Lucien moved forward to refill
his brother's brandy.  "When Juliet — at your bidding, I might add — came
to us last April, I saw a woman who was the complete opposite of Gareth.  I saw
a woman who was steadfast where he was impulsive, who was practical where he
was reckless, who was grieving where he was full of fun and laughter.  I also
saw that she was greatly in need of a father for her little baby."

Charles slowly turned his head,
his expression going cold as he met Lucien's black stare.  "No.  Don't
tell me that you're behind this, Lucien.  Don't tell me that you, with your
infernal machinations and manipulations, engineered this damnable union."

"I'm afraid that is
precisely what I did.  You were dead, or so we thought.  Your charming fiancée
needed not only a husband who could give your daughter her proper name, but
someone to pull her out of her grief.  In Gareth, I saw a man who was capable
of doing both.  She needed to laugh again, and he needed someone to teach him
the meaning of responsibility.  The two of them, as I was quick to discern,
brought out the best in each other.  Of course I —" he tapped a finger,
once, against his pursed lips — "arranged things so that the two of
them ended up together.  How could I not?"

Very slowly, Charles put down his
brandy.  "And just what was it you did?"

"It is not important."

"It is to me."

"Very well, then."
Lucien affected a weary sigh.  "I told the girl that I could not make baby
Charlotte my ward.  Her pride was most grievously injured, and so she left,
just as I suspected she might do.  Meanwhile I allowed Gareth, who had pushed
me beyond the limits of my patience with a certain act of public vandalism the
night before, to think that I had banished her.  He was already half in love
with her, and determined to do right by both the young lady and the child of
the older brother that he had so loved.  He went after her, and had what he
thought was his revenge on me and my apparent cruelty by marrying her — just as
I suspected he might do.  It was all very neat and simple, really, and I
am most pleased with the consequences of my . . . manipulations.  There is
nothing that will make a fellow grow up faster than a little responsibility,
and with a wife and baby to look after, I daresay Gareth had more than
enough."

Charles, who had gone very, very
still, held up a hand.  "Do you mean to tell me that you sent a young
woman with a tiny baby off, alone — and then sent Gareth of all people,
to rescue her?"

"My dear Charles.  Do not be
so upset.  I was in complete control of the situation —"

"I cannot believe you would
take such an unpardonable risk!"  cried Charles, leaping to his feet.
"When I bade Juliet to come here should anything happen to me, I thought you,
not Gareth would be responsible for her!  Gareth can't even be responsible for
buckling his own shoes for God's sake, let alone a wife and baby!"

Lucien had been previously
content to suffer Charles's anger, but now his expression hardened.  "You
are judging your brother most unfairly, Charles, and I will not tolerate your
abusing him in this manner.  He would be much wounded if he were to hear you
speak of him so.  I know that Gareth was once irresponsible and dissolute, but
he has made much of himself, Charles.  He is a loving husband and a playful,
adoring father, and his days of debauchery are far behind him.  Go ahead and be
angry, as you have every right to be, but do not be angry with him.  If you
must assign blame to anyone, assign it where it is due.  That is, assign it to
me."

"Yes, you and your infernal
meddling!  I hope you're damned proud of yourself!"

"I was — until I got your
letter saying you were not dead, after all.  But really, Charles.  Even you
must admit that Gareth, with his light heart and carefree spirit, is much
better suited to Juliet, who is as serious-minded as you are.  My only regret
is that something has reduced you to this pathetic wreckage I see standing
before me, and I was not there to help you.  But as sorry as I feel for you,
Charles, I will tell you this.  If you do anything to sabotage your brother's
and Juliet's newfound happiness, I assure you I will be most irate
indeed."

"Don't be ridiculous,"
Charles muttered, crushed that Lucien would even think him capable of doing
such a thing.  "I may be a pathetic wreckage, but I still have a
heart."

Lucien gazed for a long moment
into his brandy.  "Do you?" he asked quietly.  "I wonder, then,
why you allowed the family that loves you so, to believe all this time that you
were dead."

The words were softly spoken,
without rancor, without accusation.

"I know it stings your pride
that the brother you always pitied for his inadequacies is now happily married
to your Juliet," Lucien continued.  "I know that you are shocked and
angry and upset, and I will not judge you harshly for that."  He looked up
then, turning that ruthless black stare on Charles, and this time, there was
the faintest of tremors about his severe and unforgiving mouth.  "But do
you think that these past eighteen months caused us any less anguish than what
you must feel right now?"

"No," Charles admitted,
walking slowly toward the window.  "I have made a mess of things.  I, the
perfect, invincible, oh-so-beloved one, have bungled things, and bungled them
badly.  I do not expect nor deserve your compassion —"

"Please, my dear Charles, dispense
with the self-pity.  It does not become you."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The brother I knew would
never behave this way."

Charles set down his brandy, his
eyes glittering with anger.  "The brother you knew is dead.  Dead.
And I am in no mood to discuss any of this.  Good evening."  With a short
bow to Amy, he strode angrily from the room.  She rose to her feet, determined
to follow him, but the duke raised his hand.

"Sit, sit, my dear child.
Your Beloved One needs time to sort out a few things, don't you think?"

Amy gazed into those fascinating,
all-knowing eyes, and felt a sudden flutter of nervousness.  "There is
nothing between your brother and I," she murmured, even though she knew
her sudden flush of color betrayed her.

"No?"

Amy gulped.  "No.  Well . .
. that is to say, there is no future between us.  There cannot be.  I . . . came
here with him so that I could learn how to be a lady's maid."

The duke raised one brow.  Amy's
insides began to shrink.  He looked at her for a long, contemplative moment,
letting his hooded stare flicker down the length of her body; then he turned to
gaze out the window into the night.  He was an incredibly handsome man, Amy
decided.  And a rather intimidating one as well.  She sensed that there was
much more going on behind those black, black eyes than anyone could guess.

"Do you think he loved
Juliet?" he asked, almost conversationally.

Amy thought very carefully about
her answer.  "I think, Your Grace, that he convinced himself that he did.
He got her with child.  He felt obliged to marry her.  He's angry now, I think,
because his pride has suffered a terrible blow.  But for a man who professed to
love someone, he didn't speak of her all that much . . . and, well . . ."

She was turning quite red, and
she knew it.

"And, well, what?"
prompted the duke, turning around.

"And, well . . . he — he
kissed me, in those rare moments when he let down his guard.  He was good and
kind and protective of me when everyone else, even my own family, would never
have exerted such efforts.  And every so often, I used to hear him talking in
his sleep," she said, hoping that this austere, omniscient man would not
judge his brother too harshly.  "While he was convalescing, he slept on a
pallet downstairs by the fire, you see . . . I used to watch over him at night,
though he never knew it.  He used to talk in his sleep, Your Grace, and . . .
it was not Juliet that he spoke of."

"It was you."

Amy bowed her head, reddening.
"Yes."

"And do you love him?"

She blushed wildly.  "Oh,
yes, Your Grace, I love him more than he could ever love himself, and I would
do anything to bring him back to the man I know he must once have been,
anything to make him forgive himself for the mistakes that he has made,
anything to make him accept that he's not the god of perfection that he tries
so hard to be, but a human, just like the rest of us."

"God of perfection.  My, my,
you know him well, don't you?  If he is still that, my dear, then perhaps he
has not sustained as much damage as I had feared."  The duke smiled, but
behind the gesture was a discerning sharpness that made Amy feel as though he
could look right through her and know every thought that went through her
head.  "Are you in any hurry to get to bed tonight, Miss Leighton?"

"Not if I can help you find
a way to help Charles."

"My sentiments exactly, and
help me, you will.  But first some supper for you," he said, tugging on a
bellpull, "and then we shall talk.  Something very terrible must have
happened to my brother to turn him into what I saw tonight, and you, being the
perceptive young woman I think you to be, are surely the best person to fill me
in on just what has brought him to such a deplorable state."

"Starting with the events of
April, 1775?"

"Starting before that, if
need be."

"Then I'm afraid it's going
to be a very long evening, Your Grace."

Again, that benign little smile.
"Ah.  But my brother is worth it, don't you think?"

Chapter 20

The dining room had gone as quiet
as a tomb after Lucien had, thankfully, dragged Charles out.

"My God," Andrew said,
speaking for them all.  His face, in contrast to the dark auburn hair that
framed it, was still a bit pale.  "I wonder what the devil happened to
him?"

"He looked terrible,"
Gareth agreed.

"And it is totally unlike
him to carry on so," said Nerissa, putting down her napkin.  She rose to
her feet.  "I must go to him."

"No.  Let Lucien handle
it," Gareth said, waving her back down into her chair.  "After all,
it was his meddling that brought on such a complicated mess."

None of them voiced what was also
uppermost in their minds:  just who was the woman with the dark eyes and high,
striking cheekbones?

And then Nerissa, noting that
Juliet had gone silent, reached out and touched her sister-in-law's arm.
"Are you all right, Juliet?"

Juliet, who had lost all
appetite, nodded.  Tears burned beneath her eyelids, but she would not, could
not, let them fall.  The husband that she so loved had suffered enough
heartache over the years by being constantly compared to his perfect, saintly
older brother.  If she cried now, he might think that she was crying because
she wanted Charles — when nothing was further from the truth.

She had not seen Charles for
nearly two years.  She had loved him, once, and she had loved him deeply, but
when he'd charged into the room she had felt nothing.  No.  That was not true.
She had felt something, and it was the complete opposite from the almost
worshipful admiration that she had once harbored for him.

Pity.

The tears grew closer.  Oh,
don't let them fall.  For Gareth's sake, don't let them fall.  If she sobbed,
it was because pregnant women often did, she told herself.  If she sobbed, it
was because the anguish she had seen in her former lover's face had totally
annihilated what had remained of her self-control.  And if she cried, it would
be for Charles himself, for all she could think of was the steely-eyed,
confident British officer he had once been, so godlike and untarnished up there
on his horse as he'd drilled his troops, so above the cares of the everyday
world.  Such a man might as well have died and been buried at Concord, for the
one who had pushed his way into the dining room tonight was a shadow of that
proud English officer who'd been so full of confidence and elegant aplomb.  Oh
Charles, Charles . . . what has happened to you?

"Juliet?"

Gareth must've seen the telltale
glassiness in her eyes.  He reached down and gently, drew her to her feet.
"Shhh, my love.  None of us could have been prepared for what we saw
tonight, least of all you.  I know Lucien warned us that he might not be all that
he had been, but you have every right to cry for him . . .  We all do."

She turned her face against his
chest.  "But I don't want you to think my tears are because I want him
back, or that I have regrets about which brother I actually married."

He cradled her to him, tenderly.
"I don't."

"It's just that seeing him
the way he is now . . . it has upset me.  I was not prepared  . . .  Oh,
Gareth.  Please know that what I once felt for your brother is dead.  It is
you, you, that I love."

"I know that,
dearest."  He tipped her head up and wiped away her tears with the pad of
his thumb.  "Come.  You are upset, and I think it is best we go on up to
bed."  Reaching down, he picked Charlotte up and held her to his chest.
Juliet looked at him and felt a raw ache at the back of her throat.  And what
would become of their fourteen-month-old baby?  Would Gareth have to give the
daughter that he'd loved as his own back to the brother that had made, but
never even seen her?  Would Lucien come down on their side or Charles's?  Would
Charles's return threaten all that they both held most dear?

No, Juliet vowed.  Charlotte,
no matter who had sired her, was Gareth's daughter.  Gareth's!  Gareth had
nearly lost his life for the two of them, and there was no question in Juliet's
mind about who her little girl belonged to.

She moved close to her husband
and, drying her tears, allowed him to lead her from the room.

~~~~

Gareth, sending away Juliet's
maid, undressed his wife, helped her into bed, and stayed with her, gently
stroking her hair, until she finally fell asleep.

And then he rose and, determined
to tell Charles just what the lay of the land was, went looking for him.

Gareth's heart was in turmoil.
He had always respected and admired his brother, had always thought him pretty much
infallible.  And who wouldn't?  There had been nothing that Charles could not
do.  No problem he could not solve, no challenge that was too daunting for
either his mental, physical, or emotional capabilities.

But now . . .

Charles was not in his old apartments.
He was not in the Gold Parlour, the dining room where Andrew and Nerissa still
sat talking quietly, or in the library.  But Lucien was, and as Gareth entered
the domain of his brother the duke, he saw that Lucien was standing quietly at
the window, gazing out over the night-enshrouded downs toward the twinkling
lights of Ravenscombe in the valley below.

"Hello, Gareth," he
said, knowing, without even turning, that it was Gareth who had entered.
"I have been expecting you."

Six months ago, Gareth would've
taken offense at such words and bristled.  But now . . . Well, he'd changed a
lot since meeting and marrying Juliet.  Now that he had an estate to oversee,
business headaches, and responsibilities toward not only his wife and daughter,
but his home, his tenants, and his parish, crops to put in, livestock to
purchase, a community image to maintain and of course, his challenging and
varied duties as an elected Member of Parliament, he had more respect than
resentment for Lucien, who had always managed to handle those sort of concerns,
and then some, without so much as a second thought.  But Gareth had not always
respected his brother so.  There had been a time not so long ago that he had
hated him.  Of course, he didn't want Lucien meddling in his business any more,
but over the past six months he had come to understand his brother, to
comprehend the reasons why he was the way he was, and to see him as the
infallible being that most people who knew him, perceived him to be.

Lucien would straighten Charles
out.

Gareth was sure of it.

He went to the decanter and
poured himself a drink.  "So," he said, leaning against the mantle.
"What are you going to do about him, Luce?"

Lucien remained unmoving, a tall,
slender figure in black.  "Me?"

"Yes, you.  You 'fixed' me,
surely you can fix Charles as well."

"Hmm.  Yes.  I am not sure,
Gareth, if I shall do anything."

"You have to!  He's a
wreck!"

Lucien turned around.  "Do
you think I don't know that?  But if I had not manipulated events so that you
felt obligated to marry Juliet, he might not be such an emotional mess.  I am
not sure it is wise of me to interfere this time."

Gareth shook his head and gave a
disbelieving little laugh.  "Really, Luce.  Can you honestly stand there
and tell me this and expect me to believe that you won't interfere?  You
are very good at arranging circumstances and events so that things come out
exactly as you would wish.  You are very good at finding the strengths and
weaknesses in people and then using them to bring about desired results.  You
are very good at playing games with people's heads, and doing it in such a way
that they never even know what you're up to.  If anyone can help Charles, you
can."

"I am not so sure of that,
Gareth.  Despite the warning in his letter, I must confess that I did not
expect him to be so damaged.  Miss Leighton told me everything, you know.  He
was seriously injured at Concord, then left for dead.  Her brother brought him
home.  They trepanned him — ghastly thought, that, especially as the surgery
was performed by a colonial doctor.  And when he came to his senses, it was
only to find himself completely blind, dependent upon people he thought were
his enemy, and sadly, almost completely lacking in that spirit of
self-confidence with which we have always associated him."

Lucien gazed thoughtfully down
into his brandy, swirling it a little in his glass.  "He had Miss Leighton
write letters to Juliet, to his commander, and to us, but they were intercepted
and destroyed by her two sisters before they could be posted.  Apparently they
had designs upon Charles, and sought to keep him neatly trapped with them in
the hopes of winning him for themselves.  They fabricated responses from all of
us that were guaranteed to hurt him, to turn him away from everyone he loved,
never to trust anyone again."

"And he believed such
rot?!  Why didn't he try to pursue things and see for himself how we all
felt?"

"He believed it because he
could not see to read the false letters; they were read to him either by Miss
Leighton, or the sisters who had fabricated them."  Lucien was silent for
a moment.  "And as far as his failure to pursue these matters, I suspect that
that is what he cannot live with."

"You don't think it's the
fact that I've married Juliet?  That she's my wife, not his?"

"No, Gareth.  I don't
believe that's the problem at all.  Your brother, who never put a foot wrong in
his life, has not only put a foot wrong, he's walked straight off the damned
path.  He is in uncharted territory, and his only companion is guilt at having
made such a botch of things.  He is a perfectionist.  He is not accustomed to,
and cannot accept, the fact that he is as flawed as everyone else.  That he
makes mistakes just like the rest of us."  Lucien took a sip of his
brandy.  "Of course he's angry, but it is not because Juliet is married to
you.  No, I suspect that he is genuinely angry with himself.  Or with me.  But
not with you.  Never with you."  He smiled.  "After all, are you not
the brother he always loved best?"

"And now I'm the brother who
has betrayed him."

"No, Gareth.  You picked up
the pieces of the mess he made.  And I suspect that he just can't tolerate the
idea that you, the brother he last knew as irresponsible and dissolute, the one
he tried to teach by example and take under his wing, have been the one to fix
his mistakes.  Though Charles loves you, I do believe that he always pitied you
in some small way, especially as it seemed destined that you were never to make
anything of yourself whereas he was destined from the start to go far.  You
know as well as I how much he hated the comparisons between the two of you, his
guilt that he always came out on top.  And now look.  Now you are the one who's
a Member of Parliament, who has an estate, who has a wife and daughter and more
admiration than you know what to do with.  You're the one who has everything
that he once had . . . whereas now, he's the one at the bottom looking up.  Now
he's the one who is pitied and despaired of.  For someone like himself, can you
not see how such treatment would completely demoralize him?"

Gareth nodded, slowly.

"And to complicate matters
even further, there's Miss Leighton.  She cared for him when he was ill, gave
him some sense of independence and worth, and captured his heart, though I
daresay he may not realize that, and certainly won't admit it."

"Guilt over supposedly
betraying Juliet?"

"Of course."

"And what does she think of
him?"

"My dear Gareth.  Charles
may be broken, but he is still handsome, gallant, and kind — enough to make any
young lady sigh with wanting.  As she strove to give him dignity and
independence when he had neither, so he strove to give her confidence in
herself, and to defend her from a family that, from all accounts, quite
despised her.  What do you think she thinks of him?"

"Given that she followed him
across the Atlantic, I should think she's quite in love with him," Gareth
said, wryly.  "I should also think that, because she's a commoner, and
because Charles has been engaged since birth to Lady Katharine, you will crush
any hopes of a romantic union between them."

"On the contrary,"
Lucien said smoothly.  "For one thing, Lady Katherine has recently
accepted an offer from Viscount Bisley, so her engagement to our brother is
off.  Furthermore, I have learned a thing or two about American woman since
Juliet came into all our lives.  Amy Leighton is exactly what Charles needs,
and I will do all in my power to get them together."

"The best of luck to you,
then.  Charles is smarter than me, and far more perceptive.  He'll know what
you're up to when I did not, and he will know immediately."

Lucien gave a benign smile.
"My dear Gareth.  Do you have such little faith in me as all that?  He
will not discern my hand in this — just as you didn't."  He put down his
glass and, hands clasped loosely behind his back, returned to the window, where
he stood gazing out over the silent, starlit downs.  "And he will not
discern my hand in anything else, either.  It is time for me to play God, I
think.  To find some sort of challenge that will restore our brother's
confidence in himself and his abilities.  To begin the Restoration . . . of
Charles."

Chapter 21

After Charles stormed out of the
library, he felt an overpowering need to get out of the house, away from his
family and the guilt, shame and confusion that dogged him like a shadow.

He slammed out of the castle.

Outside, the night was damp,
skeins of cloud trailing past a dim moon and spitting out a few drops of rain.
He felt it on his face, sweet, cool, and misty; he heard the English wind
moving through the copper beeches, just as it had always done.  He stood there
for a moment, looking back at the castle with its twin towers, and Lucien's
pennant fluttering high up there in the darkness, scraping the ceiling of
scattered cloud.  A glow of light came from Gareth's room.  He thought of his
brother up there, probably with Juliet, the woman that he, Charles, had once
lain with and thought he'd loved, the woman he still owed an explanation to,
the woman he had grievously wounded.  His ears burned.  They were talking about
him, he knew it.  Discussing him, perhaps lamenting how much of a — what was it
Lucien had called him? — pathetic wreckage he'd become.

He wiped the mist from his face
with the back of his wrist.  Pathetic wreckage indeed.

He strode angrily toward the
stable.

Inside, a row of equine faces all
turned to look at him as he passed by each stall.  There was Crusader, Gareth's
horse and a full brother to Charles's own Contender.  There was Nerissa's grey
mare, Andrew's hunter, and Lucien's fierce black Armageddon, desert-bred,
desert-born, and brought back from Egypt during the duke's travels.

And there in the last stall as
though he was an outcast, the horse who'd crossed the ocean with him twice —
Contender.

Safe, loyal, Contender, who would
demand no explanations, who cared not what he'd become, who was a
non-judgmental and steady friend.  Charles opened the door, shut it behind him,
and sat down in the straw beside his horse, his back against the wooden
partition that separated this stall from the next.  Contender moved close,
blowing softly, and dropped his head to nuzzle his shoulder.  Staring into the
darkness, Charles reached up and stroked the velvet nose.

He didn't know how long he sat there,
wondering how he would ever find the courage to go back inside and face them.
It was certainly long enough for the moon to move into the square of the window
and bathe the stall in bright silver light.  It was certainly long enough for
his anger to fade to a dull, throbbing ache, content to join the others that
already lurked within the scarred chambers of his heart.  And it was certainly
long enough for someone to come and find him.

Someone did.

"Charles?"

Relief and gratitude swept
through him that that someone was Amy.  She had come, just as he'd known that
she would.

He heard her approaching through
the darkness, passing each horse and looking for the only one that was familiar
to her.  A moment later, the stall door opened, and she was there, the
moonlight in her hair, in her eyes, casting shadows beneath those dramatically
high cheekbones.

"What are you doing
out here?" she asked crossly.  "It's cold, it's wet, and everyone has
long since gone to bed.  You haven't even had any supper.  What are you trying
to do to yourself?"

He raised angry, mutinous eyes to
her.  She was beautiful, despite the drab, straw-colored jacket and petticoats
which did nothing to flatter her — and she had come for him.  She understood
him.  And tonight, there was a strength about her, a certain something that had
never had a chance to shine back in that oppressive house in Newburyport, and
he found himself drawn toward it, needing it, when his own strength seemed to
have deserted him.

She moved forward, the straw
whispering about her feet, and sat down beside him.  She took his cold hands
within her own, and his fingers curled around hers.

He stared mutely at the opposite
wall of the stall.

"So, did he interrogate you
the way a general might a prisoner-of-war?" he finally asked, bitterly.

"Who, Lucien?  He was . . .
thorough, yes.  But he was also kind.  He said I could stay here at Blackheath
as his guest for as long as I liked."  She paused.  "He's worried
about you, Charles.  They all are."

"They should hate me."

"No they shouldn't, and they
don't.  You're being absurd, and you know it."

"But I've failed them.  I
doubted their love, allowed myself to be deceived by letters I should have known
were false, and caused them untold grief and sorrow . . . and now I have
compounded that by coming back and showing them just what depths I've sunk to.
How ashamed they must be of me.  How ashamed I am of myself.  What must they
think?"

"They're your family,
Charles.  You don't need to impress them, or pretend you're something you're
not.  If you can't be yourself around them, and be accepted for the man that
you are, then who can you be yourself around?"

"You," he said
bleakly.  "I can be myself around you.  I tell you things I've
never told anyone else, I feel completely at ease around you, but then, you
know all of my secrets and I have nothing to hide from you.  You have seen
inside my head —" he gave a bitter little laugh — "literally.
'Sdeath, why shouldn't I feel comfortable around you?  You can see right
through me."

"And you think that Lucien
cannot?" she asked, smiling and raising one brow.  "Really, Charles.
You are underestimating him."

"Lucien is accustomed to
seeing capability and confidence from me.  He was disappointed in me tonight.
Disgusted."

"Worried, perhaps, more than
disappointed.  Never disgusted."

"No, he was disgusted.  He
spoke to me the way he once spoke to Gareth.  'If you do anything to
sabotage your brother's and Juliet's newfound happiness, I assure you I will be
most irate indeed,'" he quoted, his jaw clenching with hurt and
anger.  "To think he'd feel he has to tell me such a thing!  That he'd
think me capable of robbing either one of them of happiness!"

"Lucien can have no way of
knowing how you really feel about your brother and Juliet being together,"
Amy pointed out.  "He can't know until you tell him."

He rested his elbow against one
drawn-up knee, and his brow against the heel of his hand.  The silvery light
inside the stall began to fade as more clouds moved in over the moon.

Amy wrapped her arms around her
knees.  "You're not jealous of all that Gareth's accomplished since you
last saw him, are you?" she ventured.

"No. "

"And his marriage to
Juliet?  Do you have any resentment toward them?"

"None."  He picked up a
piece of straw, twiddling it distractedly between his fingers.  "I resent
Lucien for the way he interfered in their lives, and put Juliet and her baby at
risk, but I bear no ill will toward either Gareth or Juliet.  In fact —"
he tossed the straw aside — "it shames me to admit this, and I would never
say as much to Juliet, or anyone else, but I'm rather relieved that Gareth
married her.  It relieves me of a duty I was . . . unhappy to assume.  And
though it's embarrassing that Gareth of all people was left to clean up my
mess, I wish the two of them only happiness."

"You felt nothing for her,
then?"

"I felt something, but it
wasn't love.  It was regret for what I have done to her.  Anger with myself for
ruining her life.  And that baby sitting beside her . . .  'Sdeath, I don't
even want to think about it.  The child was the spitting image of me.  Of
me."

"You're going to have to
talk to her," Amy said gently.  "I think that once you have, you'll
feel better.  In fact, I know you will."

"I doubt it."

She sighed.  "Why do you do
this to yourself?"

He only shook his head, unable to
answer her.

"Charles, you have something
I never had:  a family that loves you very much.  They're not ashamed of you,
they love you and only want to help you."

"I am no longer worthy of
that love."

"What, simply because you
made a mistake or two along the way?"

"Yes.  Horrible, injurious
mistakes.  I cannot forgive myself for what I have done to them."

"Do you think they've
forgiven you?"

"Well of course they have,
they would."

"Precisely.  And do you
think God has forgiven you?"

"Probably."

"Well then, if your family
can forgive you, and God can forgive you, why can't you forgive
you?"

Charles frowned, confused by the
sense of her logic, which was at odds with the feelings that slashed at his
heart.  He knew she was right, but that didn't mean he could accept the simple
truth of her words.  He wanted to accept it — but he could not.  It just wasn't
that easy.

"I don't know," he
admitted.  "Maybe because I've never really had to forgive myself for
anything.  I . . . this might sound awful, pompous, even, but I just didn't
make mistakes, Amy.  And I don't know how to deal with the repercussions of
them, now that I've made several monstrous ones."

She took his hand, running her
thumb over the ridge of his knuckles.  "Well, the way I see it, you have
two choices.  You can either stay angry with yourself even though no one else
is, and make your life miserable because of it, but even you will see that
there's really no point in that."

He didn't say anything.

"Right?" she asked,
playfully.

He sighed.  "Right."

"Or, you can look at things
differently and be thankful for what did happen.  Everything worked out
perfectly for both Juliet and her baby, and for Gareth, too.  They are
well-suited and happy together and you just said yourself that you're relieved
you don't have to marry her because you didn't love her the way you thought you
did.  So why keep tormenting yourself?  Theirs is a story with a happy ending,
so let it go.  As for you, you're a free man.  You have your sight back, you
have the love of your family, you have your army career if you want it, and you
have this magnificent castle to call home.  Can't you see that you have the
world at your feet?"  She pressed his hand to her cheek and gave him an
encouraging smile.  "All you need to do is forgive yourself, and believe
in yourself once again — as I believe in you, and as I suspect your family
believes in you.  The only thing standing in your way is yourself."

He grinned, a little sheepishly.
"I am a difficult obstacle to remove."

"Yes, you are.  But you're
as human as the rest of us, and the sooner you can accept that, the sooner
you're going to find the happiness you deserve."  She lowered his hand and
squeezed it.  "You are still loved, Charles.  There are people around you
who still care for you.  You've changed, yes — but that doesn't mean you're
rejected."

"Amy."  He looked at
her with his heart in his eyes.  "You say the wisest and most
understanding things . . . What did I ever do to end up with someone like you?"

She grinned, playfully.
"You lost your balance and hit your head on a stone wall, remember?  You made
a mistake, Charles, which has worked out better than anything you could
have planned.  I just wish you could see it that way for yourself.  Now — how
about coming inside, eh?"

From somewhere above their heads,
came the sound of rain beginning to fall on the roof.  It was a light, gentle
sound, full of comfort and healing.

"Yes . . . I suppose I
should," Charles murmured, but made no move to get up.

Amy didn't pursue the issue.
Truth be told, she was in no hurry to go back inside, either.  Once there,
Charles would go to his apartments, she would go to the bedroom that Nerissa
had assigned her, and they would be alone and apart.  She was not homesick —
she was too excited about being in England, too eager to begin the rest of her
life to waste any time in missing America.  But she didn't want to leave
Charles, who, it seemed, had grown awfully quiet.

She walked over to Contender, who
was gazing down at the two of them, wondering, no doubt, what his master was
doing out here at two o'clock in the morning.  "You're beautiful, you know
that?" she said, stroking his soft muzzle.  "And you know what else?
You gave Charles a bloody nose that we'll never forget!  He can see because of
you, Contender, and I love you so much."

Impulsively, she put her arms
around the horse's neck, then looked over her shoulder at the man still sitting
with his back and shoulders propped against the wall.  He was watching her quietly,
and looking much less angry and tense than he had when she'd first come into
the stable.  Amy gave Contender a last hug, then returned to Charles and sat
back down beside him in the straw.

He reached for her hand.

She slid her fingers between his.

Their shoulders touched.

She asked, "Feeling any
better?"

"Yes . . . yes, I suppose I
am.  What you said makes sense, though I must confess I would not have thought
to look at things in the same way.  But you're right — things did work out for
the best.  I must . . . I must try to get on with my life, I think."  He
smiled faintly, his gaze and thoughts far away, and Amy watched as his long
lashes came down, so slowly, in that gentle way she'd come to recognize.  He
blinked so carefully, it seemed as though he treasured his eyes more than ever.

"Things worked out for the
best for everyone," Amy affirmed.  "Why, the only people who must
surely be complaining are Mildred and Ophelia!"  She couldn't help a
little grin, as she thought about how things must have changed for them since
Charles had rescued her from their cruel clutches.  "I guess they must be
washing, mending, and ironing their own clothes now, to say nothing of cooking
the meals and picking up after their father!  I know I shouldn't laugh, but somehow
the idea of Mildred trying to make soap, or Ophelia trying to darn stockings .
. . why, it's just too funny!"

"Yes . . . it defies the
imagination," he agreed.

Time passed.  Contender moved
away, lipping at some loose bits of hay that he had missed earlier, his quiet
munching blending with the soft tattoo of the rain on the roof above.
Somewhere in the stable, another horse sighed.  Amy smiled and leaned her head
into the curve of Charles' neck, relishing his nearness.  Thinking.  Just
thinking.

The long, slow sound of breathing
made her turn her head, and she saw that he had closed his eyes and finally
succumbed to the fatigue of their journey, the traumatic events of the evening,
and the lateness of the hour.  He was sound asleep.  A rush of warmth swept through
Amy and gently, carefully, she lifted his hand and cradled it to her heart.
Seeing him thus reminded her of those early days back in Newburyport, almost
two years ago now, when Will had first brought him home and he'd discovered he
was blind.  How many evenings she'd spent with him, caring for his needs,
talking to him, and, as now, watching over him while he slept.

How many hours she'd spent
fantasizing about him, and wishing that he was hers.

And here they were, still
together, three thousand miles away in England, England! — where he
had brought her.  She shivered with excitement at all that lay before her.  Was
she really here with him at his ancestral home, where there was nothing,
really, standing in the way of their own possibilities except Charles's
self-imposed torments and the fact that Amy was only a colonial nobody?  She
shook her head.  No.  No!  She couldn't let herself even think such a
thing, let alone dream it.  The duke would never allow it, she herself did not
deserve it, and Charles ought to marry some fancy lady whose family was as old,
whose blood was as blue, whose —

"Amy . . . ?"

She started to answer, but then
she saw that his eyes were still shut, his head still resting against the wall
behind him — and that he still talked in his sleep.  Amy smiled fondly.

"The soap," he mumbled
thickly.  "Soap . . . itches . . .  wipe it off . . ."

So he hadn't forgotten that long
ago evening, either, when he'd come to her, blind, soapy and damp, and
innocently, perhaps naively, asked her to wipe the suds off.  Even now, she
remembered how she'd responded to his nearness and virility . . . and how he'd
grown hard with arousal beneath his breeches, despite the fact he'd called it
nothing more than a "physical reaction."

He had wanted her, then.  He had
wanted her many times since, and had told her as much — but only once had he
let himself prove it.  Only once had he shown her the pleasures she'd never
believed would be hers.

And now, looking down at his
dear, dear body twitching a bit in a shared, remembered dream, Amy saw that he
wanted her now.

And wanted her badly.

Between them, it had never been,
and would never be, just a "physical reaction."

She swallowed, hard.  His hand
brushed Amy's thigh, and her own flesh answered his unconscious touch with a
sudden tingling warmth.  The temptation was too much.  She would wipe the soap
off, then, if only to give him peace in his dreams — if only for the excuse to
touch him.  Oh please, Lord, just to touch him.

His blue frock coat was
unbuttoned, as was the pewter-buttoned waistcoat of dark grey wool he'd brought
from America.  With gentle fingers, Amy teased them apart.  She caressed his
chest through his linen shirt, re-creating, for his dreaming mind, for her own
wistful memories, the sensations she had unwittingly given him that long ago
evening.  How solidly muscled he was beneath the shirt's loose folds  . . .
How warm was his chest, how taut and hard was his stomach, how splendid the
length and power of his thighs!  Unbidden, memories of that day on the
riverbank, when he had made her a woman, swept over her and she trembled with a
savage longing.  If only to be in his arms, to be cherished and loved and made
love to, to once again experience that bliss, that delight, of a man who wanted
her so much, and oh, if that man were Charles!

She covered his heartbeat with
her hand and gazed down, her eyes misty with a sudden wistfulness.  "Oh
Charles, my love — my Beloved One.  Will we ever be together?"

"We are together now, dear
Amy."

Her gaze flew to his face, for
she hadn't realized that he'd woken and was now watching her from beneath
half-lowered lashes.  "I thought you were sleeping!"

"An impossible pursuit, I
think, given the circumstances," he murmured, with a little smile.  He had
his far leg drawn up, the near one outstretched in front of him, and now he
took her hand and rested it on the hard thigh of the latter, covering it with
his own.  Amy caught her breath, but his expression was kind, even a little
teasing.  He looked down at himself, and at her hand, imprisoned beneath his
and resting so near to his arousal, and raised one brow ever so slightly, as
though he wasn't sure whether to be amused or concerned about his very
noticeable reaction to her.  "Hmmm.  I recall that we have acted out this
scene before," he mused.

"I'm sorry," she
breathed, trying to pull away.

"Are you?  I'm not."
He kept her hand where it was, resting solidly atop his thigh, and stroked the
back of her knuckles with his thumb.  "I daresay I was rather enjoying
that."

"You were talking in your
sleep.  Dreaming, I think, about that night you asked me to wipe the soap from
your skin."

"Ah, yes.  I remember that
night well, Amy."  His head still resting against the wall behind him, he
turned it ever so slightly and looked at her, his down-tilted, sleepy eyes
romantic in the scattered moonlight, in any light.  "Do you?"

She smiled, her face suddenly
warm.  "Of course."

"And do you remember all
those nights we used to sit up and talk together, long after everyone went to
bed?"

"I do."

"And the way you coerced me
into eating that broth when I wouldn't dine in front of others for fear of
making a fool of myself?"

"How could I forget?"

He smiled and gazed once more at
her hand, still caught beneath his, resting oh-so-close to that ever-growing
bulge beneath his white leather breeches.

"Amy," he said softly.

"Charles?"

"That talk we had earlier .
. . I have been thinking.  Thinking about what you said, as compared to my own
standards of perfection, my own belief that if something isn't done correctly,
it isn't worth doing at all."

"Yes?"

"Well, I beg your
forgiveness for what I am about to ask, that is, for what I am about to suggest
. . . and this, out here in a rather damp winter stable, certainly not the most
comfortable of settings, certainly not perfect by anyone's stretch of the
imagination, least of all mine —"

"Charles, what are
you trying to say?" she chided with a little laugh, though everything
inside her tensed with expectation, with hope, with desperate, fervent longing —

"What I am trying to say,
Amy, it that I would like to make love to you."

Chapter 22

He added, almost apologetically,
"It will not be perfect, of course . . . I would far prefer to lay you
down in a soft mattress . . . to have a candle by the bedside so that I could
see your face, your lovely, tawny skin . . . a damp stable is not quite what I
envisioned, but —"

"But it will be all the more
wonderful for what it is, not what it isn't," she said, and reaching out,
touched his cheek.

Her hand was shaking.

She saw his slow smile.  He had
once admitted that he was not a worldly man when it came to bedplay, that he
had been betrothed since birth and thus, had never seen a reason to stray — but
was he as nervous as Amy suddenly felt?  Her own experience was limited by what
he had taught her, and what her womanly instincts bade her to do.  He was
relaxed, yes — she could see that — but was he also, given his strident sense
of perfection, worried that this wouldn't be done right?

"You're trembling,
Amy."

She blushed.  "I'm a bit
nervous, suddenly . . ."

"Why?"

"Why?"  She gave a
little laugh.  "Because for nearly two years I've dreamed of this moment —
of having you in my arms, all to myself.  Now that I do, I . . . I just don't
know what to do!"

"You could start by touching
me, if you like."

"Yes — I think I'd like
that."

"You see, I am a bit
nervous, as well."

"Are you?"

"Well, tense.  I could do
with being touched."  He smiled, still lying totally relaxed with one leg
drawn up, his shoulders and head propped against the wall behind him.  He
looked devastatingly attractive.  A little bit wicked.  "I like to be
touched, Amy."

She touched him.  First the soft,
wavy hair that swept back from his brow, then his temple, then his cheek, slightly
rough beneath her palm, a man's cheek.  His skin was warm, the faint light
making his hair seem darker than it really was.  He was splendid.  Unbearably
handsome.  Beautiful in a very masculine sort of way.  Oh, Lord Gareth with his
good looks and easy charm, he was handsome, too.  Lord Andrew with his defiant
eyes and warm russet coloring — he would turn any woman's head.  And Lucien,
the duke — enigmatic, fascinating, everything about him emanating danger,
power, omniscience — there was no word to describe him.  But Charles . . . none
of them, as far as Amy was concerned, held a candle to The Beloved One.

"And I like touching you,
Charles," she breathed, her fingers grazing his mouth, which now curving
up in the faintest of smiles.

"You weren't just teasing
me, were you?"

"About what?"

"About your having wanted to
do this for nearly two years?"

She paused, her fingertips still
against his lips, and gazed into his eyes.  "No, I wasn't just teasing
you.  I once told you that I've always loved you, Charles.  But I would never,
ever have acted on that.  Not with you betrothed to Juliet."

"And how do you feel about
me now that I am a free man?"

"I still love you.  Of
course."

"Would you marry me if I
asked you?"

"I . . . I don't know,
Charles.  You were born to something I will never know, can never be.  I'm
afraid that I could never fit into your world.  That you would, eventually,
come to resent me."

"Juliet was not of my world
either.  Do you think I would have resented her?"

"Yes, but for different
reasons."

"Well then, do you think
that Gareth will come to resent her?"

"I don't know," she
said honestly.  And then, in a little voice:  "Are you asking me to
marry you?"

"I . . . I am asking myself
if I am ready to ask you to marry me.  Does that make sense, Amy?  With all my
heart, I want you as my wife, as my lifelong companion, as my best friend
forevermore — but I am so afraid, after all that has happened to me, that I
will let you down.  That I am not worthy of you.  You think you don't deserve
me, because of the differences in our backgrounds.  Well, I don't think I
deserve you, because I'm but a mere shell of the man I once was, and you
are entitled to far more than that."

"Charles —"

"No, please.  Hear me out.
When I feel confident in my abilities again, when I am once again the man I was
before that fateful day in April, then . . . then, Amy, I will feel worthy of
you.  Then I will ask you to be my wife, and by God, you had better
accept."

She shook her head and gazed at
him with a mixture of love, frustration, and affection.  "Oh, Charles."

"What?"

"You're doing it again.
Being the perfectionist, all or nothing."

"I know."  He grinned.
"But you're doing it again, too."

"Doing what?"

"Belittling yourself."

He gazed up at her through his
long, down-tilted lashes, one brow raised, a little smile tugging at one corner
of his mouth.  She grinned back at him; then, laughing, she playfully swatted
his chest with a handful of hay.  "Very well then, you've made your point!"
she said, her body responding to the deliciously seductive picture he made,
reposing so carelessly in the straw.  "Now take off your frock, then lie
back and close your eyes."

He lifted a brow, but did as she
asked.

"Amy, my dear, what are
you doing?"

She slid her hands beneath his
open waistcoat.  "I'm taking your clothes off."

He opened his eyes.  "I say,
I'm supposed to be undressing you —"

"You'll get your turn in a
moment.  Now how does one untie this thing?"  She leaned over his chest,
her heart beating with erratic, fragile little pulses of growing excitement,
and fumbled with his cravat, the only concession he'd made in his humble
American clothing toward high style.  "I'm glad that we women don't have
to find ourselves choked by one of these things!"

"Oh, but it is far
preferable to the stays and hoops that you have to wear," he said,
grinning as she finally got the knot loosened.  Holding it by one end, she
pulled the expensive length of lace from his neck, then slid her hands beneath
his shirt and found the bare, warm skin of his chest.  Beneath it, the muscles
were tense and hard, his heart almost pounding, and as she began to caress the
ridges and valleys of bone, muscle, and sinew with her palms and fingertips, he
lowered his lashes and gave a soft moan of delight.

"Relax," she said.

"I am relaxed."

"No you're not, you're hard
as a slab of marble."

"Am I?"

"You are," she laughed,
bending her head to place her lips against his warm skin.

"Well, I have never been
seduced before," he said pensively.  "I don't quite know what to
expect!"

"And I have never before
seduced anyone," she murmured against his throat, "so I don't quite
know what to do.  But isn't that half the fun?"

For answer, he only curved an arm
around her neck, then ran his hand down her shoulders, her back, and out over her
bottom.  Oh, it felt good, that broad, warm, hand of his against her body, even
if her petticoats still separated it from her skin.  No, it felt better than
good; it felt delicious.  Oh, more.  More!

His hand explored the curve of
her bottom.  She kissed the base of his throat, where his pulse was beginning
to beat quite rapidly now.  She was not unaffected herself.  She heard her own
heartbeat in her ears.  Felt a strange shortness of breath, and a feverish glow
kindling her blood, making her skin feel warm, making all her nerve endings
tingle, making the heretofore chilly air feel blessedly cool against her skin.

"Charles?"

"Yes?"

"Do you mind that I'm doing
this?"

"No, it is rather . . .
novel."

"And do you mind if I touch
you all over?"

His voice was deep, a little
husky.  "You may touch me wherever you please, Amy."

"Wherever?"

He smiled up at her.
"Wherever."

She drew back and looked at him
lying there, watching her every move from beneath lazy, half-lowered lashes.
His left arm rested across his abdomen; she picked it up and, raising his fist,
undid the buttons of his sleeve while he watched her with a patient mixture of
interest and amusement.

The sleeve gaped open, then slid
all the way to the elbow, exposing his taut, lightly haired forearm to Amy's
gaze.  He had strong, hard arms.  Wonderful arms.  She saw the tendons just
beneath the skin, and, defined in the moonlight, the beautiful play of muscle.
And still he lay quietly watching her, his shoulders propped against the wall,
content to let her do as she wished to him and promising with his eyes that he
would do the same to her.  In time.  All in good time.  Still holding his fist
in her hands, Amy smiled down into his eyes, lifted the underside of his wrist
to her lips, and pressed it to her mouth.

She feathered her lips against it,
and lightly, lovingly, touched it with her tongue.

She saw the exact moment
something changed in him.  His eyes darkened.  His lashes lowered.  A slow,
easy smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

Still kissing the underside of
his wrist, Amy picked up his other hand and repeated the procedure.  She undid
the button, and allowed the sleeve to whisper down his raised arm.  She put her
lips against the slightly salty skin, then lightly ran her tongue all the way
from wrist to elbow, chasing the sleeve and kissing, tasting, and licking as
she went.

He swallowed, hard, and she saw
that his smile had widened until a dimple appeared in his chin.  Beneath those
long, sweeping lashes, his eyes were crystalline and gleaming with interest.

"Why, Charles.  I haven't
seen you looking this relaxed since that day we got you half-drunk out on Plum Island!"

"I daresay I was not nearly
as drunk then, my dear, as I am now."  His gaze held hers, steady, deep,
and oh-so-warm.  "And this time, I far prefer the intoxicant."

Amy's own eyes glowed with
answering warmth, and then she bent her head, feeling suddenly powerful in an
entirely feminine sort of way.  As she released his hand and began to pull his
shirt free of the waistband of his breeches, she felt a tugging sensation in
her hair.

She glanced up, brows lifted in
surprise.

"Your hair," he
murmured, setting aside the little muslin cap he had just removed.  "Only
once have I seen it down, and then, when it was wet and bedraggled after our
escapade in the river.  You just told me how long you have waited for the
chance to touch me as you're doing . . . well, Amy, that wait was no less
difficult for me.  For nearly two years, I have fantasized about freeing your
hair from its pins and running my hands through the entire length of it.  For
nearly two years, I have tormented myself with wondering just how long it
really is, how silky it must really feel, how thick and shining it might really
be between my fingers.  Please — do not deny me."

He pulled a pin from her hair,
and part of her pinned-up braid sagged against her ear.

Amy cocked her head and looked
up, as though she could see the damage he'd just wrought.  "Well, if you
get to undo something, then so do I."

"You've already undone something.
In fact, you are several steps in front of me, my dear, and it's only fair that
you give me the chance to catch up."  He drew another pin from her hair,
and dropped it against the wall behind him, where Contender would not step on
it.  "There.  One pin for one sleeve."  He withdrew another, and the
heavy, coiled mass of Amy's hair began to droop.  "A second pin for the
other."  Grinning, he reached up and drew one, two, three more pins from
her hair, and with a whispery little sigh, the entire mass came tumbling down
around her shoulders, around her breasts, around her waist, and to the straw in
which she sat in a gleaming fall of sleek, nearly-black satin.  He reached out
and touched it, combing out one long, long skein with his fingers and admiring it
with his eyes, with his hand, with his lips.  "And there.  That, I think,
makes us even."

"Not quite."

Returning his grin, she pushed
her hands beneath his shirt and slid her palms up the flat, hard expanse of his
stomach.  He was deliciously warm, and she thrilled to the feel of silky male
hair around his navel, of the concave tautness of his belly, of the curve of
his ribs.  Here, a small bump; there, what felt like a tiny scar.  She splayed
her fingers and spread her hands wide, running them further up his torso,
trying to touch all of him, all at once.  Hard, slightly bulging pectorals.
Soft, wiry hair fanning across his chest and under his arms.  Tiny nipples that
beckoned exploration, and warm, wonderful skin that begged her never to stop
touching it.

"Mmmmmm," he murmured,
his eyes drifting shut before he dragged them open once again.  "Your
hands feel wonderful, Amy."

And then, reaching up, he caught
a length of her hair and trailed it over his bare stomach.

"You're shivering, Charles.
Are you cold?"

"No, Amy."  He shook
his head from side to side, slowly, and never took his steady gaze off her.
"I am not cold.  I am not cold at all."

She drew back, bringing her hands
back down his chest as she went, feeling the tiny, involuntary shudders beneath
her palms, beneath her fingertips.  And as she returned to an upright position,
her hands came once more over his navel — and stopped, just at the top of his
breeches.

There she let them remain.

He gazed up at her.  Watching.
Waiting.

She gazed back down at him.

And then, her face growing warm —
not with embarrassment or maidenly modesty, but with the fire that was already
burning hot through her own blood — Amy let her fingertips whisper over his
waistband.  Down over the top button of his drop front.  And now, up and over
the huge, hard bulge just beneath the butter-soft leather, where she let them
remain.

"Oh," he said, taking a
deep breath.

"I thought you liked to be
touched."

"My dear — like is
not quite the word I would use to describe the pleasure you are currently
bringing me."

She smiled, and, still holding
his gaze, exerted the faintest of pressure against him.

"Oh — oh, blimey," he
said, on something of a surprised gasp.

Amy's lips twitched on a
helpless, giddy giggle, and beneath her fingertips, she felt his arousal
straining, swelling, craving her touch with all the concentrated desire that
was in its owner.  He said that he liked to be touched.  He said that this
brought him pleasure, but his heavy-lidded expression, the sudden dampness on
his brow, and the hoarse, shallow little breaths he was beginning to take made
her wonder how much of this he could stand.  How much of it he would permit.

No sense backing down now.  After
all, he said he liked it.

She opened her hand fully, and
hardening her palm, passed it against the swelling ridge, then traced its shape
with her fingers.  He winced, and a soft groan escaped him.  He was very hot
beneath the soft leather of the breeches.  He felt as hard as rock.  Did it
hurt, to be contained so completely by the straining leather?  Was he
uncomfortable?  Guided by compassion and instinct, she found the pewter buttons
that closed his dropfront, pushing first one through its hole, then another.
He was breathing more raggedly now, and she realized, belatedly, that so was
she.

"Amy — what are you
trying to do to me?" he asked, in a hoarse, strained voice.

"I'm trying to make you more
comfortable, Charles.  You must be in pain, all bundled up like that . . . I
mean, we wouldn't want to cut off the blood supply or anything . . .  You don't
mind, do you?"

"Mind?"  He gave a
little half-laugh.  "No, no, I certainly don't mi —" he sucked in his
breath as she undid the last button and his hard, hot flesh sprang free against
her hand — "mind at all . . ."

"Do you still want me to
touch you, Charles?  Does this part of you enjoy it as much as the rest of
you?"

"Amy . . . yes . . . that
part of me enjoys it more than all the rest of me combined, which is why — oh
— which is why . . . dear God! — which is why you really cannot p-play with it
the way you're doing . . ."

"I'm not trying to play with
it, Charles, I'm just rubbing it to restore the circulation since it was
pushing so hard against your breeches that it now looks a little blue."

He made a strangled sound.
"Rubbing it to . . . to restore the circulation . . . will, I think, put a
premature end to this act — oh-h-h-h — Amy — Amy, I think I must ask you
not to do that."

"Do what?"

"What you're doing . .
."

"You don't want me to rub
it, then?"

"It's not that I don't want
you to, it's that I'm about to crack a tooth with the force with which I'm
clamping my jaws shut.  Please . . . I am not strong enough to hold out against
such . . . such sweet torment, I swear, I am not . . ."

"What happens if your
strength gives out?" she asked, cupping her hand around his hot flesh and
exploring the tip with her thumb.  "What happens if you just let yourself
go?"

"Amy . . . I want to make
this special for you . . . magical . . . last time it was rushed, desperate,
over too quickly.  If you —" he groaned beneath her ruthless caresses and,
shutting his eyes, let his head droop sideways against the wall, his teeth
bared with the effort it took to control himself —"if you show me just a
little mercy, I can make this last much longer . . . much longer indeed."

Amy, learning for the first time
that a simple touch could bring him to this, learning for the first time the
extent of her own feminine power over this strong and virile man and revelling
in the use of it, had no intention of stopping — or showing him any mercy
whatsoever.  She went right on rubbing him.  "But we have all night,
Charles," she said with false innocence.  "And you did say I
could touch you, anywhere."

"I . . . think perhaps that
I . . . that I. . . ."

She ran her fingers down the
hard, hot length of him, caressed the twin sacs nestled in their bed of wiry
hair, lifted them gently in her hand.

"That you what?"

"That I . . . that I . . .
'sdeath, I don't know."

Amy, stroking him with her
fingers, sucked in her lips against threatening laughter.  She was making him
mindless, and she loved this magical hold over him.  But even as she secretly
rejoiced, she knew that down there beneath her petticoats, and high up between
the junction of her thighs, she was feeling awfully hot and tingly as well, and
that part of her ached with a prurient fire that wanted only to be filled by
him, and filled soon.  But they had all night.  They really did.  And now she
lightly squeezed the velvety knob of flesh until his entire body was rigid and
tense, his cheek pressed against the wall behind him, and a muscle was
quivering in his jaw.

"I . . . I don't know —
'struth, I cannot take much more of this," he groaned.  "God help me,
I cannot!"

"Then I think you should
just stop fighting it and let come what may."

He nearly choked.

"Just sit back and let me
touch you, Charles.  I know you enjoy it.  You know I'm enjoying it.  Besides,
you did say I could seduce you, so for just once in your life, stop
trying to control a situation and just let what happens, happen."

He had drawn his leg up once
more; she pushed it gently off to the side, running her fingers up the inside
of his thigh, and now Charles squeezed his eyes, his fists, his jaw shut in a
last, Herculean effort to resist that which she was pushing him towards —

"Amy —"

And felt her warm little fingers
caressing his damp and throbbing tip.

With a hoarse cry, he felt the
barrier of his self-control break, and a second later, his seed was pulsing out
of him, leaving him gasping and shocked and completely mortified that he had
not been able to stop himself.  His eyes opened, and, flinging an arm across
his feverishly hot brow, he looked up at Amy, who was gazing down at him with
an expression of satisfaction and amusement.

"You were right," she
quipped.  "You certainly do like being touched."

He swore and shut his eyes.

She lay down beside him, facing
him with her weight on one elbow.  He felt her playing with a lock of his hair,
felt her lips brushing his temple, his cheek, his neck.  Her hair was glassy-smooth
against his arm, his neck.  He could smell the soft fragrance of her skin, the
muskiness of his own desire, and he could feel the blood returning to his
member, could feel himself rallying once more.

"Good God," he said,
half surprised, half grateful, as he opened his eyes.

"That was fun,
Charles."

"Probably more so for me
than it was for you."

"Oh, I don't know about that!"

"You were not
offended?"

"Of course not.  Should I
have been?"

"No," he said,
pensively.  "No, you should not have been.  I think you are a very . . . a
very bold and intuitive lover, Amy.  I daresay I like that in you."

"It was fun, to make you
lose control like that.  I felt so — so powerful!"

He raised his brows, amused by
her innocence, the wicked delight she'd found in her discovery.  "Yes,
well.  A woman's feminine power will make her the victor every time, when it
comes to testing the strength between the sexes."

Her hand traced little circles
atop his belly, every so often roving down into the curling bed of hair from
which his manhood sprang and was, even now, starting to harden once again.

He reached out and caught her
hand.

"Oh, Charles," she
giggled, kissing the base of his throat.  "Let me make you all confused
again, let me make you lose control, let me touch and love and stroke
you."

In one fluid motion, he rolled
over onto his side, pushing her down on her back as he went.  "No,
Amy," he murmured, arranging her long, heavy tresses in the straw around
her head.  "It is my turn to touch and love and stroke you."

"But —"

"Shhh," he said, and
silenced her with his mouth.

Amy had no wish to fight him,
none at all.  Her eyes slipped shut as his mouth came down upon hers, and with
a little sigh, she slid her fingers around his nape and up into his hair,
cupping the back of his head, holding him to her as though she'd never let him
go, and meeting his kiss with fervent, building passion.  She kicked her shoes
off, first one, then the other.  His tongue slipped out, running along the soft
swell of her bottom lip once, twice, before coaxing her mouth apart and
slipping inside.  She met it with her own, first shyly, then with increasing
eagerness to return these most intimate caresses.  She felt the gentle touch of
his hand against her cheek, her jaw, now moving down to slowly pull her
neckerchief out from beneath her stays, slowly pull it off her neck altogether,
until deliciously cool air swept against her collarbone, the top of her chest,
the pushed-up swell of her breasts.  She moaned, her body quivering with
anticipation.  Already, his big, warm hand covered her breast, his fingers
lightly caressing it and the nipple that had gone hard beneath stays and shift.

"Charles," she gasped,
breaking away.

He merely smiled wickedly down at
her.  "Ah.  This is vengeance of the sweetest sort, I think."  And
then, kissing her once again, he opened her jacket, unlaced her stays, and
pulled both garments from her trembling body, leaving them both on the straw
behind her.  Beneath the thin cotton glaze of her shift, her breasts were tight,
heavy and aching with need, on fire everywhere the fabric touched them.

Oh, touch me, Charles, please
touch me!

"The shift too?" she
whispered, staring up at him.

He smiled down at her.  "The
shift, too."

She sat up, and he pulled the
loose, sheer undergarment over her head, exposing her naked breasts to his warm
gaze, then putting his hands on them, all over them, while Amy sighed with
pleasure and felt everything below her waist beginning to melt.

"The petticoats too, my
dear."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

He untied both the heavy
outerpetticoats of wool, and the softer underpetticoats of linen, pulling them
off and spreading them out in the straw.  Then, with an easy strength, he
scooped her up and into his lap, cradling her shoulders against his right arm
and caressing, kneading, firing her breasts with the other hand.

She shut her eyes, feeling his
lips brushing her hairline, the sensuous drag of his fingers combing and
pulling all the way down through her hair.  "You are the most exotically
beautiful woman I have ever met," he whispered against her forehead.
"Don't ever leave me, Amy.  I beg of you, never leave me."

"I couldn't Charles, not
even if I wanted to."

And then he was kissing her
lashes, the bridge of her nose, and finally, her mouth once more.  He lifted
her slightly beneath the shoulders, putting an arch in her body, bringing her
breasts shamelessly up toward his mouth; a moment later he was hefting one of
them in his hand and drawing a taut, swollen nipple up into his mouth.

Amy squirmed and sighed with
pleasure.

He pulled back, his eyes gleaming
with amusement.  "My dear Amy.  I am pleased to see that I'm not the only
one who enjoys being touched."

"Oh, no, Charles.  You're
not the only one at all."

His hand left her breast, moved
down her bare stomach, just grazed the top edge of her feminine curls, came
slowly back up.

Teasing her.

"Oh  . . ."

He brought her a little higher,
readjusting her so that her shoulders were cradled in his right arm and her
legs, still in their stockings and garters, were draped over his left thigh.
She wore nothing else.  Nothing.

Oh, oh dear . . .

Back down went his warm, broad
hand again, this time moving out over her silken mound, just skirting the damp,
aching center of her, skimming out over one inner thigh and gently pushing it
aside.  Amy shuddered.

"Does that please you,
Amy?"

"Yes.  Oh yes,
Charles!"

"Shall I continue?"

"Yes!" she moaned
breathlessly.

His hand still caressing her leg,
he untied the garter, hooked his forefinger beneath the top of her stocking,
and slowly peeled it all the way down her leg.

Slowly, gently, peeled off the
other one.

Amy, completely bare of clothing,
was now trembling so violently she couldn't keep still, and it had nothing to
do with cold.  "Charles, please . . ."

His eyes heavy-lidded with
passion, he bent his head, drawing her nipple up into his mouth once again and
suckling it with a strong, steady pressure that soon had Amy moaning in wanton,
feverish delight.  She felt his hand moving back down her belly, down to the drenched,
silken curls of her femininity — through them.  And still he suckled her
nipple.  Her head began to writhe against his arm, damp tendrils of hair to
cling to her brow, her cheeks, her throat.  Oh.  Oh, she could not bear
this!  Her head fell back, lifting her breasts all the higher, and as his
fingers slid between her legs, the coiled, building heat there burned with a
restless ache and she squirmed, trying to relieve the pressure, trying to seek
relief.

"Charles . . . these
feelings . . . is this what I brought to you?" she managed, with what
little air she was able to bring into her lungs.  "This prickly heat, this
unbearable thing that feels like pain but is not, this . . . oh!"

He raised his head, dragging his
mouth across to the other breast, his fingers still moving through her damp,
feminine curls, now finding the soft folds and gently parting them.  "Yes,
Amy, it is indeed.  Get used to it, dearest, because I plan to ensure that you
experience these feelings on a very frequent basis."  And with
that, he drew the other nipple into his mouth, slid his fingers between the hot
flesh that guarded her femininity, and with his thumb, began stroking the
velvety softness.

"Oh . . . oh, Charles,"
she gasped, and involuntarily tried to close her legs against this sweet, but
not unwelcome invasion.

"No, Amy.  Open for
me," he murmured, coaxing her thighs apart, his big hand deliciously hot
against her skin.  He raised his head, gazing down at her flushed face before
turning to look at his own fingers where they touched and stroked and kneaded
her.  "I want to look at you, as you have looked at me.  I want to touch
you, as you have touched me.  I want to rub you, as you have rubbed me —"

She sucked her lip between her
teeth and heard a strange noise that wasn't quite a sob, wasn't quite a gasp,
coming from her own throat as he slowly kneaded the soft petals of her
womanhood between his fingers —

"And by God, I want to taste
you."

"Taste me?"

He lifted her from his lap, and
in the next moment, he'd placed her on the petticoats spread out in the straw,
and his hands were lifting her bottom and his jaw was rough against her inner
thighs and his mouth, his lips, his tongue, were there —

"Charles!"

He buried his face in her equally
hot curls, kissing her hard and deep and open-mouthed.  She felt his lips
moving against her, and now his tongue — his tongue! — slipping out to
press here, there, to begin a long, slow, torturous stroke, over and over and
over again, that caused her head to whip back and forth, and her hand to claw
madly at the straw, and a sobbing, whimpering cry to rip from her throat even
as she began to thrash in mindless frenzy with the sensations that were rushing
down on her.  He held her thighs wide, never letting up with that long, slow,
licking stroke, and as Amy began to convulse with the first waves of pleasure,
he pressed his tongue against a hidden button of flesh, and her world blew
apart.

She bucked and writhed, but still
he held her against his mouth, until she was wailing and clawing and moaning
like some rabid creature brought in from the wild.  He brought her toward her
peak once more, patiently, skillfully — and then, when she was nearly over the
edge, when he, too, was breathing hard and shaking with need, he covered her
with his body, and, clearing the wild, damp tangle of hair from her face,
kissed her madly even as he drove himself to the hilt inside her.

He came with an explosion that
tore her name from his throat, that drove his seed up into her womb and caused
her to climax with such force that her convulsions wrung every last bit of
strength from his body.  And afterwards, long after the last tremors finally
quieted and she lay depleted beneath him, Charles eased himself out of her,
covered her with his coat and a possessive arm and, fell, exhausted, into sleep
beside her.

Chapter 23

Charles awoke shortly before
dawn.

They had both put their clothes
back on during the night, though Amy hadn't bothered with her stays.  Now she
was snuggled against him, still asleep and shivering beneath his frock.
Charles got to his knees, slid his arms beneath her slight body, and picked her
up.  She never woke.  With his free hand he collected her stays and then,
holding her close to his chest, he carried her out of the stable and across the
still-dark lawn toward the castle.

He saw the great, iron-banded
medieval door looming out of the darkness, and, knowing there would be a
footman stationed just beyond it in the Great Hall, decided against going in
via that route.  He did not want Amy to be the subject of servants' gossip.
Instead, he followed the castle's silent, looming walls and, hoping he wouldn't
run into Juliet, entered via the servant's entrance.

Amy stirred as he began carrying
her up the stairs.

"Mmmmm. . . .
Charles?"

"Go back to sleep,
poppet," he murmured, pulling her long fall of hair up over his arm so
that he wouldn't trip over it.  His shoes made little sound on the stairs and
as he emerged onto the top floor, he paused for a moment to listen.  The house
was quiet, and far down the end of the West Corridor, where tired, dwindling
sconces painted the ancient stone walls in flickering shades of gold, he saw a
servant dozing in a chair.  Cradling Amy to his chest, he continued on, past
the austere portraits of his ancestors, his feet moving silently over priceless
carpets, until he finally reached the Blue Bedroom.

He carried her inside.  She
sighed and clung to him as he peeled back the covers and gently lay her down in
the bed, stripping her down to her shift.  As he caught sight of her dusky
areolas just beneath the gauzy fabric, the nipples still pert and pebbled, he
felt himself growing hard once more.  Chastising himself for his lusty
thoughts, he brought the covers up so as to cut off the sight from his prurient
gaze.  It was all he could do not to join her in that huge bed, but he would
not, he could not.  Ruefully, he touched her hair, leaned down to kiss her
cheek, and, after putting another log on the fire, strode from the room, gently
closing the door behind him.

Beyond the castle's great leaded
windows, it was starting to grow light.  He could just see the copper beeches,
their branches tossing a bit in the wind, beginning to take shape, and a few
jackdaws flying about the ancient stone gatehouse that guarded the moat.
Beyond, the downs, sugared with frost and standing in silent, timeless dignity,
tumbled down and away toward the village of Ravenscombe, still cloaked in mist
at this early hour.  Charles turned from the window, went to his own rooms to
freshen up, and then headed downstairs, intending to sit in the dining room and
have an hour or two to himself before everyone else rose.

An hour or two to prepare himself
for the inevitable meeting with his family —

And Juliet.

But as he pushed open the great
double door, he saw that there was someone already in the dining room.  A
solitary figure, still wrapped in shadowy gloom, sat at the table, his arm
stretched out before him, a goblet of pale amber liquid held loosely in his
hand, into which he was gazing.  He glanced up at Charles, who had paused just
inside the door.

"Charles.  Come in."

Charles, caught in emotions he
could not understand, and did not know how to address, almost made an excuse
and retreated.  "Hello, brother," he finally said, trying for
lightness in the hopes that Gareth would not discern his sudden, and
unreasonable, nervousness.  If ever there was a time he wanted to flee, it was
now.  Instead, he directed a pointed glance at Gareth's goblet, thinking that
Lucien had been dead wrong about him, and that Gareth was as dissolute as
ever.  "Bit early to be getting soused, isn't it?"

The Wild One looked at the glass
in his hand.  "Apple juice."

Charles flushed, feeling suddenly
very small.  "Oh."

"Though she calls it
cider."

"I am familiar with
it."

Gareth gave an unsure little
laugh.  "The things those Yankees drink . . ."

"Yes.  If you think that's
vile, you should try their ribwort tea some time.  Damnable stuff, that."

"I think I'll stick with our
fine China blends."

Charles ventured into the room —
and saw then that Gareth was not alone.  Cradled in his left arm and smiling
adoringly up at him was the little girl he'd glimpsed last night, the little
girl that he, Charles, had sired — and who would grow up calling Gareth
"Papa" instead of him.

Dear God.  Dear God, above.
His gaze flashed to the door.

Gareth noted the direction of his
suddenly unsure gaze.

"Want to hold her?"

Charles swallowed, hard.  "I
. . . I am not sure."

"Charlotte," murmured
Gareth, and Charles saw his own uncertainty reflected in his brother's eyes.
"Charlotte, this is … this is, uh … your uncle, Charles."

The child turned her guileless blue
gaze on Charles.  The smile that dimpled her cheeks abruptly faded.

"Here."  Gareth stood
up and walked around the table, the little girl securely in his arms.  "Say
hello."

After all, if things had gone
differently, she'd have been yours.

Charles tensed as his brother
placed the toddler in his lap.  He looked down into eyes as blue, at hair as
blond, as his own, and was assailed by a hundred different emotions, none of
which he could name, none of which he could, in his current state of mind, of
heart, understand.  Panic assailed him.  This was too much.  Too fast.  Too
unexpected, and too damned awkward.  He looked helplessly up at Gareth, and in
that moment Charlotte, unsure, and now fearful, screwed up her face and began
to cry.  Struggling in Charles's arms, she reached for Gareth in a desperate
plea to be rescued by the only man she would ever know as her father.

Gareth all but grabbed the child
from him, making a lame and embarrassed comment about "having to get used
to them first," while Charles retreated, stiff-backed, rejected, and
confused.

"Uncle," he murmured,
softly.

"Yes, and that is how it
must remain," Gareth said, with a level look that brooked no dispute.
"I am her father, Charles.  Not you."

"Yes … yes, you are."

His heartbeat was returning to
normal, but it was too painful to look at the toddler, this solid and
unmistakable evidence of a "mistake" that he had once made, a mistake
that his own brother had taken it upon himself to fix.  In time, maybe he would
come to regard little Charlotte with affection.  With love.  He certainly hoped
so.  But right now … right now, his heart was too raw, his guilt too great.  It
had been like holding a stranger's child, not his own flesh and blood.  She
might look like him, but the baby was Gareth's, not his.  She would always be
Gareth's.

What an utter, unredeemable
failure I am.

And now Gareth felt badly about it.
It was obvious in his face.

"I'm sorry, Charles.  I
rushed things . . . I wasn't thinking . . ."

"Don't be upset,
Gareth," he said quietly.  "This situation … it will be hard on all
of us for a while, I think.  There are things that we all … including little Charlotte,
there, must get used to.  She does not know me.  And it's obvious that you're
the apple of her eye."

Gareth reclaimed his seat, his
face troubled.  An awkwardness settled over them.  The temptation to make his
excuses and leave the room was overwhelming, but Charles forced himself to stay.
He would not take the coward's way out.  Not this time.  But he could not sit
down companionably with his brother, either, not yet and with so much between
them, and so he walked a little distance away, keeping his back to Gareth and
the child.

"We heard all about what
happened to you over there," Gareth said from behind him, his voice
guarded, slightly uncertain.  "About the surgery, and your blindness, and
the way those two horrible creatures deceived you."  He paused.  "I
don't know how you managed it, Charles."

Charles didn't turn around.
"Managed what?"

"Why, to survive such an
ordeal.  It would've driven me to drink, if not worse."  He gave a little
laugh.  "But not you.  You've got too much strength.  You survived, and
here you are, back with us at last.  I wish I had half your courage and
resolve."

Charles, uncomfortable with such
praise, bent his head and made a pretense of examining his thumbnail.
"From what I understand, you're the one who deserves to be
admired.  Lucien tells me that you've done quite well for yourself since we
last saw each other."

"I'm doing all right."

"Got yourself an estate now,
eh?"

"Yes.  Swanthorpe Manor, up
in Abingdon.  Do you remember it?  It used to belong to our family way back in
Grandfather's time, but he lost it over a card game . . .  I won it back, last
summer."

"At cards?"

"No, pugilism."

"Pugilism?" said
Charles, finally turning around.

Gareth shrugged and looked down,
absently toying with the stem of his goblet.  "Yes.  Everyone thought I
was so useless, so I determined to make something of myself — not only to
support my new family, but to prove something to Lucien."  His finger
smoothed the glass.  "I turned to fighting for a living."

"Good God, man!"

"I did quite well in the
end, even became a champion."  He looked up, grinning.  "Though Luce
nearly had my head."

"I can well imagine."

"Well, I was always
good with my fists."

"Yes, certainly better than
me," said Charles.

"But you were better
at swords."  He paused.  "You were better at almost everything."

"No.  It only appeared that
way."  Charles was quiet for a moment.  "You probably never knew it,
but I wouldn't do anything I wasn't good at.  Why do you think I never had any
sparring matches with you after you beat me that time?"

"You couldn't bear the
thought of losing?"

"No, I couldn't."

Gareth gave a little laugh.
"You're right.  I never knew."

Charles went back to examining
his thumbnail.  A few feet away, Gareth gazed down at the child cradled in his
arm, kissed her forehead, and tenderly brushed aside a lock of pale blonde
hair.  A silence fell between them.  Finally, Gareth blew out his breath.
"I'm sorry about how everything worked out for you," he said.
"Hell, man, if I'd known you really weren't dead . . ."

Charles held up a hand.
"No.  You mustn't blame yourself.  It's my fault.  I made a mess and you
were gallant enough to pick up the pieces.  It — it all worked out for the
best."

Gareth's finger was moving
agitatedly over the base of the glass now.  "You're not angry, then?  You
don't resent what I've done?"

"No.  I have no reason to
resent you."

"If it's any consolation,
she missed you terribly when she first came here . . ."

A shadow fell over Charles's
face.  "I am sorry to hear that."  He went to the window and looked
out at the brightening downs, so green beneath their mantle of frost.  Very
quietly, he murmured, "It seems that there is no end to the number of
people I have hurt, is there?"

"You would never have hurt
anyone intentionally, Charles.  Least of all those who love you."

Charles took a deep breath,
steeled himself, and looked at his brother.  "And did she love
me?"

Please, please.  Tell me that
she did not.

Gareth's blue eyes, heavily
lashed and tilted down at the outer corners in a sleepy, romantic look that
mirrored Charles's, lifted to regard him.  "She was young, Charles,"
he said quietly.  "It was a long time ago."

"Yes.  A long time
ago."

And then, hesitatingly:
"Did you love her?"

Charles looked back out over the
downs, and it was a long moment before he answered.  "I thought I did.
Once.  But it is possible for affection to masquerade as love, especially when
loneliness and naivité are there to help it along."  He paused.  "I .
. . I do feel a need to speak with her, though.  To close the book on that
chapter of my life."  He turned and looked at his brother.  "What are
your feelings on that, Gareth?"

Gareth shrugged and looked down,
veiling his expression with his long lashes.  "You know I've always felt,
well, second best in those awful comparisons everyone always made between the
two of us.  I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit . . . well, anxious
about it.  But you do what you have to do, Charles."

"What I once felt for her is
in the past, Gareth.  I'm sorry if my behavior last night might have indicated
otherwise.  I saw that she was with child, and drew the wrong conclusions.  I
hope you can forgive me."

Gareth grinned.  "Hell, if
the shoe was on the other foot, and I'd come to the same conclusion, I probably
would've taken your head off.  There's no need to apologize."

Another awkward, uncomfortable
silence.  And then Charles sighed and pulled out the chair opposite Gareth.  He
propped his elbows on the table, rested his forehead in the heels of his hands,
and, pushing his fingers up through his hair, stared down at the table.

Gareth resumed sipping his apple
juice.

"I see you've brought a
friend back from America with you," he said, after some time.

"Yes.  Amy.  She's been my
polestar, and my salvation."

"She's striking.  Quite
exotic, if I do say so myself."

"Yes, she is."

Another pause.  And then, Gareth
asked impulsively, "Do you love her?"

Charles dragged his head up and
regarded his brother with what was almost a smile.  "Yes."  He looked
beyond Gareth's shoulder, out the window and over the downs, his gaze fixed on
some distant point that only he could see.  "And this time, it is for
real, I think."

"You ought to marry
her."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I am not ready to be
anyone's husband."  As Gareth started to protest, Charles murmured,
"She deserves more than a washed out shell of a man whose courage and
confidence are in tatters, who can't offer her much of anything, who is less
than perfect."

"What a load of
bollocks."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, what a load of
bollocks.  Really, Charles, you haven't changed a damn bit, have you?"

"I don't know what you're
talking about."

"Look at you, striving to be
perfect, just as you ever were.  Won't do anything unless you can do it to your
own ridiculous standards of excellence.  Well, let me tell you something.
Being a husband means learning as you go along; you don't go into it already
knowing everything there is to know, and can't expect to.  You make mistakes,
and you learn by them."

"I dislike making mistakes."

"So what are you going to
do, live your life in a cage for fear of making any?"

Charles tightened his jaw.  He
knew his brother was right, but it was hard to hear a lecture from a younger
sibling, and the one he'd always had to lecture, at that.

"Don't look so
perturbed," Gareth said lightly.  "And for God's sake, stop taking
life so damned seriously, would you?"  He drained his glass and stood up.
"Now come on.  It's early, and we have the whole morning to catch up on
things.  I want to hear all about America and how you met Amy.  I want to tell
you about the flying contraption that Andrew's working on.  And I want to talk
to you about Swanthorpe, because there are some problems I need your advice
on."

"Need my advice
on?"

"Yes, regarding the sort of
things I just don't have a head for, you know, things like how to sort out
disputes between staff, and what to do about the poachers that have been
nicking my pheasants, that sort of thing.  I'm no leader of men, like
you!"

"Well, I —"

"And just to get our blood
going first, what do you say to a horse race, just like old times?  First one
down to Ravenscombe and back wins!"

Charles shook his head, but he
was already getting to his feet.  "Really, Gareth, you haven't
changed a damn bit, either."

"Not in any of the ways that
matter.  Now come on, let's go.  If we're quick we'll be back by sunrise!"

Chapter 24

Amy stretched, yawned, and
opening her eyes, found herself in the most beautiful bedroom she had ever
seen.

She sat straight up in bed.  How
did I get here?

And then she remembered.  A night
of heated passion.  Falling asleep in Charles's arms.  And later, much later,
the sensation of being picked up and carried somewhere . . .

Here.

She gazed about, her eyes wide
with wonder.  Sunshine streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making
the room so blindingly bright that she had to squint against it.  There was so
much gilt in here — what with the ornately worked frame of the mirror, the
paintings, the elegantly-turned legs of the furniture — that the room itself
seemed to glow.  Amy reached out and touched the powder-blue hangings of the
bed, the gold tassels that trimmed them, the silky-soft fabric of a sheet, then
let her gaze travel up the nearest wall, rising some fifteen feet up to that
ornately plastered ceiling.

What a fairytale place!  And what
a fairytale man who had brought her here!  She shivered with delight as she
relived the feel of his arms around her, his hot kisses, his ardent
lovemaking.  Oh, Charles . . .  How I love you!  Eager to see him,
desperate not to waste a single moment of her new life in England, she jumped
out of bed clad in nothing but her shift, her bare feet sinking into a plush
rug that probably cost more than Sylvanus's house.  Humming, she did an excited
little pirouette on the ball of her toe.  Then, suddenly realizing how foolish
she was acting, she giggled and, wrapping her arms around herself, scampered to
the window, where she climbed up onto the window seat and looked out.

There, far off in the distance
and racing over the downs toward the castle, were two horses.  One was a dark
red, the other a tall liver chestnut.  They were too far away for her to see
the faces of those who rode them, but she would know Contender — and his rider's
bright gold hair — anywhere.

She smiled, feeling suddenly
happy.  Oh, what memories they had made last night!  She hurriedly brushed her
hair and washed her face, reveling in the luxurious, lavender-scented soap at
the washstand.  Dressing quickly, she was just putting on her short-jacket when
there was a soft knock at the door.

"Come in!" she said
breathlessly, hoping it was Charles.

The door opened and a young woman
of about Amy's age poked her head in.  Amy instantly recognized her, though the
two of them had not yet been formally introduced.  "Good morning, Miss
Leighton.  I'm Nerissa — Charles's sister."  She pushed the door fully
open, revealing another woman standing just behind her.  "And this is my
sister-in-law, Juliet.  May we come in and visit for a few moments?"

Amy, flustered and caught by
surprise, dipped in an immediate curtsey.  "Yes, yes of course," she
said, but all the while her mind was racing.  Had they found out that she and
Charles had spent most of the night making love out in the stable?  Had Nerissa
come here to reprimand her, to tell her to stay away from her brother and leave
him to his equals?  And oh, how mortifying to meet Juliet now, the woman who
may or not be her rival, when she was totally unprepared for such an encounter!

But Nerissa did not look angry;
if anything, she looked a bit amused by Amy's sudden discomfiture.  "I
trust you slept well?"

As pale a blond as Charles, she
was dressed in a shimmering gown of white, silver and gold, and with the room's
bright light surrounding her, she looked like some beautiful earthbound angel.

"I did, my lady."

"Please — just
Nerissa."  She smiled.  "I hate formality, don't you, Juliet?"

"Can't stand it," said
the other woman, her familiar New England accent as out of place in this
magical castle as Amy herself felt.  Gareth's wife had moss-green eyes and
lovely dark hair drawn loosely, but becomingly, back from her exquisite face.
Neither her coiffure nor her clothes were as fancy as Nerissa's; she had an air
of no-nonsense about her, of Yankee simplicity that Amy instantly recognized
and responded to.  She smiled a little shyly, wondering if Juliet was
discreetly studying her as she was discreetly studying Juliet.

Just don't think about the
fact that she once lay with Charles.  Don't think about the fact that her
daughter is really Charles's flesh-and-blood.  Don't think about that, and
everything will be just fine.  I hope . . .

And now Juliet came forward, her
eyes mirroring the same wary hesitation that Amy herself felt, her smile a
little unsure.  "I understand you're from Massachusetts, too," she
said, trying to break the ice.

"Yes, Newburyport."

"I'm from Boston — and Maine
before that."

"Yes, I know," Amy
said, and instantly clapped her hand over her mouth.  "I'm sorry —  I didn't
mean that the way it sounded . . . I really don't know everything about
you — oh, you must think me terribly rude!"

Nerissa, grinning, wandered into
the adjoining dressing room, tactfully giving them a few moments alone.

"No.  Not at all,"
Juliet replied.  "Of course you would know more about me than I would
about you, so please don't worry, Miss Leighton — I am not offended."  She
regarded Amy with her steady green gaze.  "I know that things seem a bit
awkward between us right now, given the fact that I knew Charles, but I want
you to know that that is all in the past, and that is where it will
stay."  She smiled then.  "I do hope that we can be friends."

"I think we already are.
And please, call me Amy.  I hate formality, too!"

"Amy, then."  Juliet
relaxed, and her soft smile became a grin.  "Goodness, it will be
nice to have one of my countrywomen here!  These English are a strange sort.
Why, do you realize that they play cards and drink and make merry on the Lord's
day, doing things that we'd never be able to do back in Massachusetts?
But never mind, you'll find all that out for yourself.  Now tell me, are you
homesick at all?"

"Oh, no, I'm far too excited
to be homesick!  So much to see and do and learn . . . I can't wait to start
work.  Do you think the duke would temporarily employ me as a lady's maid or
cook or housekeeper or something?"

"What?" said Juliet,
slightly taken aback.

"Well, I do need to
find a position right away, so that I can earn my keep.  After all, that's the
only reason I came to England, so that I could make a new start and actually
earn money for all my hard work!"

Juliet frowned and looked at her
as if she had two noses.  Then, recovering herself, she glanced toward the
dressing room into which Nerissa had gone, and changed the subject.
"Speaking of His Grace . . . how did you hold up during the rigorous
interview I assume he subjected you to last night?"

"You — you knew about
that?"

"Yes, but only because he
subjected me to one the night I arrived, as well.  It was dreadful.
Gareth had rescued my stagecoach from highwaymen and gotten himself shot in the
process, and I was covered with his blood.  Lucien showed me no mercy
whatsoever though, and forced me to sit there in the library and answer every
one of his questions, and this after I'd only just met him and must've looked
like the loser in a gladiator fight!  I thought him quite the rudest, most
arrogant man I'd ever met."  She shook her head.  "I hope he wasn't
as overbearing with you."

"No, he was actually quite
kind."

"Kind?"  Juliet
raised her brows.  "He must be up to something, then."

"Yes — the Restoration of
Charles, as he called it."

"I rather suspect he's up to
far more than that," Juliet said, cryptically.

"Such as?"

"Oh, never mind.  It's only
a thought, and not worth voicing."

"Well, he was a bit
intimidating."

"A bit?"  Juliet
laughed.  "We're talking about a man who conceals a rapier in his walking
stick, who appears to be as omniscient as God, who faithfully practices his
dueling skills every week, and who loves nothing more than to move and
manipulate those around him as he might the pieces in a game of chess.  Add to
that the fact he is one of the most powerful — and dangerous — men in England,
and I fear that intimidating doesn't even begin to describe him!  But he
loves and is very protective of his family, I'll give him that.  If you could
have seen him when he found out that Gareth had taken up pugilism for a living
. . ."

Humming to herald her imminent
arrival, Nerissa reappeared, all smiles.

"Well, well, I see that you
two Yankee Doodles have found something to talk about!"

"Yes, your infamous
brother," Juliet said wryly.

"Lucien?  He wasn't unkind
to you, was he, Amy?"

Amy nearly laughed.  "I
don't understand why everyone thinks he's such a monster!"

The other two exchanged knowing
glances.  "You will," they chorused.

"Is he that difficult
to work for?"

Nerissa stared at her.
"What do you mean?"

"Amy came here looking for
work," Juliet supplied, with a glance at Nerissa that spoke volumes.

"Work?  Why, that's
preposterous.  She's not going to work, Charles would never allow it and
neither will Lucien.  I've never heard of anything so silly in all my
life."

"Well, of course I have to
work," Amy said, greatly confused and a little chagrined.  "After all,
I do have to eat. . . ."

But Nerissa was studying her
jacket and petticoats, both faded to the color of beach sand; her impossibly
long fall of sleek dark hair, her shoes, her work-roughened hands.  "You
don't need work, you need a maid."

"No, you don't understand, I
came to England expecting to be someone else's maid —"

Nerissa gave an airy wave of her
hand.  "Nonsense.  You must have a maid.  You must have new clothes.  And
you must have a ball gown, which is why you're going to London with me this
afternoon so we can visit my dressmaker."

"London?  A ball gown?"
Amy couldn't help her burst of laughter.  "That's the last thing I
need!"

"On the contrary," said
Nerissa.  "Lucien is throwing a ball next Friday in honor of Charles's
homecoming, and he wants you to be there."

"Wants?"

Juliet drawled, "Demands
is more like it."

"It's his way of thanking
you for all you've done for Charles," Nerissa added.  "He wants to
give you a magical, Cinderella night-at-the-ball as his way of expressing his
gratitude for saving Charles's life."

"But — but I can't
attend, I — I don't even know how to dance!"

"Then you will learn,"
said Nerissa, blithely.

"And . . . I don't know the
correct things to say to people, or how to address them properly . . . or — or
. . . anything!"

"We will teach you."

"And I can't afford fancy
new clothes, let alone a ball gown!"

"Ah, but I can, and I would
be very offended if you do not accept them as a small token of my appreciation
for saving my brother's life," intoned a smoothly urbane, aristocratic
voice.  Gasping, Amy whirled to see the duke of Blackheath standing in the
doorway, an amused little smile playing about his otherwise severe face.

Amy sank in a curtsey.
"Your Grace!"

"My dear girl.  Are you
giving my sister trouble?"

"No, but I really can't go
to a ball, I'll look the fool and I've got no business being there anyhow and —"

"Do you want to go to the
ball?"

"Well of course, it'll be
magical, wondrous, but I'll feel like a chicken amongst a flock of
peacocks!"

The duke folded his arms and
leaned negligently against the door jamb, his black eyes holding her captive.
"Do you remember the conversation we had last night . . . about helping
Charles?"

That soft, suave tone was enough
to make Amy's heart still.  "Well yes, but I don't see how this has
anything to do with him . . ."

"Of course you don't.  And
so I will tell you.   Nerissa wants a new gown for the ball.  As a lady's maid,
you will want some new clothes.  And I —" he gave a silky smile —
"I will want Charles to ride alongside your coach to provide safe escort
to and from London."  He smiled, but the gesture was just a little bit
sinister.  "It would benefit him greatly to feel . . . useful, don't you
think?"

And Amy, standing there feeling
nervous and dry-mouthed and very, very intimidated indeed, suddenly
understood.  By sending the girls off to London and asking Charles to go along
as protection, Lucien was setting things up so that Charles would have
opportunity to regain some of his feelings of self-worth.

She only hoped he wasn't lining
up a highwayman to rob them, as well!

She returned the duke's smile,
suddenly feeling like a co-conspirator instead of a scared ninny.  "Yes,
your Grace.  I quite understand."

"Good.  I knew that you
would."  And then, with a furtive exchange of glances with Nerissa, he
bowed deeply to the three women and continued on his way.

~~~~

Charles returned from his race
with Gareth, flushed and in higher spirits than he'd been in a donkey's age.
It had been just like old times, the two of them pushing their eager horses to
the limit, leaving the cares of the world behind and rebuilding the deep
friendship they'd always had.  They had galloped all the way down to
Ravenscombe and back, slowing their mounts a half-mile away from the stables to
give them a chance to cool down.

"Damn good run you gave me,
Charles," said Gareth, patting Crusader's neck before dismounting and
handing him into the care of a waiting groom.  "You might've beat me
today, but by God, I'll have my revenge tomorrow!"

"Is that a challenge?"

"It is indeed!"

"Very well then, I accept
it."  Charles grinned and also dismounted, and watched as the groom led
both animals away.  His brother was still standing beside him, his cheeks a bit
flushed from the winter wind, his eyes bright.

A silence fell between them as
they headed toward the house.

They'd taken only a few steps
when Charles paused and reaching out, caught Gareth by the shoulder.
"Gareth, I . . . I just want to say thank you."

"For what?"

Charles thought for a moment.
"For being yourself," he finally said.

Gareth grinned.  And then he
looked hard at Charles, and his blue eyes began to twinkle.  "And thank
you too, Charles — for being yourself," he said cryptically.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind," Gareth
said, his eyes warm with brotherly love.  "Come on, let's go inside.  It's
cold out here!"

They were just approaching the
front entrance when the great iron-banded door opened and Lucien came out.  He
had his walking stick in his hand, and his two dogs circling his heels, eager to
be off on their morning run.

"Ah, Gareth," he said.
"I do believe your daughter is crying for you.  Why don't you go see to
her?"

Gareth opened his mouth to
protest, but something in Lucien's eyes made him suddenly think better of it.
Making his excuses, he left his brothers standing together on the drive.

Something clenched in Charles's
gut as he remembered his deplorable behavior of last night.

Thankfully, Lucien chose to
ignore it.

"My dear Charles," he
said, expansively.  "I wonder if I might ask a favor of you?"

"What would you like?"

"Nerissa and Amy wish to go
to London, and I simply don't have time to accompany them.  You wouldn't mind
going instead, just to ensure that they come to no harm, would you?"

"What do they need to go to London
for?"

Lucien gave a dramatically heavy
sigh.  "Oh, female pursuits, of course.  Shopping, gossip, maybe a visit
to that infernal French dressmaker of Nerissa's.  You know how your sister just
has to have the latest fashions from the Continent."  He raised his brows
as Charles eyed him narrowly.  "But of course, if you don't feel . . . up
to it, I suppose I could always send Andrew instead."

"What do you mean, if I
don't feel up to it?"

"Oh, nothing.  I was just
thinking about our little conversation last night.  The one where you made it
quite obvious that you are no longer, shall we say, capable of the things you
once were.  But never mind.  I'm sure that Andrew will be delighted to lend his
protection to the girls, instead.  He has become quite a handsome young lad,
don't you think?"  His black eyes gleamed.  "I do wonder what
your little friend will think of him . . ."  He whistled for the dogs and
raised his walking stick to Charles in mock salute.  "Good day, Charles.
I will see you at teatime, I hope."

And then he moved off, leaving
Charles staring after him in rising fury, his hands balled into fists and a
little muscle ticking in his jaw.

What the devil was that
all about?!

Well, one thing was for sure.
Andrew was not going to be the one escorting the girls into London!
Charles marched into the house, striding as though he was still a captain in
the King's Own.  He went straight across the Great Hall, through the length of
the castle, out into a far wing, up a flight of stairs, and found the youngest
de Montforte brother right where he expected to find him:  in the great chamber
above the ballroom that Andrew had long since adopted as his laboratory.

Charles's anger cooled the moment
he stepped into the room.

The last time he'd been here,
there'd been a dazzling array of bottles containing an even more dazzling array
of chemicals and solutions filling the tables, the shelves, even the window
sills.  There had been open books and scholarly papers strewn about on both
floor and tables; notes and mathematical equations that Charles didn't even try
to begin to understand scrawled across the blackboard; weights, scales, and
measures, evil looking concoctions simmering in various tubes and beakers;  and
Andrew, commanding this chaos like some mad scientist.  All of those things
were still here.

As well as —

"What in God's name is that?"
Charles expostulated, staring at the strange contraption that dominated the
wooden floor.  Shaped like a giant arrowhead, it appeared to be constructed of
a bamboo frame filled in with yards of tautly stretched red silk.  Beneath it,
Charles could just see Andrew's stockings and shoes protruding; the rest of his
brother was somewhere beneath —

"My flying machine,"
said Andrew, sliding out from beneath the thing in question on a wooden dolly.
Lying on his back, he cocked a grin up at Charles, obviously quite pleased with
himself.  "Or rather, the Contraption, as they mostly call it round
here."  He got to his feet and brushed himself off.  "What do you
think?"

Charles, shaking his head in
amazement and disbelief, walked a slow circle around Andrew's latest
invention.  He had no doubts about Andrew's brilliance, but a flying machine?
It was . . . impossible!

"It looks like a giant
kite," he finally said, hoping Andrew did not see the doubt in his eyes.

"But it's not."  Andrew
pushed the dolly out of the way and clapped a hand behind Charles's shoulders.
"I say, Charles, I'm devilish glad you're home, because there are a few
things I need some advice on.  I'll need to form a company to produce these
things . . . I'll need to attract investors . . . and I want to consider
whether there's a military application, which you're obviously the best person
to advise me on."

"Why is everyone coming to me
for advice?"

"Are they?"

"Yes," said Charles,
frowning.  "Gareth wants to bend my ear about some of the problems he's
having with his estate, and now you . . ."

"Well, I don't see anything
unusual about it," Andrew said, shrugging.  "We always came to you
for advice before you went away, so why not now?"

"Because . . . oh, never
mind."  He shook his head.

"That reminds me, what are
you doing about your Army career?  Isn't there a war going on?"

"I'm on an extended leave of
absence, which was rather necessary considering that someone else had already been
promoted into my place as company commander.  I'll probably end up resigning my
commission, anyhow."

Andrew screwed up his face.
"Whatever for?"

"Because — oh, forget it,
it's not important."  What was he supposed to say, because I lost my
nerve, my confidence, and am no longer capable of leading men?  He forced a
smile.  "Come, I wish to know more about your invention.  Will it really
fly?"

"Damned if I know.  Haven't
tested it yet, and I won't, until that bastard Lucien conveniently decides to
go off to London or something."  Already, Andrew's eyes were beginning to
flash.  "For six months he's been insulting me, taunting me, and quite
confidently declaring that I'd never succeed in building it, let alone getting
it to work.  I'll tell you, Charles, there's nothing that would bring me more
pleasure than to make him eat his words, every last damned one of them!"

So, Lucien and The Defiant One
were still at odds; some things never changed.

"I'm sure that day will
come," Charles said, reaching out to touch one silk-clad wing, then
bending and peering underneath, where there was a crude leather harness
attached to the frame at the center.  "How does it work?"

Andrew, eager to discuss his
creation, promptly forgot about his enmity with Lucien.  Brightening, he pushed
back a stray bit of dark auburn hair that had come loose over his forehead and
squatted down beside Charles.  "Well, that there is the harness that will
keep me strapped in.  These are the wings — I've spent all summer and autumn
studying the shape of bird's wings, and the ratio of length to weight so I
could get it just right — and these extra supports here are for strength."

"I see.  And how do you
intend to steer it?"

"I'm still working on that
bit."

"Hmmm."

"It's meant to ride on air,
much as a boat rides on water, but I haven't yet worked out the best way to get
it airborne.  It's all a matter of finding enough speed to give it lift, which
rather limits my choices.  I have two, as far as I can determine."

"Oh?"

"I've been thinking that the
least dangerous way of doing it would be to hitch a carriage to our two fastest
horses, squat atop it with the Contraption on my back, and then make the horses
gallop as fast as they can go.  When there's enough speed, the craft should
lift and voila, I shall up and fly like a bird!"

"Uh . . . yes," Charles
said, dubiously.  He rubbed his chin.  "And the other method of getting it
airborne?"

Andrew grinned.  "A
catapult."

"Good God, man!"

"Want to see it?"

Charles blinked.  "Well, I —"

Andrew seized his arm.  "Come
on, I've got it set up on the roof."

His face alight with excitement,
Andrew led Charles out of the laboratory, up the stairs, and onto the roof.  Up
here the wind was gusty and fierce, the view spectacular, the moat below
sparkling in the sun.  Andrew was oblivious to all of it.  He swept his hand
forward — and sure enough, there it was.

A giant catapult.

Charles felt his mouth go dry.
"Uh, Andrew . . . this is a little high, isn't it?" he asked, a
sudden nervousness on behalf of his brother's safety making his palms go damp
and a sick feeling to settle in the pit of his stomach.  Andrew was not
foolhardy; either he had more than enough faith in his creation, or his desire
to prove something to Lucien was making him reckless.

"Not as high as the tower,"
Andrew said cheerfully.  "This is perfect, really.  And if things go
wrong, I've taken into account both the force of the catapult and the weight of
me and the machine, and I've calculated it so that I'd land in the moat.  It's
perfectly safe, I can assure you."

"I'm glad you won't be
testing your invention anytime soon."

"Well, I was going to
wait until Lucien's gone, but, you know something, Charles?  I'm so confident
that this thing is going to make history, so confident that it's going to make
me famous, and so confident that I'm finally going to be able to rub
Lucien's nose in my brilliance, that I'm going to hold a demonstration at the
end of next week."

"Next week?" Charles
asked, faintly.

"Yes.  And everyone will be
there.  You do know about the little party that Lucien's throwing to celebrate
your return, don't you?  Not only is he inviting everyone for miles around,
he's sent off a special invitation to the king himself."

"The king?!"

"Yes, the king."
Andrew's eyes gleamed.  "Just think, Charles, what it will mean to have him
there to endorse my entrance into the history books!  His Majesty will grant me
royal patronage!  I'll be rich beyond my wildest dreams!"  Hands on his
hips, he gazed out over the downs, his expression already triumphant.  "And
Lucien will rue the day he ever mocked me!"

Charles was still staring at him,
trying to digest all he'd just been told.  A demonstration?  A little party?  An
invitation to the king?

Andrew grabbed his arm.  "I
say, it's bloody cold up here.  Let's go back inside so you can help me figure
out how to start this company of mine!"

Chapter 25

After meeting Amy Leighton,
Juliet walked slowly back down the corridor toward Gareth's old apartments,
which she and her husband were sharing during this sudden Christmastide visit
to Blackheath Castle.

Her heart was heavy.  Troubled.
Though Lucien had prepared them all for Charles's imminent arrival after
receiving the startling news that he was actually alive and coming home, it had
still been a dreadful shock to see him in the flesh.  It had been an even more
dreadful shock to see what he had become in the nearly two years since she had
known him.  Juliet had not lied to Gareth about her feelings for Charles, and
she would not trade Gareth for the world — or for Charles, for that matter —
but she was mature and honest enough with herself to accept that old memories
died hard.  Seeing Charles again had reactivated a score of them.  He had been
her first love — and her first lover.  You couldn't make a baby with a man and
accept his offer of marriage, grieve his death for months, and then cast him
out of your heart just like that.

Even if there was someone
else you loved a hundred times better.

She paused at a window which
looked down on the lawn and the graveled drive below.  Lucien's coach, polished
until it shone like jet, was already being brought round, the clouds floating
across the bright blue sky reflected in its glossy paintwork.  She was glad
that her pregnancy gave her an excuse not to go to London with the others.
Already, liveried footmen awaited Nerissa's and Amy's arrival, and in a few
moments, a groom would bring Contender out — the magnificent animal she'd first
seen Charles mounted on, so many months ago, so many miles away, on Boston
Common.

Something began to ache in
Juliet's heart and she turned away from the window, continuing on down the West
Corridor.

Last night still haunted her.
Every time she closed her eyes, she could still see Charles barging into the
dining room, stopping short when he'd seen her with Gareth, his shocked gaze
going to her rounded belly, his blue, blue eyes so full of hurt.

She bent her head, watching the
floor as she walked, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.  Her guilt knew no
bounds.

Oh, where was absolution?
Forgiveness for what she had done — and how she now felt?

Even though she'd thought that
Charles was dead, it had taken time for her heart to let go of the dashing
officer with whom she'd had a few stolen moments and not much more, really,
than that.  It had taken time for her to stop wearing the miniature of him,
painted shortly before Concord, that had long occupied a place around her
neck.  And it had taken time for her to realize that she'd been in love with an
icon.  An image.  An idea.  A man who, really, would never have suited her in
the long run.  But Gareth was none of those things.  She loved him to the
fullest extent of her being, and though it was painful to admit, given the crushing
guilt she felt about Charles and the way she had inadvertently hurt him, she
was very, very glad that The Wild One was the brother she'd married.

But what had that done to
Charles?

If Charles could find happiness
with anyone, Juliet hoped it would be with that soft-spoken young woman whose
bright sense of whimsy would go far toward soothing his hurts and healing his
ravaged heart.

She only hoped that Charles would
allow himself the freedom to love Amy in return.

~~~~

"Now Charles, there's no
need for you to escort us to every shop," Nerissa chided, poking
her head out the window as the coach came to a stop in front of Madame Perrot's
and her brother swung down from Contender.  "And we're going to be ages
in this one.  Maybe you ought to go off and visit your club or something.  You
can meet us back here at, say, three o'clock, and then we'll head home."

"Three o'clock!  Charles expostulated, as a footman lowered the steps.  He moved
forward, handing first his sister and then Amy down from the coach and walking
them to the door of the shop.  "Why do you need three hours in a single
shop?"

"Because we're women, that's
why," Nerissa returned, as though that explained everything.  "I need
a new gown for the ball and it will take time to select suitable fabric and
colors.  Hmmm.  I wonder if I will go with an ice-blue silk?  Or perhaps a
frosty mint-green satin trimmed with silver thread and delicate, matching
brocade around the skirts —"

"Right.  I'm off then,"
Charles muttered, much to Nerissa's secret delight.  As he bowed to them both,
Nerissa noticed that his eyes caught and held Amy's — and that Amy's cheeks
instantly darkened with color.  Nerissa grinned to herself.  Ha, by the time
we're through with her, you won't be able to take your eyes off her!
she vowed in silent amusement, thinking back to the conversation she and Lucien
had had in the library shortly before leaving . . .

The duke had given her explicit
instructions.

"Remember what I told you,
Nerissa.  Spare no expense when it comes to dressing her.  I want her out
of those hideous colors and fabrics she's in now, and into something that will
show her coloring to greatest advantage."

"Silks, satins,
velvets?"

"Yes, and the finest, most
expensive ones Madame has."  Lucien's enigmatic black eyes had gleamed
with sly delight before he'd turned away and, his forefinger tapping his lips
once, twice, continued on.  "And dramatic colors only — no pastels for
that girl, no more washed out yellows and wretched browns that only make her
look sallow and ill.  She's no English rose and shouldn't be dressed like one.
No, I want her in blazing scarlet, brilliant turquoise, emerald green, magenta —
loud, startling hues that will flatter her exotic coloring and make every man
at the ball unable to take his eyes off her."  He'd given a dangerous little
smile.  "Especially Charles . . ."

Nerissa had returned his grin.
"Especially Charles."

"Just take care, my dear,
that he does not learn of the purchases you'll make for the girl at Madame
Perrot's.  Let him think the shopping trip is for you, and that Amy is along as
. . . as training to be a lady's maid.  Ah, yes.  That will throw him off the
scent quite nicely, I think — as well as make him seriously begin to question,
if he has not already, whether he wants her to be a lady's maid or his
lady."  He had grinned then, as delighted with his machinations as he
must've been when he'd brought Gareth and Juliet together.  "It is
imperative that he is, shall we say, pleasantly surprised when he sees
his little friend at Friday night's ball . . ."

Even now, Nerissa's eyes gleamed
with a co-conspirator's delight.  Oh, she was all too happy to help Lucien play
matchmaker!  Wouldn't it be wonderful if Charles could find the same happiness
that Gareth had found?  Wouldn't it be wonderful if she had two
sisters-in-law that she just adored?  All Charles needed was to see Amy
outshining a backdrop of English beauties and heiresses, and he'd be completely
undone.  All Amy needed was some confidence and self-esteem.  To
Nerissa's way of thinking, gorgeous clothes, jewels, and some lessons in
comportment would go far toward making her feel every bit as worthy as the
women with whom she'd be competing on Friday night.

Grinning, Nerissa linked her arm
through Amy's and pulled her into the shop.

~~~~

The trip to London was hell for Charles.
Hell because they'd had to stay at coaching inns on the way out and back and
he'd had to sleep alone — which was torment in itself after the wild night he'd
spent with Amy.  Hell because she was in the carriage and he was on Contender
and they were both separated.

I want her.  I want her so damned
badly.

Hell because they were now
heading back to Blackheath Castle, and the inevitable and all-too-necessary
confrontation with Juliet that awaited him there.

He dreaded that confrontation
with all his heart, yet he knew it needed to be put behind them both.  He had
seen the anguish in Juliet's eyes when he'd charged into the dining room the
other night, and it upset him greatly to think she might still hold a candle
for him.  Would she expect him to still have feelings for her?  Would she want
him to still have feelings for her?  And would it hurt her to learn that he —
the man who had once offered her marriage — had no feelings for her at all
beyond affection and a sincere wish that she find happiness with Gareth?

He thought of what Gareth had
both said and left unsaid — that when he and Juliet had known each other in Boston,
her love had been that of an impressionable young girl enamored of a man in a
dashing uniform.  She had grown up since then; her heart was with Gareth now.
But was it, truly?

He had to know for himself before
he could proceed with the rest of his life.

Before he could even think about
having a life with Amy.

It was drizzling and growing dark
by the time they finally  rode into Ravenscombe, nestled at the foot of the
downs.  The village was silent, its inhabitants eating their suppers and
preparing for bed, the silence, combined with the soft whisper of the rain,
contriving to weigh down Charles's already flagging spirits.  But as the
carriage, with Contender prancing along beside it, passed the statue of Henry
VIII on his rearing horse, doors and windows on both sides of the street began
to open, and the villagers came running out of their cottages, some waving,
some cheering, all rushing forward.

"The Beloved One — he's
back!"

"Lord Charles!  Bless you,
Lord Charles, you've been returned to us!"

"Hip hip, huzzah!  Hip hip,
huzzah!  Hip hip, huzzah!"

The cheers were deafening.  They
swarmed the carriage, and Contender.  Charles, taken aback and more than a
little embarrassed, saw Amy's startled face at the window and then, before he
knew what they were about, the villagers were pulling him down from the horse
and hoisting him above their shoulders, laughing, singing, and cheering him to
the black and misty sky.

"Please — I do not deserve
such accolades!" he protested, thinking of his inglorious performance in
battle, but his words were drowned out by cheering.

Moments later, they were carrying
him on their shoulders toward the Speckled Hen, where the grinning proprietor,
Fred Crawley, had thrown wide his door and was wildly beckoning everyone
inside.

"Free ale all around, to
celebrate Lord Charles's return!"

And Nerissa, watching from the
carriage with a speechless but delighted Amy, hid her own little grin and
wondered if Lucien was behind this as well.

One thing she did know:  Charles
wouldn't be home for a while.  Probably a long while.

She rapped once on the roof to
signal the driver to continue on to the castle.

Chapter 26

As it was, Charles didn't get
home until nearly one in the morning.  He had always been well-liked by the
people of Ravenscombe, easily mixing with the villagers despite their social
differences, and that, at least, had not changed in the slightest.

They'd wanted to know what had
happened to him in America.  They'd wanted to know why he was believed dead.
And they'd wanted to know who the pretty young woman he'd brought back from America
was — for after all, many of Lucien's servants lived here in the village, and
gossip travelled fast.

Everyone knew she was at the
castle.

Who was she?

"A friend," Charles
said evasively, gazing down into his ale so they wouldn't note his sudden flush
and start teasing the truth out of him.  At the very thought of Amy — and what
the two of them had done out in the stable the other night — he felt a stab of
heat that manifested itself squarely beneath the drop-front of his breeches.
"I brought her to England so she might have a better life."

"A better loife, eh?  'Ere's
'opin' ye'll be the one to be givin' it to 'er!"

"Aye, another Yankee bride
for another de Montforte brother!"

"Hear, hear!"

"Ah, leave 'is lordship
alone, 'e wants 'is privacy, can't ye see?"

There was laughter all around and
Charles felt his cheeks going uncomfortably warm.  He grinned and accepted
another ale.

"So tell us wot 'appened to
ye, m'lord!"

Charles did not find it easy to
talk about himself, but after that second drink, he was able to tell them what
the situation had been like in Boston.  A third, and he was able to explain
what had happened to make everyone think him dead.  A fourth, and he was
actually able to poke a bit of fun at himself as he related his embarrassingly
inept performance at Concord, this alien, self-deprecating humor surprising no
one as much as it did himself.  And all the while, they were urging him on,
pressing more drinks into his hand and making him feel as if maybe, just maybe,
he hadn't erred so badly, after all.

"So ye saved the little
lad's loife, did ye?"

"Sacrificed yer eyes, an'
wot could've been yer loife, just so's the boy could live!"

"That's our Beloved
One!"

More cheering, so loud that they
could probably hear it all the way up at the Castle.  And then the villagers
had told him all the news that had occurred in his absence, who had been born
and who had died and who had got married, before finally dragging him off to
the church, where they'd all celebrated the ripping down from the wall the
plaque that had proclaimed his date of death.  And later, as he had walked — or
rather stumbled — back to the Speckled Hen and Contender, his heart had felt
curiously light, his mind, which had been troubled for so long, still and at
peace.

To them, you're still the
Beloved One.  To Amy you're the Beloved One.  Everyone is still asking for your
advice, just like they always did.  Nothing has changed.  Maybe you are
still the same as you used to be . . .

Maybe.

So why don't I feel that I can
live up to that, and be the man I used to be?

He swung up on Contender, blinked
away the raindrops that pattered down from the branches, and made his way home.

~~~~

Morning dawned cold and gloomy,
with a brooding gray sky that engulfed the downs in mist and seemed to sit
heavily atop Blackheath's ancient towers.

It was a morning to stay inside.
A morning to curl up beside a fire with a book, or to drink chocolate in bed,
or to snuggle up beneath the covers with a lover.

Charles awoke in his old bedroom,
feeling cold and, not surprisingly after last night's indulgence, hungover.
His rod was a pillar of stone.  Also not surprising.  He lay there kneading his
brow and remembering all those weeks when his head had ached, and that time on
the beach at Plum Island when Amy had massaged the pain into something
bearable.

Ah, God help him.  Wouldn't it be
nice if she was here right now, rubbing his brow?

Or anything else, for that matter
. . .

He sat up in bed, knuckling his
eyes.  He could hear the rain falling softly just outside, and the distant
tinkle of a pianoforte from somewhere downstairs.  His sister was probably in
the Gold Parlour, entertaining everyone with her talent, of which she had
much.  His grin faded.  He felt suddenly excluded.

I can't live like this.

Best to go down and join them,
then, and try to pretend that his uncharacteristic outburst of the other night
hadn't occurred.  That nothing had ever happened between himself and Juliet,
who would surely be down there with the others.  That he was the same man he'd
always been, as he'd been able to believe if only for a little while when the
villagers had made so much of him last night.  Rising, he summoned his valet,
and a half-hour later, was washed, shaved, and dressed.

But as he moved down the west corridor
and started to turn the corner to descend the staircase, he heard voices on the
landing, hushed, excited.

"Oooh!  I just felt him kick
again!"

"Now Juliet, how can you
know it's a 'he'?"

"I know because I'm not
nearly as sick as I was with Charlotte.  Boys are easier to carry than girls,
you know.  Or so they say.  Oh!"  An excited little squeal.  "Put
your hand right there, Gareth."

"Here?"

"Yes, right there — do you
feel it?"

A tense, expectant silence.  And
then, "Oh, Juliet . . ."

Charles froze, feeling as though
a bucket of ice had just been thrown over his head.  Afraid of being caught
eavesdropping, he began backing up.  He did not want to intrude upon this
tender scene.  He did not want to do anything to wreck his brother's and
Juliet's happiness.  He turned around —

And nearly collided with Lucien,
who had come silently up behind him as he'd stood listening to a conversation
he should never have heard.

"Why, hello, Charles.  Fancy
finding you standing here."

On the stairs, the voices
immediately hushed.  Lucien's eyes gleamed, and in that instant Charles knew
his brother had wanted Juliet and Gareth to know that he, Charles, had
overheard their private conversation.  He felt a swift flood of anger.

"I was contemplating going
down to breakfast," he bit out.

"Strange place to
contemplate such a matter, don't you think?"

"If you will excuse
me."

"Actually, I will not.
There is something I wish to discuss with you, if I could have a few moments of
your time."

"What is it?"

"Andrew.  I am . . . worried
about him, and this confounded Contraption of his.  You do know that he wishes
to test it during the ball and in the presence of the king, don't you?"

"I know, yes, but you
weren't supposed to."

Lucien smiled thinly.  "My
dear Charles.  I can assure you, there is nothing around here that I do not
know.  But never mind.  You appear to be in a rather foul mood this morning.  Pity!
Perhaps I shall ask your brother's assistance instead."  Casually
straightening a white ruffle at his wrist, he raised his voice slightly.
"Gareth?"

As Charles stood fuming, Gareth,
looking a bit pink in the cheeks but otherwise as euphoric as any father would
be who'd just felt his child moving in his wife's womb for the first time,
emerged from around the corner, a slightly sheepish Juliet in tow.

She looked at Charles, and then
averted her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in a painting that hung on the
wall.

Charles glared at Lucien, who
pointedly ignored him.

"Gareth, I am concerned for
Andrew's safety.  The idea of our brother catapulting off the roof in what
appears to be an untethered kite is causing me no small degree of worry.  Would
you mind accompanying me into his laboratory?  As he's gone down to the
village, I should like to take the opportunity to examine this Contraption for
myself, and, since you are no stranger to daredevil stunts, get your opinion on
it as well."

Gareth glanced uncertainly at
Juliet, still pretending to be absorbed in the painting, and then at Charles,
who was visibly furious.

"Uh, I'm sure, Luce, that
Andrew knows what he's doing — "

"Andrew may be gifted when it
comes to intelligence, but he is no . . . perfectionist, as some of us are.  He
doesn't always get things right, and in this case, a mistake might be
fatal."  Again, Lucien gave a benign little smile that was not benign at
all.  "Will you accompany me, Gareth?"

Charles knew he had been baited.
Perfectionist.  "I'll go with you," he said through his
teeth.

"No, no, Charles,"
murmured Lucien, with a casual wave of his hand.  "You go downstairs and
have some of this breakfast you've been uh, contemplating.  I'm sure
that Gareth and I will manage just fine."  Then, bowing to Juliet, he drew
Gareth with him back down the hall.

And Charles, incensed, was left
with Juliet.

Alone.

She was still examining the
painting, but he knew she wasn't really seeing it.  It would be so easy to just
excuse himself.  To put this off for another day.

Unbidden, the advice he had once
given to Sylvanus Leighton came back to him.  It is far better to confront a
problem straightaway than to hide from it, to take the offensive before it can
sneak up and overwhelm you from behind.

He took a deep breath.

"Juliet —"

"Lucien, he — he is up to
his usual tricks, I fear," she said shakily, still without looking at
him.  "It is cruel of him to taunt you so."

She pulled back from the painting,
wiping damp hands down her skirts, her eyes nervous.  He cleared his throat.
She gave a quick, fleeting smile, her almost desperate gaze following Gareth,
who appeared to have no concern at all about leaving her with the man she had
once loved.  He rubbed at a nonexistent itch at the corner of his eye.

"Yes.  He never used to, you
know."

"He's worried about Andrew,
I guess.  It would be terrible, if Andrew demonstrates his Contraption at the
ball and embarrasses or injures — let alone kills — himself in front of the king."

"He won't kill
himself," said Charles.

"You have faith in him,
then?"

"More than Lucien
does."

"I . . . I think that Lucien
probably has faith in him too, but is just trying to bully him into being
successful.  Andrew seems to need constant prodding to follow through with his
ideas — or so Gareth and Lucien tell me."  She plucked at the edge of her
sleeve.  "When I f-first came here, Lucien told Andrew that he'd never
even build his Contraption, let alone get it to fly . . ."

"Oh, I suspect it will
fly," said Charles.  "The question is, how far?"

She looked down, the toe of her
slipper rubbing at the floor with obvious agitation.  He wished he could spare
her this apprehension, this awkwardness, and that this conversation he was not
looking forward to any more than she, was already behind them.

"So.  What do you think of England?"
he ventured, after a few moments.

"It is grand."

"Do you miss Boston?"

She shook her head.  "I'm
happy here.  The grass stays green all winter, and there are no mosquitoes in
the summer.  And I'm sure that so much has changed in Boston since I was last
there."

"Yes, as so much has changed
here, as well," Charles said, offering his arm to her.  After a moment's
hesitation she took it, her fingertips barely touching him, her entire body
stiff with nervousness, as though she feared he might ravish her, or that she
was doing something wrong.  His heart hurt for her, for such feelings were
needless.

He began walking back down the
hall, adjusting his pace so that she did not have to labor to keep up.  Relief
was already starting to spread through him.  Hard to believe that if he hadn't
fallen against that wall, he'd be married to this woman.  Hard to believe that
he'd made a baby with her.  Hard to believe that he felt such a curious absence
of desire for her now, and that his mind recoiled from the memories they had
once made like two magnets placed pole to pole.

Pray God that she felt the same
way.

"Has your home
changed so?" she asked, giving him the impression that she wanted to make
small talk, and avoid the deeper issues that lay between them.

"Yes, it has."  He
guided her into a small sitting room that looked out over the gardens, and half
shut the door behind them.  He wanted them to have privacy, but he wanted her to
feel that he wasn't closeting her in here with him.  "When I went off to America
with the army, I left behind one brother who did not seem capable of bringing
his scientific ideas to fruition, and another who did not seem capable of
behaving as an adult."  He smiled as he saw the spark of anger coming into
her eyes, and instantly banished it with his next words.  "Now, I come
back to find the first ready to take to the skies in a flying machine, and the
other married, leading a responsible life as a Member of Parliament, and
proving himself to be the best father in England."  He smiled, putting all
of the warmth in his heart in the gesture.  "I would never have thought it
possible."

Pain darkened her eyes and she
walked a little distance away from him, wringing her hands.  "Are you
angry, Charles?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.  She
raised her anguished green gaze to his.  "Have I hurt you beyond
repair?"

"You?  Hurt me?"
He gave a bitter laugh.  "Madam, it is I who have done the hurting."

"You weren't the one
who went off and married someone else."

"And you weren't the
one who disappeared and abandoned the ones he loved most in this world.  I'm
the one who's caused all the hurt, Juliet."

"But not intentionally,
Charles.  You wouldn't."

"No, I would not.  But that
doesn't make me any less sorry for the pain I've brought to both you and my
family.  I'm glad that all has worked out so nicely between you and Gareth, and
that your love has transformed him into a very different man than the one he
once was, but I regret that I was taken in by the deceit of Amy's sisters, and
that I believed the letters they had written, including the one that was
supposedly from you."

She gave a nervous laugh.
"But as you say, everything worked out nicely . . ."

"Are you happy,
Juliet?"

She gazed up at him, and he saw
the pain in her eyes, the warring emotions.  And then she came toward him and
hesitantly, placed her hand in his.  "I am happy, Charles."  She bit
her lip, trying to choose the right words.  "Probably — and I beg you not
to take this the wrong way — happier than I might have been with you."
She gave a tremulous grin, trying to soften her words.  "You and I are too
much alike, both too serious minded, and too cautious, to have ever made a good
go of it."

Charles shut his eyes and
released his pent-up breath.  He squeezed her hand and then let it go.
"Thank you.  Thank you, madam, for saying that."

"It doesn't hurt you to hear
that?"

"No, Juliet.  It — relieves
me of much of the guilt I've been carrying."

"What do you have to
feel guilty about?"

"Me?"  He shook his
head.  "Guilt for being taken in by those letters.  Guilt for the fact
that you were left to fend for yourself.  Guilt for the grief you must have
suffered in thinking me dead.  Guilt for . . . for the feelings I now have for
another."

She smiled, some of the pain
leaving her eyes.  "Thank you, Charles, for saying that."

"That doesn't hurt you?"

"No."  Her smile
deepened.  "It relieves me of much of the guilt I've been
carrying."

Their gazes met, warm and
understanding, before she blushed and he looked away, clearing his throat.

"Juliet, you and I — that is
to say, I was . . . very fond of you once, and I meant everything I ever said
to you, but I did not understand the feelings I had for you at the time.  I
thought I was in love with you.  Now — and I beg you not to take this
the wrong way — I realize my love was not as strong as it might have been.  As
it should have been.  You and I were different people, two years ago.  I was
far from home, and lonely —"

"— And I was young and
impressionable."

"And I should have known
better than to dally with a pretty young Bostonian."

"And I should have known
better than to try to catch the eye of a handsome English captain."

He caught her grin and returned
it, feeling the tension and guilt he'd been carrying since coming back to find
her here easing out of him by degrees.

"You really do
forgive me, then," she said, her eyes suddenly misty with tears.

"I do, but with the fervent
hope that you really forgive me."

"Of course I do.  You have
been cruelly used, Charles, and dreadfully wronged.  No one blames you for what
happened, least of all me."

He looked down into her eyes, no
longer troubled, but shining with relief and gratitude for what he had told
her.  They had set each other free.  "I hope you love my little brother
with all the strength of your heart," he said, gazing deeply into her
eyes.  "Gareth has suffered much pain in his life, and he deserves no less
than what I know you can give him.  He deserves someone like you, Juliet."

"I do love him,
Charles."  A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and began a slow
path down her cheek.  "I do love him, and I pray that you find someone to
make you as happy as he has made me."  She swiped away the tear.
"But I think you already have."

He smiled, gently.  "Yes . .
. I think I have."

And then she reached deeply into
her pocket and drew something out which she held tightly in her closed hand for
a long moment.

"I've been keeping these for
you.  Waiting for the right moment to give them back to you.  They once
belonged to you, but they really should be hers now."

And then she held her hand over
his and dropped two objects into his palm.  One was the miniature he'd had
painted two years ago in Boston.  And the other was the signet ring with which
they had sealed their betrothal that fateful night in April.

Her smile was a little watery.
"You're a free man now, Charles.  Take these and be happy."  And then
she closed his hand around the two objects, stood on tiptoe to kiss his brow,
and turned, walking from the room without a backwards glance.

Chapter 27

Yes, he was free.

But during the week that followed
that liberating conversation with Juliet, Charles certainly didn't feel free.
He felt buffeted on all sides.

Though his friendship with Gareth
was as strong as it had ever been, though he and Juliet had managed to clear
the air between them, though Andrew asked his help in getting the Flying
Contraption removed to the roof in preparation for tonight's demonstration,
Charles's relationship with Lucien — which had always been amiable and mutually
respectful — was in tatters.

It was obvious that his brother
no longer respected him, perhaps didn't even like him, maybe could not forgive
him, and though Charles found it hard to admit, even to himself, he was hurt by
the fact that where Lucien had once turned to him for advice, assistance, and
friendship, he now turned to Gareth.

And to add insult to injury,
there was the matter of Amy.

Every morning right after
breakfast, Nerissa and her maid, Hannah, had spirited Amy off, depriving
Charles of any and all time spent alone with her.  It was almost as if his
family knew what had happened out in the stable, and were contriving to keep
them apart until Amy could be safely packed off to some new employer as a
lady's maid.

And now, with the ball only a
matter of hours away, they had taken her off yet again, teaching her how to
dress another woman, how to arrange the hair of another woman, how to make
herself indispensable to another woman, another woman who would be having all
the fun while Amy, who had never had any fun, watched wistfully from the
wings.  Charles wanted to hit something in his frustration.  True, he had
brought her to England so she could have a better life, and now that Nerissa
was preparing her for a position that would carry no small degree of prestige
in itself, he was beginning to realize that perhaps that wasn't quite what he
wanted for Amy after all.

Back in America, when he'd allowed
her to come to England with him, he might have told himself it was, but now,
with no promises to Juliet to bind him, with nothing standing in his way, it
wasn't — and he knew it.  He did not want her to leave Blackheath.  He did not
want her to leave him.  Yet what excuse did he have to keep her here?

The dilemma chipped away at the
peace his conversation with Juliet had given him, made him feel restless and
impatient and compelled to act in a way for which he was not prepared:  To
offer a marriage proposal to Amy.  But that was impossible, of course.  He
might be the heir presumptive to a dukedom, but he was still the second son
with no means of income besides his army career — which he wasn't so sure he
wanted to return to.  He couldn't afford a wife.  But that was an excuse, and
he knew it.  The problem wasn't his lack of income; it was himself.  Others
might think he hadn't changed, but he knew, even if they did not, that the
courage and confidence that had once come so easily to him had been lost on a
rock in a foreign land, on a cold April afternoon.  He was unworthy of being
anyone's husband.

"My lord?"

He looked up from his absent
contemplation of a cup of tea.  It was Dawson, his valet, standing respectfully
outside the door.

The servant bowed.  "My
lord, it is getting late.  I must know what you plan to wear tonight so that I
might ready it for you."  He smiled.  "May I suggest your dress
regimentals?"

"My dress regimentals?"

"Why, yes, my lord.  Your
Colonel Maddison sent them back to us upon confirmation of your supposed
death.  They have been in storage."

Charles turned toward the window
so that the valet would not see the sudden pain in his eyes.

He was not worthy of wearing the
king's coat.  He did not want to make Juliet remember things he wanted her to
forget.  And he did not want to remind himself of the man he had once been.

Wearing the coat would be a sham.

"I think my suit of plain
blue silk will suffice, Dawson."

~~~~

The guests would begin arriving
soon.

The Duke of Blackheath sat
wrapped in a special gown to protect his fine clothing, his head bent to accept
the white powder his valet was currently applying to his hair.  Though he
followed fashion, he abhorred wigs, and it was his own midnight-black mane that
had been carefully dressed, rolled and powdered, the back drawn into a queue,
tied with a velvet bow, and left to hang between his shoulders.

"That's it, Your
Grace," said the hairdresser, stepping back.  As Lucien got to his feet,
his valet removed the powdering gown and a third servant came forward with a
mirror.

Lucien lifted his chin and made a
tiny adjustment to his stock, fastened behind his neck with a diamond buckle.
He surveyed himself with a coolly critical eye.  Then he left the room and made
his way toward the separate wing of the castle that housed both the ballroom
and Andrew's laboratory on the floor above it.

There were two sets of doors, one
just after the other.  Behind the first was the staircase, enclosed by old
panelling, that led up to Andrew's laboratory — and the roof above that, where
the flying contraption waited.  Lucien paused for a moment, resisting the urge
to go up there and have a last look at the thing.  But no.  He had to trust
Andrew, though he could never let Andrew know that.  After all, Andrew would
never even have completed the thing if it were not for his fervent desire to
show Lucien up — which was why Lucien kept taunting him.

And would keep taunting him until
his little brother got the fame and recognition Lucien would drive him to get.

He pushed open the doors to the
ballroom.

Servants bowed and curtsied to
him as Lucien, in a suit of blue velvet so dark it looked black, toured the
room.  The theme of Christmas was everywhere.  Fragrant branches of pine, tied
together with red ribbons, framed the doorways.  Silver and gold bunting hung
above the floor-to-ceiling windows and was entwined around the heavy drapes.
The refreshment tables were decorated with white tissue that glittered like
snow; in a few short hours, those tables would groan beneath the weight of
silver punchbowls and a host of delicacies from the kitchens.  His musicians
were already setting up their instruments in the far corner, tuning them, and
servants were putting out chairs for the ladies.  A maid was replacing the
candles in the wall sconces, another was dusting the great, gilt framed mirrors
that would reflect the whirling dancers, and still others were lowering the
great chandelier so that it could be filled with candles.  When raised, it
would dominate the room.

Lucien smiled to himself.  There
had not been a ball at Blackheath since before Charles had left for America,
and this one promised to be spectacular — in more ways than one.

The Restoration — what an amusing
little play on words, he thought, considering that the other Restoration had
also centered around a Charles — was going exactly to plan.  His pointed  choosing
of Gareth's or Andrew's assistance over Charles's was rousing Charles's ire,
needling him, serving as a constant reminder of the status he had willfully
vacated.  Sooner or later, Charles would reach the breaking point and anger
would compel him to overcome whatever ridiculous obstacles he'd placed in his
own path just to prove Lucien — and himself — wrong.  Lucien had faith that
Charles was the same man he'd always been; Charles was the one who needed
convincing.  And how well everyone was playing their parts!  They had all
contrived to keep Amy and Charles apart so that neither could learn that Lucien
was not only subtly manipulating things, but playing matchmaker as well.

Again.

Still smiling, he decided it was
a good time to have a look at his creation.

~~~~

She was, at that moment, standing
before a full-length mirror in her new shift — chemise! Nerissa insisted
she call the garment — stockings and garters, trembling with nerves and
excitement as Nerissa's maid Hannah, supervised by her mistress and Juliet,
helped her into her new corset.

"Now stand still, miss, and
let out yer breath so Oi can lace it up the back," she instructed, from
just behind her.

Nerissa, was watching the
proceedings with an eagle eye.  "Not too tight, Hannah.  Her waist is
small enough as it is.  A few rough yanks and I daresay you'll end up breaking
her!"

Their charge burst out laughing
at the same time Hannah yanked, which ended her guffaw on a choking gasp.
Nerissa, grinning, exchanged furtive glances with Juliet.  Her sister-in-law
sat in a chair nearby, her advanced pregnancy politely concealed by a loose
gown of rich, pine-green velvet.  She too was in on the secret, and so, of
course, was Gareth.

"Do you remember everything
I taught you about the proper use of fans, Amy?"

"Oh, yes — I can even flick
one open now without accidentally flinging it across the room!"

"And you're comfortable with
all the dance steps that you practiced with Gareth?"

"Well, I no longer tread on
his feet . . ."

"And you know what to say if
someone with whom you're not comfortable asks you for a dance?"

"Yes, but . . . Nerissa, was
it really necessary that I learn all this simply as training to be a
lady's maid?"

"Yes, absolutely.  If you
want to go out in the world and make yourself invaluable to your future
employer, you have to know how those things work.  After all, you will be your
mistress's friend as well as advisor."

"I see," said the young
woman, frowning.  "But I still don't know why the duke spent so much money
just to make me look nice for tonight . . ."

Nerissa knew, but she certainly
wasn't going to confess it.  "It's just as he told you.  You saved
Charles's life and now he wants you to have your Cinderella night at the ball.
It's the very least he could do!"

And as Nerissa also knew, it was
the very least he had done.  Amy might believe that she was getting a
"night at the ball" and a few simple "maid's dresses" to
prepare her for her future life at some distant country house, but she had no
idea just what the duke had really bought for her when he'd sent her and
Nerissa into London last week!

The clothing had already begun to
arrive, and what fun Nerissa and Juliet had had going through it!  There were
ten new chemises, including this one of soft white linen, its triple tiers of
exquisite French lace dripping from the elbow like angel's wings.  There were
several new corsets, twenty pairs of silk stockings, ribboned garters and even
a rather wicked little night-shift trimmed with scarlet ribbon; a nightcap,
three hats, four caps, hooped petticoats, and several underpetticoats, two made
of cambric, one of dimity, and, the other, for colder weather, of quilted
cotton lined with silk.

And that was just the underwear!

There were also handkerchiefs,
slippers, gowns for dress, gowns for undress, shawls, fans, cloaks, several
pairs of long, butter-soft gloves, silk aprons, and an ermine muff for her
hands.  Nerissa couldn't wait until Lucien's plan came to fruition and he had a
legitimate excuse to give Amy these things he intended as a bridal gift . . .

These things that were, for the
moment, hidden away.

"How's that, m'lady?"
asked Hannah, stepping back and looking to Nerissa for approval.

"Perfect."

"I can't breathe!"
gasped Amy, putting a hand to her chest, which now swelled to admirable, nearly
scandalous proportions above the corset.  "I'm so tightly trussed that my
shoulder blades must surely be touching!"

"Good," said Nerissa.

"Good?"

"That's the way a lady of
leisure and breeding is supposed to be laced.  But don't look so concerned,
Amy.  Why, if you swoon for lack of air, then some gallant gentleman will be
obliged to carry you outside to revive you!"

"Yes, perhaps even with a kiss,"
added Juliet.

Nerissa noted the sudden
wistfulness on Amy's face, and knew what she was thinking.  The only gallant
gentleman Amy wanted was Charles, though she probably thought she could never
have him.

We're going to make sure
you have him!, Nerissa thought gleefully.

Moments later, Amy was in her
hoops, and Hannah and Nerissa were lifting the shimmering, peacock-colored gown
from the bed.

"Raise yer arms, miss,"
said Hannah, holding the gown up and then letting the magnificent creation
whisper down over Amy's slim body in a rippling fall of silk.  Hannah smoothed
it over the hooped petticoats and stood back, beaming, while everyone in the
room sucked in their breaths in awe.

"Oh, my," said
Nerissa, when she could speak.

Juliet, smiling, murmured, "Would
you just look at her."

"I don't think we can help
but look at her," murmured an urbane voice, and gasping, all three women
turned to see Lucien standing in the doorway, arms crossed and his black eyes
gleaming in the candlelight.

He lifted his hand.  "Turn
around, my dear," he said, giving a negligent little wave.  Her eyes huge,
Amy slowly did as he asked, staring down at herself in awe and disbelief.  The
gown, an open-robed saque of watered silk, shimmered with every movement, a
vibrant purplish-blue in this light, a vivid emerald-green in that.  Its robed
bodice open to show a stomacher of bright yellow satin worked with turquoise
and green embroidery, it had tight sleeves ending in treble flounces just
behind the elbow, which, combined with the chemise's triple tiers of lace, made
Amy feel as though she had wings.  She smoothed her palms over the flounced and
scalloped petticoats of royal blue silk, and then, with impulsive delight,
threw back her head on a little laugh, extended her arms and spun on her toe,
making gauzy sleeves, shining hair, and yards upon yards of shimmering fabric
float in the air around her.

Hannah, who did not think such
behavior was quite appropriate, especially in front of a duke, frowned, but
Lucien was trying hard to contain his amusement.  He couldn't remember the last
time he'd made anyone so happy, and it touched something deep inside him that
he'd long thought dead.  He exchanged a look of furtive triumph with Nerissa.

"Oh!  Is it really me?"
Amy breathed, reverently touching her sleeve and then raising wide, suddenly
misty eyes to her small audience.

"It is really you,"
Juliet said, smiling.

"Only someone with your
coloring could wear such bold shades and make them work for instead of against
you," said Nerissa, coming forward to tie a black ribbon around Amy's
neck.  "Lud, if I tried to wear those colors, I daresay they would
overwhelm me!"

"Speaking of overwhelmed . .
."  Amy turned to face the man who still lounged negligently in the
doorway, his fingers trying, quite unsuccessfully, to rub away the little smile
that tugged at his mouth.  "Your Grace, I don't know how to thank
you," she whispered, dabbing away one tear, then another.  "No one
has ever done anything like this for me before and I . . . I feel like a princess."

"My dear girl.  Don't you
know?"  His smile deepened and she saw what was almost a cunning gleam
come into his enigmatic black eyes.  "You are a princess.  Now dry
those tears and if you must thank me, do so by enjoying yourself tonight."

"I will, Your Grace."

"Yes," he said, on a
note of finality.  "You will."

And then, with a bow, he
continued on his way.

Amy's tears finally spilled
over.  "I . . . I just don't know what to say," she managed.
"His Grace is the kindest man in England to do this for me . . . to give
me this one night of magic, to buy me such a generous gift, to make me feel
like Cinderella at the ball.  What my sisters would say if they could see me
now!  How happy my Mama, God rest her soul, would be for me . . .   Oh, Nerissa,
how can anyone think your brother is cunning and devious and
manipulative?"

Juliet coughed.

Nerissa flushed and cleared her
throat.  "Well, um, yes," she said, turning away.  But her own heart
was pounding with glee, for if all went according to plan, Amy would soon know exactly
how cunning and devious and manipulative Lucien could be.

And, she thought with a grin, his
little sister as well.

Chapter 28

The guests began to arrive
shortly thereafter.  A long line of elegant carriages stood out in the drive,
waiting to discharge their equally elegant passengers.  The king and queen were
the last to arrive, and as soon as they had been announced, Lucien, the duke of
Blackheath, officially opened the ball.

All across the vast and crowded
ballroom, fans were fluttering, people staring, whispers flying.

"Who is she?"

"I don't know."

"I heard that she's
some Indian princess from America with a vast fortune."

"An Indian princess?!
Why, where did you hear that?"

"From the duke of Blackheath
himself," said the dowager countess of Brookhampton, who was Blackheath's
closest neighbor.  She tugged at her sleeve, preening with all the smugness of
one privileged to know such information.  "Apparently her people wish to
help us defeat the Americans in that silly war, and she's here to speak with
the king himself about it."

"You don't say!"

"I hope she's not looking
for a husband . . . my Chloe is going to have a difficult enough Season . .
."

Completely satisfied by the rapid
spread of the rumor he'd started, Lucien, resplendent in dark velvet and an
embroidered waistcoat of Italian silk, moved amongst the guests, making polite
conversation here, complimenting a lady on her appearance there, and always
keeping a discreet eye on his young charge, who, equally overseen by Nerissa,
seemed to be holding her own quite nicely.  He was very pleased with the past
that he had fabricated for the girl; when she finally did marry Charles,
at least she would be accepted as an exotic foreigner and forgiven any little
social faux pas she might make.  Now, she was being swung through a
dance with Perry, Lord Brookhampton, who was the dowager countess's son,
Gareth's best friend, and the current leader of the Den of Debauchery.

Good.  Perry was following
instructions, too.

Not that he needed any
encouragement, given the sensation the girl was causing.  For all the good it
was doing!  Charles had disappeared before Amy had made her appearance.

Lucien was quietly furious.  And
now the king was approaching him, his face flushed with pleasure.  "Fine
show you put on, Blackheath, fine show indeed," he said, saluting his host
with a glass of sherry.  "Been far too long since you've had any
excitement out here and I'm damned pleased you finally have a good excuse to
throw a party, what?  Not every day you get a brother back from the
dead!"  He watched the dancers swirling about the ball room.  "Where
is the guest of honor, eh?  Haven't seen him since you opened the ball . .
."

Lucien did not know where Charles
was, though he had sent two servants to investigate that very question.  He
inclined his head.  "I daresay he must be with his brother Andrew, Your
Majesty, preparing his flying machine for its impending demonstration."

"Yes, yes, I am
looking forward to seeing history made tonight, Blackheath!"

But Charles, at that very moment,
was roving the house in search of Amy.  He had stayed at the ball only long
enough to claim the first dance with his sister; then, when the dancing was in
full swing, he'd melted into the crush, strode through the doors leading back
to the main part of the castle, and gone looking for Amy.

But she was not in her rooms.
She was not in the dining room, the library, or wandering the halls.  It wasn't
until he strode into the Gold Parlor and found Juliet — who would not, of
course, be attending the ball in her advanced condition — quietly working on a
piece of embroidery, that Charles got the first clue to her whereabouts.

He bowed to his sister-in-law,
who looked up at him in some surprise.

"Why, hello, Charles.  What
are you doing out here?  You look most annoyed."

"Amy.  I can't find her
anywhere, haven't seen her all day and I'm sick to death of everyone
monopolizing her time.  You haven't seen her, have you?"

Juliet looked at him peculiarly,
then lowered her needlework, a little smile touching her lips.  "Actually,
I have.  You might try checking the ballroom."

"She wouldn't be in
there."

Juliet's eyes sparkled with
mirth.  "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure."

At that moment Gareth, who was
dividing his time between his wife and the ball, entered the room, fashionably
splendid in raspberry silk, tight breeches, and shoes sporting huge Artois
buckles.  In his hand were two glasses, one of sherry, the other of cider, the
latter of which he handed to his wife.  He had caught the tail end of the
conversation.

"Yes, you really should
check the ballroom, Charles," he said, his own blue eyes twinkling.

Was there some damned conspiracy
going on here?  Thanking them, Charles strode out of the parlour.  He should have
just stayed in that hot and stifling ballroom then, and searched her out in the
maid's area where common sense told him she would have been all along.  He
headed toward the great double doors, which were respectfully opened by a
bowing servant, stormed into the ballroom —

And stopped in his tracks.

No.  Yes.  Good grief.  It
couldn't be . . .

"Amy?" he
breathed.

Two dancers, caught up in the
dance, didn't see him standing there and collided with him, nearly knocking him
down.

"Lord Charles!  I beg
your pardon!"

But he never heard them.  He
never saw them.  He had eyes only for the stunning beauty who was being swept
around the dance floor by Gareth's friend Perry.  She was a ravishing young
woman in shimmering peacock and royal blue whose beauty commanded the eye, the
attention, the heart — and made every other woman in the room pale to
insignificance.

Charles's mouth went dry.  His
heartbeat cracked his chest and he forgot to breathe.

Another set of dancers collided
with him, knocking him to his senses.  Angrily, he stared into the amused eyes
of Gareth's friend Neil Chilcot, another Den of Debauchery member who was
partnering a grinning Nerissa.  "Gorgeous young woman, isn't she?"
quipped Chilcot, sweeping Nerissa past.  "You should've stuck around to
see her announced, Charles.  Not that you'll ever have a chance of claiming a
dance with her now, what with all the young bucks before you already waiting .
. ."

Charles had heard enough.  But as
he stalked across the dance floor, he heard even more.

"Well, His Grace told me
she's an heiress . . ."

"Not just an heiress, but a
princess from some vast Indian nation in America . . ."

". . . came here to offer
her tribe's help in the war against the Americans . . ."

Charles clenched his fists.  Lucien.
No one else could have, would have, started and circulated such a
preposterously crazy rumor!  What the hell was his brother trying to do, get
Amy married off to some handsome young swain and out of Charles's life
forever?  This was no training for a lady's maid, that was for damned
sure!

His jaw tight, he stormed across
the dance floor toward Amy.  He saw her hooped petticoats swirling about her
legs and exposing a tantalizing bit of ankle with every step she took, the
laughter in her face even though she kept glancing over Perry's shoulder in
search of someone, the studied grace in her movements that, a week ago, he would've
sworn she didn't have.

She had not seen him yet, and as
Perry, a handsome man who had something of a reputation with the ladies, led
her through the steps, Charles felt a surge of jealousy so fierce, so violent,
that it made him think of doing something totally irrational.

Such as calling Perry out for
dancing with his woman.

Such as killing Lucien for
whatever little game he was playing.

Such as making a spectacle of
himself and claiming her for his own.

For once in his life, Charles
didn't care what anyone thought of his behavior.  He marched straight up to
Perry, tapped him on the shoulder, and jerked his thumb to indicate that Perry
had better relinquish Amy to him.

Now.

Perry, grinning, bowed and backed
off.  At the same time, Amy turned her head and saw Charles, her face breaking
into such an expression of joy that he was nearly undone. "Charles!"
she cried, and he knew then that if they weren't in the middle of a crowded
ballroom, with everyone staring at them, she would've thrown herself straight
into his arms.  As it was, she stumbled such that he had to catch her and set
her on her feet, a move that he managed to carry off such that she barely
missed a step.  "Oh, Charles, I've been waiting all evening for you to
arrive!  Where have you been?"

"Looking for you."  He
stared at her.  "Amy, you look . . . ravishing," he said, and it was
all he could do not to claim those smiling, carmine-rouged lips and kiss her
senseless.

"For once in my life, I
actually feel ravishing!  Oh, Charles — will you look at all these
powdered heads, the jewels and silks and satins, everyone having such a good
time!  Isn't it just wonderful?  Isn't this just the most magical place on
earth?"

He swung her through the steps.
"Amy, I do not wish to spoil your enjoyment, but exactly what are
you doing?"

"I'm dancing!" she
said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling as he led her through the steps.
"Oh, Charles, this is such fun!  Your brother was so kind to give
me this night . . . I feel like Cinderella!"

"What?"

"Lucien!  He was so grateful
for what I did for you back in America that he gave me this night, this gown, a
new identity, and . . . and, even these diamonds at my ears!  Well, he didn't
actually give them to me, I understand that they belonged to your
grandmother but he said that only someone with my coloring would be able to
carry them off. . . ."  She blushed.  "Charles, you don't think
everyone's staring at me because I'm the only one here with unpowdered hair, do
you?  Lucien said that I really should leave it natural, and —"

"No, Amy," he said
tightly, realizing that everyone was staring at her, and it had nothing
to do with her hair.

It was because she was the most
strikingly beautiful woman in the room and one couldn't help but stare
at her.

"Charles, are you
angry?"

"Yes, Amy, I am angry,
quietly furious, in fact, but not with you."

"Then with who?  Certainly,
not Perry I hope, because he's now dancing with your sister — she has a tendre
for him, you know."

"And where did you learn
that word, Amy?"

"Oh, Nerissa taught it to
me.  I understand it is quite the thing to know some French.  Oh, Charles,
please don't be angry with Perry, he did nothing wrong —"

"It's not Perry I'm angry
with, it's Lucien."  The dance ended.  "And by God, I'm going to give
him a piece of my mind."

His gloved hand capturing hers,
he all but dragged her back through the crush, uncaring that everyone in the
room was staring at them, the men elbowing each other, the women's fans
fluttering wildly.  He saw Andrew and the king, accompanied by three of his
entourage, going out the double doors, no doubt heading upstairs for a private
viewing of the flying contraption before the big event.  And there was Lucien,
elegant in darkest-blue velvet, standing near the refreshment tables and
conversing with his barrister friend Sir Roger Foxcote.  Slowly, as though he'd
been expecting it all along, he turned his head to regard Charles's approach —
and in that enigmatic black gaze, Charles saw a swift blaze of triumph before
it was quickly veiled.

"Why, Charles.  How good of
you to finally rejoin us," his brother drawled, taking a sip of sherry and
watching Charles from above the rim of his crystal goblet.  "Everyone was
wondering about you, you know.  Damned rude of you to hide from your own ball,
no?"

Charles, bristling with anger,
responded instantly to the challenge.  "I wasn't hiding, and I'll
thank you to stop interfering in people's lives, especially Amy's!  How dare
you lift her up only to throw her down, how dare you give her a taste of
something she can never have again, only to toss her back into obscurity!  I
don't know what you're up to, but I won't stand for you hurting her so, Lucien,
by God I will not!"

Around them, people hushed.

Amy, standing in confusion beside
Charles, went very still.

And Lucien raised his brows and
pretended to straighten the ruffles at his sleeve.  But he could not hide the
faint smirk that touched one corner of his mouth, and Charles suddenly
understood how Gareth must have felt, all those times that Lucien had goaded
and taunted and insulted him into wanting to pull back and place his fist in
it.  Lucien was enjoying this.

And enjoying it immensely.

"My dear Charles," he
murmured, placing his empty glass on the tray of a passing servant and turning
a benign, infuriating little smile on his brother.  "Given the fact that
you no longer possess even the courage to jump your horse over a hedgerow, I
really don't think you should challenge me so.  It could be rather . . .
hazardous to your health."

"Lucien," said Charles
in a very cold voice.  "You have just insulted me one time too many.  If
you weren't my brother, I'd call you out right here and now."

"Pointless, Charles.  You
would only lose.  For that reason, I would never accept the challenge."
Dismissing Charles, he took Amy's hand and raised it to his lips.  "My
dear Miss Leighton.  Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"I am, Your Grace.  This has
been the most magical night of my life and —" she looked at Charles —
"now that your brother's here, it just got a hundred times better."

"Have I misled you in any
way, disappointed you in any form?"

"No, Your Grace.  I don't
know what Lord Charles is so upset about."

"There.  You see, Charles?
There is no harm done.  If you truly cared about Miss Leighton, you wouldn't
begrudge her the chance to enjoy herself — and perhaps make an advantageous
match.  It's obvious that you don't have the courage to make an
immediate offer for her, but I daresay there are many here tonight who
would."

Charles's eyes narrowed; he had
caught the wicked little gleam in Lucien's eyes, and suddenly, belatedly, he
understood.

"You conniving wretch,"
he said, his eyes blazing as he began to see how neatly he'd been manipulated.

Lucien, knowing the game was up,
only raised a brow and smiled.

"You set this all up to try
and force my hand, didn't you?"

"Now, really, Charles.  What
reason would I have to do that?"  He looked up as Gareth approached through
the throngs.  "Why hello, Gareth.  Your brother here has just accused me
of interfering in Amy's life.  Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculously
absurd?"

Gareth's mouth dropped open; he
was caught in the middle and he knew it.

Lucien straightened one glove.
"And here I was having such fun watching her enjoying herself.  Really,
Charles, the look on your face when you first saw her in that gown was worth
more than all the tea in China —"

Sudden screams reverberated
throughout the room.

Turning, Charles saw it all.  A
young serving maid, just setting a Christmas pudding soaked with flaming brandy
onto the refreshment table, had turned to laugh at something one of the footmen
had said — and in so doing, suddenly tripped.  The pudding flew from the tray
and instantly both the girl's petticoats and the tablecloth were on fire.

Panicking, she leaped to her feet
and ran, shrieking, for the door, where the flames caught the bunting that hung
there and whooshed toward the ceiling.

"Help, somebody help
me!"

The music crashed to a stop and
people began to scream.

"Help, help!"

Charles, with Gareth right behind
him, was already sprinting through the crush after her, shoving stunned dancers
out of the way, grabbing up a tablecloth as he raced past and sending china
crashing to the floor in his wake.  "Gareth!  Dump the punch, get the
cloth off that other table and stamp on it!  And get everyone out!"

Chapter 29

The old authority was back in
Charles's voice.

But even as Gareth saw his
brother tumble the screaming maid to the floor and smother the flames consuming
her skirts, even as he and Perry worked to put out the burning tablecloth, even
as he saw Lucien calmly escorting the queen and her attendants outside, he knew
it was too late.  The fire had already spread to the bunting, to the
decorations, and to the heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes.

In moments, the room was on fire.

An exodus of people surged toward
the door that led outside, some crying out to loved ones, some coughing, the musicians
running past carrying violins, cellos, and other instruments.  A few loyal
servants began pulling priceless art from the walls, but already Charles, with the
sobbing young maid in his arms, was shouting orders.

"Leave them!  Get out of the
room and onto the lawn!  Everyone get outside on the lawn and stay there!"

He carried the girl outside,
relinquished her into the care of Nerissa and Amy, and, coughing from the
smoke, grabbed Gareth's arm.  "Get a bucket brigade started!  Keep the
area around the door wet until we get everyone out!"  Pressing his
handkerchief to his face, he raced back into the ballroom.

The room was rapidly dimming.
Inside, the settee and chairs were on fire.  The screens that had been erected
to give people a private place to talk were aflame.  Fire was racing up the
walls, engulfing the paintings, roaring up the drapes.  Looking up, Charles saw
thick black smoke gathering along the ceiling, banking back down, bringing a
wave of intense heat with it that felt like a blast from an open oven.  He
could no longer see the great chandelier above his head.

Eyes watering, the handkerchief
pressed to his nose, he hurried around the room, dragging the last people out
and shouting for Gareth, lost in smoke over by the door, to keep the bucket
brigade going.  And now the heat was building, beginning to parch his face, to
dry his eyes and the inside of his nose.  It was getting hard to breathe.
Impossible to see.

I've got to get out of here.

"Is anyone left in
here?" he shouted at the top of his lungs.  He worked his way along the
edges of the room, desperately searching among the chairs and remains of
screens.  The fire was roaring now, trying to drown out his voice, the smoke
stinging his eyes, filling his nose and mouth and throat.  "If anyone's
left in here answer me!"

"Charles!  Come on out, I've
got the last of them!"

Disoriented, coughing so hard he
could barely draw breath, he sprinted toward the sound of his brother's voice.
Every breath was agony.  Black smoke was halfway back down the windows now,
meeting ugly yellow-gray smoke coming back up.  And there was Gareth's hazy
form, still directing the bucket brigade and keeping the exit door wet until
Charles could come safely through.  He grabbed Charles's arm and hauled him
roughly outside, slamming the door shut behind him and dragging him away from
it and onto the cool grass.

"You sure everyone's
out?" Charles managed, through retching coughs.

"I think so; Lucien just
sent riders off to Ravenscombe to call out the villagers, we need all the help
we can get!"

"What about the other door,
from the ballroom to the main wing?  Did anyone close it?"

"Bloody hell —"

"'Sdeath, we've got to shut
it so the fire doesn't spread down the corridor to the main part of the
castle!"  He shouted to the bucket brigade, standing outside now but still
feverishly hurling water at the door, around whose edges sinister tongues of
flame were already licking.  "Stop!"  He ran forward and grabbing
arms and shoulders, manhandled people away from the door.  "The main
building!" he yelled, trying to be heard over the shouting, frightened
guests.  "The main building!"

They looked at him
uncomprehendingly; then, Charles yanked the last of them back just as a huge
ball of smoke and flame exploded every window in the ballroom and hurled shards
of glass and wood everywhere.  The force of the blast threw him against Gareth
and both brothers went down, but Charles was instantly on his feet, hauling the
bucket brigade to theirs, never stopping to consider that by pulling them away
from the door, he had just saved their lives.  Calling them to him as he had
once done his soldiers, he ran back around the burning building, his feet
slipping on broken glass, never slowing as he tried desperately to reach the
other door before the fire did.

He charged in through a servant's
entrance and sprinted headlong back toward the ballroom.  Every step brought
him closer to the fire roaring behind the door — it was shut, thank God, thank
God — like a furnace in hell.  Behind him, the bucket brigade came running,
some with sooty faces, one or two men cut and bleeding.

"Soak the door, and then the
hallway!" Charles shouted.  "Start a line from here to the moat.  Move!"

Gareth was right behind him.
Frantically, they both grabbed buckets, each load of water hissing up in steam
as it hit the smoldering door, working against time, working against fate, and
then Lucien was there, shouting to be heard over the terrible roar of the fire
on the other side of the door.

"Gareth!"

"What?  Lucien, get outside!"

"Gareth!"
Pointedly ignoring Charles, Lucien yanked Gareth out of the line.  "Listen
to me!  The king is still upstairs with Andrew, do you hear me?  The King
and Andrew are still upstairs!"

~~~~

The king, his three attendants,
and Andrew had all been up on the roof, examining Andrew's Contraption, when
the fire broke out.  They never heard people screaming two floors below.  Never
knew what was happening down in the ballroom.  By the time they did know, it
was too late.

"I say, Andrew, I am
looking forward to seeing your invention in action!" the king was saying
as he watched Andrew crank back the giant catapult and position the flying contraption
for its impending display.  "The medieval catapult idea is most ingenious,
what?  So let me make sure I understand this.  All you have to do is strap
yourself into the harness, release that lever, and bang, you're off, eh?"

"Well, yes . . . something
like that, Your Majesty.  Perhaps you'll come back down to my laboratory, where
I can show you the drawings so you may see exactly how it works?"

The little group headed back
toward the stairway that led down to Andrew's laboratory just above the
ballroom.

The king sniffed and drew out his
handkerchief.  "Speaking of medieval, I really must speak to your brother
about updating his kitchens.  I fear his chimneys must not be ventilating
properly.  What a damned lot of smoke is in the air tonight, what?"

They went down the stairs, opened
the door to Andrew's laboratory, and froze.

The room was hot.  Unnaturally,
terrifyingly, unbearably hot.  And as Andrew, horrified, looked around, he
heard an angry, rushing roar, faint shouts from people outside, and saw that
all around the room, ominous black fingers of soot were creeping up the walls.

"Dear God —"

At that moment, a giant explosion
rocked the building itself, throwing them all to their knees and sending row
upon row of volatile chemicals and solutions crashing to the floor.  Flames
burst forth and Andrew knew only one thing:

He had to get the king out.

Now.

He grabbed the old wool coat he
often wore when it was chilly up here, threw it over the king's shoulders, and,
apologizing for manhandling him, helped him to his feet.  The attendants
assisting His Majesty on the other side, they all made their way toward the door.

"By God, Andrew, if this is
your idea of a joke I am not amused!"

"I can assure you, Your
Majesty, this is no joke.  The building's on fire and we must get you
out!"

Already the room was clouded with
smoke, and Andrew dared not think of what would happen when the gases from his
burning chemicals mixed and began filling the air, dared not think what must be
happening below, dared not think about his poor, poor flying machine on the
roof just above, dared not think of anything beyond getting the king out of
here, down the stairs, and to safety.

He reached the door.  Found it
shut and barred.  Damn!  The explosion must have sent the bar he used to keep
Lucien out when he was working, crashing down.  His eyes stinging with smoke,
unable to see what he was doing, he tried to remove it but it was stuck fast in
its slots.  He threw his weight beneath it and shoved with all his might.

Horrible, noxious fumes came
roiling up from behind him.

We're going to die, Andrew
thought — and at that moment, the bar gave beneath his frantic shoves, the door
crashed inward, and a figure came stumbling in through the smoke.

It was Charles.

"You can't get out that
way!" his older brother shouted.  "The stairway's on fire!"

Charles, who'd instinctively
charged up the stairway before Gareth could even react to Lucien's words, now
stared past Andrew.  Somewhere off in the billowing, poisonous smoke behind
him, bottles were exploding, great timbers were beginning to crash down, part
of the floor already starting to give way.  Charles sank to his knees, crawling
through the smoke as he fought to reach the stricken king.

"Your Majesty!  I beg you to
forgive me for suggesting such a thing, but please, get down, get down on your
knees and crawl!  The air is cleaner down here, cooler, and you'll be able to
breathe better!  Now follow me!  We've got to get you out of here!"

With an arm around the king to
support him, the three attendants coughing and gasping just ahead and beside
him, Charles, on his hands and knees, fought his way back to the door.  Great
torrents of dense black smoke were rushing back up the stairway from which he'd
just come but if they were lucky, they might be able to get back through before
the fire entirely blocked off their escape.

He could hear Lucien downstairs,
somewhere beyond the smoke, shouting for him.

"Charles!  This way!"

"God help me, I can't see, I
can't breathe," the king cried, "I can't breathe!"

Charles, with the attendant's
help, managed to get the king down the first step, then the next.  The fire,
growing hotter by the second, baked him through his hot clothes, seared his
nose, sinuses, trachea and lungs with every agonizing breath.  He half fell,
half stumbled down each step, trying, as best he could, to shield the king from
falling debris as he went.  A chunk of burning wood glanced off the back of his
neck, branding his skin like a hot poker; beneath his gloved hands, the stone
was blistering hot.  And there, finally, just visible through the smoke, he
could just see Lucien and Gareth, charging up to meet him.

"Well done, Charles, well
done!" said Lucien, leading the coughing, gasping king out of the
stairwell and to safety, the heavy woolen coat slipping from the royal
shoulders.  Charles, coughing violently and unable to see beyond the burning
agony in his eyes, felt Gareth grab him and half-carry, half-steer him out of
the stairwell and into the smoky but untouched corridor, still under siege by a
rapidly growing bucket brigade.

Lucien, who had relinquished the
care of the king into his gathering entourage, turned back toward the stairway,
frowning.

"Charles, where is
Andrew?"

"Right behind me —" he
was seized by a racking spell of coughing and sank to his knees.  "He . .
. came down the stairway . . . right behind me."

"No, Charles.  He did
not."

Charles dragged open burning,
watering eyes, shook his head to clear it, and stared at Lucien.  His brother's
face had gone very still.  Very pale.  And then Charles saw something in that
black stare that he'd never thought to see, something that was reflected in his
own suddenly cold bones.

Fear.

"I'm going back in after
him," Gareth vowed, spinning on his heel.

Lucien's hand shot out and seized
Gareth's shoulder.  "No.  You stay here with your brother.  I'm
going back in."

Gareth's eyes were wild.
"'Sdeath, Lucien, the whole stairway's on fire, you'll be killed!" he
cried, struggling to tear free.

"I will not leave Andrew in
there, and I will not allow you to risk your life in an attempt to save him.
You have a wife and family to think of, Gareth.  I do not.  Now do as you're
told, damn it!"

He shoved Gareth away from him,
sending him sprawling to the floor.  As Gareth stared up at him in hurt
surprise, the duke of Blackheath turned his back on both brothers and strode quickly
toward the closed door, determined to meet his own death, if need be, with all
the courage and dignity that had marked generations of ancestors before him.

"Lucien," Charles
gasped, trying to stagger to his feet.  "Wait.  Wait!"

But Lucien did not wait.

Charles was on his feet.  Gareth was
right beside him.  The two younger brothers exchanged glances; then, as one,
they ran toward Lucien, who never turned around, who ignored them as he did the
heat and choking black smoke that came surging down out of the stairwell as he
opened the door.

Charles seized the duke's elbow,
yanked backwards with all his strength, and hurled him violently into Gareth's
waiting arms.  The force with which he threw Lucien tumbled both his brothers
to the floor.

"Hold him there, Gareth, and
don't let him up," Charles ordered, his eyes blazing into Lucien's as he
donned the wool coat that had been on the king's shoulders, seized a pail of
water from one of the bucket brigade, and raising it high, poured it over
himself.  "And if he tries to follow me, hit him.  Hard.  Do you
understand me?"

Gareth's eyes gleamed.  "I
understand perfectly — captain."  And then, restraining Lucien with
one arm locked around his neck, he watched Charles walk away, his pride and
admiration in his brother renewed.

But Charles never saw it.  The
dripping coat pulled up and over his head, he was already through the door and
heading back up through the smoke.

~~~~

It was like stepping into a
furnace.

Smoke clogged the stairwell and
banked down and around him.  Already, the ancient panelled wood of the stairway
was charring, and by the time Charles got halfway up the stairs, it was on
fire.

"Andrew!  Andrew!"

No answer.

He held the wet coat over his
head, trying to give himself a pocket of air to breathe, trying to keep the
blinding, stinging, smoke from his eyes.  Growing dizzy, unable to see, he
reached out to get his bearings.  Just as quickly he jerked his hand back,
cursing with the pain.  "Andrew!  By God, where are you?"

He charged up the rest of the
stairs.  Behind him, flames were already licking, blocking the way out, chasing
him up the stairway.  The heat intensified, sucking the water from his coat,
baking him inside of it.  His earlobes must surely be on fire.  His eyebrows
were shrinking up into tiny singed knots.  By God, Andrew, where the devil
are you?  Had his brother bolted back into the laboratory and barred the
door?  Had he fled to the roof, desperate to save his precious flying machine?
Had he jumped out a window to dubious safety?

Please, God, let me get to him
in time!

He ripped open the door to the
laboratory, staggered inside, and slammed it shut behind him, trying to buy
just a few more seconds, knowing that way of escape was now permanently
blocked.

"Andrew!"

Nothing but the savage roar of
the fire, all around him.

"An-dreeeeeew!"

It was like being blind all over
again, only a hundred, thousand, million times worse.  Coughing, wheezing,
unable to see through the smoke, Charles fell to his hands and knees and began
feeling along the floor, so hot now that it was roasting his palms through his
gloves.  Horrible, toxic chemical fumes mixed with smoke and pushed into his
face, up his nose, trying to drive him back, trying to drive him toward
unconsciousness and death.  He shoved a fold of the damp coat against his face,
strained the air through it, and continued searching the floor, his palms
blistering, his knees screaming with the agony.  And there!  His desperate hand
found a leather shoe; a silk-clad calf.  A still arm.

"Andrew!"

Whether dead or merely
unconscious, his brother didn't answer him.  Cursing, Charles grasped Andrew
around the shoulders and began dragging him across the floor toward where the
windows must surely be.

Slow, painful progress.  The
terrible roar of the fire, the crash of falling timbers beyond the door,
sections of the floor going up in colored flames, weird, horrible, chemical
smells.  Chunks of burning plaster rained down from above, and his nostrils
flared with the acrid stench of singed hair, smoldering clothes.  His lungs
contracted with the heat, refused to expand, and his eyes, his nose, his throat
began to close up.

We're not going to make it.

He couldn't breathe.  He couldn't
see.  Keep crawling!  Dizziness made him reel.  Keep crawling, damn
you!  His chin struck the floor as he fell, his lower teeth clipping the
tip of his tongue.  Blood filled his mouth.  He dragged his head up, dragged
himself up, kept going, keep going!, one elbow locked around Andrew's
chest as he pulled himself along with one hand and burning knees, unable to
hear even his own cries of pain, of desperation.  It's no use.  A
burning timber crashed down ten feet from his face, brilliant orange through
the black smoke.  He shoved his face into his sleeve, trying to draw breath.  Keep
going!  But there was nowhere to go, no way out, and when he fell a second
time, then a third time, he knew he was fighting a battle he could never win.

A strange, not unpleasant
euphoria came drifting over him, lulling him down into darkness, calling him
away from the agony against and inside him, and the horrible death that now
seemed imminent.  The horrible death that neither he nor Andrew would escape.

With the last of his strength,
Charles fell over Andrew, trying to cover him with his body, to shield him from
the flames until the very end.

And as he lay there with his arms
around his brother, the fire all around them, unconsciousness beginning to draw
him down, down into its seductive net, his dying brain ran desperately,
frantically back through a lifetime of memories . . . and he was once again in
the proud regimentals of the King's Own, galloping through a wooded field in
faraway Concord, bullets raining all around him.

He was once again carrying Ensign
Gillard to safety, with no thought for himself.

Once again falling against a rock
— and failing everyone, most of all himself.

Pathetic wreckage . . . pathetic
wreckage . . . pathetic wreckage . . .

"Charles!"

Someone was calling him, forcing
him back to himself, to reality.  Dazedly, he raised his head.  The fire was
all around them now.  His arms tightened fiercely, protectively, around Andrew.

"Charles . . . get off me .
. . I can't breathe."

Andrew . . . oh, God, why did
you have to wake up?

"Charles?  The Contraption .
. . it's our only chance."

"What?"

"It'll get us out of here .
. . if you can only get us up onto the roof.  You can do it, Charles.  I know
you can.  They all know you can — even Lucien.  Come on, Charles, get up . .
."

"Damn you, Andrew," he
croaked hoarsely, and then he was on his hands and knees, one hand locked around
his brother's in a grip that even death would never break, calling on all of
his strength, all of his determination, all of the things that had made him the
officer he had once been — and hauling them both toward the door to the roof.

He stumbled over debris and yanked
the door open.  A blast of cold night air laced with rain swept in, making the
fire roar all the louder, causing the tears rushing down his face to change to
ones of gratitude.  Andrew in tow, he dragged himself through the door, and,
somehow managing to get his brother into his arms, carried him up the stairs
and onto the roof.

And there it was.

Andrew's flying machine, which
had never been tested, which had never been flown, which offered them their
only chance of survival.  It lay silent and waiting, a fragile, flimsy, winged
thing poised in a huge catapult that was already cranked back and ready to hurl
its occupants toward death — or the history books.

He set Andrew down.

And now flames were licking up
through the roof, smoke curling and rising like little snakes beneath Charles's
grimy, blackened shoes.  He felt a terrible rumbling beneath him and knew the
floors were falling in, and down below on the lawn, so far, far down
below on the lawn, he could see hundreds of people, some holding torches, some
pointing up toward the roof, all yelling, shouting, "Jump!  For God's
sake, Charles, jump!"

He backed up, turned, and when he
looked at Andrew, he saw this his brother had dragged himself to his invention
and was looking expectantly up at him.

"Come, Charles — time is
running out."

"But Andrew, it's only
designed to carry one person . . . you calculated it could reach the moat if
something went wrong but that was for one, not two people . . . there's twice
the weight between the two of us, we'll never make it!"

But Andrew only shut his eyes on
a tired little smile.  "Go on, Charles, buckle us in," he whispered.
"I had faith in you . . . now have a little faith in me."

I had faith in you . . . now
have a little faith in me.

His knees quaking like the roof
beneath him, Charles squatted down and buckled the harness around himself, his
fingers shaking so badly that Andrew had to do up the last catches.  Around
him, the flames were roaring up through the roof now.  Sweat pouring from his
face, he wrapped his arms around Andrew, who in turn reached up to grasp the
leather handholds sewn beneath the Contraption's wings, glowing eerily now as
the fire punched through the roof all around and behind it.

"Oh, God," said
Charles, squeezing his eyes shut.  "Oh, God help us . . ."

"You ready, Charles?"

At that moment, the roof began to
cave in, flames shot up into the black sky —

And Andrew pulled the lever.

Chapter 30

It was a demonstration that the king,
standing outside with two hundred people and staring up at the roof, would
never forget.

At the very moment that the
building began to cave in, something that looked like a giant bat shot out from
the top of the duke of Blackheath's roof, blazing across the sky like a comet.  Two
hundred voices rose in a single horrified scream.  Ladies fainted and horses
bolted and hearts stopped in frozen chests.

The Contraption was coming down.

Coming down in a graceful,
gliding arc.

Coming down from a height of
nearly a hundred feet — straight toward Lucien's lawn.

If the hand of God intervened
that night, and everyone there would swear that it did, it was apparent not
once, but twice.

The first miracle was the rain
that suddenly came pouring out of the sky, aiding the bucket brigade in their
eventually successful attempt to contain the fire to the ballroom and thus save
Blackheath Castle.

The second was the fact that at
the very moment the flying machine began to dip its nose toward the lawn,
carrying Lord Charles and Lord Andrew to their certain deaths, an immense,
roaring fireball roiled up and out of the collapsing building behind them,
lighting up the night and creating a violent blast of turbulence that rocked
the air for several hundred feet around.

Fortunately for Charles and
Andrew, that same blast of turbulence was enough to propel the Contraption
another sixty feet.  Its wings afire and trailing ribbons of smoke, it sailed
straight over everyone's heads, straight over the waiting carriages, and down
into the moat.

"Bravo!" cried the
king, clapping.  "Bravo!"

Charles and Andrew, of course,
were not clapping.  Death by drowning was only marginally better than death by
fire.  As everyone ran toward the moat, it was Lord Gareth who dived into the
ice-cold water, swam to the rescue of the stunned victims, and pulled them out
of the wreckage.  Swimming back to shore, he gave Andrew into the care of a
relieved Lucien, and Charles into the arms of his Indian princess.

Around them, everyone was
cheering.

"Never have I seen
such selfless courage!" cried the king, his voice hoarse from the smoke as
he rushed over to where Charles lay, pale, drenched and shivering, in Amy's
arms.  "Not only did you save my life, you saved your brother's, you saved
everyone in the ballroom, and you saved the duke's home.  Bravo, Charles!  Or
should I say Major de Montforte, now?"

Charles dragged open his eyes.
"I . . . beg your pardon?"

"Major de Montforte!  From
now on I want you here in England, not wasted off across the ocean fighting
those damned rebels!  An appointment at Horse Guards is just the thing, and a
hefty cash grant from the privy purse as well, what?  Fine show you put on
tonight, Major!  Fine show!"

He went to Andrew and
congratulated him as well.  "Keep up the good work, Andrew — glad I didn't
have to try it myself!"  Then, after a private word with Lucien, who
managed to look unruffled and unscathed by the near-catastrophe, the king
departed for his waiting coach, his party of attendants trailing in his wake.

The excitement over, the rain
beating down, the guests also put the sizzling wreckage behind them and began
to leave for their carriages.

Affecting a heavy sigh, Lucien
accepted a blanket from a servant, walked up to where Charles lay, and draped
it over him.  Then, folding his arms across his chest, he tilted his head back,
and thoughtfully regarded the blazing ruins of his ballroom.

"Pity," he said, with a
rueful little smile, still gazing at the conflagration.  "But I suppose
that part of the house was due for renovation anyhow.  I think I shall have it
redone in the new classical style . . . what do you think, Major?"

"I think that's the last
ball of yours I will ever attend."

"Now really, Charles.  You
wound me."  He knelt down, and, lifting one of Charles's hands, turned it
palm upward, shaking his head as he examined the blistered red flesh through
the burned-out glove.  "And you have wounded yourself.  How fortunate that
you have someone to take such good care of you."  His black eyes, which
gave away nothing, found Amy's as he stood up.  "You will take care
of him, won't you, my dear?"

"Oh, I'll take care of him, Your
Grace," she vowed, tenderly smoothing Charles's singed wet hair from his
face.  "After all, I've done it before, haven't I, Charles?"

"You certainly have."
He shut his eyes, pulled her head down to his, and found her lips in a deep,
searching kiss.  And when he finally broke it and looked up, there was everyone
gazing down at him, grinning so fiercely he thought their faces would split.
Lucien, one brow raised, but otherwise as composed as ever.  Gareth and Juliet,
standing arm and arm, their eyes shining.  A battered Andrew, Nerissa, Perry,
Chilcot, the villagers, and everyone else whom Lucien must have used — either
directly or indirectly, knowingly or unknowingly — to prove to Charles that he
was not only forgiven, but loved, respected and admired.  They were all there,
too.

And at that moment Charles's
thoughts raced back to the time he'd lain blind and helpless in Sylvanus
Leighton's house, with only Amy to look after him in his days of darkest
despair.  He recalled how many moments they'd shared together, how much they'd
come to mean to each other, and a huge knot of emotion closed the back of his
throat as the full magnitude of his love for this woman nearly crushed him beneath
its weight.  He could never live without her.  Ever.  And this time, of course,
he had no guilt over Juliet, no feelings of self-doubt, and absolutely no
reason this side of heaven not to give in to his most fervent desire:  to be
with Amy, always.

He had come full circle, then.

He was the man he had always
been.

The Beloved One.

Charles tilted his head back
within Amy's arms and, looking up into her eyes, saw such a wealth of love for
him there that he thought his heart was going to come bursting right out of his
chest.

He lifted her hand to his lips.
"Amy.  My dearest, precious Amy.  I love you.  Will you marry me?"

Her eyes suddenly misty, she
looked up at Lucien.

He only smiled.  "I believe,
my dear, that the traditional reply is 'I will."

Epilogue

Lucien's wedding gift to the
bride and groom was nothing short of magnificent.

Built of honey-colored stone and
commanding several hundred acres of fields and pastures, Lynmouth Park, just
ten miles southwest of London, was all that a promising young major and his
lovely wife could have wanted.  Now, in September, the air smelled spicy, the
sun was hanging lower in the sky, and the willows ringing the ornamental pond
dropped leaves that lay curled and yellow in the grasses and floated upon the
still, cold water below.  Geese gathered and began to migrate; hawthorn shed
vibrant red berries; the air grew cooler and thistledown drifted in the wind,
floating lazily over fields of wheat long since harvested.

And in an upstairs bedroom of the
elegant house, the newest de Montforte was being born.

Charles was as distraught as
Lucien had ever seen him, pacing back and forth in the drawing room while
above, Amy screamed in pain as another contraction seized her.

Charles blanched.  Droplets of
sweat beaded his brow.

"Do sit down, Charles,"
Lucien murmured, not looking up from where he sat calmly writing a letter.  The
duke, along with his siblings and Juliet — whose presence Amy had specifically
requested — had arrived a fortnight ago so they could all be together for the
grand event.  "I daresay you're expending as much effort on delivering
this child as Amy is."

"Yes, I wonder which one
will be more exhausted when it's over?" teased Gareth, lounging on a
nearby sofa and bouncing a leg over one bent knee.

Charles kept pacing.  "I
won't sit down, I can't sit down, I can't rest, I can't eat, I can't think
until I know that both of them are all right!"

Gareth, with his new son Gabriel
in his arms and Charlotte playing on the floor nearby, fought hard to contain
his laughter.  Having recently gone through the same hell as Charles was
currently experiencing — and behaving just as abominably — he considered
himself quite the expert on such matters.  He looked at Charles and grinned.

"Yes, Luce is quite right,
Charles.  All you're doing is wearing a hole in the carpet.  Amy'll be just
fine."

"But those screams!  I
cannot bear to hear them!"

Lucien dipped his quill in the
ink bottle.  "Then go outside, my dear Charles, so that you do not have
to hear them."

For answer, Charles only threw
himself down in the nearest chair.  Raked a hand through his hair.  Jumped to
his feet, poured himself a drink, and continued his pacing.

Moments later, a particularly
harsh scream came from above, followed by the thin, lusty wail of a child.
Charles dropped his glass and bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a
time as he sprinted to his wife's aid.

In his wake, Gareth and Lucien
merely exchanged amused glances.

"A girl," said Gareth.
"I'll bet you ten pounds on it."

"No, no, Gareth.  It will be
a boy.  It has to be a boy.  I hope to God it's a boy, since it seems
that the next heir to Blackheath is going to have to come down through Charles,
not me."

"Come now, Luce, you have
plenty of time to marry and get an heir of your own."

Lucien arched a brow.
"What, and put myself through the hell that you two go through every time
you become a father?  I think not . . ."

Upstairs, Charles was running
headlong down the corridor toward the closed door of Amy's room.  Nerissa stood
just outside, arms folded, barring his way.  She saw his panicked face, his
wild eyes, as from behind the door, the baby's wailing intensified.
"Really, Charles.  Are you all right?"

"Never mind me, are they
all right?!"

His sister smiled with
infuriating sweetness.  "Why don't you go in and see for yourself?"

He lunged for the door.

Nerissa grabbed the handle,
laughing.  "Ah!  Sedately, brother dear!"

He willed himself to calm down,
his hands, his body, his very nerves, shaking.  His throat felt dry and he
feared his knees were going to give out and he had to take several gulping
breaths to get himself under control.

Nerissa, smiling, opened the
door.

And there was Amy, propped up on
pillows, her face pale, wan, exhausted — radiant.  Juliet stood beside the bed,
sponging her brow and grinning as the midwife wrapped the tiny, squalling
bundle in a blanket and placed it on Amy's chest.  The old woman raised her
head as she saw the lord of Lynmouth standing there, looking as though the gods
had just struck him to stone with a bolt of lightning.

"Congratulations, m'lord.
You 'ave a little girl."

Charles stood frozen, afraid to
come any closer.  Amy turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him, her eyes
suddenly misty beneath their fan of thick black lashes.  For a long moment the
two gazed at each other; then Charles moved forward, toward the bed, toward the
crying child.  He never noticed that Juliet and the midwife stole from the
room.

"Amy," he breathed,
staring down at the tiny, wailing bundle that their love had made.  "Oh,
Amy . . ."

"Want to hold her?"

Charles paled, unable to forget
when Gareth had asked him much the same thing before placing Charlotte in his
arms.  He remembered the terrible awkwardness of that moment, the crushing love
he'd thought to feel for the toddler but hadn't, the mixed hurt and relief when
Charlotte had suddenly started crying and reached for Gareth.  Now, he stood
frozen and uncertain, desperately wanting to hold the baby, desperately afraid
to for fear that it would be a repeat of the last time he'd held his own
flesh-and-blood.  Especially as this one was a red-faced, black-haired,
puckered bundle of screaming misery.

"Go ahead," Amy
prompted.  "She won't bite."

Swallowing hard, Charles reached
down.

Put his hands around his tiny
daughter.

And gingerly picking her up,
cradled her tiny body to his chest.

Instantly, the baby stopped
crying — and Charles felt as though the mallet of the gods had just smote him
across the heart.  A wall of emotion nearly cracked his chest and closed his
throat, and for a moment he could do nothing but gulp back the huge lump there
as he cupped the baby's head in his palm and stared reverently down at her.
With a shaking hand, he touched one curled, tiny fist.  Smoothed the downy-soft
hair.  Kissed the red and wrinkled brow and then, moisture sparkling on his own
gold lashes, he looked over at Amy, whose eyes were dark with love as she
watched the two of them together.

"I think she's going to be
Papa's little girl," she said softly.

"Oh, Amy," he blurted,
in a raw, hoarse voice.  "Oh, dearest, the world itself is not big enough
to hold all the love I have for you . . . for this little girl.  Thank you for
making me the happiest man in England — not just once this year, but
twice."  Still cradling his daughter, he got down on his knees before the
bed, took Amy's arm, and, kissing her palm, pressed it to his cheek to stop the
sudden flood of emotion.

A droll ahem came from the
doorway.

"My, my, have you ever seen
such a nauseatingly tender, sickeningly domestic, scene?" drawled a voice
that was, despite the words, ripe with amusement.  Turning, Charles saw Lucien,
with Gareth, Nerissa, and Juliet standing beside him.  "Congratulations.
And what will our newest de Montforte be named, eh?"

"Mary," said Charles,
getting to his feet.  "After both our mothers."

"Mary Elizabeth," Amy
added, gazing at her husband and daughter.

"A girl, then,"
murmured Lucien.

"A girl."  Charles came
forward, holding a fold of the blanket back so that everyone could see his
daughter.  He was beaming with excitement.  Bursting with pride.  "Isn't
she just beautiful?  Have you ever seen anything so precious?  Look at her
little fingers!  Look at that head of black hair!  Look how perfect, how sweet,
how exquisite she is —"

Lucien shook his head, secretly
amused that something so tiny could reduce not only a de Montforte, but an army
major, to this.  With a heavy sigh, he raised a brow and looked at the
Wild One.  "It would seem, my dear Gareth, that I owe you ten pounds after
all," he murmured, with a rueful smile that could not disguise his delight
in having yet another niece to spoil.  "Though how you knew it would be a
girl is beyond me."

A sudden gust of wind lashed the
window, peppering it with rain.  "That's how I knew," said
Gareth, handing Gabriel to Juliet and picking up a squirming Charlotte.
"With a storm on the make, how could we have expected anything but
a female!"

Laughter rang around the room at
his wry observation.  Congratulations and well-wishes were said, and Mary
Elizabeth de Montforte was passed around so that all could see her.  After
inspecting his new niece, Lucien, feeling more than a little smug for his part
in getting yet another brother safely married off, moved to the door.

"I say, Luce, where are you
going?" Charles asked.

Lucien smiled.  "Well, someone's
got to tell Andrew," he said.  And then, bowing to the ladies, he left the
happy throng behind him and made his way downstairs.

Outside, the wind was picking
up.  Donning his coat and pulling his sleeves straight, Lucien paused at a
window, already streaked with rain.  The sky was growing dark, spreading its
dire gray gloom across a lawn that had been, just an hour before, bright with
sun.  And there, strolling beneath a row of ancient chestnuts, was Andrew.
Aside from a paleness that lent him an almost otherworldly quality, he appeared
to be quite normal.  But Lucien knew differently.

There was nothing
"normal" about the Defiant One at all.

And now, as a flock of starlings
was buffeted across the brooding gray sky, Lucien saw his brother, a notebook
in his hand, pause to stare up at them.  The wind tore at his hair and made the
branches above his head bounce and claw at the roiling clouds.  Andrew jotted
something down, then moved on, writing as he went.  A second later a branch as
thick around as Lucien's thigh crashed down where he had been, missing him by
inches.

Andrew, head still bent as he
wrote, merely kept on walking.

Nothing normal about the
Defiant One at all.

For a long moment, Lucien stood
there, watching that slim, preoccupied figure moving across the lawn.  Then, he
took off his coat, went to Charles's desk, and pulled out another sheet of
vellum.

It was time to face reality.

Time to seek help.

Time to write the letter he'd
been putting off for far too long.

He dipped his pen in the ink and
began to write.

Dr. Salcombe,

Your name was given to me by
an acquaintance who informs me that you have vast experience in the field of
strange and startling phenomena.  Nine months ago, my youngest brother Andrew
survived a fire that badly injured his lungs and caused his family, in the
ensuing months, to fear that his every breath would be his last.  Though my
brother is no longer in need of medical attention and to the naked eye seems to
be quite recovered, it is obvious that the cocktail of burning chemicals he
inhaled that day has left him permanently changed in a way that I can only
describe as . . . strange.

If you would be so kind as to
come to Blackheath Castle near the Berkshire village of Ravenscombe at your
earliest convenience to observe my brother without his being aware of your
interest, I am sure you will find the challenge both scientifically — and
financially — rewarding.

Blackheath

Lucien folded and sealed the
letter.

And then, picking up his coat
once more, he went outside into the gathering storm.

###

-- the end --

Keep reading for
an extra-special sneak peek of THE
DEFIANT ONE

the 3rd book in
the De Montforte Brothers Series!

About the Author:

Bestselling,
multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written
ten books, previously published in print and distributed in many languages
worldwide. A Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain, though these
days, she and her English husband make their home in New England with their
daughter Emma and numerous animals including three dogs, an Egyptian Arabian
horse, and a flock of pet chickens. Danelle welcomes email from her readers and
can be reached at Danelle@danelleharmon.com or through any of the means listed
below:

Connect with me
online!

email:
Danelle@danelleharmon.com

Danelle Harmon on Facebook

Danelle Harmon's Website

Danelle Harmon on Twitter

Danelle Harmon on Pinterest

Want to know when
the next new title from DANELLE HARMON is released?

Click here!

Discover more books
from internationally bestselling author DANELLE HARMON

at Amazon.com:

THE DE MONTFORTE
BROTHERS SERIES:

THE
WILD ONE (Book 1 - FREE for your Kindle!)

THE BELOVED ONE (Book
2)

THE
DEFIANT ONE (Book 3)

THE
WICKED ONE (Book 4)

and also:

Danelle Harmon’s
romantic and bestselling HEROES OF THE SEA Series!

MASTER OF MY DREAMS

The emotional and
unforgettable story of a tough Royal Navy captain and the beautiful Irish
stowaway who teaches him how to love once again

An Amazon KINDLE Top
Ten Bestselling Historical Romance!

An Amazon KINDLE
#1 Bestseller (Sea Adventures)!

Book #1 of Danelle
Harmon’s Bestselling HEROES OF THE SEA Series!

# # #

CAPTAIN
OF MY HEART

(If you enjoyed
this glimpse of Amy’s feisty friend, Mira, in THE BELOVED ONE,
you’ll love her in her own story!)

* * *

Thrilling romantic
adventures aboard the 1778 Yankee privateer schooner Kestrel, captained
by dashing Irishman Brendan Merrick — who meets his match in the outrageous
shipbuilder’s daughter, Mira Ashton!

An Amazon KINDLE
Top Ten Bestselling Historical Romance!

An Amazon KINDLE
#1 Bestseller in Sea Adventures!

Book #2 of Danelle
Harmon’s Bestselling HEROES OF THE SEA Series!

# # #

MY
LADY PIRATE

The sexy,
swashbuckling tale of Pirate Queen of the Caribbean Maeve Merrick
(daughter of Captain Brendan and Mira Merrick from Captain Of My Heart) and the
powerful English hero who is determined to win her heart at all costs.

Winner of Romantic
Times Magazine’s Reviewers Choice Certificate of Excellence!

Winner of Romantic
Times K.I.S.S. Hero Award!

An Amazon KINDLE
Bestseller!

Book #3 of Danelle
Harmon’s Bestselling HEROES OF THE SEA Series!

# # #

Other titles:

WICKED
AT HEART

A
Beauty-and-the-Beast tale of love and redemption between a dark and brooding
marquess and the woman who is determined to heal his tortured heart.

Winner of a
Romantic Times Magazine K.I.S.S. Hero Award!

Nominated for
Romantic Times Magazine’s K.I.S.S. Hero of the Year!

An Amazon KINDLE
Bestseller in Historical Romance!

# # #

TAKEN BY STORM

Disgraced naval
hero Colin Lord wants only to pursue his new career as a London
veterinarian and put his tragic past behind him. But when fugitive heiress Lady
Ariadne St. Aubyn convinces him to help get her prized racehorse to Norfolk
before every reward hunter in England can catch her, Colin finds
himself swept up into an adventure he could never have imagined. A treat for
animal lovers everywhere!

# # #

and…

THE ADMIRAL’S HEART

A sweet and sexy
short story/novella about second chances, with appearances by Captain Brendan
Jay Merrick, Captain Christian Lord, and the de Montforte Brothers!

An Amazon KINDLE
bestseller in Short Stories!

An Amazon KINDLE
bestseller in Anthologies!

~~~~

Want to know when
the next new title from DANELLE HARMON is released?

Click here!

~~~~

And now, for a
sneak peek of the third book in the de Montforte Brothers Series,

THE DEFIANT ONE!

The story of Lord
Andrew de Montforte

Available NOW!

~~~~

Prologue

November, 1777

Lord Andrew de Montforte hadn't
set out to discover an aphrodisiac.

He was an inventor.  He was a man
of science.  He was an attentive student of the laws of physics, nature, and
God.  He was not a crack-brained amateur, some curious schoolboy mixing
random chemicals in the hopes of making a pretty color or getting a violent
reaction.  However, the discovery of the aphrodisiac was just that,  the
product of random mixing, and it resulted in a very interesting reaction
indeed.

It all started when Andrew and
his impossibly interfering, maddeningly Machiavellian eldest brother Lucien,
His Grace the fifth duke of Blackheath, had another furious row concerning
Andrew's questionable health.  Ever since the fire that had so changed the life
of the youngest of the de Montforte brothers, Lucien been calling in reputed
experts in an attempt to "cure" him and return him to the man that he
had been.

All four of the late duke's sons
had been given nicknames by the villagers of Ravenscombe, and Andrew's
sobriquet, "The Defiant One," was well-deserved.  He had been blessed
— or perhaps cursed — with a fiery temper, a strong will, and a blatant
disregard for his brother's ducal wishes, and his only desire was to be left
alone.  He wanted to set about getting a patent for his newest invention, a
double-compartmented coach designed to carry more passengers than the
conventional ones.  He wanted to redeem himself in the eyes of both society and
the scientific community after his flying machine had plummeted to earth eleven
months past, humiliating him in front of not only two hundred onlookers, but
the king of England himself.  And by God, he wanted Lucien to stop calling in
these infernal charlatans — some physicians, some university dons, some men of
the cloth — none of whom had been able to tell him what was wrong.

And now the dogs were barking.
Andrew, standing in the library and making notes from an ancient book of
drawings by Leonardo da Vinci, lifted his head.  He shot a glance at Lucien,
who relaxed near the fire with a book.  His brother never looked up.  Narrowing
his eyes, Andrew gazed out through the leaded windows that overlooked the
meticulously groomed lawns of Blackheath Castle, the copper beeches whose
branches were nearly bare, the sparkling moat beyond.  A gig was coming up the
long drive of crushed stone.

Immediately, his expression
hardened.

Damn you, Lucien!

Incensed, he slammed the book down
on the table, strode past Lucien, and headed for the door.

"Discover something
interesting in that old tome of yours, Andrew?" the duke asked, his
expression benignly innocent as he finally looked up from his own book.

Andrew whirled, his fists
clenched and his eyes full of fire.  "What I've discovered is
another meddling popinjay on his way up the drive, no doubt summoned by you to
poke, prick and prod me, and I'm having none of it."

"Ah, but perhaps Dr. Turner
will be able to cure your problem."

"The devil he will.  My problem
is only getting worse and you know it as well as I do.  There is no cure, I am
a marked man!"

"Which is exactly why I have
asked Dr. Turner to attend you.  He is a most respected authority on —"

"Perhaps I don't want
Dr. Turner to attend me.  Perhaps I don't want any more
bacon-brained pillocks examining me as though I were some freak at the village
fair.  Perhaps I'm sick to death of being treated as if I had no feelings,
thoughts, or dignity, and perhaps you should damn well start minding
your own bloody business for once!"

Andrew stormed out of the room,
slamming the door behind him.

His anger, his resentment, and
yes, even his fear that one of these "experts" would give him the
diagnosis he dreaded burned hotter with every stride he took.  Determined not
to let this latest fool have so much as a glimpse of him, he stalked down the
hall, his height and bad temper making him a formidable presence indeed.  Even
a trio of comely young chambermaids, who usually giggled and blushed behind
their hands when he passed, curtsied and shrank back against Blackheath's
forbidding stone walls, silently staring after his commanding figure as it
moved down the castle's ancient corridors . . .

"'E must've 'ad another row
with 'is Grace, I reckon," said one, sighing as she watched those broad
shoulders round a corner and disappear from sight.

"No doubt about that.  An' I
wager I knows what it's about, too.  Lord Andrew's far smarter than all these
doctors and other learned men that 'e's consented to let examine 'im!  Ye know
'ow well 'e did at Oxford!  Why, I 'spect 'is patience with the lot of 'em must
be pretty well exhausted."

"Can't blame 'im there . .
.  'E's so smart 'e could probably teach them a thing or two!"

Their whispers were lost on
Andrew, who didn't stop until he'd reached his new laboratory on the second
floor of the recently-rebuilt west wing.  Barricading himself in the room, he
splashed port in a glass, drained it I one swallow, and finally threw himself
down at his worktable where he wished both his brother and his manipulations to
hell.

It was only as he stretched his
long legs out beneath the table, and his toes bumped something soft and
yielding, that he realized he was not alone.  He peered under the table and saw
a pair of caramel-colored eyes, sleek, shining fur that was only slightly
redder than his own tousled queue, and a long tail, now thumping the floor in
greeting.

"Esmerelda.  What in blazes
are you doing under there?"  Andrew kept a jar of biscuits on his desk;
opening it, he took one out and offered it to the elegant red and white
setter.  Always the lady, she took it from his fingers, chewing it thoroughly
before swallowing and pleading with her eyes for more.

She was not alone.  Pork, her fat
companion, was down there, too.  Pork belonged to Andrew's sister Nerissa, and
he was as common as Esmeralda was aristocratic.  Seeing that Esmerelda had
received a treat and feeling left out, the bulldog heaved himself out from
beneath the table and waddled up to Andrew.  Pork was in no need of a midday snack, but Andrew was a fair-minded man.  He took another biscuit, gave it to Pork,
and watched as the bulldog bolted the morsel without bothering to chew.
Disgusted, Esmerelda turned her head away from Pork with lofty disdain, one lip
curling as the bulldog sniffed her muzzle.  She was nearly as well bred as the
dukes of Blackheath, and would not suffer the attentions of a common cur like
Pork.

The dogs might have softened
Andrew's surliness if the crunch of gravel outside hadn't reclaimed his
attention.  Moving to the window and craning his neck, he could just see the
doctor's gig, empty now, standing in the drive.  His ears burned.  He knew they
were downstairs discussing him as though he were an object instead of a man,
perhaps, even at this moment, on their way up here to invade his private
sanctuary.  And he could just imagine Lucien walking along with the physician,
describing his "condition" in that suave, careless drawl that could
be so bloody irritating . . .

"You see, Doctor, my brother
was perfectly all right until he was caught in the fire last year.  That's when
he changed . . ."

Andrew clenched his jaw.  Why
don't you just go ahead and say it, Lucien?  Why don't you just go ahead and
tell him what we all know is really wrong with me!

His anger, a worthy defense
against the fear that always lurked beneath, blazed back into force.  The
hell with Lucien.  The hell with all of them.

Mouth hard, pulse starting to
hammer, Andrew turned from the window, smashed a space through the papers and
notes that cluttered his worktable, and dumped a measure of sodium carbonate
into a glass beaker.

"Miserable bastards,"
he snarled, trying to take his mind off the discussion he knew was occurring
downstairs as he absently splashed oil of vitriol into the beaker and watched
it fizz to the top.  "Miserable, interfering bastards . . ."

He poured himself another glass
of port.  It had come from Lucien's private stock and was vintage 1754, the
year Andrew had been born.  He polished off two thirds of the glass in one
swallow and then, as if to show his absent brother just what he thought of both
him and his port, dumped the rest of it into the beaker.  The devil take it.
He threw in some vinegar and some harmless indigo dye and something left over
in a long-forgotten jar, and sat there stewing in his anger as he stared into
the solution without really seeing it.

A loud rap at the door jolted him
from his sullen reverie.  Barking furiously, the dogs shot out from beneath the
table, Pork's stout body catching one of the legs.  The beaker tipped.
Cursing, Andrew grabbed it just in time to save most of the contents, but a
stream of purple-garnet liquid spilled onto the floor, where it hissed and
bubbled and fizzed like a live thing.  The dogs immediately fell on it.
Andrew, desperate to haul them off before they could poison themselves,
immediately fell on the dogs.

"Andrew, open the
door."

"Go to the devil!" he
shouted over a fresh outbreak of barking as he pushed the dogs away, grabbed a
cloth and tried to wipe up the spill.

The duke's voice, still mild, had
an edge to it now.  "Andrew, for the sake of you and you alone, Dr. Turner
has left his research and traveled all the way here from Paris.  Surely you can
spare him a few moments of your time.  After all, we only want what is best for
you."

"I am tired of people who
think they know best for me!"

"Andrew, must you
behave like such a . . . juvenile?"

Balling the damp cloth and
hurling it across the room, Andrew stalked to the door and tore it open.

There stood the duke, looking as
impeccably contained as ever, one black brow arching in that unique mixture of
reproach and hauteur that he'd probably mastered by the time he was old enough
to crawl.  He was gazing most intently beyond Andrew's shoulder.

With him stood an erect,
white-haired gentleman whose kind, intelligent eyes were widening with shock as
he, too, stared at something behind Andrew.

Andrew scowled, turned on his
heel —

And froze.

His jaw dropped open.  For there
was fat, drooling, bug-eyed Pork, struggling quite valiantly to climb up on
Esmerelda's aristocratic haunches.

And she was not only letting him,
but crouching to make his amorous ascent easier!

"Good God above,"
Andrew breathed, in astonishment.  "I daresay I've discovered an aphrodisiac!"

Chapter 1

Rosebriar Park

Near Windsor, England

"I don't care how much he
claims to adore me, I am not marrying him, Gerald.  He has no chin.  He has no
teeth.  The only thing he does have is a surname that would make me the
laughingstock of England were I to accept his offer.  I'm telling you right
now, I am not accepting it."

"Now really, Celsie, you're
being ridic —"

"I'm being
ridiculous?  How would you like to be known as Celsiana Bonkley?
I've told you once, and I will tell you again.  I will not marry Sir Harold.
Not now, not next week, not ever."

Trying to keep a rein on his
patience, trying to ignore the headache that some thirty or forty barking,
baying, chaos-causing dogs running loose across the dance floor were bringing
on, Gerald, the third and very-much-in-debt Earl Somerfield, stared angrily out
over the crowded ballroom of Rosebriar Park, his stepsister's vast Berkshire
estate.  Here was the cream of the English aristocracy in all its glittering
array.  Here were decorated generals, French princes, Scottish lairds, famous
statesmen.  One would think that with such splendid pickings to choose from,
she wouldn't have any trouble finding an acceptable mate.  But not Celsie.  She
had standards, and Gerald was beginning to doubt there was a man in the kingdom
who could meet them.

"Besides," she added,
playfully swatting him with a fan upon which was painted a trio of Russian
wolfhounds, "he hasn't yet asked me."

"And what are you going to
say to him when he does?"

"Why, the same thing I say
to every man who asks to marry me."

"Blazes take it, Celsie, not
that —"

"Yes, that."  She
grinned, enjoying his discomfort.  "Honestly, Gerald, I cannot understand
why you're so upset.  I know Bonkley's a friend of yours, but I really don't want
to get married.  You know what happened the last time I tried to become
someone's wife."

"Listen, Celsie, just
because Lord Hammond died at your betrothal feast doesn't mean that every
prospective bridegroom is going to choke to death on a pea!"

"Yes, well, you're
forgetting the marquis de Plussons."

"The marquis reneged because
that damn dog of yours bit him!"

"Regardless, Gerald, my feet
are tired from walking to altars, and I am not inclined to try it again.  To be
quite honest, I was not inclined to try it the first — let alone the second —
time, but Papa, God rest his soul, thought he knew best for me.  I am tired of
people who think they know best for me.  And now here you go again, trying to
pass me off on yet a third one, and what will he succumb to?"

"Dogs, probably," said
Gerald, acidly.

"Probably not, as none of my
dogs would deign to lick the face of one whose breath smells worse than the
inside of a chamber pot."

"For God's sake, would you
lower your voice?"  He shooed off a merry-eyed little turnspit dog that
had taken a sudden interest in his shoe.  "It's bad enough that tongues
are already wagging about you!"

She smiled sweetly.  "Are
they?"

"Yes, and you know it!
Sometimes I swear you delight in making a spectacle of yourself!  In making
people talk!  Only you would dare throw a ball to benefit homeless animals!
Only you would stand up in front of all Society and make a ridiculous speech
about the plights of cart horses, stray cats, and kitchen dogs!  And to ask
people to not only donate time and money towards such nonsense, but to invite
them to bring their pets along to this . . . this debacle!  Get off my shoe!
I swear, Celsie, if I step in one more pile of —"

"I do believe I'm
thirsty," she said breezily, only the sudden glitter in her eyes belying
her anger with Gerald and his endless diatribes.  God in heaven, why was he so
intent on trying to marry her off?  Why did he feel that her business was his
own?  And plague take it, her speech imploring her guests to consider the sad
plight of turnspit dogs had not been ridiculous, it had been . . .
impassioned!  Men!  Scooping up the little turnspit, she turned her back
on Gerald and moved off through the crush, leaving her stepbrother standing
there with his cheeks turning a dark, ugly red.

Whispers followed her across the
ballroom, and through the chaotic barking, the laughter of dancers, the strains
of the music, Celsie thought she heard every one.

"My God, would you look at
her.  A damned pity she wasn't born a man.  She could teach the lords in
Parliament a thing or two about putting some fire in their speeches, ha ha
ha!"

"I just can't believe that's
the same shy little chit we all wrote off when she was presented for her first
Season."

"Well, she was ugly,
uglier than the arse end of a mule."

"Gawkier than hell,
too."

"Remember how you tripped
her and made her cry when she was presented at Court, Taunton?  My God, that
was funny!"

"Well, she had more spots on
her face than eyes on a spud."

"And no tits, either."

"And now look at her."

"Still hasn't got any
tits."

"No, but she owns half of
southern England.  To hell with the rest of her!"

Yes, to hell with the rest of
me, Celsie thought bitterly, cuddling the little dog and leaning her cheek
against its grizzled head as she walked.  And to hell with you, too.

Cradling the turnspit to her
sadly-deficient bosom, she continued past the group of swains with head held
high.  Though she was named for a variety of that most romantic of all flowers,
Celsiana knew she was no English rose.  She was too tall.  She was too skinny.
Her face was a collection of angles, with a thin blade of a nose, high
cheekbones, and frosty, peridot eyes as cool as a leaf of spearmint.  People
say you look like your dog.  Well, she looked like an emaciated greyhound.

But she was rich, wasn't she?

And that, she thought woefully,
made her far more desirable than a full bosom, rosy cheeks, and one of those
curvy little bodies that men seemed to so adore.

Yes, to hell with all of you.
She reached the refreshment tables, put the turnspit down, and coaxed a
frightened whippet out from beneath the cloth with a handful of sugared almonds
plucked from a nearby dish.  Her own dog, Freckles, a large brown and white
Spanish pointer who'd been just a pup when Papa had given him to her for her
tenth birthday, lay beneath the table.  His dark eyes were now cloudy with age
as he watched the other canines crowding around his mistress, the whippet
nuzzling her hand for more treats.  Celsie swallowed hard and hugged the
animals to her, trying to forget the hurtful words she's just heard.  At least
Gerald made no secret of the fact that he despised her.  Even her own mama, who
hopped from bed to bed like fleas on a foxhound, had openly disdained and
neglected her once it had become apparent that her infant daughter hadn't
inherited her own famous beauty.  Hurt, hurt, hurt.  Dogs, at least, were
loyal, non-judgmental, and loved you for who you were — not for what you looked
like, or how you behaved, or how much money your dear papa left you when he died.

Oh, if only there were such a
thing as a man who loved as unconditionally as dogs did!

Straightening up, Celsie brushed
the sugar from her hands and gazed out over the sea of powdered heads.  Dancers
whirled and spun in a maelstrom of color, the women laughing gaily, the men —
well, a depressing few of them, anyhow — tall, handsome and elegant in their
powdered wigs and rich satins and velvets.  She felt detached, excluded, an
outcast in her own house.  But she would not ruin the evening by thinking about
how cruel and shallow people really were.  Better that she return her attention
to this ball she had given to raise awareness about the plight of the
turnspits, those tiny dogs enslaved by cooks to turn the spits that roasted
their meats.

She had just pasted a smile back
on her face and accepted a glass of punch when she spotted both Gerald and Taunton
pushing their way through the crowd from opposite directions and making their
way toward her.  Oh, bother!

"Time for some fresh
air," she declared, handing her glass to Gerald, who reached her first.
"Here comes Taunton, homing in on me like a beagle on a hare."

"Really, Celsie, must every
analogy you use have to relate to dogs?"

She was just opening her mouth to
deliver a tart reply when the latest arrivals were announced.

"His Grace the duke of
Blackheath . . . Lord Andrew de Montforte . . . Lady Nerissa de
Montforte."

Instantly, all movement in the
ballroom seemed to stop, and even the barking dogs quieted as anyone who was
Anyone — and anyone who wanted to be an Anyone — converged on the newly arrived
trio, bowing, scraping, posturing, smiling.  Sycophants, all of them,
thought Celsie, who had no patience for opportunists and hangers-on.
Nevertheless, she was grateful that the duke and his siblings had come, for the
presence of the de Montfortes, a family renowned for its generous contributions
to society and famed for its extraordinary good looks, would put the seal of
approval on her charity ball.  Only the king of England himself might have
endorsed it better.

"I say, Lady
Celsiana!"  Celsie nearly leaped out of her gown.  She had forgotten all
about Taunton, who had managed to corner her behind the refreshment table.  He
was dark-haired, with merry blue eyes and a slightly lopsided smile, saved from
classic handsomeness by a nose that was too big for his face and a certain lack
of chin.

Celsie frowned.  What was
it about these chins tonight?

He was also drunk.

Disgustingly so.

"I say, Lady Celsiana!"
he repeated, falling — quite literally — to his knees and clutching her hand
for balance.  He pressed it to his lips and immediately frowned; it had just
been licked by the turnspit and was still faintly slimy.  "Would you do me
the honor of becoming my wife?"

Taunton's earlier words came back
to her.  No, but she owns half of England.  To hell with the
rest of her!

Celsie gazed down at him, arched
a brow, and said in a high, clear voice, "And would you, Lord Taunton,
allow my dogs to sleep in the marriage bed if I were to accept your
offer?"

Taunton sobered.  Shocked gasps
nearly drowned out his stunned reply.

"S-sorry?"

She smiled sweetly.  "I
said, would you allow them to sleep in the marriage bed?  I would be much
obliged if you would, for I'm told that her wedding night is a most
frightening event in a woman's life and I would like the comfort of their
company."

The hinges broke in Taunton's
jaw.  Then he leaped to his feet, his cheeks turning as pink as the inside of a
spaniel's ear.  He managed a curt bow, then shot off into the crowd, loud
guffaws following him all the way.

Celsie, her dog-painted fan
pressed to her smirking lips and her eyes twinkling with mirth, smiled
triumphantly after him.

Yes, to hell with the rest of
me.  And my fortune too, you grasping cad.

"I say, madam, that was the
most charming rejection I have heard in some time."

Celsie turned, the smile still
dancing on her lips.  "Your Grace!" she said, curtseying.  "It
is good of you to come."

The duke of Blackheath bowed over
her hand.  "I am glad I did, otherwise I would have missed the delightful
setback you just gave that pup Taunton.  Really, my dear.  You can do better
than him . . . why, the lad has no chin."

Celsie frowned.  Now how on earth
could he have known about her feelings about chins?

"Chins aside," she
said, raising her own, "he doesn't like dogs, either.  I could never marry
a man who doesn't like dogs."

"Ah, yes.  Especially one
who won't tolerate them in your marriage bed."

Celsie stiffened.  The duke had
eyes like nightshade, black, unfathomable . . . omniscient in an unnerving sort
of way.  Was he laughing at her?  Mocking her?  Flustered, she added,
"Never mind that, he would never take in a homeless or suffering
creature as I would  — and do."  She gestured toward the open doors on the
far side of the room.  "Why, I have kennels outside and shelters set up
throughout Berkshire just so these poor little animals will have a second
chance.  I've started a program here in the local village to educate the
children.  I plan to create more of these programs throughout the county, until
every animal is saved."

He was listening intently,
perhaps too intently, his black-ice gaze studying — no, assessing — her
in a way that was making Celsie feel vaguely, inexplicably, uneasy.  Rattled,
she was just about to excuse herself when he gave a slow, spreading, smile that
might have put her at ease if the cunning gleam hadn't remained in his
compelling black stare.  "It seems, my dear, that you have a quite a soft
heart for . . . shall we say, the cast-offs of society?"

"As a castoff myself, I
suppose my empathy is quite natural."

"Surely that is not how you
perceive yourself?"

Her mouth tightened, and,
suddenly fanning her hot face, she gazed stonily at a group of young bucks
gathered around Lady Nerissa de Montforte.  "These are the same people who
took a savage delight in taunting me when I made my debut.  Then, I was just
another young chit on the marriage mart.  But now that Papa has died and left
me everything, they find me irresistible.  Or they pretend to."
She turned and regarded him with defiant eyes.  "Is it no wonder I prefer
the company of animals?  The unconditional love of a dog?"

"My dear girl, you must pay
no attention to Taunton and his sort.  Why, there are plenty of eligible young
men in England, probably right here in this room, who not only could care less
about your fortune —" again, that slightly unnerving smile —" but
would quite happily let your dogs sleep on the bed."

She looked down, finding a sudden
interest in her fan.  "You flatter me, your Grace."

"Do I?  Well, I purposely
sought you out in order to do just that.  Flatter you, that is.  How much more
interesting our world would be if every woman had the sort of courage and
creativity you have displayed here tonight."

"I beg your pardon?"

Raising a hand framed in
expensive lace, he indicated the swell around them, the dogs dashing between
people's legs, the general air of gaiety and carefree abandon.  "Why, this
grand affair, of course, all on behalf of homeless and abused animals.  And
what a novel idea, inviting everyone to bring along their favorite canine to
support your cause . . . though I must confess I had to leave ours at
home."  He gave a rueful sigh.  "Two of them are not, shall I say,
fit to bring out in public at the moment, I am afraid."

"Sorry?"

Blackheath, casually
straightening his sleeve, was gazing out over the crowd from his superior
height.  "It is all quite tragic, really . . ."

"What is quite tragic?"
demanded Celsie, growing alarmed.

He was still looking out over the
room, obviously preoccupied with something else.  "Why, what happened to
them, of course.  They have been most bizarrely affected by a certain solution
of chemicals that my brother Andrew forced them to imbibe.  They are not . . .
themselves."

"A solution of chemicals
that your brother forced them to imbibe?  What do you mean?"

The duke turned his heavy-lidded
stare on her and smiled.  "My dear girl.  Their particular ailment is not
an appropriate topic for a young lady's ears."

"Are you saying that your
mad inventor of a brother has been experimenting on animals?!"

"Did I say that?  Hmm.
Well, yes, I do believe that about sums up the situation.  Experimenting on
animals . . .  Yes.  Andrew always did do things that I heartily disapproved
of, if only to defy me . . .  Ah, there is Mr. Pitt.  If you will excuse me, my
dear?"

He bowed deeply and, leaving her
open-mouthed with indignation, moved off through the crowd.

Celsie stared after him for a
moment.  Then, as her temper flared to life, she drew herself up to her full
height.

Preparing for battle, she went in
search of Lord Andrew.

Chapter 2

She saw him from well across the
ball room.

The first thing she noticed was
that he had a chin.

The second thing she noticed was
that a ring of females surrounded him.

And the third thing she noticed
was that Lord Andrew de Montforte had changed since the last — the only —- time
she'd seen him.  That had been back in '72, when she'd come to London for her
first Season.

She had been a shy, spot-ridden
sixteen-year-old, slouching beneath the awareness of too much height.  He had
been a tall, rather gangly youth with a sullen, lazy insolence about him that
had made him all but unapproachable.  Though Lord Andrew was anything but
gangly now — with shoulders that filled out his frock of dark olive silk and a
height to rival his brother the duke's — time did not seem to have improved his
disposition in the slightest.  Then, as now, a crowd of blushing beauties had
surrounded him like dogs all fighting over the same bone.  Then, as now, Lord
Andrew paid them only the slightest of attention, present in body, perhaps, but
little more.  With his weight slung lazily on one hip, arms crossed, a glass of
champagne dangling from his fingers and the occasional flicker of a distracted
smile — or was it a grimace? — twisting his mouth as he acknowledged each
giggling remark, he gazed out and over the heads of his ardent admirers, his
sleepy, down-turned de Montforte eyes betraying a look that screamed of
boredom.

Not just boredom, but defiance.

It was all too obvious that he
did not want to be here.

It was all too obvious that in
all ways but one, he wasn't.

Probably thinking of his next
way to torture those poor dogs, Celsie thought, recovering her anger.

And for some reason, all those
brainless ninnies swarming around him like wasps on a September apple, drawn by
his broody autumnal looks, his air of ennui, his classic de Montforte
handsomeness — or perhaps a seductive combination of all three — only stoked
the flames of her temper higher.

Well, she was immune to
his broody autumnal looks!  She was immune to his air of ennui!  And she
was immune to classic de Montforte handsomeness, even if he did have a . . .
did have a . . . chin!

Smiling acidly, Celsie slid
through the crowd and came right up to him.

"Lord Andrew."

He took forever to turn his head
and acknowledge her, and when he did, his gaze moved over her in a slow,
assessing way that made her wish that someone made fire shields for the human
body.  "Good evening, Lady Celsiana," he drawled, finally taking his
gaze from her bosom and bowing over her hand.  Was he silently
considering her lack of tits, too?  Something about his negligent,
offhand manner made it seem as though he regarded the gentlemanly courtesy as
the greatest of efforts.  Or sacrifices.  "Interesting party, this."

"Really?  You look about as
interested as an Irish setter over a plate of boiled mushrooms."

"A strange analogy, perhaps,
but nevertheless an honest, and accurate observation.  No offense, of course.
Social events are not my cup of tea."

"Yes, so I gather," she
said tartly.  "I understand that conducting experiments on helpless
animals, is?"

Several women gasped.  Lord
Andrew, ignoring them, raised a brow.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, don't try to pretend
ignorance.  I'm fully aware of what you've done to your dogs!"

"My dear madam, I haven't
the faintest idea what you're babbling about."

"Well then, let me refresh
your memory.  I've heard all about how you force them to drink chemical
solutions so you can note the effect on their poor bodies.  You ought to be
ashamed of yourself."

He stared at her as though she'd
just told him she'd discovered a bridge to the moon.  Around them, all
conversation had ceased.  Celsie's fan beat the air a little faster, and
dampness filmed her palms.  She was getting a crick in her neck from glaring up
at that cool, remote face, but she did not back down.  Neither did Lord
Andrew.  Finally, his mouth, so sullen and angry before, curved into the barest
hint of a smile.  A very dangerous, unpleasant smile.

"Ah.  That."

"Yes, that."

"And just where did you come
by such information, hmm?"

"Your brother."

"My brother."  The thin
smile faded.  "Of course."

Lord Andrew gazed once more over
the heads of the crowd, finally locating the informant, and Celsie swore that
if looks could kill, the duke of Blackheath would have to be carried out in a
coffin.

Not that the duke appeared to
care in the least.  He seemed too busy conversing with Pitt and several Members
of Parliament to pay any notice to the drama that was dominating Celsie's
corner of the ballroom.

She folded her arms.  "So,
what do you have to say for yourself, my lord?"

"Nothing, madam, that must
also be said to you."

"This is a charity ball!
The welfare of animals is the whole reason I'm holding it, and if you're
abusing them, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave!"

He shrugged and took a negligent
sip of his champagne.  "Very well, then.  Ask me, and I will be more than
happy to go."

Celsie stamped her foot.  "Are
you experimenting on animals?"

"It all depends on what you
mean by experimenting."

"You know what I mean by
experimenting, you . . . you mad inventor, you!"

Something in his demeanor
darkened.  It was in the barest tightening of his lips, the chill that suddenly
seemed to emanate from his tall, powerful body.  Though he remained the very
image of unruffled calm, of well-bred élan, there was anger glittering in those
lazy, down-tilted eyes now — and it was directed fully at Celsie.

"Very well then, yes, I
suppose I have done.  Experimented on animals, that is.  Do you want the sordid
details?  Perhaps you wish to hear that I pry open their jaws and pour
solutions down their throats so that I can note the effect on their insides.
Or that I strap them into flying machines before going up myself.  Yes, I
suppose that is experimenting, wouldn't you say?"

His circle of admirers gasped in
horror and stepping back, began twittering amongst themselves.

Lord Andrew smiled and fixed
Celsie with a look of malevolent innocence.

And Celsie was struck speechless.

He saluted her with his glass,
looked once more out over the ballroom, and was just lifting the vessel to his
lips when he suddenly went still.  Frightfully still.  His face lost its color,
he looked up at the ceiling, and for the span of several seconds, his gaze
seemed to turn vacant, as though the man behind those intent,
far-too-intelligent eyes had gone away for a moment or two.  With an unsteady
hand, he put down his glass, shaking his head as though to clear it, and then,
giving Celsie a look of confusion and irritation, he swept her a curt bow.

"Excuse me.  I must
go."

"Go where?  I'm talking to
you!"

He didn't bother to answer,
instead turning smartly on his heel and walking away, through his slack-jawed
admirers, through the crowd, past the gossipy Lady Brookhampton, and towards
the door.

"What's the matter with
him?" whispered one fresh-faced girl.

The others clustered close,
staring after him.  "I don't know!  But did you see the way his eyes got
all distant?  What a pity that one so handsome is also so very strange .
. ."

"Perhaps he is ill?"

Celsie, alarmed, thrust past
them.  "Lord Andrew!  I want to talk to you!"

He never slowed, impatiently
waving aside the servant who ran forward with his hat, desperate to reach the
great doors that led out into the frosty night.

"Lord Andrew!"

He ignored her and pushed through
them, so anxious to get outside that he didn't even wait for a footman to open
them for him.

Celsie picked up her skirts and
ran down the hall after him.  She burst outside — and stopped short in dismay,
her breath frosting the night air.  Over one hundred carriages were lined up
out there on the drive, torch light gleaming from their polished paintwork,
from the bits and buckles of the horses' bridles, from iron wheels and windows
that reflected the clear black night.  Somewhere, a horse whinnied.  A few
giggles came from a nearby coach, where a footman was no doubt dallying with
one of her housemaids.  From inside, she could hear the now-distant sounds of
the musicians, the laughter of the guests.

Lord Andrew was nowhere to be
seen.

Celsie took a deep breath, let it
out, and shivering, sat down on the top step of the stairs, her hoops belling
out around her.  Her frustrated gaze swept the darkened lawn, the distant copse
of trees, the low, black horizon filled with stars.

He didn't really strap
animals into flying machines . . . did he?

She put her head in her hands,
blinking, trying to make sense of his strange behavior and wondering what had
caused him to suddenly flee the ball.  Oh, what a night this was turning out to
be, what a —

"Why, Lady Celsie.  There
you are.  I've been looking for you all evening!"

— bloody, awful night.

"Good evening, Sir
Harold," she murmured, with all the enthusiasm of a hound with heatstroke.

"Celsie, sweetheart, you
shouldn't be out here without a cloak," the baronet chided, sitting down
beside her and taking her hand.  You'll catch your death of a cold!"

"I'll catch my death anyhow,
because that breath of yours is enough to fell a horse," she grumbled.

"I'm sorry, my dear.  What
was that?"

"I said, I'll catch my
breath now, because air is a wonderful resource."

He laughed.  "What a silly
thing to say.  Come, my dear.  Why don't we go back inside?"

"Because I don't want to go
inside.  I want some fresh air."

"Shall we walk, then?"

"I prefer to be alone, Sir
Harold."

"Yes, but being the
gentleman that I am, I am obligated to protect you.  To look after you.
Especially since I have a very important question that I must ask you,
Celsie."

"I'm not answering questions
tonight."

"This is a very easy one, my
dear.  It only requires a simple yes-or-no answer."

"No, then.  That is my
answer."

He laughed, indulgently.
"My dear Celsie.  I haven't asked you the question, yet."

"No matter, sir, I've still
answered it.  No."  She got up.

He reached up, caught her hand,
and quite roughly yanked her back down.

She fixed him with a frosty
glare, her anger mounting.  "Sir Harold, I insist that you release
me, now.  I have neither the time nor inclination to play games with you."

"I can assure you, Celsie,
this is no game.  I am in earnest."  Still clutching her hand, he went
down on one knee, which cracked with the sound of a pistol going off as he bent
it.

"My dear Lady Celsiana,
would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

"No, Sir Harold, as I
already told you.  Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back inside.  As the
hostess, it's ill mannered of me to be out here when I have guests to
entertain."

His face hardened.  "You
would spurn me, just like that?"

"I would spurn anyone, just
like that.  I have nearly been down the aisle twice, and that's two times too
many.  I don't want to get married."

"But your brother said . .
."  He trailed off.

"My brother said what?"

Sir Harold closed up like an
oyster guarding a pearl.  "He said nothing.  Nothing at all."  And
then, his face taut with anger, he grabbed both her wrists in one hand, yanking
Celsie off balance and against him.

His mouth snaked towards hers —

And was brought up short by the
flat blade of a sword, an inch before he would have lost his lips.

"I say, sir, you are
obstructing the door."

Both looked up, only to see the
lean form of Lord Andrew de Montforte blocking out the stars above.

"I seem to have forgotten my
hat," he said, never lowering the sword nor losing eye contact with Sir
Harold as his free hand sought Celsie's and lifted her to her feet.  "Will
you stand and step aside, sir, so that I may go back inside and retrieve
it?"

In a strange, scuttling motion,
Sir Harold leaped up and backward, away from the deadly blade that never
wavered in Lord Andrew's capable hand.  "Wh-why yes, of course, my
lord."  He grinned and bowed deeply.  "Please, be on your way."

"After you, of course."

Sir Harold stopped grinning.
"But I —

Andrew smiled that same dangerous
smile Celsie had seen back in the ballroom and, with his sword, gestured toward
the door.  His grip on her hand made her feel as though it were caught in the
jaws of a trap.

"I said, sir, after you."

Sir Harold's face went cold.
Then, without another word, he turned and strode angrily back through the doors
and inside.

Celsie, her face flaming, was
finally able to yank her hand from her unexpected savior's.  Oh, the
embarrassment of having been caught in an embrace with Sir Harold Bonkley,
of all people!  And the indignation that she'd had to be rescued by the very
man who had been so rude to her just minutes before!   "Really, Lord
Andrew, was that quite necessary?"

He shrugged and slid his sword
back into its scabbard.  "You looked as though you needed rescuing."

"And you looked as
though you were leaving!"

"I was.  I forgot my
hat."

"Well, let me tell you
something, my lord.  I am no spineless ninny, no birdbrained puff of feathers
who needs some man around to protect her.  I can fight my own battles,
thank you very much!"

And with that, she turned on her
heel and stormed back inside.

Chapter 3

So much for gratitude,
thought Andrew, watching her march back toward the ballroom.  He noted the
stiffness of her back beneath shimmering peach silk, the way her petticoats
flirted with her trim ankles, the purposeful manner in which she moved — like a
general taking command of his troops.  A door slammed and she was gone from
sight.

Shrugging, he retrieved his hat,
tucked it under his arm, and strode back out into the frosty night.

Prickly witch.

Bloody irritating little
bluestocking!

He wished the devil he'd taken
his own carriage.  Now he was forced to wait out here in the cold for Nerissa
and Lucien for God only knew how long.  Why the hell had he ever allowed them
to talk him into coming to this foolish ball, anyhow?

He should have just stayed home.

He located the ducal coach near
the front of the line of vehicles, its paint as black as the sky above.  An
alert footman ran to let down the steps for him.  Andrew vaulted inside and
threw himself down on the seat, his breath frosting the cold air.  Pulling a
blanket around himself, he sat staring into the close darkness.

His anger did not last long.  It
couldn't, not with the ever-present fear that lurked just below the surface,
keeping him aware of the fact that he was flawed, reminding him all too often,
as it had done tonight, that there was something very, very wrong with him.
Something that was not getting any better with time.  Without the anger to
sustain him, and surrounded by the darkness of a quiet night while the faraway
strains of music and laughter — making him feel excluded, reminding him of the
normalcy and safety of other people's lives, making him feel all the more alone
— reached him, he felt the fear clawing for a hold on his heart.  His nerves.
His composure.  He thought about the incident in the ballroom, and wiping a
hand over his face, found it damp with nervous sweat.

God help me . . . I feel so
alone.

He thought about going back
inside to try and lose himself in the gaiety of the crowd, but immediately
discounted the notion.  Someone must surely have noticed his strange behavior.

He thought about getting out of
the coach and walking and walking and walking until he was too tired to be
afraid, but the idea was not appealing.

Finally he pulled out his
notebook and tried to lose himself in his work, trying not to think of what the
inside of Bedlam must look like.

He shuddered.  Lucien would not
commit him, would he?

Would he?

Putting the notebook down, Andrew
leaned his cheek against the cold glass of the window and, shivering beneath
the blanket, stared miserably out into the night.

~~~~

As he crossed the foyer, Gerald
saw his stepsister storm upstairs, her old dog Freckles, hampered by equally old
joints, trailing in her wake.  A moment later he heard a door slam.  The noise
was so loud that it was clearly audible over the music that had a hundred
people out on the dance floor.

He suspected the worst.

And sure enough, there was Sir
Harold Bonkley, his face equally flushed, but with what looked like
humiliation, stalking towards him from out of the ballroom.

"Well?" said Gerald,
impatiently.

Bonkley snared a drink.
"She refused me."

"Damn it, man, I thought you
were going to publicly compromise her so that I could come upon you and demand
that you marry her!"

"Well, things didn't work
out as we planned."

Gerald was furious.  "We had
an agreement, Bonkley.  You marry her, get your hands on her wealth, and
bail me out of debt.  What the blazes is so difficult about that?"

"Getting her to say yes, for
one thing.  And perhaps I might have succeeded in my quest if that deuced de
Montforte fellow hadn't interfered just as things were heating up."

"What do you mean,
interfered?  The duke has been discussing politics with Pitt for the last
fifteen minutes!"

"I'm not talking about the
duke, I'm talking about that damned brother of his, Andrew.  He came upon us
outside on the stairs just as I was about to ravish her.  So much for ruining
her reputation!  I swear, Somerfield, if I'd been armed, he wouldn't have lived
to regret it!"

"If you'd been armed, I
daresay you wouldn't have lived to regret it," muttered Gerald.
"He is a master swordsman, Bonkley, and you'd do well to remember it.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go find my sister and try to talk some sense
into her."

Sir Harold fumed at the insult as
he watched the younger man go.  He had been so sure of success where everyone
else had failed that he'd told half the people in the room that he was as good
as betrothed to the eccentric heiress.  Now she'd made both him and her brother
a laughingstock.

His fists clenched with rage.

Draining his glass, he stalked
off through the crowd.

~~~~

Upstairs in her apartments,
Celsie waved off her maid, threw herself down on her bed, and still fully
clothed, lay on the silken coverlet, trying not to scream with frustration,
trying not to hurl something across the room, trying not to think about Bonkley
molesting her and how she'd felt when she'd looked up, only to discover that
Lord Andrew de Montforte had been her gallant rescuer.

God help her, why did it have to
be him?

She loathed him!  He was surly,
arrogant, and ill-mannered!  He experimented on animals!  Why, he'd said
himself that he sent them up in flying machines and poured evil solutions down
their throats!

The tears came, damn them.  She
felt them wetting the coverlet beneath her hot face, felt them burning inside
her nose and making the back of her throat ache.  She did not understand them.

Why am I so upset?

Because Sir Harold Bonkley has
ruined my evening, she wanted to shout at herself.  But Herself didn't
quite believe it, so her grasping mind tried something else.  Because men
are constantly trying to order my life to their own wishes, patronizing me, treating
me as though I lack a brain and will of my own.  No, that wasn't it
either.  Toenails clicked on the floor and a moment later the bed sagged as
Freckles heaved his big body up beside her.  She sat up, wrapped her arms
around his neck, and hugged him fiercely.  Because Freckles's face is now
completely grey and he can't walk very well anymore and now I've found a
strange lump just below his ear and I am scared to death.

Yes, that was it.  That
was why she was crying.  It had nothing to do with the fact that, as usual,
nobody had taken her impassioned pleas on behalf of animals seriously.  And it
had nothing to do with the fact that when Lord Andrew had saved her from
Bonkley, she'd had a mad inclination to hurl herself into his arms and let him
kiss her instead.

It had nothing to do with Lord
Andrew!

She buried her face in Freckles's
neck and sobbed.  "Oh, Freck  . . .  What is wrong with me?"

He was too old and too dignified
to lick her face.  He merely sat there and stoically let her hug him, leaning his
body slightly toward hers.

"Nobody wants to hear about
the poor little turnspits who run their legs off in hot kitchens so that
people's meat might be roasted," she told him brokenly.  "Nobody
cares about the way cart horses are beaten until they drop, or how hundreds of
unwanted, unloved dogs and cats are starving in the streets because there
aren't enough homes for them.  No, nobody cares.  All they want to do was drink
my expensive wine, eat my expensive food, try to win my expensive — and
oh-so-wealthy — hand.  Oh, how I wish that I'd been born a man instead so that
people would take me seriously.  How I wish that Papa had had a brother or a
son so that I wouldn't have inherited everything."  She buried her face in
the side of the old dog's neck and hugged him tightly.  "And how I wish
that there was such a thing as a man capable of loving me as much as you do,
Freckles."

With a groan of pain, Freckles
lowered his big body down beside her, molding his back to the curve of her
body.  She stroked his long, floppy ears and wiped her eyes with the back of
her hand.  Dear old Freckles.  That was the thing about dogs, wasn't it?  They
always understood.  They never let you cry all by yourself.  They insisted on
sleeping with you at night to keep you safe and warm, they were always there
whether you wanted them to be or not, and they always knew exactly how you were
feeling.

If only she knew exactly
how she was feeling.

Damn you, Lord Andrew!

That was it.  Tomorrow she was
just going to have to leave for Blackheath Castle and there, finish the
conversation he'd so abruptly ended.  Tomorrow she was just going to have to
make the journey to see for herself what he was doing to the de Montforte dogs.

Tomorrow she was just going to
resolve this matter, for better or worse, and life would get back to normal.

She hugged Freckles, and tried
not to think of the lump.

It was not growing bigger, she
told herself.

But Herself didn't quite believe
that, either.

~~~~

Outside in the carriage, Andrew
must have long since fallen asleep, for the sound of Lucien's voice just beyond
the door jolted him with a start.  He sat up, blinking, as the sway of the
carriage heralded the duke and Nerissa's entrance.

"Ah, Andrew.  There you
are.  We were wondering what became of you," murmured Lucien, taking the
seat opposite him and pulling off his gloves.  "Too much excitement for
one evening?"

Nerissa bounced into the seat
beside Andrew.  "You really should have stayed.  Lady Brookhampton's dog
jumped onto the refreshments table when no one was looking and managed to eat
the whole cake.  It was hilariously funny!"

"Yes, especially when the
poor beast got sick all over Bonkley's shoe," Lucien observed dryly.
"Rather put an end to things, I daresay."  He rapped once on the roof
of the vehicle, signalling the driver to move on, then turned his enigmatic
black stare on Andrew.  "Pray tell, why did you leave?"

Andrew set his jaw and stared out
the window.  "Because," he bit out.

Silence.

If Andrew weren't gazing out into
the night, he might have seen the quickly veiled look of concern in his
brother's eyes.

He might have seen the ache in
Nerissa's suddenly sympathetic gaze.

Instead, all he saw was the tall,
pointed, dark tops of the conifers swaying gently against the stars.

"Ah," said the duke, softly.
"Another episode, I take it?"

Andrew's silence was affirmation
enough.

Nerissa and Lucien exchanged
glances.  "And here I thought it was Lady Celsiana who might have caused
your hasty departure," Lucien mused.

That got Andrew's
attention.  He turned angrily on his brother.  "Yes, speaking of that
belligerent little witch, why did you set her loose on me like
that?"

Lucien raised his brows with
feigned innocence.  "My dear Andrew, I haven't the faintest idea what
you're talking about."

"The devil you don't.  You
deliberately told her I was experimenting on animals, and the next thing I knew
she was tearing me apart, limb from limb!"

"Oh.  You mean you
minded?"

"Of course I minded!  It was
damned embarrassing."

Lucien sighed heavily, affecting
an air of long-suffering patience.  "And here I thought I was doing you a
favor."

"Doing me a favor?"

"Really, Andrew, how many
times have you told me you have no wish to get married?  That you are sick to
death of pesky females buzzing around you at every social event you deign to
attend?  That you want nothing more than to get on with your science?  The girl
seemed to be quite interested in you, you know.  Asking me rather personal . .
. questions.  I merely said what I did to put her off."

"What?"

Lucien crossed his arms and gave
a sigh of satisfied boredom.  "You ought to be thanking me for my
assistance, not condemning it.  She did leave you alone afterwards,
didn't she?"

Andrew met Lucien's blankly
innocent stare.  Why did he have the feeling his brother was up to something?
"I suppose she did," he murmured, frowning.

"So there.  I was only
acting in your best interest."  The duke sighed and closing his eyes,
leaned his head back against the seat as the coach left Rosebriar behind.  In
the darkness of the carriage, nobody could see that he was smiling.
"Besides," he added, "I highly doubt that you will see her
again. . . ."

~~~~

THE
DEFIANT ONE  Available for your Kindle at Amazon.com!