FOUR IRRESISTIBLE ROGUES

Four Complete Novels by
Tanya Anne Crosby, Danelle Harmon,
Lauren Royal, and Cynthia Wright

Novelty Books

FOUR IRRESISTIBLE ROGUES by Tanya Anne Crosby, Danelle Harmon, Lauren Royal, and Cynthia Wright

1st Edition, May 2013
ISBN-10 1938907973
ISBN-13 978-1-938907-97-5

Published by Novelty Books, a division of Novelty Publishers, LLC, 848 N. Rainbow Blvd, Suite 4390, Las Vegas NV 89107

Cover art and hero images by Ravven
Book Design by Typesetter for Mac

KISSED © Tanya Anne Crosby 1995

Cover art by Ravven

CAPTAIN OF MY HEART © Danelle Harmon 1992, 2013

Cover art by Kimberly Killion

AMBER © Lauren Royal 2001, 2012

Cover art by Kimberly Killion

BRIGHTER THAN GOLD © Cynthia Challed 1992, 2012

Cover art by Kimberly Killion

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both the relevant author and Novelty Books, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Authors work months or years on their books and need to feed their families, just like you do.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Learn more about the authors and their books at TanyaAnneCrosby.com, DanelleHarmon.com, LaurenRoyal.com, and CynthiaWrightAuthor.com.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

- Title Page

- Inside Flap

- Excerpts From All Four Novels

- Brighter Than Gold

- Cover and Hero Image

- Dedication

- Part One

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Part Two

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Part Three

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Part Four

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Epilogue

- Author's Note

- About Cynthia Wright

- Books by Cynthia Wright

- Cynthia Wright's Contact Information

- Amber

- Cover and Hero Image

- Dedication

- 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

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Chapter 36

- Chapter 37

- Chapter 38

- Chapter 39

- Chapter 40

- Chapter 41

- Chapter 42

- Chapter 43

- Chapter 44

- Chapter 45

- Chapter 46

- Chapter 47

- Chapter 48

- Chapter 49

- Chapter 50

- Chapter 51

- Chapter 52

- Chapter 53

- Chapter 54

- Chapter 55

- Chapter 56

- Chapter 57

- Chapter 58

- Chapter 59

- Chapter 60

- Epilogue

- Author's Note

- Acknowledgments

- About Lauren Royal

- Books by Lauren Royal

- Lauren Royal's Contact Information

- Captain Of My Heart

- Cover and Hero Image

- Dedication

- Epigraph

- 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

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Epilogue

- About Danelle Harmon

- Books by Danelle Harmon

- Danelle Harmon's Contact Information

- Kissed

- Cover and Hero Image

- Dedication

- Part 1

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Part 2

- 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

- Epilogue

- About Tanya Anne Crosby

- Books by Tanya Anne Crosby

- Tanya Anne Crosby's Contact Information

- A Gift for You

INSIDE FLAP
Fall in love with four irresistible rogues in four complete historical romance novels!

BRIGHTER THAN GOLD by Cynthia Wright - Columbia, California and San Francisco, 1864 - Spirited Katie MacKenzie helps her father run a saloon and writes articles for the local newspaper about the Griffin, a Robin Hood-style highwayman who robs the unscrupulous mine owners and gives back to the townspeople. Roguish Jack Adams, an adventurer with a dark secret, rides into the sleepy Sierra town one summer day and changes everything.

AMBER by Lauren Royal - England and Scotland, 1668 - Although Kendra Chase's brothers have presented her with many wealthy, titled suitors, no man has caught her fancy—until her coach is held up by a dashing, mysterious highwayman. When she and the dangerous man are caught in a compromising embrace and her overprotective brothers insist they wed, Kendra cannot believe it. Are they really desperate enough to match her with an outlaw?

CAPTAIN OF MY HEART by Danelle Harmon - New England, 1778-1779 - A dashing Irish captain, a feisty shipbuilder's daughter, and a cast of outrageous characters combine in this thrilling romantic adventure set at the helm of a New England privateer schooner. By the award-winning author of the internationally bestselling de Monteforte Brothers series.

KISSED by Tanya Anne Crosby - England and Charleston, South Carolina, 1763 - Jessamine Stone vows to wed no man but her onetime fiancé, Christian Haukinge. She sets out to win back Christian’s affections, unaware that her brother has already offered him a bribe to break her heart. Christian agrees to the devil’s bargain, but soon finds Jessie’s innocent passion, trust, and faith undermine his resolve for vengeance.

MEET THE AUTHORS

CYNTHIA WRIGHT is a multi-award-winning author who has been writing internationally bestselling historical romances for over three decades. Her "addictive" novels have been hailed by Romantic Times as "Romance the way it was meant to be."

LAUREN ROYAL has earned raves from reviewers including Publishers Weekly, who calls her "an impressive talent." Her "truly enchanting" humorous historical romances have appeared on bestseller lists worldwide and won awards including Booklist's Top 10 Romance of the Year.

DANELLE HARMON is a bestselling, multi-award-winning author whose sexy, fast-paced, and emotional books, set largely in the Georgian era in both England and New England, have won critical acclaim from readers and reviewers alike.

TANYA ANNE CROSBY is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews.

READ EXCERPTS FROM ALL FOUR NOVELS

If you've downloaded a free sample of this boxed set, you'll find the first few chapters of Brighter Than Gold by Cynthia Wright immediately following this page. Unfortunately, the various ebook stores aren't set up to allow you to sample the other three books. If you would like to read excerpts of the other books before purchasing the set, please visit these links:

Amber by Lauren Royal
Captain of My Heart by Danelle Harmon
Kissed by Tanya Anne Crosby

Thank you!

BRIGHTER THAN GOLD
The Western Novels, Book 1

Cynthia Wright

For Alvaro, with my love

Part One

Chapter 1

Columbia, California
June 21, 1864

Riding slowly down Main Street, the man on horseback reflected that the sleepy town of Columbia had certainly known better days. A dozen years ago, it had been heralded as the “Gem of the Southern Mines,” the largest and most prosperous of all the towns that had sprung up during the rush for gold in the Sierra foothills. More than fifteen thousand boisterous people had lived here, making and spending fortunes in Columbia’s thriving gambling palaces, saloons, fandango halls, theaters, restaurants, and bawdy houses. Stores were stocked with merchandise delivered by a constant stream of freight wagons from Stockton. Stagecoaches rumbled down Main Street morning and afternoon, dislodging a colorful variety of eager newcomers, including a French chef who charged outrageous sums of money for gourmet meals and imported champagne. The town’s four theaters had hosted Edwin Booth, Lola Montez, and circuses with elephants and lions. Columbia even had a Chinese theater for the particular benefit of its immigrant citizenry.

In the town’s first decade, more than $87 million worth of gold had been discovered in its diggings. The scales at the Wells Fargo office weighed an average of $100,000 of gold a week, and in the heady decade of the 1850s, it seemed that the supply would never run out.

However, those days of unrivaled prosperity had passed.

On this dusty afternoon, the man on horseback rode into a town of fewer than five hundred people. Tucked behind hills that staggered down to the dramatically beautiful Stanislaus River, Columbia had acquired a haunting serenity lacking in its heyday. Delicate trees of heaven lined Main Street, and many of the homes were embowered with climbing roses in full bloom. The clamor was over, yet the traveler felt a surge of respect and fondness for this tenacious community. It had had its share of challenges, but it simply refused to die, adapting instead to change.

Farther ahead down Main Street, the traveler spied MacKenzie’s Saloon. Hot, tired, and in need of friendly conversation, he decided to stop for refreshment.

At the far end of the polished mahogany bar, Katie MacKenzie was perched on a stool, drying glasses and reading Jane Eyre at the same time. It was a quiet afternoon. The shafts of sunlight that streamed into MacKenzie’s Saloon were mellow and golden, scented with roses. The corner tavern was large, with a magnificent carved mirror behind the bar and numerous tables ringed with chairs. Once upon a time, MacKenzie’s had echoed with the laughter and raucous conversation of men from all walks of life. Now, the place was an ornate mockery of a golden age long since passed. Katie looked up to see two lone, grimy miners, clad in red shirts and dungarees, who slouched at a distant table, dozing before their empty bottle. Farther down the bar, Brian MacKenzie poured a whiskey for his third patron, then approached his daughter.

“I’m thinking this is a fine way for you to celebrate your twentieth birthday,” he murmured, his ruddy face and curly white hair reflected in the twenty-foot mirror behind them.

Katie gave him a sweet smile. “Nonsense, Papa! You sent all the way to Boston for this book and you gave me these beautiful flowers.” Lovingly she fingered the vivid bouquet of blue larkspur and orange Humboldt lilies that filled a vase at her elbow. “It’s a perfect birthday!”

Brian wrapped her in his bearlike embrace and smiled. “You’re a blessing, Kathleen Elizabeth. Why don’t you put away the towel and glasses and go outside? It’s not a day for chores.”

“I’m fine, Papa.” Already her attention was wandering back to Jane Eyre.

Sighing, Brian studied his daughter’s profile. It was almost a shock to realize, daily, how beautiful she had become and how much Katie resembled her mother who had died eight years before. She had inherited Mary’s lustrous ebony curls, her striking deep blue eyes, her delicate features, and radiant smile.

However, Katie’s temperament mirrored his own. If only Mary had lived to teach their daughter ladylike ways! Growing up in the rugged atmosphere of a mining town, Katie was used to working hard, but otherwise she dressed and behaved to please herself. Today she wore a faded rose calico dress with one petticoat, but she was just as likely to be clad in trousers and a shirt if the mood struck her. Worst of all, Katie had declared that she had no interest in marriage. And she did indeed seem to prefer helping him run the saloon or writing articles for the Columbia Gazette. Women were at a premium in the foothills, especially beauties like his daughter, and Brian prayed nightly that she would come to her senses one day soon and begin acting like a woman. Hadn’t he a right to grandchildren?

“Quite a romantic hero in that book, eh?” he inquired slyly. “What’s his name?”

“Edward Rochester.” Katie gave him a fond smile, familiar with his ways.

“Indeed? Why, seems to me that that name alone would be enough to turn a maiden’s thoughts to love!”

The swinging door creaked to announce the arrival of a customer and Brian trundled back to work. He squinted as the man approached the bar, then smiled broadly as recognition dawned.

“Why, it’s Jack, isn’t it! Where’ve you been these past weeks?” He set a shot glass on the bar and reached for a bottle of whiskey.

Settling onto a stool, Jack spread a tanned hand over the glass. “Save your whiskey for someone who’ll appreciate it, MacKenzie,” he said in a husky voice underlaid with ironic amusement. Surveying the dazzling array of decanters, squat vases of cigars, and jars of brandied fruit reflected in the mirror, he ventured to ask, “Do you servewater?”

“Ah, that’s right!” Brian laughed, remembering, as he poured spring water from a pitcher into a larger glass. “You don’t drink liquor. Tell me, do you belong to that Dashaway Society that’s been promoting temperance in these parts?”

Jack’s answering laughter was sufficiently roguish to make Katie look up at last. “Lord, no,” he replied. “I’ve just never seen the point in drowning what few wits I have in liquor.”

His expression and manner made it clear to Katie that Jack’s wits were far more considerable than he so modestly implied. His looks were noteworthy as well. Katie’s first thought was that he reminded her of a mountain lion. His hair, wind-ruffled and dusty, was a few shades darker than his sun-bronzed skin, and a two-day growth of beard glinted against his lean cheeks. There was something appealing about the slightly bent shape of his nose, the smile that lingered on his mouth, and the grooves on either side that hinted at dimples. She was most intrigued by his eyes, though, and wandered down the bar for a closer look.

Cat’s eyes, she decided after a few moments. A clear, sage green dusted with gold, slightly hooded, as if a bit weary of surveying the world, and framed by laugh wrinkles and sandy brows. Katie was disarmed by the sight of his roguish smile and the sound of his frank, husky laughter, but she sensed that, like the mountain lion he resembled, this man could be dangerous.

“Ah, here’s my girl,” Brian announced, wrapping an arm around her slim form. “Katie, have you met Jack Adams? He’s new to these parts. Came in here the first time just a couple months back. Jack, this is my pride and joy, my daughter Kathleen.”

Seeing the appraisal in his eyes, she put out her hand and smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Adams.”

He smiled back. “The pleasure’s mine, Miss MacKenzie,” he said in his appealing, rough-edged voice. “Call me Jack.”

“I’m Katie.” As their hands met, she glanced at the surprisingly clean, well-tended nails. It was a strong hand, tanned against the faded blue shirt he wore but only slightly callused. She wondered what he had done before coming to the gold country. “Where are you from, Jack?”

He shrugged. “Nevada, lately. Placerville last week. I have my eye on a couple different claims, but can’t decide whether they’re worth working. One’s near here.”

“Just because the boom’s past and so many miners have moved on to Nevada or Canada, that doesn’t mean our gold’s gone!” Brian declared, seizing on one of his favorite topics. “A man with a bit of patience can still get rich and live a more civilized life in the bargain!”

“Columbia does look permanent these days,” Jack agreed. “Until last fall, I hadn’t been in the foothills for years. The towns were all wood and canvas when I was here in my youth; a mixture of imported luxury and make-do. A lot of them are gone now that so much of the gold’s been mined, but what’s leftis more civilized.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Maybe the miners left because they missed the wild life.”

“There’s still enough wildness up here for any man,” Brian snorted. “And enough challenges. They’re destroying the land with that new hydraulic mining now!” He frowned. “As for the town looking more civilized, you know it was the fires that forced us to build brick buildings. The others kept burning down.”

“You must admit that Jack’s right, though, Papa,” Katie remarked, pouring more water into Adams’s glass. “Times have changed. The people who came here looking for wealth and adventure a dozen years ago have either moved on or settled in to more permanent lives. Columbia’s a different town.”

“Quieter, that much is true.” Brian sighed, gazing around the nearly deserted saloon. By evening it would begin to fill up, and the gaming table where miners gathered to play faro would turn a tidy profit. But Brian no longer expected his saloon to make him a rich man.

Deftly, Jack changed the subject. “Missouri Dan rode down from Placerville with me, and we spent last night just north of here. I didn’t get much sleep, though, because Dan made me dig most of the night....”

Katie responded to the gleam in his eyes. “Dig?”

“Seems that last fall Dan discovered some gold over near Fraser River and brought it here to be weighed. There was more than five thousand dollars’ worth, but he decided to put it away for safekeeping rather than take it along to Placerville—”

“Or have it stolen by the Griffin!” Katie exclaimed.

“I think the Griffin specializes in stagecoaches, lass,” her father murmured.

“Anyway,” Jack continued, “Dan chose a clump of five pine trees near a stream, and buried the gold there. The winter in Placerville wasn’t financially rewarding, so Dan was anxious to get to his pine trees last night and dig up that treasure.” The corners of Jack’s mouth slowly turned up as he paused to sip his water. “The stars were out as we came over the crest of the hill, but instead of lighting up Dan’s clump of pine trees, they shone down on a vast, cleared field and a newly built cabin.”

Katie gasped. “Someone had settled there!”

“That’s right.” He nodded, more than a little amused, his eyes twinkling as they met hers. “They’d not only cut down Missouri Dan’s pine trees, but they’d also planted grain. Of course, he wouldn’t give up without a fight. Made me dig alongside him all night long until that field of grain was covered with holes. I just prayed that the farmer wouldn’t wake up! As it is, I shudder to imagine the look on his face when he saw his field this morning.”

“Don’t suppose you found the gold?” Brian asked hopefully.

“Of course not! Dan’s in the blackest of moods. I left him digging one last hole before dawn, but I heard that he was at Big Annie’s this morning—” He cut himself off, realizing that he shouldn’t have mentioned Big Annie’s bawdy house in front of Katie. “Well, no doubt Dan’ll be appearing here any minute to drown his sorrows. He was ranting all night about the good old days when people didn’t go around cutting down trees in these parts. According to Dan, a man can’t depend on anything now.”

“He should have put the money in the bank,” Katie said.

“Now there’s a civilized suggestion! Not Dan’s style, I’m afraid.” Jack laughed lightly as his eyes wandered over her face and settled on the thick braid that hung down Katie’s back. “You’re an uncommonly pretty girl, Miss MacKenzie. You’d have men lining up outside just to look at you if you’d changeyourstyle. Why not free your hair?”

Katie took a step backward, bumping her elbow against a decanter of brandy. “I prefer to wear it this way. It’s cooler.” Her cheeks felt hot. “And neater.”

“She’s a stubborn girl,” Brian told Adams.

“I don’t give you men advice about what clothes to wear or how to comb your hair, so I suggest that you show me the same courtesy,” Katie said, recovering her composure. “Besides, why would I want to be examined by a lot of strange men?”

“I can’t imagine.” Jack bit back a smile. “I humbly apologize.”

“Apology accepted. If you are starved for the sight of female beauty, you ought to visit the new German dancing girls at Darling’s Dango Hall.” Picking up Jane Eyre, she turned to her father and said, “Papa, since you have urged me to do as I please today, I believe I’ll go over to the Gazette and write an article about Missouri Dan’s adventure. I think our readers might find the story very entertaining.”

“Wouldn’t you rather spend your birthday seeking some entertainment foryourself?”

“I love to write, so that is entertainment.” Katie kissed his cheek, then smiled politely at Jack. “Meeting you has been very interesting, Mr. Adams. Have a safe journey.”

“That’s kind of you, but I’m not leaving Columbia just yet, Miss MacKenzie. I feel certain we’ll meet again.” He gave her a lazy smile. “Happy birthday.”

Jack watched Katie cross the saloon and stride out into the sunshine, idly noting her slim back, narrow waist, and gently curving hips. When he turned back, he discovered that Brian was contemplating him thoughtfully.

“I don’t know what to do with that lass,” MacKenzie said, sighing. “Twenty years old today and she’s acting like there’s no hurry to marry. I don’t think it even crosses her mind! Not that any of the men around here are worthy of her. Many of the best are off fighting in the war between the North and South.” He shook his head. “It’s a difficult bride who’s not only beautiful but also smarter than most men. She’s hardworking and has a mind of her own, but she’s quick to laugh, too, and—”

“MacKenzie,” Jack put in softly, his expression knowing yet amused, “why are you telling me this?”

He looked down the bar at the bouquet of lilies and larkspur. “Well, I—I’ve no idea!”

“Neither do I.” He patted the older man’s shoulder, then stood up and brushed the dust from his smooth buckskin pants. “I’m off to have a bath and a shave, get my clothes laundered, and take a room above the U.S. Bakery and Coffee Saloon.” He put some coins on the bar. “Thanks for the water and conversation, MacKenzie. Buy Missouri Dan a drink for me when he comes in, will you?”

“Be glad to.” Brian picked up the coins and looked at them for a moment. “If you want a clean bed and home cooking, you’re welcome to stay with us. I like you.”

Jack stopped at the door and glanced back, his wide shoulders and lean hips outlined against the sunlight. “That’s a kind offer. I’ll consider it.”

Katie made her way down Columbia’s dusty Main Street which was shaded by trees of heaven, their spreading boughs abuzz with bees. She waved to the blacksmith and greeted an elderly couple coming out of the Cheap Cash Store, but otherwise the street was quiet. Constructed since the fires of 1854 and 1857, the handsome brick buildings had sturdy doors and windows with tall, green shutters made of fire-resistant iron. Many of the facades boasted fancy ironwork balconies cast in Troy, New York, and brought by ship around Cape Horn.

“Hello, Katie!”

She looked over to see her friend Lim Sung emerging from his father’s Chinese laundry. Lim was a thin, wiry boy of eighteen whose cheery smile never failed to brighten her spirits. “Hello, Lim! Can you come to the Gazette with me? I have to write a story.”

He fell in beside her, his smile fading. “I don’t think they like me there.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Katie said, dismissing her friend’s comment with a wave of her hand. “Besides, I doubt anyone will be there now.”

Lim Sung and his parents were among the handful of Chinese who had been allowed, grudgingly, to remain in Columbia after the fire of 1857. Prejudice against them was rampant throughout the gold country. People insisted that the Chinese were sneaky and untrustworthy, blaming them for thefts, fires, and other crimes. The customs and beliefs they had brought from China made the miners all the more mistrustful, but Katie knew that their prejudice was rooted in ignorance and jealousy. The Chinese people she knew were hardworking, industrious, and patient. Indeed, it was their infinite patience that maddened the other settlers. Many a miner had given up on a claim only to have it taken over and worked painstakingly by a Chinese family with successful results. Now that the gold was playing out, a great deal of general frustration was increasingly being taken out on the Chinese population.

As they passed the D. O. Mills Bank Building, Katie glanced over at Lim Sung. In a fresh white shirt and loose black silk trousers, he looked alien and out of place. His hair was drawn back into a long queue, which accentuated his high cheekbones, and his uptilted eyes were dark and fathomless. To others he was a foreigner, an outcast to be feared and rejected. But to Katie he was just Lim—her childhood companion, her trusted friend.

Lim met her gaze and smiled. He couldn’t imagine life without Katie. She was his bridge to the white world, his friend, teacher, and counselor. When they were little children, they had sat under the trellis of morning glory in front of the MacKenzie house while she shared her lessons with him, teaching him not only to read and write in English, but to speak the white man’s language without a trace of his parents’ accent. He would never forget the debt he owed her.

“Look what my father gave me for my birthday,” Katie said now, holding up her book. “Jane Eyre. It’s a wonderful, haunting romance that takes place in England.”

Lim grinned as they turned up Washington Street toward the Gazette office. “How can a romance be both wonderful and haunting?”

“This one is! Charlotte Bronte is a very talented author.”

“A lady wrote this book?” he exclaimed in surprise.

Opening the door to the Gazette’s cramped offices, she was about to reply when Gideon Henderson called to her from his desk. “Katie! I’m glad you’re here. I need you to take over Owly Shaw’s duties. He’s ridden over to Murphys to talk to the stage driver.”

“The stage driver?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Gideon’s glasses slid down his nose as he sorted through the papers littering his desk, perpetually in search of the one that wasn’t there. “The Griffin robbed the Sonora stage this morning! Took a thousand dollars in gold off one of the passengers, but left the others in peace. He’s the confoundedest stagecoach robber I’ve ever heard of!” As an afterthought, Henderson picked up a piece of white linen from among the papers and tossed it to Katie. “Care for a souvenir?”

She stared down at the snowy handkerchief, its corner embroidered with the figure of an animal that appeared to be half eagle, half lion. Katie swallowed hard and whispered, “It’s a griffin....”

Chapter 2

June 21, 1864

Carrying a chicken, freshly killed and plucked, and a bag of potatoes, Katie approached the white frame house she shared with her father. Located on a quiet corner of Jackson Street, it was not as grand as some built with gold fortunes, yet she loved it for its cozy charm.

Beneath the profusion of vivid blue morning glory blossoms that spilled over the porch roof, Katie saw that the front door was ajar. Juggling the chicken and vegetables, she gently pushed open the door with her hip, passed through into the kitchen, and stopped, staring.

A man stood gazing out the back window, his physique framed by lace curtains and sunlight. Katie took in the damp hair that curled slightly across back of his head and grazed his tanned neck. A freshly pressed white shirt set off straight, square shoulders and a tapering back. The man stood with his hands on lean hips encased in faded dungarees. His feet were bare.

An unfamiliar sensation rushed through Katie’s body, settling in her midsection as she regarded this vital figure. The image of the curls against the male neck and the line of his shoulders and back burned into her brain. The sack of potatoes slipped from her grasp, rumbling upon impact with the scrubbed floorboards.

The man turned, and a thoroughly disconcerted Katie met the green eyes of Jack Adams. Before she could speak, he was crouching to retrieve the potatoes.

“I must have startled you,” he said, glancing up to smile into her eyes. “Your father invited me to stay here, but perhaps he should have consulted with you?”

“Oh, no....” Katie glanced away, saw the taut muscles in his thighs as he rose slowly, and murmured, “Here? You’re staying here?”

“If this poses a problem...” Jack set the potatoes on the table which was covered with a cheerful yellow-sprigged cloth. He tried again to capture her gaze.

“Of course not!” She laughed brightly. “Why would it be a problem? My father and I frequently entertain house guests.”

“I just thought perhaps I might be the problem. You don’t like me, do you?”

“You flatter yourself, Mr. Adams. I have no opinion about you one way or the other.” She put the chicken on the table and crossed to get a pot from a cupboard under the pine dresser. Glancing back, she saw that his eyes were twinkling. “As it happens, I have more important matters on my mind.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. The Griffin has struck again!”

“Your tone of voice seems to indicate that this is dramatic news. Isn’t the Griffin just another stage robber?”

Katie’s eyes widened with disbelief as she opened the back door. “Don’t you read the newspapers, Mr. Adams? But then, maybe you can’t read at all. Most of the miners of my acquaintance are not intellectually inclined.”

“Oh, I can read,” he replied laconically. “A little.”

“Well, perhaps you should consider practicing with the Columbia Gazette.”

Smiling, Jack followed her into the neat backyard. Bordered by a white picket fence, it boasted a row of fruit trees and tidy flower and vegetable gardens. Katie paused to cut yellow roses, then bent beside the small plot of fresh herbs.

“Are you hoping that I’ll enlighten you about the Griffin?” she asked, not looking up as she broke off fragrant sprigs of tarragon.

“Miss MacKenzie, don’t make me beg for the favor.”

She stood, her cheeks pink, and found him gazing at her in a way that made her uneasily aware that he was a man and she was a woman. Nervously, she turned and walked back into the house.

“The Griffin is very different from the other stage robbers, Mr. Adams. There has been an air of mystery which has surrounded his every move ever since he first stepped in front of the Sonoma stagecoach last autumn.” Katie put the tarragon in the pot with the chicken, lit the stove with practiced ease then sat down and handed Jack a paring knife. They both peeled potatoes as she continued. “It’s said that the Griffin is a gentleman. He’s clean, well-spoken, and has never resorted to violence.”

“The mystery, I gather, must be that the drivers continue to turn over their gold to such a peaceful soul,” he remarked in ironic tones.

“Well, he does carry a rifle, but it has never been fired. He wears a long linen duster and a hood with holes for his eyes. When the stage comes into view, he steps out of the trees holding his rifle and says, ‘Would you mind stopping for a moment, boys?’”

“Do you suppose the Griffin cares if they do mind?”

“Well, no, obviously not, but people are absolutely intrigued by the idea of a hold-up man with breeding. It’s said that he often appears to be rather amused by it all, and he’s displayed rare consideration for his victims. In fact”—Katie leaned closer, lowering her voice in conspiratorial tones—“the real mystery is what the Griffin is after. So far, he has only robbed stages containing either Aaron Rush or Harold Van Hosten as passengers, and he only takes their money and valuables.”

Jack’s brows elevated slightly. “Rush and Van Hosten. Aren’t they the owners of the big mine near here?”

“That’s right. They aren’t well liked. They bought out a lot of claims for prices well below their value and then used hydraulic equipment to get the fortunes still hidden in the limestone and marble. Miners who have settled here with families are now forced to work in the Rush Mine for miserably low wages. They hate Rush and Van Hosten. Some speculate that the Griffin actually might be one of those miners... except that he doesn’t behave like any miner I’ve ever seen in these parts.”

“Hmm...” Jack leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “Perhaps the Griffin just doesn’t like their looks.”

Katie gave him a dubious look as she rose to add the potatoes to the pot. “Don’t you think, Mr. Adams, that there must be a bit more to it than that?”

“What? Revenge? You said he only takes their valuables. What about the box?”

“Well,” she allowed, “he has taken that once or twice, but always later some of the poorest families in town have found envelopes of money under their doors. Needless to say, the Griffin’s legend has grown, and he’s become something of a folk hero in Columbia and the surrounding towns....”

“Ah!” Jack laughed huskily. “The Robin Hood of the Sierras. He keeps none of his ill-gotten gains for himself?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so—” She broke off in midsentence. “This is ridiculous! I don’t need to defend the Griffin to you. I am not saying that I think he’s a hero, but you see, I’m a newspaperwoman for the Columbia Gazette,” she said proudly. “I have been privy to all the details of these hold-ups. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t a bit intrigued.”

The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Confess now, Miss MacKenzie. Aren’t you the least bit caught up in a romantic dream about this outlaw? Perhaps you’re hoping that the Griffin will rob the stage you’re riding and carry you off instead of the box!”

Katie’s cheeks burned as she whirled on him. “How dare you say such things, even in jest? And, for the record, I do not have romantic dreams!”

“You don’t?” He feigned astonishment.

“Just how long do you intend to remain in Columbia, sir?”

The sound of his laughter was almost seductive. “I hate to disappoint you, Miss MacKenzie, but my business shouldn’t take more than a week.”

She walked over to the table and set down a white earthenware pitcher filled with roses. “That long? I am disappointed.” Then, her long braid swishing off to one side, Katie swept from the room, the sound of Jack’s low laughter ringing in her ears.

Nightfall did not bring peace to the town of Columbia. Instead, men of all shapes and sizes clad in flannel shirts of red or blue filled the saloons, fandango halls, and bawdy houses lining Main Street. A mixture of tinkling piano tunes and raucous voices filled the night air, invading even the parlor of the relatively secluded MacKenzie house.

Katie sat curled on the faded tapestry sofa, an oil lamp glowing near her elbow and Jane Eyre open on her lap. Usually she feasted on the chance to read in solitude, but tonight her mind wandered restlessly. Supper was ready, but neither her father nor Jack Adams had come home. Jack had gone out soon after she retreated to the parlor with her book, his only farewell a maddening smile in her direction as he went out the door. Although Katie found herself brooding about their conversations and the intensity of her own reaction to him, she finally decided that it was his sudden invasion of her territory that caused her to feel unnerved. If she could just avoid his eyes, it would be simpler to maintain her distance.

Katie tried to read again, but her thoughts drifted back to the Griffin. What sort of man was he? Jack Adams would laugh if he knew of her secret feeling that the Griffin was a true gentleman at heart, reckless yet fair and compassionate. She imagined that he held up stages because he was righting a wrong. He had probably traveled widely... and was dangerously handsome...

“Pardon me if I’m intruding again—”

She looked up in surprise to find Jack Adams leaning against the kitchen door, his hooded eyes watchful in the half-light. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

“I used the back door. You shouldn’t leave it unlatched, Miss MacKenzie. Someone less friendly might drop by uninvited.” A current of amusement drifted into his husky voice. “The Griffin is at large, you know... but then, perhaps you would enjoy a nocturnal visit from him.”

She pressed her lips together and tried to smile. “Your concern for my safety is touching, Mr. Adams. However, it is not only unsolicited but unnecessary. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

Jack approached and, bending, touched her tight smile with a fingertip. “Careful!” he chuckled. “You might hurt yourself.”

“Are you here to annoy me or is there a logical reason for this mid-evening visit? If it’s supper you want...”

“Am I annoying you? It’s hard to be certain—”

Katie cut him off with an cool stare, then stood up and smoothed her skirts.

“All right,” He wore an expression of mock contrition. “I’ll behave myself. I’ve come over from the saloon to deliver a message from your father. He’s too busy to come home for supper and asks that you bring a plate over to him.”

Katie went past him into the kitchen and assembled a fragrant dish of chicken and vegetables, then covered it with a napkin. Turning, she discovered Jack standing behind her. “Must you lurk so often?” she burst out.

His brows shot up. “You’re the first woman who’s ever asked that of me,” he said in tones that suggested he was flattered. “I’ll try to comply... if you’ll make a plate for me, too.”

Exasperated, Katie shook her head. “I think you’re capable of doing that yourself, Mr. Adams. And I won’t mind a bit if you stay right here to eat your supper.” With that, she picked up the covered dish and swept out the front door.

The night air was cool. Katie, having forgotten her shawl in the drama of her exit, hurried down Jackson Street and had turned onto Main Street when she sensed that someone was following her. She quickened her pace, but the feeling persisted. Finally she looked over her shoulder and recognized Jack’s shoulders silhouetted in the moonlight as he walked toward her carrying his own covered plate.

“I should have known it was you!” she cried in relief.

His teeth flashed in a smile. “Was I lurking again? I didn’t mean to, but for some reason I thought that you preferred to walk alone.” He nodded toward his plate. “Your father suggested that I join him for supper.”

Katie sighed and nodded, and they walked the rest of the way to the saloon together. Jack seemed interested in the activity that spilled into the street from Darling’s Dango Hall and the saloons lining Main Street, while Katie tried to pretend she didn’t notice. Her own father’s saloon was one thing; she had grown up with it, and the patrons always treated her with deference under the stern gaze of Brian MacKenzie. However, Katie looked with mild disgust upon the boisterous, drunken goings-on that took place elsewhere in Columbia.

As they approached MacKenzie’s Saloon, she noted with satisfaction that there was neither raucous laughter nor shouting going on inside. Jack held the swinging door for her and Katie entered to sudden pandemonium.

“Happy Birthday!” everyone shouted. Stunned, Katie surveyed the sea of grinning faces. There was her father, pink-cheeked and beaming behind the bar, and Lim Sung, his dark eyes sparkling with pleasure. Lim Sung’s father stood amidst a group of bearded miners, and many of her neighbors were present as well, including Victoria Barnstaple, a talkative sparrow of a woman who had been Mary MacKenzie’s best friend.

Victoria hurried forward to embrace the speechless girl. “Why, I do think we surprised you, dear! Are you pleased?” She took the dish from Katie’s hands and passed it to Jack without looking at him. He set Brian’s plate on the bar, got a fork for himself, and retreated to a corner table to eat his own supper and watch the celebration.

Katie had intrigued him from the moment he’d first seen her that afternoon at the bar, her scrubbed, pretty face bent over Jane Eyre. She piqued his curiosity not only because she was an incongruity in the gold country—especially in this saloon—but also because he soon realized that Katie possessed a unique mixture of personality traits, many of which were rare in the women of his acquaintance. She was independent, intelligent, capable, adult beyond her years in many respects—all due, Jack supposed, to the responsibilities she had assumed after her mother’s death. In addition, Katie was blessed with a lovely face and form. With those qualities, she could have become the toast of the Sierras by this time, attracting men of quality from miles around. It was entirely possible that she could have married a rich man from Sacramento or even San Francisco. Yet Kathleen MacKenzie claimed that she did not yearn for romance, love, or marriage. Passion, it seemed, stirred not within her breast.

Jack smiled slightly as he stared across the saloon and pondered the enigma that was Katie. She seemed slightly ill at ease as she stood among the group of well-wishers, as if she were embarrassed by this display of affection and uncertain how to respond. Mrs. Barnstaple and the few other women who had deigned to come into the saloon tonight for Katie’s sake were clad in fine dresses with wide-hooped petticoats, and they wore their hair in carefully arranged ringlets or smooth chignons. By contrast, the guest of honor’s frock of faded calico and her long, lone braid seemed strikingly inappropriate. Jack took a last bite of chicken, pushed his plate away, and wondered whether Katie’s apparent lack of interest in her appearance and in men was evidence of courage—or cowardice.

Having opened and admired an array of modest gifts, Katie was now gazing at the cake that Mrs. Barnstaple had baked for the occasion. “It’s really too pretty to eat,” she remarked, touching one of the candied violets that decorated the smooth white icing.

“Don’t be silly, my girl!” Brian exclaimed, handing her a knife.

“It’s even prettier inside,” Victoria encouraged her.

Katie winced as she cut into the elaborate confection, discovering that bright candied fruit studded the interior. “Oh, my, it’s much too beautiful! I’m embarrassed that all of you have gone to so much work on my account.”

Lim Sung couldn’t hug her in public, but he did lean in close to whisper, “We love you!”

Overcome, Katie blushed as she served the cake. She felt very warm... and out of place, somehow. This party, and the emotions that appeared to be behind it, were more than she deserved. She didn’t know how to behave. What did all these people expect of her? Should she have wept with joy?

“Darlin’, why don’t you take a piece of cake to Jack?” Brian murmured, leaning across the bar. His breath smelled of celebratory whiskey. “Ask him to join the party. After all, he had a hand in the success of your surprise!”

Puzzled, she met her father’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Jack had to lure you over here without arousing your suspicions.” Brian chuckled at the memory. “When we asked him, he assured us that you were already irritated by his presence, and that he was quite sure he could keep you too annoyed to suspect that he might be delivering you to a party in your honor.”

Katie lifted her chin, staring across the saloon to where Jack Adams reclined on a chair, apparently dozing. “That man really is insufferable.”

“Because he speaks his mind?” Brian teased. “You’re used to that; the men around here don’t waste time with manners. I think that Jack’s found your sore spot because he doesn’t back off from you. You can’t outtalk him and put him in his place.”

She smiled grudgingly. “I shudder to think where his ‘place’ really ought to be.”

“Kathleen, don’t be unkind. Take the man a piece of cake and try to remember that he’s our guest.”

Secretly glad for the respite from her party, she accepted the place. Across the crowded, noisy room, Jack appeared oblivious, slouched in his chair, bronzed hands folded against his white shirtfront. His strong body was graceful in repose, legs stretched out and head tipped to one side. As Katie drew nearer, studying his face, she began to suspect that his eyes were open just a fraction....

“Missing me so soon?” he asked softly, moving only his lips.

Now Katie could see that Jack was watching her from beneath his lashes. “Papa insisted that I bring you a piece of cake.” Her tone was cool as she set the plate before him. “Has he overestimated the extent of your domestication, Mr. Adams? Perhaps you’re not yet able to sit up straight and use a fork.”

He arched one eyebrow and grinned slowly in appreciation. “I never could resist a challenge,” he replied, stretching and shifting upward on the chair.

She watched him take a bite of cake. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to overtax yourself on my account, sir....”

“I should remind you that I spent last night digging for gold in a field of grain. I’m too tired right now to match wits with you.”

“Oh, dear, that’s right!” Katie exclaimed, remembering. “Where’s Missouri Dan?”

“He’s gone to bed, which is what I would have done if—” He broke off and stifled a yawn.

“If you hadn’t been persuaded to lure me here for my birthday party,” she finished for him, watching as he stood up beside her. She found herself trailing after him toward the doorway while all around them groups of miners loudly discussed the Griffin’s latest stage robbery. Katie scarcely heard, though, more intent on catching Jack’s sleeve before he exited the saloon. “Why, after you went to so much trouble, didn’t you join in the party? You were welcome to join the guests—”

He turned to look down at her, one hand on the door, and smiled lazily. Unaccountably, Katie felt a disconcerting shiver race from her scalp to the base of her spine.

“No,” he said softly, “I couldn’t join in the party because I didn’t have a present. At least... not one I could give you in front of your friends and neighbors.” His gaze dropped to her parted lips. “I suppose I could give it to you now—but you’d have to come outside with me.”

Heart racing, Katie stepped backward and swallowed hard. Instinctively, she pressed her hands against her flushed cheeks, then quickly removed them when she saw Jack’s knowing smile. “No. No, I’d rather not.”

“Well, then, I’ll just keep it for you, Miss MacKenzie, and you can tell me when you’d like to collect.” Halfway out the door, he glanced back over one straight shoulder. “Good night, Kathleen. I’m glad you were surprised on your birthday.”

She was too confused to be angry—yet—or to be sure what he had meant by his parting remark. Dazedly, she could only whisper, “Good night,” but Jack Adams had already gone.

Chapter 3

June 24, 1864

“Do you suppose Jack really went to look at a claim?” Katie wondered aloud. She was cleaning the surface of the saloon’s mahogany bar with a vengeance, rubbing so hard with her soft white cloth that Brian worried she’d strip the varnish.

He looked up now from refilling the liquor bottles. “What else would the man be doing?”

“Well, he said it was just a few miles east, and he’s been away a day and a half!”

“Good Lord, child, are you complaining? I thought you couldn’t stand Jack Adams!”

“I can’t.” Katie rubbed harder, staring at a barely visible stain. Although it was only nine in the morning, the saloon was already stiflingly warm, and damp tendrils had escaped her braid and were curling about her face. “I just wonder what he’s up to. I don’t trust the man.”

Brian laughed. “Oh, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Jack’s indulging in something more pleasurable than just investigatin’ a claim. Women fancy men like him, and men like him fancy women! Betsy Cartwright over in Shaw’s Flat was widowed last autumn, remember? She’s a handsome young woman, and it seems to me that—”

“Shaw’s Flat is south of here, Papa,” Katie interrupted, her voice rising.

“Oh, I don’t imagine that Jack would mind ridin’ a few miles out of his way for a beautiful woman....”

“Truer words were never spoken, MacKenzie!” A husky voice laughed softly from the doorway.

Katie froze in the act of pushing wisps of hair off her moist forehead. Slowly she lifted her head and beheld Jack Adams casually entering the saloon. Unlike normal mortals on a crushingly humid day, he appeared freshly bathed and unaffected by the heat, his hair brushed back from a tanned, engagingly attractive face. His boots were shined, and his faded red shirt and blue dungarees looked as if they had just come from Sung’s Laundry. Katie, on the other hand, was certain that she was the picture of dishevelment.

“Darlin’, don’t just stand there gaping!” Brian boomed happily. “Get the man some coffee!”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “I—I was just wondering if Mr. Adams always returns from his trips at such an odd hour, and how he has managed to look so immaculate.”

Jack smiled at her as if he could read her mind, took a stool at the bar, and accepted the mug of coffee Katie placed before him. “I was up early and didn’t have far to ride. And, as a matter of fact, I stopped at home for a bath before walking over here.”

“Home?” she echoed.

His eyes twinkled. “Well, it feels like home, thanks to the warm hospitality bestowed upon me by you and your father.”

Only Katie seemed to be aware of the irony in his voice. Brian, on the other hand, appeared on the verge of offering to adopt Jack. Reaching across the bar, he patted the younger man’s shoulder with hearty affection. “We couldn’t ask for a better houseguest, could we, Katie love? You’re a pleasure, Jack, and we’ve missed you since yesterday mornin’. Why, just before you came in, Katie was saying—”

“I was saying that you had been rather mysterious about your errand away from Columbia!” she interjected hastily. “If we hear that the Griffin has been active again, I might begin to suspect you, Mr. Adams!”

“Indeed? Why, Miss MacKenzie, I’m flattered! Knowing the exalted opinion you have of the Griffin, I consider it an honor that you could imagine I could be so fine and brave a hero....”

Brian looked at his smoldering daughter in confusion. “What’s all this? Have you romanced the notion of that outlaw, Katie? You’d do well to remember that men like Robin Hood are only in books. And if you do harbor any sympathy for the Griffin, keep quiet about it. Harold Van Hosten is in here almost daily, and it wouldn’t be good for my health if he thought my own daughter was out singin’ the praises of the highwayman who’s been humiliating him and Aaron Rush for nearly a year!”

She glared at Jack. “I think this is just Mr. Adams’s misguided attempt at humor, Papa.”

“Hmph. Take my advice, both of you, and choose another subject for your taunts. The Griffin’s dangerous sport.”

Jack drained his coffee and set down the mug with a dull thud. “Believe me, MacKenzie, there’s nothing I’d rather discuss less! As a matter of fact, I have an ideal distraction in mind.” He leaned closer. “I’ve thought of a plan to improve business here at the saloon.”

“This should be fascinating,” Katie muttered, returning to her polishing but staying within earshot.

“Where are your manners?” Brian exclaimed. “Hear the man out.”

A smile brightened Jack’s countenance. “This notion is so obvious that I’m sure you’ve thought of it yourself, but were unable to find the right person for the job. You see, MacKenzie, what this saloon needs is a female to serve the patrons. A pretty, friendly girl whom the miners could look upon as a friend, yet who would also provide a welcome respite from the other men they toil, beside all day long in the mines. I was thinking—”

“Mr. Adams,” Katie interrupted, “this saloon is not a hurdy-gurdy house or a dance hall. Those are the only places that use women to lure unsuspecting men for the purpose of getting them to pay outrageous prices for their drinks. I am shocked that you would propose something so... so base to my father!”

Jack replied evenly, “I wouldn’t consider proposing anything even remotely base to a respectable man like your father, nor am I suggesting that this saloon become a hurdy-gurdy house or a dance hall.” He looked at Brian. “The men are already used to seeing Miss MacKenzie working here, so it’s not as if women are forbidden in your saloon. It simply makes sense to me that it might improve business in these less-than-prosperous times if one of your employees was a pretty girl who enjoyed dressing accordingly and being friendly to the lonely, unmarried men of this town.”

Katie seethed, more conscious than ever of her plain braid and modest, faded dress. She was further outraged to hear Brian reply, “Well, what you say makes sense to me, too, Jack. But I wouldn’t want someone of questionable character, if you take my meaning, and I couldn’t pay as much as the girls make at some of the less respectable places here in Columbia. Who’d want the job?”

Jack was on his feet in an instant, grinning broadly. “I was hoping you’d ask me that! Wait just a moment.”

As he hurried outside, Katie whirled on her father. “Have you taken leave of your senses? How could you encourage such an immoral scheme?”

“Settle down, girl. Let’s hear the lad out.”

“Lad?! Papa, you mustn’t be swayed by that devil’s charm! He’s up to no good, I just know it!”

“Nonsense.” Brian waved her off with a chuckle. “I’m a pretty fair judge of character after all these years. Jack just enjoys life—and, in turn, people enjoy him.” He paused. “I’m thinking that you just might be jealous.”

She paled. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. Why should I be jealous?”

He shrugged. “You’re used to being the only female in the saloon, and the men adore you. It’d be natural for you to worry that another girl might take your place in their hearts.”

Katie laughed, relieved, but broke off at the sound of footsteps across the room. Turning, she saw Jack walking toward them, one arm wrapped protectively around a petite, buxom young woman with curls the color of burnished gold. They stopped a few feet away.

“Abigail Armitage, I’d like you to meet Brian MacKenzie and his daughter, Kathleen,” Jack said almost gently.

“It’s a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the girl said in a high voice. “Jack has told me so many nice things about you both.” She smiled at them nervously, then looked back up at Jack with huge brown eyes.

Katie decided that Abigail appeared to be infatuated with Jack, but she managed to hide her unreasoning irritation behind a smile. “Welcome to Columbia, Miss Armitage.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Brian. “Sit right up here and have something to drink. What would you like, uh...”

“Abby,” she supplied. Holding up her wide pink hoop skirt, Abby perched on one of the stools with Jack’s assistance. “Call me Abby. And I’d truly enjoy a small glass of sherry. It’s very kind of you to offer, Mr. MacKenzie.”

Katie blinked, glancing at the clock, but said nothing as her father poured the sherry and heartily insisted that Abby call him Brian. “So,” he inquired after she had taken a few sips, “what brings you to our humble town?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Jack said that I should come.”

“Did he?” Katie said sweetly, avoiding Jack’s narrowed eyes.

“I met Mrs. Armitage last autumn,” he explained, “just after her husband was killed in a rather questionable accident in the Rush Mine. They had a little cabin between here and Springfield, and I decided to stop by yesterday and see how she was doing.” He ignored the delicate arch of Katie’s eyebrow. “To make a long story short, Abby’s had a hard time making a go of it. I thought that if you could give her work, Brian, both of you might benefit. She not only needs the income, but it would do her good to be among people again.”

“Consider yourself employed, Miss Abby!” Brian declared, refilling her glass.

Her large round eyes pooled with tears, and she leaned against Jack’s arm in relief. “You’re all so kind. Jack’s visit yesterday was like a miracle. He’s saving my life....”

“Yes, Mr. Adams ought to be a candidate for sainthood,” Katie murmured, looking away. She didn’t like the way she was feeling or acting, but kindness and charity seemed beyond her at the moment, and she was convinced that somehow Jack Adams was responsible. Certainly she’d never behaved like this before! He seemed to have the ability to needle her in ways that weren’t apparent to anyone else, which infuriated her all the more. Katie glanced back at him now and found him watching her. He gave her a barely perceptible wink, then returned his attention to Abigail Armitage, who beamed up at him with frank adoration.

“Now then, Miss Abby,” Brian said, “when would you like to start work?”

“I’d be glad to begin today if someone can teach me what to do.” Shyly, she looked toward Katie, who averted her eyes and began polishing the bar again.

“Unfortunately, I have an article about the Griffin to finish for the Gazette today, but I’m sure my father would be happy to instruct you,” Katie said stiffly.

“Did I hear you mention the Griffin?” demanded an angry voice from across the saloon.

All four turned their attention to the tall, thin, well-dressed blond man who walked up to the bar. His mouth was set in a hard line that was accentuated by a jutting nose and cheekbones. Small, deep-set pale blue eyes stared at each of them in turn.

Brian splashed whiskey into a shot glass and set it on the bar. “Good morning, Mr. Van Hosten. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” He cleared his throat. “Uh, my daughter was just sayin’ that she’s composing a piece about the Griffin for the newspaper. She works there, you know.”

Harold Van Hosten smiled thinly, downed the whiskey, then inquired, “It will come as no surprise to you, Miss MacKenzie, to learn that I am rather interested to hear if any progress has been made toward discovering the Griffin’s true identity or his whereabouts.”

“None as far as I know,” Katie admitted. “My story merely explores various possibilities of identity and motive—who he might be and why he turned to this way of life.”

“If you hear anything, even a rumor, I would appreciate it if you would come to me. I’ll be glad to reimburse you for your trouble. As long as that outlaw is at large, my very life is in danger.”

Katie wanted to say, “Not to mention your money!” but instead replied politely, “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Van Hosten, and I’ll remember what you’ve said.”

“Good.” He drained his second whiskey, looking at Jack and Abby over the rim of the glass. “You’re Adams, aren’t you? I think we were introduced a few months back.”

“That’s right.” Jack’s voice was low, his gaze even. “It was at the Wells Fargo office in Sonora, I believe. I trust you had a pleasant journey that day?”

“On the contrary, I was robbed by that cursed Griffin!”

Jack’s brows lifted. “I’m sorry to hear that. It was fortunate for me that I took the stage to Sacramento instead.”

“The criminal only took my valuables. It’s a vendetta of some sort, but I assure you that I mean to even the score! Rush and I are posting a reward that should bring out a Judas among the miners who revere, and doubtless protect, that outlaw.” His blue eyes glittered coldly, then he blinked, regaining his composure. “I seem to recall that you were in search of a profitable claim to work, Adams. Any luck?”

“Not the sort I’d hoped for. I’m here to investigate a claim I heard is up for sale a few miles east.”

“Well, such pursuits are risky business at best these days. If you’re disappointed again, come and see me at the mine office. I might be able to provide more reliable employment.”

The smile that curved Jack’s mouth didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Pragmatic, my good fellow,” Van Hosten replied coolly. “You’re strong and able-bodied, but those qualities are easy to come by here in the foothills. What is harder to find is a man with a quick mind. You’re intelligent. I can see it in your eyes.”

“You’ll understand if I don’t demur.” Jack’s voice was dry.

Brian was growing increasingly uneasy as he listened to this conversation. It worried him to think that Jack might go to work for Rush and Van Hosten. Glancing over at his daughter, he saw that she was watching the two men with an expression of open contempt. He decided that a distraction was in order.

“Mr. Van Hosten,” he interrupted, “I’ve neglected to introduce you to Columbia’s newest resident and my newest employee! This is Mrs. Abigail Armitage. Miss Abby, say hello to Mr. Harold Van Hosten, one of our most prominent citizens!”

She smiled at him warily and extended her hand, which Van Hosten lifted lightly to his lips. After amenities were exchanged, he murmured, “Armitage... that name sounds familiar....”

“I believe that you were acquainted with my husband, Ben, Mr. Van Hosten. He worked in your mine. You may recall that Ben staked a claim of his own near Springfield, and it looked very promising. I believe that you were quite interested in purchasing it from him, but he refused, and shortly after that he was... killed in an accident in the mine.” Abby’s rouged lips trembled as she spoke.

Van Hosten put some coins on the bar and stood up. “Of course, I do remember your husband, Mrs. Armitage,” he said absently. “He was a fine man, a good worker. Mr. Rush and I were saddened by his death. Unfortunately, mining is hazardous, and I know that Ben was aware of the risks. You have my sincere sympathy, madam, and my best wishes for the future.”

Abby could only nod, after which Van Hosten made his farewells and strode out of the saloon. Longing to soothe the obviously distraught young widow, Brian poured more sherry.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her tiny hand shook as she lifted the glass to her lips.

Katie felt the stirrings of genuine compassion. Ignoring Jack and her father, she reached over to touch Abby’s arm. “I have to go to the Gazette for a few hours, but I’ll return here later this afternoon and help you learn what will be necessary to perform your job. All right, Abby?”

“You’re very kind.”

“I thought Miss Abby might stay in that spare room upstairs,” Brian remarked. “The bed’s good, and there’s a balcony overlooking Main Street. With a few female touches, it ought to do quite nicely. Why don’t you let me show it to you, m’dear, and you can freshen up if you’d like, and lie down for a bit.”

Jack stood up. “Abby’s things are still at the Wells Fargo office. I’ll go get them.”

To her dismay, Katie found that he was walking behind her out of the saloon, and she could feel him watching the gentle sway of her hips. Out on the dusty street, she whirled to face him.

“I wish you would stay away from me!”

Jack feigned surprise. “I thought I was doing that! You can’t accuse me of lurking, either, since I announced my intention to leave.”

Katie was unnerved by the way his eyes danced as they stared into her own. “I can’t bear your proximity,” she said, then turned and walked away.

Jack kept pace. “That’s unfortunate, since we’re heading in the same direction. And I had the impression that you had something on your mind that you might wish to say to me....”

Goaded to the breaking point, Katie stopped. “All right,” she replied in poisonously sweet tones, “I’ll tell you.”

“Good!” He broke into a grin and she narrowed her eyes in return. “I’m sure you’ll feel better afterward. Why don’t we just step over here under a tree so that we don’t attract a crowd.”

When Jack’s fingers closed around her arm, as if to guide her, Katie wrenched free and walked ahead of him to the shelter of the spreading branches of a tree of heaven.

“Here I am,” Jack invited, standing before her, “a willing target. Please begin.”

“I don’t mind if I do! First of all, you needn’t look as if my anger is cause for amusement.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.” He strove to settle his features into a mask of sobriety.

“And I am well aware that you are presently being nice only to entertain yourself!” When he blinked in mild surprise, Katie was unaccountably pleased. “Everything you have done today, Mr. Adams, has made me furious! I feel a great deal of sympathy for Mrs. Armitage, and she seems to be a good person, but you had no right to manipulate my father into providing employment for her!”

“Was that what I did?”

“It certainly was! Oh, you were very canny, like a cat with a mouse, explaining the situation to my father in such a way that he was bound to agree! He is kind, warm-hearted, and impulsive, as well you know, for you have been the recipient of his generosity yourself. But, if you were a person with any scruples, you would not have played upon his good nature to achieve your own ends!”

Jack’s brows arched slightly. “And what might those be?”

She wished he would be quiet and just listen to her. Casting about for a response, she exclaimed, “I’d rather not sully my mind with the sordid possibilities.”

Unable to contain himself, he gave in to husky laughter, eventually taking a breath and murmuring, “I’m sorry; I couldn’t help it. Sometimes the things that come out of your mouth are simply delightful!” He smiled down at her angry countenance. “Is it so difficult for you to believe that my motive was simply to help Abby?”

“Perhaps it was in part, but I also know that there is more to it,” Katie said stubbornly.

“Do you imagine that I did it to aggravate you?”

That was precisely what she thought, but when he said it aloud it sounded ludicrous. “Of course not! But you had no right to interfere in the business of the saloon. We have worked hard to establish a certain reputation for quality—unlike the establishments in Columbia which cater to a more... lascivious clientele. Now that reputation will be at risk!”

Jack leaned against the tree trunk and folded his arms. “Your father is only at risk to make more money than he’s seen lately. Abby likes men, and they’ll like her—therefore, they’ll come to the saloon to see her.”

“You can try to whitewash this, but the fact remains—”

“That you’re jealous. You’ve been the only female in that saloon, and even though you claim to be above feminine vanity, the fact remains that you’ve gotten all the admiring looks from the men without having to curl your hair or wear a pretty gown or lower yourself to wearing powder and rouge.”

Katie longed to slap him, but the curious glances of passersby held her in check. “I do not wish to discuss this matter any further, Mr. Adams. Obviously you are far too rude to listen to reason or admit that you have erred.”

“It seems I am quite hopeless,” he replied agreeably. “Are we finished?”

“Not quite!” Her eyes were flashing, her delicately sculpted cheeks were rosy, and she was breathing hard. The conviction that Jack appreciated even the physical effects of her fury only made Katie angrier. “I also would like to inform you that, if I did not already have enough reasons to disapprove of you, your conversation with Harold Van Hosten gave me another.”

The laughter went out of Jack’s eyes. “Indeed?”

“It was unpleasant enough to see you being polite to a man I have told you is corrupt, and who you know may well have been responsible for the death of Mrs. Armitage’s husband. But when you began discussing the possibility of going to work for him, I was filled with revulsion!”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it and sighed instead. A muscle in his jaw tensed before he finally replied evenly, “Unlike the Griffin, whose courage you so admire, I cannot wear a mask in the presence of Van Hosten. I must introduce myself by name and show my face, which I happen to be quite fond of. I haven’t forgotten Ben Armitage’s death; it holds a lesson, reminding me what is necessary to stay alive. If that makes me a coward, then so be it.”

Katie steeled herself against the spell of his eyes and his soft, serious voice. “We have nothing left to say to each other, Mr. Adams.”

Slowly, he reached out and smoothed a stray curl from her brow. Gentle irony infected his voice as he murmured, “Somehow, Miss MacKenzie, I doubt that....”

Her heart thudded and she tried to swallow. Pressing her lips together, Katie turned away. She had gone only a few steps when the pull of his eyes caused her to pause for an instant, but then she continued walking, not looking back until she was safely inside the white frame office of the Columbia Gazette. Leaning against the door, she pressed shaking fingers to her burning cheeks.

“Odious, odious man!” she whispered. She had no idea why Jack Adams stirred up such vehement, conflicting emotions within her, but she wished fervently that he had never come into her life.

Chapter 4

June 26, 1864

“That was delicious!” Brian declared, swallowing the last bite of his toast and poached egg. “Your strawberry jam is as fine as any your dear mother ever made.”

“Thank you, Papa.” Absently, Katie picked up his plate and walked over to wash it with the other breakfast dishes.

Brian followed, wrapping an arm around her slim shoulders. “You look real pretty today! Is that a new frock?”

She glanced down at the dress of white percale dotted in violet. The full skirt was set off by a violet sash at the waist, and the high, violet-bordered collar was edged in starched white lace. “It’s the one Victoria made for my birthday. Do you really like it?”

“You’re a picture. Have you thought about putting your hair up?” Immediately Brian regretted his words. “I see—that’d be a mistake, wouldn’t it? Jack might think you were changing your hair because he suggested it.”

“Mr. Adams’s opinion is of no consequence as far as I’m concerned, Papa.”

“That’s my girl! You know, the sight of you so beautiful and grown-up makes me remember something I’ve been meanin’ to give you.” He took her by the hand and led her into his bedroom. Opening the top drawer of a worn cherrywood bureau, Brian reached to the back and withdrew a small wooden box. “This was your mother’s, and she wanted you to have it. I should’ve given it to you on your birthday, but you know how absentminded I can be. I forget that you’re not my little girl anymore.”

Katie held the box for a moment before opening it. She tried not to think of her mother, avoiding the pain that inevitably accompanied memories, and now she could already feel the familiar sting mingling with a sense of anticipation. Slowly she lifted the lid to reveal Mary MacKenzie’s three cherished pieces of jewelry. Nestled in a bed of velvet were a lustrous pearl necklace, a cameo brooch edged with gold filigree, and a beautiful ring that featured a sapphire encircled by tiny diamonds.

“Oh...” she breathed. She picked up the cameo, stroking the sculpted pink-and-white surface with the side of her thumb. “Mama wore this nearly every day! I assumed that...”

“She wore it still?” Brian whispered. The sight of Katie’s eyes shining with tears made his throat close and his voice grow thick. “No, darlin’. Mary has her wedding rings, but she asked me to keep these for you. You’ve never shown an interest in jewelry before, but seeing you so lovely in that dress made me think that it’s time you had these.”

Katie looked into his shaving mirror and pinned the brooch to the base of her lacy collar. “I love it, Papa. Thank you.”

Brian gathered her into his bearlike embrace. He held her for a long time, awkwardly patting the back of her head until he felt the warmth of her tears penetrate his shirt. “What’s wrong, lass?”

“I miss Mama.”

“I know you do. I do, too, but I’m thinking that’s not all that’s bothering you. Won’t you tell your pa what it is?”

She shook her head but wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with Jack Adams, would it?” Brian pressed gently.

Katie disengaged from her father’s arms and walked over to lean against the door frame, arms folded across her breasts. “No. Well, yes, but not in the way you think. I mean, I have no feelings at all about the man himself—it’s the things he does and says that vex me so!”

Brian’s gaze was tender as he took in the stubborn set of Katie’s chin. “Tell me what you mean.”

“I feel that this is my home. I’m a part of our family, of this town, and I’ve grown to depend on certain things being constant. You and the saloon and my friends and neighbors are my whole world... yet since Jack came to Columbia, everything seems turned upside-down!” She took a deep breath, hoping to calm herself. “He’s changed things that I had come to rely upon. Even you aren’t the same, Papa! I always could predict what you would say and do, but that man has convinced you to change things that were just fine until he interfered. He’s invaded our home, and everything is different at the saloon. You know that I like Abigail just fine, but I don’t think we needed her to work at the saloon. It used to be a place of business, a friendly place with a sort of dignity, where the men could come for a quiet drink, some conversation, wholesome food, and a game if they were so inclined. Now there’s this blushing, pretty girl who wears gowns that show part of her bosom when she bends over and who causes the men to act like adolescent boys! And meanwhile, there is Jack Adams, leaning against the bar and admiring his own handiwork. Well, it wasn’t his place to interfere! He has you so charmed that you don’t even blink when he discusses taking a job with Harold Van Hosten! Well, I can see him for what he is. I just wish he would go away and leave us alone!”

Brian rubbed his jaw, bemused. “Sounds like you’ve been holdin’ in a whole lot of frustration, love.”

Suddenly she felt like crying, but she pushed down the tide of emotion, merely nodding in response.

“Probably upsets you that I haven’t seemed to pay any mind to your objections to Jack so far.”

“Well... yes! Yes, it’s bothered me that a virtual stranger has had more sway with you than I, that you seem to have more respect for his judgment than for mine. And, it bothers me that he brushes off my protestations and opinions as if they aren’t worth considering!”

MacKenzie wanted to put an arm around his daughter, but he gave her space instead. “I apologize if I’ve been inconsiderate. I’ve not meant to hurt you, and I think you know that I respect your judgment and opinions. Haven’t I listened to you always?” He paused, then added gently, “You’ve had a great deal of power in your own world, ever since your ma died. You’ve been used to behaving as you pleased and looking as you pleased... and having things the way you wanted them. I’m not saying that’s bad. You have a strong will, Kathleen, and you’re pretty and as smart as any man. It’s only natural that you’d stand out in this town.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m spoiled?” she asked in a quiet, shocked voice.

“I wouldn’t put it that way. You’ve worked too hard to be spoiled. You’re just a natural leader, and you’re used to that. I’m afraid that Jack Adams is the same way. I happen to believe that other people’s opinions can be worthwhile, which is why I’ve listened to Jack. It sure doesn’t mean I put any less stock in what you think! I love you more than my own life. It just seems to me that you’re accustomed to people doing what you want, and rightly so. It’s natural that you’d be annoyed by Jack busting into your world. Not only are people listening to him instead of you, but you can’t get him to do what you want, either.”

“You make me sound horrid, Papa!”

“Nonsense!” Brian laughed. “And what you’re feeling is just part of growing up. Look on it as a lesson. Even in a town like Columbia, you can’t always make life turn out the way you’d like. Other people have their own ways, which may not be the same as what you want.”

Slowly, she came over to him and rested her head against his sturdy shoulder. “I’ll try to remember that, Papa.”

“You’ll be a lot happier if you can.” Smiling, he patted her cheek. “Would you listen to a bit more advice from your old pa about Jack Adams?”

Katie sighed. “I suppose so.”

“You’re lettin’ him bother you too much, lass. Just let him be. And, don’t think that everything he does is to get your goat! Relax... accept him as he is, because there’s not a blessed chance that you can change him. If he ever does start actin’ the way you’d like him to, it’ll be because he chooses to and not because you willed it.” Brian kissed the tip of her nose. “I have a suspicion that, deep down inside, you like him just a little bit. You know, you’re too young and pretty to get so riled up over one human being. Why not look on Jack’s visit here as an opportunity for adventure? Try to have a bit of fun!”

Katie made a face. “Why don’t I start with something that would be easier to enjoy? Perhaps I could persuade our good dentist Dr. Blake to extract one of my teeth!”

“Have you ever tried this concoction?” Gideon Henderson asked as he set the type for an advertisement of “Dr. Webber’s Invigorating Cordial.”

Smiling, Katie read aloud from the copy: “Do you feel prostration of the nerves, the body, or the mind? Are your nerves unstrung, your spirits low?” She skipped ahead to “Weakness in Females, and Aged Persons, are singularly benefitted.” Katie laughed. “How interesting to learn that we women are classified with the aged in terms of our health! No, Gideon, I’ve never tried this miraculous cure. Have you?”

He pushed up his glasses with ink-smeared fingers. “No, but a few years back, my mother was drinking a bottle a day. She smelled like she’d just left a saloon, and she acted that way, too! Finally, Mother set the kitchen on fire while trying to light the stove and my father refused to let her have any more of Dr. Webber’s Invigorating Cordial!”

“A wise decision. Did she miss it?”

“Oh, yes. She took to her bed and sulked for a week before announcing that her headaches were completely gone and she felt fine for the first time in months.”

They had almost finished with the back page of the Gazette. Tomorrow this weekly issue, including her story about the Griffin, would go on sale. Anticipating increased interest, Gideon planned to print an extra fifty copies.

Katie stretched and felt the stiffness in her back from hours of bending over the type bed. “I’m ravenous! You must be, too. Shall I get us something to eat?”

He nodded, watching as she removed the white smock that protected her dress. For a moment, he was uneasily aware of his ink-smudged shirt with its frayed cuffs and the drabness of his black trousers and brown silk waistcoat. Then Gideon reminded himself that it would take more than fine clothing to transform him into a man worthy of Katie MacKenzie. “I’ve meant to tell you that you look pretty today, Katie. Not that you don’t always look pretty, but that frock is a beauty. And where did you get such an exquisite cameo?”

She looked at him in surprise. Was it her imagination, or was Gideon blushing a little? They’d known each other all their lives, though he was two years older, and Katie had never seen him show a romantic interest in any female. Gideon’s first love had always been the Adams bed and platen printing press. “Why, thank you!” She glanced down in confusion. “The cameo was my mother’s. Papa gave it to me today.” She touched it with slim fingers. “I adore it. I can remember so clearly when she wore it herself, pinned at this same spot on her gowns.”

“Your mother was a very beautiful woman,” he said quietly. “You look more like her all the time. Have you thought of putting up your hair?”

She reacted instantly. “No!”

“All right, all right, I’m sorry I mentioned it!” Gideon held up his hands in surrender. “I just thought that it would show off that lovely neck of yours... and the cameo.”

Katie pursed her lips thoughtfully and wandered over to the tiny mirror that hung in a the corner of the back room. Staring at herself, she slowly unbraided her hair, which cascaded down her back in rich ebony waves. Almost reluctantly, Katie reached back and wound it around, then carefully arranged it atop her head, holding it in place with one hand. The effect was stunning. She frowned but shyly emerged to show Gideon.

Her friend applauded. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, Katie! Or, more precisely, under a braid and a plain, unflattering dress. You’ve grown into a woman, but kept the transformation a secret. Although I was aware that you were pretty, I can see now that you’re a true beauty!”

Before Katie could reply, another voice spoke from the doorway. “It’s a distinct honor to witness this historic occasion. I hope it isn’t too late for you to change the Gazette’s headline to Katie Unbraids!”

She whirled around, freeing her hair to tumble over her shoulders. “You! Have you nothing better to do than lurk in doorways, waiting to mock me?”

Jack’s low laughter seemed to infuse the office’s stale atmosphere with fresh energy. He walked toward her slowly, his expression appealingly boyish. “I’d be obliged if you could accuse me of something else besides ‘lurking,’” he entreated.

“Oh, I’d be happy to, Mr. Adams. Shall I compose alist?”

Gideon stared as Jack responded to her barbs with a grin. Clearing his throat, Henderson murmured, “Katie, will you introduce me to your... friend?”

She’d forgotten he was there and now turned to him in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Gideon. You must be quite shocked by my behavior. Mr. Adams has a talent for bringing out the worst in me.”

As Katie performed stiff introductions, Gideon looked at Jack Adams and felt puny, pale, and awkward. The other man certainly had presence. Clad in clean, soft buckskins and a shirt the color of ripe wheat, he exuded strength and self-assurance as he came forward, his hand outstretched. Gideon felt Adams sizing him up before white teeth flashed in a sudden, engaging smile.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Henderson,” Jack said, shaking the smaller man’s ink-stained hand. “You publish a very worthwhile newspaper here. I admire your work. Are you still turning a profit now that Columbia has... slowed down?”

“Uh—thank you for the compliment. I wish I could assure you that the Gazette is thriving, but unfortunately, that’s not the case,” he replied, struck by the inane sound of his own voice in contrast to Jack’s. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Adams. You’ve earned quite a reputation for installing Abigail Armitage at MacKenzie’s Saloon. The miners are very grateful!”

“Are they? Well, I try to help in my own small way.” He ignored the snort of derision from behind him, instead reaching back to take Katie’s arm and draw her forward. “Mr. Henderson—”

“Please, call me Gideon.”

“If you’ll call me Jack. Gideon, may I borrow Miss MacKenzie for a short while? It’s a matter of grave importance.”

“Well, certainly. Katie’s put in a long day, and she’s looking far too pretty to waste any more time cooped up here....”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am not a piece of goods that you can trade at will!” She tried to wrench free of Jack’s grip, but he held her with ease. “Only I can say whether I will stay or go—”

A sudden, quelling look from Jack silenced her. “Would you do me the colossal favor of allowing me to explain? Privately?”

“I might, if you would release me!” She pulled her arm away only to find that he had released it, then was further humiliated by losing her balance and stumbling against Gideon. Marshaling her remaining dignity, Katie straightened and walked toward the door. “You may follow me, Mr. Adams.”

Jack gave Gideon a look of long-suffering amusement, then nodded good-bye and exited the Gazette office behind Katie. Out in the afternoon sunlight, he gestured toward the passageway next to the Fallon House Hotel and Theatre. “After you, my dear.”

When they were standing close together, hidden from the street, Jack murmured, “Would you like me to avert my eyes?”

“Why would I want you to do that?” Katie asked, irritated.

“So that you can remove the stone from your shoe... or whatever it is that’s causing your querulous mood.”

Her eyes blazed. “It’s a thorn in my side, and the only way to remove it is for you to go away!” She paused, breathing hard, then added, “And if I am querulous, it is because you are captious!”

Jack’s brows elevated appreciatively. “The challenge, as I see it, would be to use both ‘lurk’ and ‘captious’ in a sentence. Let’s see... ‘Lurking captiously, he plotted ways to drive the formerly serene young maiden to the brink of madness.’ How’s that?”

“Apt...most apt.” A smile flickered over Katie’s mouth but was instantly suppressed.“Mr. Adams, this is a shocking waste of my time!” she said sternly. “What is it you wish to say to me?”

“I wish to ask a small favor.”

“Of me? This should be entertaining!” She grinned as if already contemplating the pleasure of refusing him.

“Now, Kathleen, don’t look like that. I realize that you aren’t fond of me, but aren’t we friends?”

His eyes were gazing into hers in a way that made her feel breathless and confused. Merely by using her Christian name, he’d created a sense of intimacy between them. Somehow, too, he could charge his eyes and voice with heady magic, and she was not immune to their spell. Instinctively Katie struggled, but then she remembered her father’s advice. Don’t let it bother you, she told herself. Relax and try to enjoy him for what he is.

“Friends?” Katie met his eyes boldly. Suddenly she saw that not allowing him to upset her was a more subtle form of victory. “I wasn’t aware that there was any basis for that happy relationship between us, but I suppose that anything is possible. And I like to think that I’m a charitable person, Mr. Adams. What kind of favor did you have in mind?”

Jack blinked in momentary surprise but refrained from questioning her sudden shift in mood. “Just a bit of light-hearted fun.” He gave her his most appealing smile. “All I ask is that you pretend to be my wife.”

Chapter 5

June 26, 1864

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Katie gasped.

“I don’t think so, although you’re certainly entitled to your opinion. Just let me explain—”

“Please do!”

As if to calm her, Jack reached for her hand. The instant his warm, strong fingers touched her soft skin, Katie flinched as if he’d burned her. He smiled a little, stroking his thumb against the sensitive surface of her palm and watching her reaction. Now she was still, but he saw that she was holding her breath. “Don’t worry; I’m harmless,” he murmured, his voice a caress.

“Are you indeed?” She drew her hand from his.

“For a woman who dreams of being carried off by the Griffin, you certainly seem to be afraid of men!” Jack chuckled softly, then held up his hands in surrender. “Now don’t get all hot and bothered again. I apologize. I don’t mean to offend you—but you’re the damnedest woman I’ve ever known.”

“And probably the only lady,” Katie retorted.

“That’s true. Absolutely. I’m just a poor barbarian who can’t help saying the wrong thing. But I mean well.”

She allowed her anger to melt under his smile. “Mr. Adams, are you civilized enough to come to the point?”

“I think so.” The sight of Katie returning his smile was disconcerting. God, but she was beautiful! Jack bit his lower lip and cleared his throat. “I... uh, well, the fact is, I need your help. It isn’t so much for me, but to spare the feelings of a certain young lady....” Her delicate eyebrows rose, but he plunged onward. “You see, I met Miss Chelstrom in Placerville, and apparently she formed an attachment to me. I won’t bore you with the details, but she seems to have followed me here. I was, as you can imagine, quite surprised when she appeared in your father’s saloon. As we talked, it became obvious that she was determined in this matter. Finally, seeing no other way out, I told Miss Chelstrom that I could not be a part of her life any longer because I had gotten married.” He grinned recklessly as Katie widened her eyes. “To you.”

She opened her mouth, but no words would come.

“I realize that I may have spoken rashly, but your father joined in, and before I knew it, we had spun quite a tale of impetuous romance. Brian declared that you and I had fallen in love the moment we met. Destiny, he said.”

Katie finally made a sound of outrage. “My father said that?”

“Oh, that was just the beginning. Once he got started, I thought he’d never stop!” Jack started to laugh, remembering. “It was all nonsense, of course. We just wanted to convince her to leave on the next stage.”

“It would serve you right if she lingered and made you suffer!”

“Perhaps, but would you want your father to suffer, too? I’m not the only one who’s been dishonest today. If I’m exposed as a liar, then he will be as well.”

“But you are the one who created this situation!” Katie’s voice rose heatedly. “You’ve probably left a string of broken hearts all across the Sierras!”

“Shh!” Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Please, I don’t mean to hurry you, but the stage is due soon, and I intend that Miss Chelstrom will be on it. Kathleen, won’t you do me this one favor? If not for me, then for your father.”

“This is outrageous! What on earth do you want me to do?”

“Well, for some reason, the young lady is suspicious. She won’t go until she meets you. She’s waiting for us now at the Wells Fargo office.” His brows rose hopefully.

She sighed. “I don’t seem to have a choice, do I?”

Laughing, Jack caught her up in his arms and lifted her off the ground. Katie wriggled free, but a telltale flush suffused her cheeks. “It’ll be fun,” he assured her. “All you have to do is pretend to be madly in love with me. That won’t be difficult, will it?”

With those provoking words, he tucked her hand through the crook of his arm and started toward the Wells Fargo office. Katie told herself that she despised him and was angry with him, but her feelings were quite the opposite. Her heart raced with something akin to joy as Jack smiled down at her and winked roguishly. Even worse, she found that the sensation of his hard-muscled arm against her fingers and the warmth of his body so close to hers were distinctly pleasurable. So pleasurable, in fact, that Katie allowed herself to simply bask in the moment.

As they turned right on Main Street and approached the handsome brick three-story Wells Fargo office, it was all she could do not to beam up at him. Then she saw Miss Chelstrom. The young woman was sitting on a bench outside the ticket office, surrounded by luggage and hatboxes.

Katie felt a stab of raw emotion that she recognized as jealousy. Miss Chelstrom was ravishing. Clad in an elegant summer suit of fawn-colored Glacina stamped with a lace design, the young woman was blessed with a petite, perfectly curved body, gleaming coppery ringlets, huge eyes, and flawless white skin. Suddenly Katie’s new gown seemed gauche and obviously homemade, and her face burned as she realized that she had forgotten to rebraid her hair.

Miss Chelstrom was staring at Jack. “I see that you have found your wife,” she murmured in tones of disbelief.

He seemed perfectly at ease. “Kathleen helps to publish the Columbia Gazette, and she was working this afternoon, but she graciously agreed to come and meet you.” His hooded eyes narrowed slightly. “I wish it hadn’t been necessary.”

Jack wrapped his arm protectively around Katie’s waist, and the sides of their bodies fit naturally together. For a moment she rested her cheek against his shoulder, inhaling his clean, masculine scent, then she seemed to recall her duty. Straightening, she smiled at Miss Chelstrom and held out her hand as Jack introduced them.

“How do you do?” she said politely. “I do hope you’ll excuse my rather informal appearance. I—well, Jack often likes to unpin my hair, even in public.” She blushed prettily and glanced up at him.

“How interesting to meet you, Mrs. Adams!” Miss Chelstrom declared. “And, you have an occupation! How sweet. I do hope my arrival in Columbia hasn’t upset you too much.”

Warming to her part, Katie relaxed against Jack so that her breast pressed against the side of his chest. He tightened his fingers at her waist in response. “Upset me? Don’t be silly. Nothing could upset me these days, Miss Chelstrom, I’m far too happy. I never understood the meaning of that word until Jack and I met....” She dragged her eyes from his mouth and bestowed a smile upon the intruder. “Surely you don’t imagine I’m surprised to learn that Jack knew other women before he met me? On the contrary, I’m certain that there are many, many young ladies who have fancied themselves in love with him. How could they resist? But that’s past now. I’m Jack’s wife.”

Jack himself could hardly believe his ears, not to mention his senses, as Katie leaned against him. He could even feel the outline of her thigh against his hip. Their eyes met, and he swore he read passion in her gaze. “You certainly are,” Jack murmured, then looked at his visitor. “I’m truly sorry you came all this way, Cecelia, but we did say good-bye in Placerville. Have a safe journey home.”

“Oh, I shall. And Jack, shouldn’t you buy your dear wife a wedding ring? That is, if you mean to stay married....”

“I plan to, just as soon as we get to Sacramento this Thursday.”

Miss Chelstrom’s beautiful face was stiff with anger and suspicion as the couple strolled away arm in arm. Turning his head a fraction, Jack saw that the young woman was sitting forward, observing them. He looked down at Katie, who was leaning against his shoulder.

“That was quite a performance, Miss MacKenzie. Have you considered a career on the stage?” Before she could gather her wits and resurrect the familiar barriers between them, Jack continued, “I’m not entirely certain that Miss Chelstrom is convinced, however. Would you mind helping me to dispel any lingering doubts she might entertain?”

Katie wondered if this entire episode might be a dream. “No,” she whispered, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Aware that he was taking advantage, yet blithely unrepentant, Jack turned to face her and slid both hands around her waist. Slim and supple, she melted against him, and with an instinct born of practice, he knew that she wasn’t pretending: Katie was as hungry for him as he was for her. His heart leaped with arousal when she artlessly reached up and twined her arms about his shoulders. Her fingers sank into the curls at the nape of his neck, caressing the warm, bare skin under his open collar.

“Kathleen,” he breathed, gathering her completely into his arms. Her firm breasts seemed to brand the expanse of his chest; their bodies were flush, hips pressed together in spite of the crinoline that belled out behind Katie.

She didn’t close her eyes but stared in wonder, savoring the exquisite anticipation as Jack slowly lowered his face to hers. Gently, he grazed her parted lips, tracing each soft, lush curve before covering them with his own finely chiseled mouth. Through a dizzying wave of arousal, the realization came to him that she had never been kissed before. Her lips trembled with yearning as he tasted them for long moments before slowly venturing beyond with his tongue. Katie’s came to meet him, sweet and ardent, and then she was kissing him back, exploring the inside of his mouth as he had explored hers. His hands explored the graceful curves of her waist and back while her fingers caressed his hair. It wasn’t until Jack instinctively felt for the tiny buttons that skimmed her spine that he remembered where they were, and why. Opening his eyes, he saw that Victoria Barnstaple and two of her friends were staring at them from the other side of Main Street.

Katie moaned softly in protest when Jack’s mouth left hers. He buried his face in her hair, kissed her neck, then remarked with gentle irony, “We seem to have forgotten ourselves, Miss MacKenzie....”

Startled, she opened her eyes as the flush of passion drained from her cheeks. “I—but—”

“Please don’t slap me,” Jack begged, smiling, “or our performance will have been for naught.” His alert eyes watched the conflicting play of emotions cross her face. “Now, Kathleen, don’t look at me like that. Think of it as my birthday gift, the one you didn’t want to accept at the saloon that night. You’re twenty years old and it’s time you had a proper kiss.” Jack lifted her trembling hand and pressed it to his mouth before glancing at her with a hint of mischief. “You can be honest with me. Didn’t you enjoy it just a little?”

Katie swallowed and took a deep breath, but the storm inside her body would not be calmed. “I don’t wish to discuss this... incident. Ever. I’m going home.”

“We’re still being watched, so you’ll have to let me escort you.” When she nodded dazedly, Jack tucked her hand around his arm and they walked together up Main Street in silence. He sensed that she needed to be left alone, and he discovered that, for once in his dealings with women, he himself was confused.

When they reached the white picket fence that enclosed the MacKenzie house, they stopped, and Jack caught Katie’s arm before she could turn away. “Don’t look so stricken,” he said lightly. “It was only a kiss, engaged in for the benefit of Miss Chelstrom. It doesn’t bind you to me in any permanent way.”

She nodded, looking away, then Jack let go of her arm and she went into the house alone. Inside, it occurred to Katie that he might be returning to see Cecelia Chelstrom. Hating herself for caring, she peeked out the window and saw that he was walking east, toward Yankee Hill Road. Sighing, she leaned back against the door. The neat little parlor was just as she’d left it that morning, yet everything looked different. Jack’s voice echoed in her mind, repeating over and over, “Just a kiss... it doesn’t bind you to me...”

Kissing was something that Jack Adams did all the time, Katie imagined. He’d probably kissed hundreds of women. It might mean nothing to him, but she felt transformed. Somehow, a door had opened inside of her that she had been only dimly aware of before. It was as if an entirely new person had escaped from a previously locked room, a woman Katie didn’t know, and she wasn’t certain if she could force her back into captivity.

She walked into her sun-filled bedroom with its narrow, austere bed against the far wall and stared at herself in the bureau mirror. The beautiful eyes that looked back at her glowed with a new light.

“It was just a kiss,” Katie whispered. She touched her mouth. It felt slightly bruised, and the memory of Jack’s kiss and their mutual abandon sent a traitorously pleasurable shiver through her body. “How could I have done that?” she wondered, and was answered by the puckering of her nipples and a tingling sensation between her legs.

Suddenly Katie was angry—angry at her own body’s betrayal, at Jack’s cavalier attitude, at herself for loving the taste of him that lingered in her mouth and the his male scent that still clung faintly to her skin. She glared at her own reflection. “I refuse to feel this way!” she hissed. “It was just a meaningless kiss, he said so himself. A frivolous pleasure of adulthood. And Jack Adams is just a man. I would have reacted to such a pleasurable physical sensation the same way with any man.”

The woman in the mirror smiled back at her reassuringly. Katie remembered then that she had promised to bring some food to Gideon. She no longer had any appetite but decided to take him some of the ham, bread, and fruit that were left from last night’s supper.

Before she set out on her errand though, she brushed her tangled mane of hair, then braided it so tightly that it hurt.

The headquarters for the Rush Mine had recently been rebuilt of brick after another of the many fires that had plagued Columbia during its fourteen-year history. It was situated on a hillside east of town, overlooking one of the sites of hydraulic mining that had rejuvenated the gold industry in the area.

Harold Van Hosten’s office was smaller than that of his partner, Aaron Rush, but it reflected the prosperous image the mining company wished to project. Jack, sitting on a straight chair, was separated from Van Hosten by an ornately carved, mammoth cherrywood desk. There were large, gilt-framed oil paintings on the walls, and as they talked Van Hosten drank his whiskey and smoked a long cigar. Jack thought, with decided irony, that any dusty miner who came here to confront his employer would feel like a serf who had been granted an audience with his king. It was not an atmosphere conducive to honest communication or democratic fair play.

“I like you, Adams,” Van Hosten was saying in velvety tones. “It’s not often that I meet a miner with obvious intelligence as well as ambition and physical strength. I think that you could have a bright future if you come to work for us. If you’re patient, you just might have a position in management one day. On the other hand, you could go on working claims independently, but surely a perceptive man like yourself is aware that the day of the lone prospector is over in the Sierras. The surface gold is played out.”

“That’s the rumor, anyway,” Jack replied laconically.

Van Hosten lifted his pale eyebrows. “I’d say that it’s a proven fact. It’s very rare for a man to discover an appreciable amount of gold with a pan or a pick these days.”

Jack’s eyes looked even more catlike than usual as he gazed calmly across the desk. When he spoke, however, it was only to say, “I’ll have to take your word for it, Mr. Van Hosten. You’re certainly in a position to know.”

The older man smiled thinly. “I realize that it must be difficult for an ambitious young man like yourself to trade dreams of glory for something more realistic, but you wouldn’t regret it. I can guarantee you a fine, successful future.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Well, initially you would be an assistant of sorts. The business has reached the point where there is more supervising than either I or Mr. Rush can handle. You’d be a fast learner, I’m sure, and your responsibilities would increase accordingly.” He exhaled a strong-smelling cloud of smoke. “Of course, we’re willing to pay handsomely for a man of your caliber.”

“Of course,” Jack echoed with a barely perceptible note of disdain. He paused then, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “Well, Mr. Van Hosten, I would say that you have made me a very attractive offer. I’d like to accept, but I’m afraid that I can’t make any commitments. If I find that I’m dissatisfied, or if something serious develops in one of my other business interests, I would be forced to resign.”

Van Hosten nodded, considering. “I’m willing to take that chance—and the only commitment I would require from you is one of absolute loyalty.”

Jack grinned. “I’m as loyal as an old dog. When do you want me to start, and what do you want me to do?”

“You can come in tomorrow, Adams, and I’ll begin to show you the way we do things around here. Then I’m planning a trip by stage to our bank in Sacramento next week, and I’d like you to accompany me. As you might suppose, I’m rather concerned that the Griffin might once again attempt to separate me from the money I am taking... or even from this earthly body. Your sharp wits and strength should be of great service.”

“I’ll be there, sir.”

Van Hosten poured himself another glass of whiskey. “Are you certain you won’t join me? I’d say that our agreement calls for a toast!”

Standing up, Jack put out his hand. “Have an extra shot for me, Mr. Van Hosten,” he said, smiling, as they shook hands. “If I don’t leave now, I’ll miss dinner with the MacKenzies, and my hostess will be out of temper with me. Actually, she has seemed quite out of temper with me ever since we met, but I haven’t given up hope of winning her over....”

“Go along, then, but don’t expect Katie MacKenzie to thaw out just because you’re on time for dinner. Many a man in this town has tried to discover the way to her heart, and all have failed. If you solve the mystery, you could sell the secret formula and retire a wealthy man!” Van Hosten laughed loudly and drained his glass. “Good evening, Adams. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. At six.”

Jack longed to utter an exclamation of protest but forced a smile instead as he backed toward the door. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir—and thank you.”

The scene at the dinner table was comfortable and homey, unnervingly so, as far as Katie was concerned. As she ladled fricassee of rabbit with baby carrots and potatoes onto a platter, she cast a sidelong glance at Jack and her father, who were cozily discussing Columbia’s current petition for incorporation. Brian launched into an explanation of his position on the issue, and Jack leaned back in his chair, listening with an affectionate smile. He looked completely at ease and content. Freshly washed, he’d rolled up his sleeves to display handsome brown forearms, and droplets of water still clung to the hair that curled at the back of his neck. Unbidden, the memory of her fingers in Jack’s hair rose up to torment Katie. She wished she could scour the feel of it from her hands, erase the pleasure of it from her mind, and was reminded of Lady Macbeth.

When she set the platter on the table, Brian asked, “Are there any more of those biscuits from breakfast, darlin’?”

“I’ll get them,” Jack said, rising. “You sit down, Miss MacKenzie. You’ve done enough work for one day.”

Unable to meet his smiling eyes, Katie nodded and obeyed. When Jack passed next to her, she breathed in his clean scent and felt her cheeks grow warm.

“Are you feelin’ all right, Katie?” Brian inquired, peering at her in the soft lamplight. “You look a bit out of sorts.”

“No, no, I’m fine. A little tired, perhaps. It’s been a busy day.”

MacKenzie sniffed the fricassee appreciatively, then served himself. Jack offered Katie a biscuit which she took without looking at him.

“I see your braid has been restored,” he observed.

“Yes.” Katie spread jam on her biscuit with painstaking care.

“That reminds me!” Brian boomed suddenly, startling them both. “How could I have forgotten? I saw Victoria Barnstaple on my way home and she told me the wildest tale! Sometimes I swear that woman’s a secret tippler. She said that the two of you were kissing in the middle of Main Street today, with, as she put it, ‘shocking enthusiasm,’ and that Katie’s hair was all unbound, flowing down her back!”

Katie choked on her bite of biscuit while Jack grinned at his host. “What did you reply, MacKenzie?”

“Why, I just laughed and told her that I’d outgrown fairy stories forty-odd years ago!”

“Well... Mrs. Barnstaple wasn’t completely inaccurate,” Jack said carefully. “We weren’t in the middle of Main Street, but I suppose that, to the casual observer, it might have appeared that we were kissing.” Katie’s eyes flew up to meet his, and he offered her a reassuring smile. “Your daughter very selflessly agreed to pretend to kiss me so that Miss Chelstrom, whom you will recall meeting earlier today, would believe that I was no longer romantically available. Miss MacKenzie did me a great favor and I am now deeply in her debt.”

“Oh.” Brian swallowed some gravy-drenched rabbit and tried to make sense of what he had just heard. “So it was all an act... not a real kiss, then, hmm? I suppose you were just kissin’ Katie’s chin or thereabouts, and it looked like the real thing, right?”

“Something like that,” Jack confirmed with a sober nod. “And, as I said, it was a great sacrifice for your daughter to suffer my touch at all, considering the way she feels about me. You should be proud that she possesses such generosity of spirit.”

“Now, Jack, I’m sure my Katie bears you no ill will, and after all, she’s aware of my fondness for you. No doubt she did it in part because she knew it would please me, isn’t that so, lass?”

Both men were looking at her, forks poised over their plates. Katie wanted to scream. “If you don’t mind, Papa, I’d rather forget the entire incident. It really was meaningless. Can we talk about something else?”

“Certainly, love, certainly.” Brian, his brow knit in confusion, cast about for a new topic of conversation. “Jack, why don’t you tell us what else you did with your day?”

He took a long drink of water, then smiled bravely over the rim. “Well... I accepted a job offer from Harold Van Hosten. I start work tomorrow morning as his new assistant.”

With a gasp of outrage, Katie leaped to her feet and threw her napkin at him. When Jack caught it deftly, his brows flying up in half-amused surprise, her fury doubled. “That does it! I can’t bear another moment in this man’s company! And to think that I felt sorry for you, the way I might feel sorry for a starving dog! If I had had any idea what you planned to do, that you intended to work forthat corrupt murderer, I would never have taken pity on you or suffered your touch for even those few moments!” Although Katie’s eyes flashed with rage, her voice trembled as if she were dangerously close to tears. “If I never see you again, it will be too soon!”

With a strangled cry, she fled to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her. Jack winced, looked over at the puzzled MacKenzie, and murmured with his usual trace of irony, “It’s no use trying to deny it. Shedoes not like me!”

Chapter 6

June 30 - July 2, 1864

Katie cleaned the jars of brandied fruit that were lined up beneath the saloon’s huge mirror. It was late, and Brian was hanging a “Closed” sign in the window while Abby swept the floor. At the bar, Jack Adams folded his copy of the Columbia Gazette and drained his cup of tea. Abby watched him, brown eyes filled with longing as she dragged the broom over the same spot for the third time.

“That’s quite a piece you wrote about the Griffin, Miss MacKenzie,” Jack said, handing her his empty cup. “Your store of knowledge about the man is impressive.”

Katie ignored the teasing note in his voice. “I take pride in my work, Mr. Adams.”

For a moment he was tempted by the challenge of making her smile, or at least look at him, but fatigue won out. All too soon five o’clock would arrive again, and he would be forced to awaken and begin another day of work in the offices of the Rush Mine. Besides, Katie’s usual barriers to communication between them had been impenetrable since the day she had learned of his employment by Van Hosten. Most of the time Jack was too busy or exhausted to make more than a halfhearted attempt to pierce her armor. Today it seemed easier to wait for her to grow tired of the game herself.

Now he merely said amiably, “Well, I’m sure that the Griffin, wherever he may be tonight, is flattered by your interest.” Before Katie could reply, Jack crossed the bare floor to exchange a few affectionate words with Abby. Then, with a yawn and a half wave at Brian, he left the saloon.

Abby’s eyes lingered on the swinging door. Moments later, her sweeping done, she disappeared into the back room. Katie was ready to go home to bed herself, but something in the older woman’s demeanor troubled her. After a moment’s consideration, she walked down the back hallway and met Abby coming out of the dark storage room.

“Good heavens!” Abby gasped. “Miss MacKenzie, you startled me!”

Katie was certain she smelled liquor on Abby’s breath. “Haven’t I asked you to call me Katie?” she said, then paused, torn between disapproval and concern. “Abby, perhaps I’ve been too busy or preoccupied to extend a proper hand of friendship to you since you came to Columbia. In any case I want to correct that oversight now. I know that you have been going through a difficult time, and I hope that you haven’t felt all alone in your new home....”

In the shadows, Abby self-consciously raised a hand to her mouth. “You’re very kind... Katie. Thank you.” She tried to escape, but Katie touched her arm.

“Is there something in particular that’s bothering you? It might help to talk about it.”

“I—no... well, I can’t say that I’m exactly happy these days, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Life seldom turns out as we hope, and I’m learning not to hope anymore.” Tears glistened in her eyes.

“What had you hoped for here?” Katie asked gently.

“I know it’s not fair to draw conclusions about my future in Columbia after only a few days... but I suppose I expected to see a bit more of Jack. Before he came to visit me, I kept pretty much to myself, partly because I just didn’t feel like seeing anyone after Ben died and partly because we lived miles away from anyone else. When Jack rode up, he brought hope and laughter back into my world. He’s so alive, isn’t he?” She gazed at Katie with searching eyes, waiting for her nod before continuing, “I see now that it was foolish of me, but I suppose I hoped that I could continue to lean on him here in Columbia. I’m sure he cares for me, and would rush to my aid if I were truly in need, but it’s clear that he has his own life to lead and expects me to stand on my own two feet.”

“That’s hard, isn’t it?” Katie couldn’t forget that worrisome whiff of liquor.

“Well, I have to accept that Jack is one of those lone wolves. He has a good heart, but he’ll never be committed to anyone. He needs his freedom.”

Katie nodded, mulling this over, then put an arm around Abby. There were many things she longed to say, but she compromised with, “You must reach out to the rest of us. Jack Adams isn’t your only friend in Columbia. If you need to talk to someone, I hope you’ll come to me.”

Abby managed a faltering smile. “I appreciate that.”

The night was warm, and the barest breeze caressed the white curtains at Katie’s windows. In spite of the late hour, she found that she couldn’t sleep. Sitting on the edge of her bed, clad in a long, filmy nightgown of cotton lawn, she reread her article about the Griffin. The last few paragraphs had taken courage for her to write and courage for Gideon to print:

The Griffin’s legend grows with each new stage robbery. Some feel that his allure lies in the mystery of his identity and the flair with which he carries off his crimes. Others contend that he has found favor with the people because they do not perceive him to be a criminal at all, but rather a modern-day Robin Hood balancing the scales of justice.

The Griffin’s motive is a cause for speculation. The most popular theory casts him as a miner who was cheated by Rush and/or Van Hosten, yet he appears to be more refined than any of the miners known to the citizens of Columbia. In these times, when it is common for revenge to be sought with ruthless violence, the Griffin is an enigma.

Many hope privately that this outlaw-hero will never be caught. And perhaps the Griffin will stop preying upon certain stagecoaches traveling the twisting roads of the foothills. Perhaps he’ll grant Rush and Van Hosten a reprieve if they deal fairly with their own employees....

Sighing, Katie crossed the room and set the newspaper on her bureau. Then, pensively, she opened the top drawer, taking out the fine linen handkerchief with its miniature griffin embroidered in the corner. She’d never known a man who owned anything so uniquely tasteful. The Griffin had style, but more important, he had principles that he upheld above personal gain. Katie felt a surge of anger as she thought of the man who lay slumbering on a cot in her parlor.

She was just about to extinguish the oil lamp on her bedside table when a sound in the kitchen made her straighten up. Peeking out of her room, she saw a shadowy figure fumbling at the dresser shelves.

“What’s going on?” she called softly, emerging into the narrow kitchen. “Is that you, Papa?”

“No, it’s me.”

Outside, a cloud passed, uncovering the moon and sending a silvery ray of light through the window to illumine Jack Adams. He turned to face her, and Katie saw that he wore only drawers that rode low on his lean hips. The moonbeam skimmed the sleek, muscled planes of his chest, the clean, square lines of his shoulders, the long, hard curves of his arms, the ridges of his belly...

“Kathleen?”

Her eyes had touched the shadowed indentation of his navel, but now they flew up to meet Jack’s gaze, which seemed more penetratingly than ever in the darkness. “I thought you were asleep, Mr. Adams.”

“I was looking for a glass. I’m thirsty.”

Katie moved around the table to stand beside him, took a glass from the shelf, then felt for the pitcher of water and filled it. When she turned to hand it to him, her left breast, covered only by a thin layer of cotton, brushed Jack’s chest. His sudden intake of breath was audible, just as it seemed to Katie that the sound of her heartbeat filled the room.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely, taking the glass from her hand.

She wanted to weep with confusion. How could her own body betray her so outrageously? Every fiber of her being was tensed and tingling with arousal. Praying for deliverance, she took a step backward. “I’m going to bed now.”

To her horror, Jack reached for her hand. The pressure of his warm, strong fingers sent a wave of intense sensation through her body. “I wish you would try not to hate me so, Kathleen,” he murmured. “I keep remembering that rare, radiant smile you bestowed upon me the other afternoon. Will you never smile again in my presence?”

Katie took another step backward, freeing her hand. “I don’t hate you, Mr. Adams, but I cannot respect you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired. You should go to sleep yourself. Your esteemed employer would be displeased if you were tardy.”

Jack watched her go. When she had gained the safety of her bedroom, she paused for an instant in the doorway. The lamplight from within cast its golden glow over the curves of Katie’s body beneath her lawn nightgown. Her rich ebony hair swirled as she reached back to shut the door, leaving Jack alone once more in the darkness.

“My father is talking about leaving Columbia,” Lim Sung remarked. Perched on a grassy cliff overlooking the magnificent Stanislaus River west of Columbia, he stared pensively at the ribbon of blue-green water far below.

Katie, who had been lying on her back studying the clouds overhead, sat up with a start. “What?!”

“You are surprised? We haven’t felt comfortable here since the fire of fifty-seven. Certainly we are pleased that people trusted us enough to believe we were not responsible for the fires or any of the other crimes they were blaming on the Chinese, but it did leave us in an awkward position. After all, being one of the few Chinese families legally allowed to remain in town...” A warm dry breeze mussed Lim’s black hair as he plucked the petals from a cluster of fragrant wallflower blossoms.

“But—all your friends are here!”

He gave her a wry look. “Katie, you and your father are our only real friends. And one day you’ll get married, and your husband won’t want me around.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not getting married, especially not to someone who would try to choose my friends!”

“I must respect my father’s wishes. Aaron Rush has offered him a handsome price for the laundry, and Father thinks that we should go to San Francisco and make a new start while he is still able.” Lim’s fine mouth curved in a half smile. “Iwould like to marry one day. Whom would you suggest among the young ladies of Columbia? Sally Barnstaple?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake you’re only eighteen. Just because you’re feeling randy, you needn’t get carried away! And how can your father consider selling to that villain Rush?”

“Mr. Rush has made a very tempting offer. You know that Columbia has declined more than ever this year, and people say that life will return to our town only if buildings are razed so that the lots can be mined. Our laundry sits on an important piece of land.”

“If you give in, it will just mean more power for Rush and Van Hosten!” Katie cried.

Lim shrugged philosophically. “Business has been most depressed here, Katie, as you well know. Everything else in Columbia is drying up. If Rush and Van Hosten can revive the mining industry, it will mean renewed prosperity for your family as well.”

Katie threw herself back down in the grass and sulked. “This conversation is most annoying! If your father decides to sell and go to San Francisco, why can’t you stay here for a while? You can work at the saloon, and then, in a couple of years, we can both go to San Francisco.”

“Well... we’ll see.” Lim knew better than to continue what was obviously a fruitless discussion. “Nothing is definite now, but my first loyalty is to my family.” He got to his feet and brushed the brick-red flower petals from his trousers. “I must go now, Katie. Will you come?”

“No. I think I’ll stay here for a while and... rest.”

Lim Sung shaded his eyes and gazed down at her. “None of this means I am any less devoted to you. You’re my best friend, my favorite flower.”

“I know, Lim. I don’t mean to be a crybaby, but the prospect of life here without you is so sad.”

He smiled. “You will adjust. No one will ever quell your spirit.”

“I’ll see you later, Lim....” She rose on an elbow to watch him wade through the high grass. When he turned onto Parrotts Ferry Road which curved back around the hill toward Columbia, Katie lay back and closed her eyes, trying not to think about her multiplying problems. When next she opened them, it was to discover that the grassy bluff had grown hazy with pink-tinted dusk.

A voice said, “Thank God! You’re alive.”

Katie blinked and turned her head. Next to her crouched Jack Adams, his hands resting lightly on buckskin-sheathed thighs. His face, which wore an expression of mild amusement, was bronzed in the mellow light.

“Of course I’m alive,” Katie said, gathering her wits. “I must have fallen asleep.”

He chuckled. “Well, you’ll have to pardon my concern. I’m not used to the sight of you lying prone and silent.”

“But what are you doing out here?” She struggled to sit up, hoping Jack wouldn’t help her. He didn’t.

“Mr. Van Hosten sent me to inspect the water flumes that connect with the river. I was just on my way back. What about you?”

Katie’s upper body was nearly touching his knees, and his face was so close that she could see the gold flecks in his sage-green eyes. “I walked out here with Lim Sung. This was a favorite spot of ours when we were children. After he left, I must have dozed off.” She forced her eyes away from Jack’s compelling gaze. “I should be getting back now, though, and I’m sure you’re anxious to report to your employer.”

“Not particularly.” He watched as she glanced up immediately, as if searching his face for a sign that he had not joined the enemy camp after all. “I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare me a moment.”

After a slight pause, Katie nodded. “Well, all right.”

Smiling, Jack reclined beside her in the grass. “My wish is that we might call a truce. You see, I’m leaving Columbia tomorrow morning, and I had hoped that you and I might part friends.”

“Leaving! Why? You just took that very promising position with Van Hosten.”

Idly, he twisted a long blade of grass next to her hand, his fingers brushing hers. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes,” she answered cautiously.

“I was never serious about working for the Rush Mine. That’s not the sort of employment I find challenging.” He looked into her eyes. “I took the job because I wanted to see for myself what was going on there.”

“And what did you decide?”

“Let’s just say that you are right about Rush and Van Hosten. Their code of ethics has a decidedly foul smell.”

“Then why are you leaving? You should stay and help us fight them!”

“That’s not possible at the moment.” His rough fingertip trailed fire over the back of Katie’s hand. “There are other matters that require my attention. That’s the reason I have to leave tomorrow, but I didn’t want to go with you hating me.”

Her heart pounded with a surge of conflicting emotions. “So you’re going? You’ve learned the truth about Rush and Van Hosten, and you’re going to turn your back and walk away?”

“There’s little I could do anyway. And perhaps I’ll be able to return before too long.”

A storm raged within her. It didn’t seem that she had any grounds to be angry with Jack any longer, but the thought of him simply disappearing from her life made her feel very confused, and she wasn’t sure exactly why. Finally she murmured, “Well, I do appreciate your explanation...”

“Will you hold a good thought for me?”

Their faces were inches apart, and suddenly she was overwhelmingly conscious of the fact that they were lying side by side in the grass. Twilight was deepening, and they were completely alone. Katie took a deep, shaky breath and inhaled Jack’s masculine scent. “Yes.” The word was barely audible.

He traced the line of her cheek with his thumb. “You’d neatly convinced yourself, hadn’t you?”

“Of what?”

“That it wasn’t real when we kissed the other day. That it actually was pretend, as we told your father.”

“Oh,” she sighed, “why are you bringing this up?”

“Maybe it’s my male pride.” One side of his mouth quirked ironically. “And I think you ought to be honest with yourself, for your own good. You felt some things for the first time, and if I let you pretend the kiss didn’t count, you can also bury those feelings. That wouldn’t be right.”

“It... wouldn’t?” She could scarcely breathe as his hand lightly caressed her throat, then slipped down her arm to her waist. Gently, he turned her body so that they lay facing one another.

“No, it wouldn’t,” Jack repeated, his voice low and husky. “That kiss was your awakening to womanhood, Kathleen. You’re a passionate woman, and you should be proud of that.” He gazed into her wide blue eyes which shone with panic and helpless yearning. Slowly he moved his hand to her back, drawing her slim, soft form against the length of his strong body. Katie wore one of her faded calico dresses, with only one thin petticoat, and for once he approved of her disdain for fashion. A hoop would have interfered. He slipped his right hand behind her head, then lowered his face to kiss her.

With one huge sigh, Katie recklessly surrendered to the moment. Tomorrow Jack would be gone, and then she would have forever to sample the rewards of self-denial. Now, however, she opened her mouth to his kiss and drank in the taste, scent, and feel of this irresistible man. Her hands caressed the contours of his shoulders, neck, and face while her hips arched against his hardness in the violet light. She had never guessed that a man’s body could be such a magical source of delight. When Jack turned her back into the soft grass, the pressure of his chest against her firm breasts made her moan with pleasure. He was kissing her ear, then the graceful arc of her neck, and the sensations his mouth evoked were shocking. Katie felt moist between her legs. She longed to take his hand and press it there.

Suddenly Jack lifted his body away from hers and dropped back in the grass a couple of feet away. “My God,” he muttered after a minute, “that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” He stared at the sky. “Stopping, I mean.” When Katie didn’t answer, he turned his head and saw that she, too, was lying back and staring upward. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly, and the urge to bare them was nearly overpowering. He could almost see and feel the pale, satiny curves... taste the sweetness of the rosy nipples that would pucker in his mouth...

Aching to the point of pain, Jack stood up before unbridled lust could overcome his more civilized inclinations. He bent down, took Katie’s hands, and lifted her to her feet. She looked at the grass and tensed against the fingers that tilted her chin upward. “Kathleen,” he said softly, “look at me. Please.”

Reluctantly she obeyed, grateful for the gathering darkness. Jack’s eyes were disarmingly gentle. “I must be mad,” she whispered.

“No,” he answered firmly. “I was completely responsible for what just happened, and you were innocent in every sense of the word. I only meant to give you the smallest kiss, just to remind you of the other. I lost my head... and it’s a sign of my respect for you that I regained it before it was too late. Can you possibly forgive me?”

Katie’s cheeks burned with shame and confusion as she remembered her own wanton response. “Of course,” she whispered.

“Come along, then. My horse is tied to that tree over there. I’ll take you home.” Jack was surprised by the surge of protectiveness he felt as he reached for Katie’s hand and led her through the twilight.

Chapter 7

July 3, 1864

Birds were singing merrily in the peach tree outside Katie’s window as she dressed in the amber-rose light of dawn. Already late for her five-thirty appointment to scrub the saloon floor with Abby, Katie strode into the kitchen and paused just long enough to get a raspberry muffin. She knew that Jack was still sleeping on his cot in the parlor, and she told herself not to look. But this was the end, whispered a little voice. He would leave Columbia today, taking her confusion and conflicting emotions with him.

Katie didn’t want to say good-bye. She was wearing a pair of dungarees, since she would be working on her knees, and a thin cotton shirt. Her hair was drawn back even more tightly than usual. For reasons she didn’t care to examine, she didn’t want this to be Jack’s last memory of her.

But she did want one last look at him. Carefully, avoiding the squeakier floorboards, she tiptoed into the parlor. A few feet from the cot, she stopped and drank in the sight of him. Jack lay bathed in the first burnished glow of morning, only somewhat covered by a rumpled blue-and-white quilt that Mary MacKenzie had sewn shortly before her death.

Katie blushed a little as she stared at his foot and calf hanging over one side of the narrow cot. His limbs were beautifully shaped, she thought, and looked strong even in repose. He was sleeping on his stomach, and nearly all of his bronzed, tapering back was exposed to her view. She could see the outline of his lateral muscles and noted a small mole at the base of his spine. Jack’s arms made lean-muscled arcs on either side of his head, which was turned to one side. Clean hair fell forward over his brow and curled at the nape of his neck, adding to the illusion of boyish vulnerability. Katie studied the profile that she seemed helpless to resist. The line of his nose, the hard mouth softened in sleep, the rugged curve of his jaw, all seemed different somehow from those same features on any other male face. Katie wondered what dreams were hidden behind his eyes.

When Jack’s lashes flickered, her heart leaped into her throat. He sighed slightly, and his lips curved in a suggestion of a smile.

“Good morning.” Sleep roughened his voice even more than usual.

Katie wished that she could simply vanish, but she froze instead, hoping that he might drift off again. Instead, his eyes opened a fraction, and his brow arched quizzically.

“Kathleen... why are you staring at me?”

She coughed, conscious of her burning cheeks. “I... uh, was just trying to decide whether or not to wake you. I wasn’t certain if you had to go to the mine or not....”

Rolling onto his back, Jack stretched, groaned at the effort, and sat up partway, leaning back against his elbows. Katie felt that his sleepy eyes could discern her every thought.

“How kind of you to think of me.” He gazed at her for a long moment, smiling. “You have a lovely pair of legs, Miss MacKenzie, even in trousers.”

Her face grew hotter. It was the first time she’d seen his bare chest in daylight, and she tried desperately not to look at it or to think about how warm it would be or how it would feel to touch it.

“Abby and I are going to scrub the saloon floor this morning,” she said, explaining the dungarees. “Have you said good-bye to her?”

“Yes. I saw her last night.”

Katie felt a twinge of jealousy. “She’ll miss you.”

“Abby needs to begin a new life. It will be better for her to do that without me around to depend on.” He sat up completely and said, “Would you come over here? I’d get up and come to you, but that would probably be inappropriate in my current state of undress.”

Charmed by his raffish grin, Katie approached the cot. When Jack reached for her hand, a shiver ran up her arm. “I only have a moment,” she whispered.

“I just wanted to thank you for the hospitality you’ve shown me. I know that it wasn’t your choice to have me in this house, but you did refrain from poisoning my food and I appreciate that. If I’ve done anything to offend you, I apologize.”

Katie was nearly overwhelmed by a sudden, inexplicable wave of emotion. There were so many things she wanted to say... but couldn’t. “I may have overreacted upon occasion, Mr. Adams. Actually, knowing you has been a most interesting experience.”

“Has it?” He beamed at her with a feigned expression of surprised delight. “I’m glad, and I am pleased to be able to return that very warm expression of sentiment, Miss MacKenzie.” His eyes twinkled. “In fact, I might go further and tell you that every moment in your presence has been highly... stimulating.”

Helpless, she smiled, acknowledging the pleasure she had experienced in Jack’s embrace. “You are very roguish, you know, but perhaps that’s been beneficial to me—for these few days.”

“Ah, at last! The smile I’ve been craving.” He pressed his mouth against the back of her hand, then stole a bite of the muffin she held. “I am very grateful.”

Katie smiled again, right into his warm, dancing eyes. She gave him the muffin and backed away. “You may as well have the whole thing!”

“I’ll miss your muffins, Kathleen. I never cared for them until I tasted yours.”

She blushed. “I really must go. Godspeed, Mr. Adams.” Turning, she hurried out of the house without looking back. Once out on Jackson Street, however, Katie leaned against an oak tree. Her hand felt scorched where Jack had kissed it, and now she touched her own mouth to that spot with an aching sigh.

Harold Van Hosten stood at his office window, looking down at the lots that had already been mined at the south end of Columbia. Main Street stopped and sloped sharply downward to a dirt pit studded with huge, oddly shaped granite, marble, and limestone boulders. They were the products of hydraulic mining, which many felt was destructive to the countryside and wildlife. Already valley streams had begun backing up, causing runoff mud to ruin farmland, but for now the mine owners had too much power to be stopped. Van Hosten smiled coldly. He believed that power was all, and as long as he held fast to what he had, he could overcome any obstacle—disgruntled miners, the Griffin, or the whining editor of the Gazette.

“Mr. Van Hosten? Could you spare me a moment?”

Van Hosten turned around, mildly irritated at having his reverie so abruptly dispelled. Jack Adams was standing in the doorway, looking tanned and fit in faded dungarees and a blue flannel shirt. “Certainly, Adams,” said Van Hosten, forcing what he hoped was a congenial smile. “Come right on in. Are you prepared for today’s stage journey?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Jack did not take the chair that Van Hosten indicated, choosing instead to stand in the hope that their conversation would be brief. “You’ll recall, sir, that when I accepted this position, I told you that I might not be able to stay. Unfortunately, I’ve been called away much sooner than I expected. A problem has arisen that requires my attention.”

“Indeed?” Van Hosten feigned concern. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, it’s a family matter. I’m the eldest son, you see, and certain responsibilities fall to me.”

“Well, I won’t say I’m not sorry to lose you, Adams. And Mr. Rush is due back from New York in a few days, and will be sorry to have missed meeting you. But then, perhaps you’ll be back?”

“Sir, I wouldn’t presume to think that you might hold this position open.” Jack rolled up his sleeves as he spoke. “And in any case, I don’t think I will be able to commit to settling anywhere for a long time. Perhaps I’ll pass through again one day, though, and I want to thank you for the opportunity you gave me here. I’ve learned a great deal.”

Van Hosten poured himself a whiskey and tossed it back. “Adams, couldn’t you make the trip with me today before you leave my employ? I was counting on you.”

“I wish I could, sir, but that’s impossible. Time is of the essence, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t worry, though, if I were you. No doubt, after the success of his last robbery, the Griffin will lie low until he thinks you’ve forgotten about him. He’d be greedy and reckless to make another attempt while you are so carefully on guard.”

Sighing sharply, Van Hosten splashed more whiskey in his glass. “I hope you’re right, Adams... for his sake!”

“Katie, I’ve asked Lim Sung to help at the bar for a few days. I’m taking the stage to Sacramento to visit Mrs. Waldner.” Brian spoke in an offhand manner as he filled one last glass. “Could you take over until Lim arrives?”

Katie, who was exhausted after scrubbing the floors and then preparing a huge pot of stew, stared at her father. It always happened this way. His urges to visit Mrs. Waldner came upon him suddenly, and he never communicated his plans until the very last moment. Brian had met the attractive widow three years earlier during a trip to Sacramento for supplies, and though he never discussed their relationship with Katie, he made a point of traveling to see Mrs. Waldner two or three times a year.

It had never made sense to Katie before, but now comprehension was dawning. Her father worked as hard as a horse and was a wonderful parent and friend to her. If a private piece of him captured a bit of joy with Mrs. Waldner, Katie was happy for him. She’d experienced that fleeting, luminous bliss herself now and suddenly felt much older and wiser than before.

“Of course I’ll watch the saloon for you, Papa.” She rested her head against his shoulder and smiled. “You know you can depend upon me and Lim. Go to Sacramento, have a wonderful time, and give my regards to Mrs. Waldner.”

MacKenzie’s eyes twinkled as he wrapped her in a bear hug. “You’re my own gift from God. I love you dearly, you know.”

“I know, Papa, and I love you. Now, you’d better go or you’ll miss the stage!”

Laughing, he released her and wound his way through the dusty miners and mountain men who half-filled the saloon. On a hot day like this, business was good. Brian turned at the door to wave at his daughter and then exited into the sunlight.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? We were fortunate that there were no passengers from Sonora, or I’d be riding on top!” MacKenzie beamed first at Victoria Barnstaple and her sister Emily, who sat across from him in the stagecoach, and then at Harold Van Hosten, who was wedged into the seat beside him. “Fine day for a journey!”

Van Hosten merely grunted and raised his Harper’s Weekly a little higher. The stage had slowed to climb a grade on the other side of the Stanislaus River, so for the moment he could hold the paper still. “I find nothing beautiful about this oppressive heat, Mr. MacKenzie.”

“Is there any news of the war?” Mrs. Barnstaple inquired in a small voice.

“Very little, my good lady,” Van Hosten replied impatiently. “General Grant’s troops are still being held in their trenches at Petersburg by Lee’s army. One can only hope that Sherman will have better luck farther south. There is also a long piece about the June Eighth re-nomination of President Lincoln for a second term.” And with a decisive snap, the paper barricade was erected once more.

Brian raised his eyebrows at the ladies. Casting about for another topic, he said, “There was a fellow passing through from San Francisco the other day who came over to the saloon for a whiskey. Said that Miss Lotta Crabtree’s gone off to New York in search of world fame.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Well, I wish her well, but I don’t think she’ll be any happier than she was dancing and singing for the miners at the Fallon House Theatre.”

Victoria and Emily glanced at one another, their cheeks pink under wide-brimmed chip straw bonnets. “I daresay,” Victoria murmured politely.

The stagecoach was picking up speed now, rumbling downhill and raising clouds of dust that settled over the already grimy travelers. Whenever they rounded a particularly hazardous curve, Emily let out a little squeal and clung to her sister’s arm. Brian peered out the window at the hills, covered with a carpet of dry, summer-gold grass and scrub oak trees. California was brown in summer and green in winter, just the opposite of Pennsylvania, where he had lived from early manhood until the age of forty. MacKenzie was offering a silent prayer that the foothills might be spared a fire this summer when the stagecoach approached a turn so sharp that it slowed to a near stop. The sound of a man’s raised voice caused Brian to crane his neck out the window and Van Hosten to abruptly fold his Harper’s Weekly.

“Would you mind stopping for a moment, driver?” The voice was deep and unremarkable, but the words left no doubt as to the man’s identity.

Calling out to the horses, the driver halted the coach, then pulled up on the brake. By now Brian could see the Griffin standing in front of a tangle of brush that had apparently served as his hiding place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but all other physical characteristics were hidden beneath a long linen duster and a hood that covered his head except for two eyeholes in the middle. He carried a fine double-barreled shotgun, which was currently aimed at the hapless driver.

“Kindly throw down the box—and your gun, sir,” the Griffin requested, his voice slightly muffled by the hood. When the driver had complied, he turned his attention to the passengers inside the coach. “I apologize for having disrupted your journey. Would you men do me the favor of disembarking for a few minutes?”

Emily was swooning, and as Brian opened the door Victoria threw out her beaded reticule. “All my money is inside!” she cried. “Please don’t harm us!”

The Griffin seemed amused. He caught the purse with one hand and returned it to her with a courtly flourish. “I don’t want your money, madame. Rest easy, no one will be harmed.”

Van Hosten glared at the outlaw as he followed Brian out into the scorching sunlight. “Devil!” he spat.

“I suggest that you judge not lest ye be judged,” the Griffin replied lightly, motioning with the barrel of his shotgun. The two men stepped behind the coach. “Now then, I would appreciate it if you would hand over any valuables that you have concealed on your person, Mr. Van Hosten. Mr. MacKenzie, I would like you to search him.”

Brian felt no fear at all. He would not venture an opinion as to the Griffin’s character or morality, but of one thing he was certain: the man meant him no harm. Clearly his quarrel was not with Brian or Wells Fargo or the stage driver, or any of the passengers who happened to be present during a hold-up. The Griffin was calmly and deliberately settling a score with Harold Van Hosten and Aaron Rush. Brian looked squarely at the eyeholes in the outlaw’s hood, then stepped toward Van Hosten. As he reached into the taller man’s coat pocket, Van Hosten suddenly shouted up at the driver.

“You have another gun—I saw to it! Shoot this criminal, now!”

The stage driver’s only reply was a slow smile. Incensed, Van Hosten butted at Brian with his head and shoulder, then reached inside his coat to pull a Colt .36 revolver from the waistband of his trousers.

MacKenzie, who was as solid as an oak, was surprised but unshaken. Standing his ground, he raised bushy white brows at the sight of gun in the mine owner’s hand. “There’s no need for this,” he cautioned.

“Get out of my way, MacKenzie! This is no business of yours!” Van Hosten snarled, and cocked the revolver. “I mean to see this outlaw dead once and for all!”

“Put that away! You’ll get yourself killed!” Brian shouted, conscious of the strong smell of whiskey on Van Hosten’s breath. Desperate to restore order and avoid bloodshed, Brian grabbed for the revolver, forcing the barrel toward the ground. Something in Van Hosten’s eyes ignited his fiery Irish temper, fueling all the feelings of anger and frustration and plain dislike he had suppressed in the past. “You’re the worst sort of vermin, VanHosten!” Brian grunted as they struggled over the gun. “You never think of anyone’s well-being but your own!”

“Leave it, MacKenzie!” the Griffin ordered, his voice tight. “Get out of the way! This is my score to settle.” He had taken a step forward, aiming his own shotgun, but Brian held on like a bulldog. “Go on back with the driver—now! Do you hear me?”

Brian knew only that he could not let go of the revolver, or someone would be shot. The stage driver, alarmed by this time, began to climb down from his perch. MacKenzie felt his strength ebbing; sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes, blurring his vision. He heard the Griffin shouting at him to get out of the way but still clung tenaciously to the revolver, praying that he could somehow prevent a tragedy.

Suddenly a shot rang out and Brian moaned, releasing his grip on the smoking gun at last. Wild-eyed with triumph, Van Hosten shoved the wounded man aside, pulled back the revolver hammer with shaking fingers, and pointed it at the Griffin.

In the split second before he could pull the trigger, a shotgun blast hurled Harold Van Hosten backward against the stagecoach. One arm caught in the spokes of the wheel, twisting behind him at an unnatural angle, while a red stain spread rapidly from the gaping hole in his chest. He was dead even before he slumped to the ground. Peeking out from the passenger seat, Mrs. Barnstaple beheld his glassy, unfocused eyes staring up at her. Too horrified even to scream, she paled and slumped against her already prostrate sister.

The stage driver ran forward to find the Griffin crouching beside Brian MacKenzie, who had been shot through the heart. The driver hardly knew what action to take. If he tried to take the Griffin prisoner, the odds were that he’d end up shot himself. Besides, he had always secretly admired the outlaw, sharing the common opinion that Van Hosten deserved to be preyed upon.

“This man is dead,” the Griffin said in a hoarse voice, adding as if to himself, “It never should have happened....”He reached out and gently closed MacKenzie’s eyes.

“As God is my judge,” the driver said, “this is the worst day of my life! I sure as hell can’t deal with this”—he waved a hand at the two dead men—“and you, too. Someone else can have the job of capturin’ you—but you can’t stay around here, for God’s sake! What’ll those women tell the San Andreas sheriff?” He stared at the outlaw, who continued to kneel beside Brian MacKenzie’s still form. “Look, you can’t bring him back. Please...” he pleaded desperately. “D’you want me to shoot you, too? If you don’t get away from here, I’ll be forced to!”

“More than enough blood has been shed,” the Griffin murmured, getting to his feet. “I am... sorry. It shouldn’t have happened. Why didn’t he listen to me? Why was he here?”

The driver hissed, “It don’t matter now! Just get the hell outta here!”

Chapter 8

July 3, 1864

Although the afternoon was waning, the heat remained oppressive. Katie wiped a thin rivulet of perspiration from her temple as she surveyed the saloon. Two old miners dozed under the south windows, while at a large, circular table, half a dozen men engaged in a friendly game of poker. From time to time they called to Abby for more beer, patting her backside when she hovered at the table. Abby didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she didn’t seem to be particularly aware of her surroundings. All day she had been gazing off into space, her limpid brown eyes pitiful to behold.

Refilling an empty whiskey bottle, Katie resolved to cheer her up, though she wasn’t feeling particularly chipper herself.

“What’s wrong with you?” Lim Sung inquired as he finished wiping down the bar. “You look like you’ve lost your best friend! But I’m right here, so it must be Mr. MacKenzie you’re missing. Is that it, Katie?” He watched her with alert black eyes.

She summoned a smile. “Don’t be silly, Lim. Papa’s only been away a few hours. I think it’s the heat... and I’m probably tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night, and Abby and I scrubbed this floor at dawn.”

“As you say. And Abby is just hot and tired, too?”

“I imagine so.” Katie propped her elbows on the bar, rested her chin in her hands, and stared into the distance. She sighed, conscious of an unfamiliar ache in her chest, a feeling of emptiness. Why did her father have to go away today, of all days? Not that she would have felt right about discussing her feelings with him. If her mother were still alive, she would have had someone to share her problems with; they could have talked them over together, woman to woman. With that realization came a sudden wave of longing for her mother, compounding her loneliness and feelings of isolation.

“Well, well,” Lim murmured next to her. “Here comes someone who might possibly make you feel better.”

Katie glanced listlessly toward the door, then straightened. Jack Adams was standing there. With the afternoon sun glinting off his hair and burnishing a halo round his head, he appeared ghostly somehow, an apparition, summoned to mock her. That possibility was ruled out, however, when Abby let out a cry of joy, ran to him, and threw her arms around his neck.

“You came back! Oh, Jack, I knew you would!”

“Hello, Abby.” Gently, he pried her arms from his neck. “I appreciate the warm greeting, but I don’t think it’s merited; after all, I’ve only been gone a few hours. Must be pretty dull around here today if my appearance can cause such excitement!” He held her away from him. “Look, I’ve gotten you all dusty. I’m really not fit to touch.”

“Don’t be silly,” Abby replied, clinging to his arm.

Jack looked slowly toward the bar, and his eyes met Katie’s. He smiled slightly, and she flushed in reaction. “Hello, Miss MacKenzie... Lim.”

Katie’s heart swelled painfully at the sight of him. “Have you become more attached to Columbia than you realized?” she asked. “Couldn’t you bear to leave?”

Jack walked over to the bar, Abby close behind, and took a stool. He smiled at Katie. “Might I trouble you for a mug of cold water? It’s hot as Hades out there.” After drinking deeply, he explained, “I got as far as Angel’s Camp before discovering that I didn’t have my watch. I remembered then that I left it on the table in your kitchen when I bathed this morning. It’s valuable to me; it was a gift from my grandfather.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced,” Katie said, praying that he couldn’t guess the heady elation she felt just being near him again. “I know that you were in a hurry.”

Jack nodded. “Yes, and I can’t afford to lose a whole day. I’m afraid that, after I have something to eat, I’ll have to be on my way again.” Watching Lim refill his mug, he added, “It wouldn’t do for Van Hosten to hear I’d been in town today, either. I begged off making that stage trip with him because I couldn’t spare the time.”

“Well, if he’s gone to Sacramento, he doubtless won’t return for two or three days. Besides, why should it matter to you one way or the other? You’re no longer in his employ, are you?”

“That’s true. I don’t care particularly, but on the other hand, he isn’t a man I’d choose for an enemy.” Jack rubbed his eyes with long fingers. “What are you serving today?”

“Boiled mutton with oyster sauce, and there’s bread pudding, too. Abby, would you fetch a plate of food for Mr. Adams?”

Reluctantly, Abby let go of Jack’s arm and headed off to the tiny kitchen at the back of the saloon. Jack gazed at Katie.

“You must be at least as hot and tired as I am,” he remarked. “Why don’t you come around here and sit down for a few minutes? Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you have to stay on your feet the entire time.”

After a moment, Katie succumbed to temptation. She gave him a smile, knowing that he found her smiles beguiling, walked around the bar, and perched on the stool next to his.

“It’s almost worth the time and trouble just to see you again,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

Katie knew that she was bedraggled, but she felt radiantly pretty in Jack’s eyes. She wasn’t sure what it was that he saw in her, but it pleased her that he saw it. On the other side of the bar, Abby set down the plate of mutton with a thud, rousing them both. Jack had just lifted his fork when Gideon Henderson entered the saloon.

“Hello, Gideon!” Katie greeted him. “What brings you here? I hope you don’t need me today because Papa has gone to Sacramento, and I promised to look after the saloon in his absence.”

Gideon’s face was pale and covered with a film of sweat. “That’s what I’ve come to talk to you about, Katie.” He stood facing her. Swallowing hard, he continued, “The sheriff asked me to tell you... well, it’s bad news...”

“Yes?” Dimly, Katie felt Jack’s strong male hand clasp her own, and then Gideon’s face seemed to blur before her eyes.

“There was an accident today. The Griffin held up the Sacramento stage, and Brian was shot....”

“He’s not—”

His face came closer, eyes swimming with tears behind his spectacles. “Katie, I’m so sorry. Your father is dead.”

Jack was on his feet, gathering her into his arms and holding her fast. Katie’s knees buckled, and her mouth opened wide to scream, but no sound came out. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she twisted in Jack’s arms, looking for Gideon. He reached out to clasp her shoulder.

With an effort, she whispered, “Are you saying... that the Griffin shot Papa?”

Gideon nodded. “It looks that way. Your father and Harold Van Hosten were both killed. But you don’t want to hear about this now—”

“Yes. Tell me.” She leaned against Jack, letting his arms support her. She hadn’t the strength to both stand and speak. Jack was stroking her hair, and the rhythmic motion of his hand seemed to be all that kept her heart beating.

“Well, the details are a bit muddled. Victoria Barnstaple and her sister were the only other passengers, and they are both hysterical and confused. The driver was climbing down from the box when your father was shot, so he’s not entirely certain what happened, either, but as I understand it, the Griffin asked Brian and Van Hosten to get out of the coach. He took them behind it—to search Van Hosten, I believe—when a struggle ensued. At the end, both men were dead and the Griffin was unharmed. There is some question as to whether your father was shot by Van Hosten or the Griffin.”

“Van Hosten?” Katie’s thoughts spun crazily. “But that’s impossible. He wouldn’t shoot Papa, he’d have tried to shoot the Griffin.”

Jack spoke up quietly. “There may be more to the story than we know. Perhaps the stage driver will remember more clearly.”

“But it doesn’t really matter, does it?” she replied. She felt cold, lifeless, her heart a stone. “Papa is dead, and the Griffin is to blame, even if he didn’t fire the shot that killed him. If he hadn’t robbed the stage, Papa would be alive right now.”

“That’s true,” Gideon agreed, nodding. “Oh, Katie, I wish with all my heart that I could undo this terrible thing. You know that I loved Brian, too. Everyone did. He was a wonderful, kind-hearted man, and he certainly didn’t deserve to die. Not yet, and not like this!”

Katie disengaged from Jack and went to embrace her friend. He had begun to weep, and as she patted Gideon’s back, her own tears began to flow at last. Great, gulping sobs racked her body. She felt like crumpling to the floor, but instead, after a few moments, her composure began to return. Jack held out a handkerchief and she took it, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.

“Why don’t you sit down, Katie?” It was Abby, holding a chair for her.

She sank onto the wooden chair and drew a deep breath. “Well, there’s nothing I can do, is there? I can’t change what’s happened.”

Lim Sung knelt beside her. “You must grieve, dear friend, and leave the rest to us. No worries.”

“No... worries?” Katie repeated, and gave a bitter laugh. Suddenly she realized that she was all alone. Both her parents were dead—the two people she loved and needed most were lost to her forever. Now she was completely responsible for herself. She would have to run the saloon on her own, live in the house without her father, and be able to support herself. The future yawned before her—interminable, uncertain... an uncharted wasteland. Was it possible that her father would never again wrap her in his bearlike embrace and warmly tell her how dear she was to him? Through a mist of tears, Katie stretched out a hand toward Lim. “You won’t leave me yet, will you?”

“Of course not.” He tilted his dark head against hers. “No worries, Katie. Not now.”

“Let me get you a drink,” Abby offered. “That will make you feel better.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” Katie whispered.

“Believe me, it helps,” she insisted, and slipped behind the bar to pour Katie a sherry. Soon after handing it over to her, Abby retired to the storeroom at the back of the saloon.

Jack looked on as Lim and Gideon pulled up chairs next to Katie and murmured reassurances. After a moment, he rose and walked quietly back to the storeroom, pushing open the door just in time to see Abby quickly attempt to conceal an open bottle of sherry. He winced.

“Have you lost your mind, Abby?” He crossed the storeroom and wrenched the bottle from her trembling hands. “You’re working, for God’s sake!”

“Mr. MacKenzie’s murder is a terrible shock to all of us,” she cried, eyes wide with panic. “I just needed a little something to calm my nerves.”

“Save your excuses for someone more gullible. You’ve been drinking in secret, haven’t you? You’ve been through a difficult time, what with Ben’s death and moving to Columbia, but this has to stop.” His voice softened slightly. “Drinking won’t make your problems go away. Believe me, they’ll wait for you and just get worse.”

Abby began to weep, clinging to his sleeves. “Please, Jack, take me with you when you go! Don’t you see, I love you! The only moments of happiness I’ve known since Ben died have been with you, and today, when you went away, it felt as if my heart... as if I had a knife in my heart. I wouldn’t be any trouble! I’ll take care of you and love you and—”

Jack held her away from him. “Abby, you don’t love me. You’re just grateful to me because I reached out to help you. You have to build a new life. A good starting place would be dealing with your feelings instead of numbing them.”

Out in the corridor, Katie stopped at the sound of Jack’s raised voice. Then Abby’s sobs reached her ears. She’d come back to tell them that she was going home to be alone for a while, but obviously this was not a moment to interrupt.

“No, no! I’m so lonely!” she heard Abby cry. “No one in this town really cares about me. I’ll die if you don’t take me with you!”

“That’s enough. If you are lonely, it’s because you haven’t tried to make friends here in Columbia. There are many people here who will care for you if you will let them.” There was a slight pause, and then Jack went on in a firm voice: “Besides, I cannot take you with me. There is a woman waiting for me in San Francisco.”

Katie backed away from the door, forcing down the wave of confusion and pain that threatened to engulf her. It was too much. As she returned to Lim and Gideon, there was a buzzing in her ears and she felt as if she were floating. When the faces of her two friends came into focus, she tried to smile.

“Lim... you’ll come home with me, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He took her arm. “Mr. Henderson, do you think you can close the saloon? Ask Mrs. Armitage to help you.”

As Lim led her toward the door, Katie looked back over her shoulder. “Tell the men it will just be for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll be open as usual. Papa would want that.”

The MacKenzie house was showered with iridescent white moonlight. Standing on Jackson Street, Jack paused for a moment before opening the neat little gate. Everything looked just the same as it had when he’d left that morning. Red hollyhocks marched merrily along the picket fence, and the morning glory vines tumbled over the porch. A golden light shone at the kitchen window, completing the illusion of a contented, happy home.

But everything had changed. Jack’s heart ached whenever he thought of Brian. The image of his ruddy, smiling face, blue eyes twinkling under bushy white brows, was painfully fresh in his mind. He could still feel the warm pressure of Brian’s handshake when they had said good-bye less than twenty-four hours ago. How could the life of such a vital man be snuffed out so suddenly and senselessly?

Sighing, Jack opened the gate, walked up to the door, and knocked. After a moment, Lim Sung opened the door.

“How is Miss MacKenzie?” Jack asked softly. “I’d like to speak to her if she’s awake.”

“Katie’s bearing up quite well, but then she’s a very strong girl.” Lim gestured for him to enter. “Come in. She will want to see you before you leave.”

Jack found Katie sitting at the table in the kitchen where they had shared many convivial meals with her father. The evening’s air of unreality was heightened now by the cheery embroidered tablecloth and pitcher of orange poppies sitting in front of Katie. Her gaze was fixed on them, unseeing, while a cup of tea grew cold at her elbow. Jack sat down and reached for her hand. It was cold as ice.

“Kathleen?” he murmured gently.

Automatically, she turned her face toward him and smiled. “Hello, Mr. Adams. It was kind of you to walk over and say goodbye again. But then, I suppose you came for your watch? I have it right here in my pocket. It was on the dresser shelf.”

He blinked. “That’s unimportant, Kathleen. I’ve come to see how you are.”

Lim cleared his throat. “I must go home now and share the sad news with my family.”

When the door had closed behind him, Jack leaned toward Katie. “I want you to know how sorry I am. Although I didn’t know him very long, your father was a splendid man. It was very easy to care for him.”

Her great blue eyes were luminous with pain. “Thank you for saying so, Mr. Adams. I know that Papa liked you very much, too. “

Jack held her small, cold hand in both of his. “I think you are right. And, I know he would expect me to take an interest in your welfare.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Katie searched his eyes and found them curiously intent.

“I know that I should wait, should give you time to adjust to what’s happened and to grieve, but it’s time we simply don’t have to spare. All I am certain of is that I came to know both you and your father unusually well in the time I spent in your home. I know that Brian would not have wanted you to spend the rest of your life in Columbia, running the saloon, Kathleen.”

“I appreciate your concern but you really have no right—”

“Perhaps I don’t. But, I must speak out, to say what I believe your father would say if he could.”

A fiery spark kindled in her eyes. “I find your presumption quite extraordinary! Do, please, enlighten me! Since you were acquainted with my father for only a fortnight, and I have known him my entire life, it certainly does seem proper that you should speak on his behalf.”

“You may think I am being presumptuous, but I do care,” Jack replied in an even voice. “And your father talked to me about you. He was well aware of your many gifts, and anxious that you have the opportunity to fulfill them.” He took a breath, and she looked at him, waiting. “You shouldn’t stay here now that Brian is gone. I want you to come to San Francisco with me.”

Katie gasped. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am. I am completely in earnest.”

“Mr. Adams, what exactly are you proposing?” Her mind reeled as she remembered what he had said to Abby earlier about a fiancée waiting for him. Did he expect Katie to be his mistress?

“Nothing illicit, I assure you. Look, Kathleen, I have a family in San Francisco, a home and a life—”

“What do you mean, a family?”

“I live with my grandfather and my brother. It would all be perfectly circumspect. You could learn to explore and enjoy life for a change, attend parties, make new friends—”

“I think you must be mad!” she interrupted. “Do you think that just because I am a woman, you can take me in hand and tell me what is best for me? If so, you’re very much mistaken! I know what is best for me. I already have a life here with friends and work that I enjoy. Lim will help me run the saloon, and now that Abby is here, too, I shan’t be alone. I don’t need your help or your patronage, or whatever it is that you’re offering!” Tears stung her eyes as she pulled her hand from his.

Jack bit his lip. How had he erred? “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said quietly. “Believe me, that was not my intention. I came here tonight as a friend, not only of yours, but of your father’s as well. I see that I’ve only made matters worse.”

Katie’s features were strained as she turned away from him. “I’ll survive. We’ll all survive.” She drew a shaky breath. “Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to be alone. Have a safe journey, Mr. Adams.”

Jack stood up, then slowly extended his hand and smoothed back the stray curls from her brow. “I truly do care about you, Kathleen.”

Katie nodded, still unable to meet his compelling gaze. Then she remembered the watch and held it out to him. He accepted it, his fingers brushing hers before the contact was broken.

She listened as Jack walked out of the kitchen and out of her life. The door clicked shut behind him, and suddenly the warm July night felt painfully cold. Under a ray of snow-white moonlight, Katie buried her face in her hands, weeping as if her heart would break.

Part Two

Chapter 9

San Francisco, California
July 7, 1864

“It’s seven o’clock, Mr. Wyatt.”

Jonathan Wyatt opened one eye just a fraction. Across the spacious bedroom, Elijah, his manservant, was opening draperies of indigo velvet. The tall second-floor windows afforded an impressive panorama from Rincon Hill that encompassed much of the city to the north and the surrounding bay to the east, but this morning, like most mornings, little of the city was visible through its cloak of fog. Wyatt preferred it this way. It was hard enough to wake up without the shock of sunlight.

“I’ve drawn your bath, sir,” Elijah was saying. “Would you care for breakfast?”

“Just tea and fruit, thank you.” They always had exactly the same conversation. Wyatt closed his eyes again, then added on impulse, “Elijah, do we have any... muffins?”

The black man stopped short in the doorway and glanced back, surprised. “I—I am quite certain we do not. Shall I ask Mrs. Gosling to bake some?”

“Yes,” he murmured, smiling. “But there’s no hurry. Tomorrow will be fine.”

“Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“No. I’m sure you’ve thought of everything, Elijah. Thank you.”

Wyatt listened for the click of the paneled door, then opened his eyes again and stretched. The fine linen sheets caressed his naked body, tempting him to doze, but his bath was hot and his tea would be waiting downstairs in exactly half an hour. It was a routine that servants and employer had perfected over a number of years. If he deviated from it, they would all think he’d gone mad.

Smiling again to himself, Jonathan Wyatt emerged from his testered walnut bed and padded across the luxurious Turkey carpet. A cool, misty breeze filtered through the window which Elijah had opened an inch or two. Wyatt paused to breathe deeply of the morning air, then continued on to his tiled bathroom. Efficiently he bathed, toweled his hair and lean-muscled body, and shaved. Awake at last, he crossed into his dressing room and surveyed the cedar-paneled closets filled with all manner of expensive, tailored clothing. He chose a dark blue morning coat, white shirt, blue cravat, fawn-colored double-breasted waistcoat, and sleek fawn trousers. When he was dressed, Wyatt briefly surveyed himself in the full-length beveled mirror and adjusted the square shoulders of his coat. The tailoring was impeccable. He brushed back his hair, deciding to stop at his barber’s in the afternoon for an overdue trim, slipped his watch in its waistcoat pocket, attached the chain to the opposite side, then picked up fawn-colored gloves and left the dressing room.

The house was deceptively quiet as he descended the wide staircase. Dropping his gloves on the table in the entry way, he turned into his book-lined study. A tray awaited him on the large Chippendale desk, which many thought out of place with the Gothic flavor of the room. Wyatt professed not to care: the desk was not just a family heirloom; it was practical as well. It had ample space for his papers when he worked at home and deep drawers for storage.

Now the desk was clear except for the tray containing a steaming cup of tea, a translucent china plate of neatly arranged raspberries and orange segments, silver cutlery, a linen napkin, and a newspaper folded in half. Wyatt sat down and opened the newspaper with one hand while adding milk and a bit of sugar to his tea with the other. He scanned each column with a critical eye and dipped a gold pen in ink to make notations in the margins from time to time. When he had finished, the tea and fruit were gone. Wyatt checked his pocket watch and, as if on cue, a tall woman with steel-gray hair drawn into a bun appeared in the doorway. She wore a severe brown dress, but her appearance was belied by a fond smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Wyatt. Can I get you anything else?”

He stood, holding the folded newspaper, and returned her smile. “No, thank you, Mrs. Gosling. Is my grandfather in the dining room?”

“Yes, sir. He’s expecting you, as usual.” She paused, as if uncertain whether to deviate from their usual morning dialogue. “The muffins you requested are baking, sir. Would you like one when they are finished?”

Passing her, Wyatt grinned infectiously. “If I’m still here, why not?”

Mrs. Gosling watched her employer walk through the west parlor and enter the dining room. Perplexed, she shook her head and murmured through pursed lips, “Why not indeed?”

Wyatt found Ambrose Summers at the far end of a long, polished mahogany table, sitting under a portrait of John Adams, who had been first cousin to Ambrose’s mother. The family resemblance was noticeable, especially now that the old man was nearing eighty. His thinning white hair was combed neatly back from a face with large, keen gray eyes behind round spectacles, an aquiline nose, a small mouth nearly hidden under a drooping mustache, and round, heavy cheeks that were accentuated by white side whiskers. Like Adams, he was short in stature but generous in girth. Ambrose Summers loved to eat.

“Good morning, Grandfather,” Wyatt greeted him, coming around the table. Bending, he kissed the old man’s pink brow.

“Say good morning to Harriet,” Ambrose reminded him, indicating the exceptionally large gray cat curled on his lap. Harriet looked up expectantly, egg on her whiskers.

“Hello, Harriet.” He pulled a chair up near his grandfather’s. “The two of you are looking quite satisfied.”

Ambrose finished his biscuit, then pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Hmm. Well, it was a very good breakfast. Mrs. Gosling never overcooks the yolks.” Harriet seemed to nod in agreement as she began to wash her face. “You’re looking very fit this morning, Jack. Must’ve slept well. I knew you’d feel better after a night in your own bed. And I’ll wager that you’re happy to be back to your regular routine.”

His grandson smiled absently. “Yes, I suppose so. It is good to be home, and to be myself again, and yet... I feel a bit awkward at the moment. I can’t quite say why.... After all, I’ve been happy with my life by and large—particularly with the structure that I’ve been able to maintain. It’s always fit like a glove and I’ve never wanted to disrupt that, yet these past two days I’ve felt rather... confined by the discipline that I have imposed upon myself.”

Summers studied him carefully. “Well, you know that I’ve always thought you went a bit too far in that regard, regimenting your days and so forth, but it was your choice.” He paused to stroke the purring Harriet. “Your life was in disarray for some years, and it was a pleasure to watch you rebuild with such indefatigable determination. But perhaps the time has come to inject a bit more spontaneity into your routine.” With a philosophical shrug, he continued, “Or it may be a simple case of readjustment. You’ve been away for several weeks, living a very different life. It may take some time to settle back to being yourself again.”

“Yes... myself.” He sighed deeply. “Perhaps I’m not entirely certain who that is anymore.”

“Jack, did something else happen while you were away this time? I know that you’re upset about those deaths, but they were not your fault,” Ambrose said firmly, reaching over to pat his grandson’s arm.

“Weren’t they? If I hadn’t held up that last stage, Brian MacKenzie would still be alive.” Jonathan Griffin Adams Wyatt pressed his eyes with taut fingers, then looked around. “Where’s Conrad?”

“Elijah just went up to draw his bath, so you can speak freely. Jack, my dear boy, I must urge you to confide in me. I’ve sensed that something has been bothering you ever since you arrived home, and it will only gnaw at you if you keep it inside.”

“You’re right, of course, Grandfather, but I’m not even certain myself exactly what’s troubling me.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m due at the Morning Star offices in ten minutes—”

“The newspaper will wait for you,” Ambrose replied calmly. “You’re the owner and editor. And here’s a chance to bend your routine a bit.”

Wyatt’s smile of surrender failed to reach his hooded eyes. “You know, it all was so simple in the beginning. When Conrad ran off to the foothills to make his fortune, and then was tricked out of his claim by Van Hosten, all I sought was some justice. And perhaps a bit of the excitement that seemed to be lacking in my own life since I had straightened it up so meticulously.” He sighed again. “God only knows how Conrad would feel if he knew what I’ve done, especially since I counseled him to put the experience behind him and not seek revenge.”

“Well, you’re twelve years older than he. It’s only normal that you’d be protective of your brother.”

“Perhaps, but Conrad’s twenty-one now. I have to let him fight his own battles sometime, don’t I?”

“Jack, you’re straying from the heart of the matter,” Ambrose said, eyeing him shrewdly.

“Am I?” He smiled without humor. “I suppose I’m just trying to unravel things in my own mind, to understand where and how the line between Jack Adams and Jonathan Wyatt became so blurred....”

“Ah. Is that what’s happened, then?”

Jack stared back, then raised his eyebrows. “I believe so. As you know, when I first disappeared to the foothills last autumn and became Jack Adams and the Griffin, I was careful to keep moving so that no one would gain more than a fleeting impression of me. I formed only passing acquaintances. The stage robberies were perfectly executed, and I suppose I should have left my revenge there. Not gone back this summer. I told myself that I had to, though, because of all that I’d learned about Van Hosten and Rush. My mission had grown far beyond avenging Conrad’s loss. I believed that someone must continue to fight the heavy hand that Rush and Van Hosten had clamped down over the southern mines. The people of Columbia couldn’t afford to take the risk, but the Griffin could.”

“You sound as if you’ve taken a second look at your motives,” Ambrose remarked, rubbing behind Harriet’s ears.

“Yes, but it’s only left me more confused. Perhaps I also went back because I liked being Jack Adams, and I missed it. I enjoyed the feeling of being stripped of my possessions, my status, and the structured discipline of being Jonathan Wyatt. I justified my masquerade by reasoning that I was righting wrongs as the Griffin.” He unclasped and clasped a pearl cufflink. “Now, however, I see that I was deluding myself. Someone was bound to get hurt one day. One might argue that the world is better off without Harold Van Hosten, but I did not have the right to remove him from this earth.”

“Jack, it was an accident—”

“An accident that occurred because I chose to play God. If I had stayed out of it, Brian MacKenzie would still be alive.”

Ambrose hazarded a guess. “You knew this MacKenzie fellow well?”

Wyatt nodded slowly, then met his grandfather’s compassionate gray eyes. “Yes. Another mistake, I suppose, looking back now. Brian owned a saloon in Columbia, and I came to town at a point when I was beginning to really enjoy my new identity. He extended a hand of friendship to me, and I accepted it. It was a line I shouldn’t have crossed. I stayed in his home, I began to feel comfortable in Columbia... and the beginning of emotional bonds for Jack Adams created an inevitable conflict.”

“He had a family?”

Jack consulted his watch. “A daughter. Kathleen.”

“I see.” They were silent for a moment. “I suppose that you feel very guilty and responsible for her plight now?”

“Of course!” he shot back harshly. “She’s only twenty, and although she’s self-sufficient, she’s now an orphan just the same. She and her father were very close, and of course she blames the Griffin for his death.”

“And she doesn’t know that you are the Griffin.”

Jack stood up suddenly and paced across the dining room. “No, she doesn’t know! And frankly, I’m not sure just who the hell I am, either!”

“Did you offer to take care of her?”

“Yes! I tried to bring her home with me, for God’s sake!”

“I see,” Ambrose said quietly.

“She’d have no part of me. She intends to run the saloon without her father and go on writing her pieces for the Columbia Gazette and insists that she will be just fine alone.”

“But you don’t believe her?”

“Oh, I believe her all right, but how do you think I feel, knowing that I’m responsible for the death of the one person she truly loved and trusted?” He stood over his grandfather’s chair, hands clenched into fists.

“Well, I’m confused by your intensity. Is it just guilt that you feel, or something more?”

Jack looked away. “All I know is that I can’t go back. The Griffin died with Brian MacKenzie, and I have to get on with my life here. I’ve done enough damage in Columbia.”

Ambrose patted his grandson’s arm again. “Just give yourself some time. You’ll sort this out—I’m sure of it. And don’t be too hard on yourself. You acted without malice.”

Wyatt closed his eyes against the burn of tears, then gazed down at his grandfather. “Thank you for the advice, sir. Perhaps now, I’d best be off to the Star, owner and publisher or not. Tell Conrad I’ll see him tonight. Genevieve is joining us for dinner.”

He was leaving the dining room when Mrs. Gosling appeared with a plate of fragrant raspberry muffins. “Won’t you be having any after all, sir?” she asked.

“No. Give them to Harriet.” Jack continued on into the entryway and drew on his fawn gloves. Opening the front door, he called back, “And, Mrs. Gosling—please don’t bake any more. You know I never eat muffins.”

“Well, gentlemen, it appears that we’re finished. It’s been a constructive day.” Jonathan Wyatt shuffled some papers and stood up behind his desk. The fourth-story windows behind him overlooked California Street which was noisy with the traffic of horse-drawn carts and pedestrians, not to mention the construction of larger, taller buildings, like the one housing the Star’s offices. The 1860s was proving to be a decade of new prosperity for San Francisco as the city profited from the silver boom in Nevada.

Edwin Murray, the city editor, stayed behind as the other editors filed out the door. Round and bald, he had a sweeping red mustache that twitched whenever he was excited. It was jumping now. “Mr. Wyatt, could you spare me a few moments of your time?”

Jack checked his watch, tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket, and smiled. “After everything you did to keep the paper running smoothly while I was away? Of course.”

“It’s never the same without you, sir. This is a ship that needs its captain, although I must say that you have chosen a fine and loyal crew. Everyone worked together for the common good in your absence.” Murray smiled broadly. “We’re all very happy to have you back, though, sir.”

“I’m happy to be back.”

“You’re looking very well, Mr. Wyatt. You must have gotten plenty of sun in Nevada.”

“There is a lot of it at this time of year.” Jack came around his desk and perched on the front edge. “What was it you wanted to discuss with me, Edwin?”

“It’s about Samuel Clemens.” Murray’s mustache twitched again. “He often writes under the pseudonym Mark Twain. He was staff reporter for the Morning Call until recently—”

“I’m familiar with his work, and I’ve met the man once or twice. He did some fine writing in Nevada, before coming to San Francisco. Impressively droll.”

“Well, sir, his talents were never used properly on the Call. They discharged him while you were away, which turned out to be quite fortuitous for us. Now Clemens has resumed his pen name and is working independently, selling stories about life in San Francisco. I would like your permission to hire him to do a series for us.”

“What theme did you have in mind?”

“My inclination is to give him free rein. I have a very strong feeling about this, sir! I think the man has a gift for capturing the essence of a place and its people with great wit and style. Anything he would write for us would be an asset to this paper.”

Jack rubbed his eyes with one hand, then gave the city editor a weary smile. “You have my blessing, then, Edwin. Make Mr. Clemens a fair proposition and relay his response to me.” He stood up. “If he accepts, arrange a meeting between us.”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, Mr. Wyatt!”

“No need to thank me. You know that I’m not in the business of dispensing favors. I expect results.” Jack patted the shorter man’s plump shoulder and gathered up a pile of galley proofs to scan later that evening. “Now I have to be going. Miss Braithwaite is expecting me.”

Murray’s mustache twitched again as he watched his employer head out the office door. “You wouldn’t want to keep a beautiful woman like Miss Braithwaite waiting, sir!”

Jack glanced back over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow. “I’m certain that she would strongly agree with that sentiment. Good night, Edwin.” He made his way past the desks of other editors and reporters, personalizing each farewell. Then, as he ran lightly down the four flights of stairs, Jack experienced a keen sense of liberation. Unfortunately, it was short-lived: emerging onto the board sidewalk, the first thing he saw was the elegant black carriage belonging to Genevieve Braithwaite. Behind the driver, resplendent in red-and-white livery, a lovely face peered anxiously from beneath the leather carriage top.

“Jonathan!” the young lady exclaimed the instant she saw him.

Jack felt as if he were walking through a tunnel as he approached the carriage. Leaning in, he forced a smile as her slim arms wound round his neck and her face filled his vision. “Hello, Genevieve—”

“What sort of a greeting is that after an absence of two full months?” she asked, pretending to pout. “For heaven’s sake, get in and kiss me!”

Seeing no alternative, Jack complied. Genevieve was a lissome blonde with a flawless porcelain complexion and long-lashed hazel eyes that slanted upward slightly at the corners. Any man would judge it pleasurable to kiss her and she was certainly responsive. Jack had been able to maintain a detached attitude toward their relationship since its beginning nearly a year ago; now, however, Genevieve was a diversion that no longer amused him. In fact, at that moment, holding her in his arms in the back of the carriage felt more like a duty than a diversion, and Jack was in no mood to pretend otherwise.

Genevieve thrust her tongue into Jack’s mouth while one of her hands found its way under his jacket, caressing and exploring. The carriage had started up California Street, bound for the Wyatt mansion, and when the left rear wheel caught in a crack in the plank-paved thoroughfare, Jack pretended to have been jarred from Genevieve’s embrace.

“Sorry, darling,” he murmured, disengaging completely and glancing down to straighten his clothing. “In any case, this really isn’t quite the proper time or place, is it?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” she replied petulantly. “What is proper when two people have been separated for two months? I must say, I’m surprised at you, Jonathan. I anticipated a far more manly and passionate greeting....”

Wyatt cocked an eyebrow and smiled slightly. “Indeed?” With maddening equanimity, he shifted his position. If Genevieve was hoping that he would be spurred to kiss her again with new enthusiasm, she was doomed to disappointment. Instead, he gazed out at the crowds and vehicles that milled around them, and seemed to forget her presence.

“I might almost suspect that you took a lover during your travels,” she persisted.

But Jack didn’t hear her. “Look over there!” he said suddenly. “Isn’t that Samuel Clemens? Driver, stop. I want to have a word with that man—the curly-haired one without a hat.”

The carriage wound through the traffic and drew up near a young man walking along the sidewalk. Jack called a greeting and emerged from the carriage to extend a hand to Samuel Clemens.

“Mr. Wyatt?” Clemens cocked a dark-reddish eyebrow, his gaze sharp with interest and surprise. “This is an unexpected pleasure....”

“I wasn’t certain you’d remember me—”

“I see that modesty is a facet of your celebrated character, Mr. Wyatt.” The younger man smiled wryly, his wide mouth partially hidden behind a full mustache. “Surely you realize that anyone working in newspapers in this city today stares each time they pass you on the street. I’d be a colossal fool if, after scheming for most of the winter to attend a party where we might be introduced, and then winning that introduction, I now had forgotten you!”

Jack was bemused by the writer’s honesty. “I fear you exaggerate my importance, Mr.... Clemens. Or do you go by Twain these days?”

“Call me Sam. It minimizes the confusion.” His eyes were twinkling.

Genevieve leaned out of the carriage. “Jonathan, are you finished?”

He ignored her. “Sam, would you care to join a group of guests at my house for supper tonight?”

“Socially or professionally?”

“A little of both, I imagine,” Wyatt replied, smiling.

“I like that mixture, and I’m pleased to accept. You’ll find that I’m rather expert in the role of dinner guest. If nothing else, I promise to entertain the table at large....”

Jack laughed. “I’ll look forward to it. See you at seven!” He climbed back in the carriage and waved as they reentered the flow of traffic.

“Who was that man?” Genevieve demanded, her delicate nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Samuel Clemens, also known as Mark Twain. Why do you look that way?”

“Why, because he was so very horrid! His hair was too outrageously curly, he looked like he needed a bath, and he had the audacity to wink at me!”

Wyatt leaned back against the leather upholstery and laughed with delight. “Perhaps he just surmised that you needed cheering up, which may well be the case after you learn that you’ll be sharing supper with my good friend Sam in just a few hours....”

Chapter 10

July 7, 1864

Jonathan Wyatt neatly carved the loin of veal a la bechamel, placed aromatic slices on the plates, and handed them, one at a time, to Genevieve Braithwaite, who sat at his right. The glow of candlelight softened the features of the six people at the table, each of whom gazed longingly at the veal and companion dishes of lobster salad, stewed peas a la francaise, braised ham garnished with broad beans, crimped perch and Dutch sauce, and scalloped potatoes. Ambrose Summers sat at the other end of the table, opposite his elder grandson, while Conrad Wyatt and his heart’s desire, Emma Pierce, faced Genevieve and first-time guest Samuel Clemens.

Genevieve usually liked playing hostess in the Wyatt household, but tonight she looked as if she would prefer to be anywhere else. Passing a plate to Clemens, she glanced at his ink-stained fingers and grimaced slightly. He gave her a broad grin in return.

Ambrose, watching the scene with interest, remarked, “I like your style, Mr. Clemens. It is both frank and arousing! Before we were called for supper, you’d begun telling me about the adventures attending your recent move to new rooms. Can I persuade you to delve back into that tale?”

“Well, sir...” Sam glanced over at Wyatt, who smiled encouragingly. “I have a typesetter friend named Steve Gillis who shares lodgings with me. We found new rooms not long ago, but Steve forgot to tell his father that we’d moved. Mr. Gillis hunted up the old landlady, a Frenchwoman, who apparently never liked us much. She didn’t know that he was Steve’s father and launched into a tirade of epic proportions. Said she: ‘They are gone, thank God—and I hope I may never see them again. Do you know, sir’”—Clemens dropped his voice to a confidential, female tone, his features drawing up in distaste to mimic the Frenchwoman’s—“‘they were gamblers and murderers of the very worst description! I never saw such a countenance as the smallest one had on him. Their room was never vacant long enough to be cleaned up, for one of them was always going to bed at dark and getting up at sunrise, while the other went to bed at sunrise and got up at dark. And if the chamberman disturbed them, they would just sit up in bed and level a pistol at him and tell him to get scarce! Oh, I never saw such creatures!’”

Clemens paused for a sip of wine and a bite of lobster salad before continuing, while the others indulged in amused laughter. Genevieve alone compressed her lips disapprovingly.

“Sir,” she inquired icily, “do you really consider this proper conversation for a refined dinner table?”

“Refined?” Samuel repeated, tasting the word experimentally. “Is that what this is?” He gave Wyatt a reproving look. “Why didn’t you warn me, sir? I might not have come!”

A tight smile curved the mouth of his host. “I am certain that Genevieve spoke in jest, didn’t you, darling?” He gave her a brief, flashing glance that extinguished her sulky retort before she could form the words. “I insist that you continue, Mr. Clemens! Did the French landlady have any other complaints beyond your countenance and the hours you kept?”

“A few.” Sam grinned. “I believe that she went on to say, ‘They used to bring loads of beer bottles up at midnight and get drunk and shout and fire off their pistols in the room, and throw their empty bottles out of the window at the Chinamen below. Oh, it was dreadful!’” Seeing that the diminutive Emma Pierce was round-eyed with consternation, Sam gave her a wink before continuing in his falsetto, “‘Those villains kept a nasty foreign sword and any number of revolvers and bowie knives in their room, and I know that small one must have murdered lots of people! But that’s not the worst of it...’” He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a disapproving hiss. “‘Women! There were women running to their room, sometimes in broad daylight. They had no respect for God, man, or the devil.’” Clemens grinned suddenly. “The good Frenchwoman summed up with thanks to God for taking us away from her boardinghouse.”

Conrad Wyatt stared in honest confusion, his red hair and side-whiskers contrasting with his pale skin. “That’s a very colorful story, sir, but was it meant as entertainment or truth?”

Laughing, Sam replied, “You raise an interesting point, Mr. Wyatt! What is the use of wearing away a lifetime in building up a good name if it is to be blown away at a breath by a woman who is ignorant of the pleasant little customs that adorn a state of high civilization? “

Jack looked down the table to his grandfather, and the two of them chuckled in amusement. Genevieve, still peeved, glared at Jack.

“Has Mr. Clemens described a way of life that you aspire to, Jonathan? You seem so approving.”

One of his brows flicked upward. “Whatever can you mean, my dear? In truth, I was merely amused by my friend’s talent for exaggeration. I was sorely in need of that laughter.” Jack smiled at Samuel Clemens. “Thank you for joining us tonight. I hope to see a great deal more of you!”

Sam took a bite of raspberry-filled meringue and grinned, eyes a-twinkle. “I am pleased to have been of service, sir!”

From his end of the table, Ambrose Summers sipped port and quietly observed his elder grandson. He was gratified not only to see Jonathan unbend a bit, but also to witness Genevieve Braithwaite’s petulance. These, he felt sure, were her true colors.

Genevieve paced the study nervously, her exquisite gown of pearl-encrusted blue silk shimmering in the light shed by wall sconces. She had waited most of the evening for the other guests to disperse, and now her wish had been granted. Conrad had left to escort Emma home, then Samuel Clemens had bade them farewell, declaring that it was time to return to his new lodgings and begin fueling a whole new set of “murder and mayhem” rumors. After another hour, the old man had at last surrendered to fatigue and trundled off to bed. Now that she and Jonathan were alone, however, Genevieve wasn’t quite certain where to begin.

Wyatt was leaning back against the edge of the Chippendale desk, already coatless, his lean fingers working at the knot of his cravat. The merest flicker of his hooded green eyes betrayed the impatience he felt. The hours spent with Samuel Clemens had reminded him so much of life in Columbia that he no longer had any heart for playing the wealthy San Francisco gentlemen.

“Why don’t you stand still and say whatever it is that’s on your mind?” he said.

Jack’s rather bored tone of voice made her feel foolish. “Well, I... I...” Seeing his brows rise warningly, Genevieve burst out, “I just don’t understand why you had that man in your house tonight! I found him to be shockingly ill-bred, and it surprised me to witness your obvious enjoyment of his—his—performance!”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed to gain your approval of my friends.” His tone was cool. “In any case, you might be reassured to know that Mr. Clemens possesses keen intelligence, rare wit, and a unique and considerable writing talent. I like him for those reasons, and also because he is not pretentious, unlike so many of my so-called friends here in San Francisco.”

“Well, he is certainly unlike any man in the better social circles.”

Wyatt pretended not to understand. “My point exactly.” He offered her a tight-lipped smile—a grim twist of the lips that signaled an end to the conversation. But Genevieve had neither the subtlety nor the inclination to heed that signal.

“I think that you have changed since your latest journey to Nevada,” she continued stubbornly. “I suppose it was inevitable, considering that you were cut off from proper civilization for so long. Next you’ll grow a beard and start wearing red flannel shirts and those hideous thick blue trousers and—”

“Genevieve, it is getting late and I have a crowded schedule tomorrow. If we have nothing else to discuss, I’ll have a carriage brought around to take you home—”

“Wait!” She bridged the distance between them in an instant, reaching for his hands. “I missed you so, darling,” she murmured seductively. “Have you not longed to... be alone with me?”

Jack’s face and body grew taut. He gazed into Genevieve’s beautiful eyes, searching his mind for an appropriate response. Her hands, slim, soft, and white, slid caressingly up his waistcoat to round his shoulders and gently stroke the back of his neck. “I seem to recall a conversation that we had several times before I left in the spring. You told me that it would be improper for us to be alone together, did you not? You were quite adamant about avoiding any situation that might compromise your reputation or your chastity.”

“That was a long time ago,” she objected weakly. Seeing the way his mouth quirked in surprised amusement, she almost added that she had said those things when he had desired her, when his passion had been undeniable. Hadn’t her mother assured her that Jonathan Wyatt was the sort of man who would value his bride’s purity, and that his own carnal desires would drive him to propose marriage? Genevieve knew that she was as beautiful as ever. She had eaten like a bird for weeks and now possessed an eighteen-inch waist to set off her high bosom. What had happened to that desire?

“A long time ago?” Jack repeated, his tone dry. “It was May, I believe.”

Genevieve leaned against Jack’s chest, lowering her lashes demurely. “Sometimes womanhood comes over one suddenly. While you were away, I... grew up. I had time to think about my feelings for you, and yours for me. I missed you, Jonathan. I longed for your embrace, for your... touch, as never before.” Her right hand trailed over the soft white fabric of his shirt, caressing the lean muscles of his arm.

Jack accepted her words and the touch of her fingers... and remained unmoved. For some reason, Genevieve no longer excited him. Her fragrant hair was as soft and pale as cornsilk against his cheek, and the curves of her breasts were lightly grazing his chest, but he felt nothing. Now, as she offered him her parted lips in silent invitation, he kissed her experimentally. Their mouths met while his arms slipped around her supple back. She was moaning softly, her fingers in his hair, her eager body arching through her petticoats in search of a response.

Jack’s own body felt surprisingly detached, while his mind traveled back to the bluff above the Stanislaus River where he had lain in the tall grass with Katie MacKenzie in his arms. Every nerve in his being had sung that day, every vein surging with fire. He had feasted on her delicious mouth and now remembered with a pang how their hearts had pounded in unison as he lay against her.

“Jonathan... is something wrong?” Genevieve had leaned back to look at him, staring into his distant eyes. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

He blinked, focusing on the exquisite creature in his arms. Remembering his vow that morning to concentrate on the reality of his life in San Francisco rather than the masquerade in Columbia, Jack mustered a smile. “Of course I want you, Gen, but I must be more tired than I realize. The trip home was arduous, to say the least, and it’s been taxing to catch up on everything here at home and at the newspaper. I just need a little time to settle in again, I think.”

When he touched a tanned forefinger to her cheek, Genevieve reached up to catch his hand and kiss it. “Your skin is so rough!” Her eyes searched Jack’s face, and she added, “And you’re so brown... It’s as if you’re not quite the same man who left here in May. Have you really changed?”

“Undoubtedly. But there’s no cause for concern.” He gave her a wry smile. “As I said, I just need a little time.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Yes.” Jack pried her arms from his neck and held her slightly away. “Don’t press me, all right?”

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the study door. Genevieve stepped back just as Conrad Wyatt poked his head into the room.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” He reddened. “I hope I didn’t disturb you. I wasn’t aware that you were still here, Miss Braithwaite.”

“It’s all right, Conrad. Genevieve was just leaving. Let me see her into a carriage, then I’ll be back.”

Silently, Jack blessed his brother for the timely interruption. He was even spared a lengthy parting conversation from Genevieve because he had to return to the library. After the most circumspect of kisses in the presence of the coachman, Jack promised to see her soon, then waved once as the carriage rolled off down Montgomery Street.

Conrad was waiting for him in the doorway. Taller and leaner than Jack, he still looked and moved much like a boy, and his expression was one of youthful exuberance. “You look relieved, Jack. And here I was worrying that I’d ruined your expectations for the rest of the night!”

Wyatt snorted derisively and threw himself onto a wing chair facing the cold fireplace. “Women!” He smiled and cocked an eyebrow at his younger brother. “They’re a complicated business, my boy, so beware!”

Awkwardly Conrad took the matching chair, folding and unfolding his long legs. “You must be joking... Yes, I can see that gleam in your eye. Either that or you’re mad. There’s not a male above eighteen in all of San Francisco who wouldn’t give a fortune in gold to be alone with Genevieve Braithwaite. I’ll wager that she’s the sweetest, most beautiful woman in all of California!”

“Ah, youthful fervor!” Jack laughed softly. “Just remember that love is blind—and passion can be life-threatening. If you have to give up a fortune in gold or anything else of great value to win a woman, you’re in grave danger, my boy.”

“I never thought I’d say this about you, Jack, but I think you’re becoming stodgy.”

Jack laughed again, but his mind was obviously elsewhere. Then he said, “How have you fared in life and love during my absence, Con? Any news? Are you still courting Miss Pierce?”

“Nothing of any real importance has taken place. Work at the bank is progressing well. Mr. Braithwaite has spoken of a promotion.”

“Good!” He flashed him an approving grin. Conrad had tried working at the Morning Star but had no talent for either editing or reporting. It had taken all of Wyatt’s considerable tact to persuade his younger brother to seek employment elsewhere.

Conrad shrugged. “I suppose. It’s rather boring there. And I’m growing rather bored with Emma as well. I long for excitement! Which reminds me—I stopped by Barry and Patten’s Saloon after I saw Emma home and heard some rather provocative news. That’s what I came to tell you.”

“Well, don’t fall silent now. Pray enlighten me.”

“There were two miners at the faro table, just arrived from Columbia. They said that Harold Van Hosten was killed by that highwayman who calls himself the Griffin.”

“Really?” Glancing down, Jack flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his fawn trousers.

“Really!” Conrad sat forward, his voice rising. “I wish I knew who the Griffin was so I could thank him myself. You can’t imagine the ill will I have borne toward Rush and Van Hosten for cheating me out of my claim, or the frustration I have suffered since heeding your advice not to seek vengeance against them.”

“Perhaps now you’ll be able to put that unhappy chapter behind you,” Jack suggested.

“Well, I might if it weren’t for Aaron Rush. The miners said that he was away when the shooting occurred, but he returned two days later and the town has literally been quaking with his fury. He’s vowed to find the Griffin and bring him to justice, and is offering a huge reward for his capture.”

“Indeed?” Wyatt’s brows flicked upward. “Well, I wish him luck. From all I’ve heard, the people of Columbia are grateful to the Griffin for all he’s done. It’s doubtful that any of those citizens will turn him in.”

Conrad sank back on his chair. “The miners said that the Griffin disappeared without a trace after Van Hosten’s shooting, and he hasn’t been heard from since. The thing is, people fear that Rush is going to resort to even more disreputable and punitive dealings with the miners, partly out of anger and partly out of a desire to draw the Griffin out of hiding. The townspeople scarcely know what to think or hope for.”

“I imagine this will all blow over in time.”

“Perhaps.” The younger man sighed and ran a hand through his curly red hair. “One can’t help hoping that the Griffin will return to finish Rush off and put an end to that evil once and for all.”

“Don’t count on that, Con. From all I’ve heard, the Griffin isn’t one to resort to violence. My guess is that Van Hosten’s death was probably some sort of accident, and I’d further venture to predict that the Griffin will be lying low for a long time... if not forever.” Jack’s tone was grim.

“Oh, God!” Conrad exclaimed dramatically, slumping on his chair. “What a depressing thought! What’s become of courage and honor?”

Wyatt stared into the dark fireplace. “Perhaps there’s more at stake for the Griffin. He’s not some character in a fairy tale. The man’s a human being.”

Chapter 11

Columbia, California
September 11, 1864

Lim Sung walked slowly up Main Street toward the MacKenzie Saloon. It had rained the night before, and the cool morning air was fragrant with pine. Even Columbia’s usual clouds of dust were dampened, a welcome change after the summer’s unremitting dry heat. A quartet of miners passed en route to the Wells Fargo office, while the stagecoach rumbled into view at the north end of town.

Entering the saloon, Lim spotted Katie hunched over a corner table with a number of papers spread before her. She wore an expression of worried concentration as she wrote, crossed out, then wrote again. Lim made his way over to her, his brow furrowed with concern. Katie looked so tired these days, and she was thinner as well. In summers past she’d ripened like a peach, her skin a soft golden hue dusted with freckles. She’d ridden her horse daily, pausing to play or lie on the wildflower-strewn hillsides, and wherever Katie had gone, a radiant smile and ready laughter had been her companions. Now that smile showed itself only rarely. Her heartbreak over Brian’s death was compounded by the burden of work and responsibility that came with running the saloon. Lim knew there were other problems, too, that Katie kept to herself. On its best days the saloon barely turned a profit, and she had hinted to Lim that a review of Brian’s books had confirmed her suspicions that this had been the case for more than a year. Although Lim and Abby put forth their best efforts to help the saloon prosper, the future looked truly bleak.

One night, Lim and Katie had closed up together. Seeing her sad, faraway expression, he had gently encouraged her to talk about her feelings. Slowly, Katie opened her heart to her friend and shared her grief for her father, whom she missed constantly. She spoke of her worries about the saloon, questioning whether this was the way she wanted to spend her life. And then, on the verge of tears, she had confided that she was lonely. He had patted Katie’s back consolingly as she whispered, “It’s as if there’s a yearning inside me that no amount of work or the love of friends like you can fill. Papa’s death is part of it, I know, but...” Her voice had trailed off, and she’d refused to say any more about it.

Lim sighed now, remembering. He wished there were a man in Columbia who suited Katie—and deserved her. Someone with intelligence, strength, and wit to match her own....

“Where have you gone, Lim?” Abby inquired playfully, coming over from the bar.

He gave her an absent smile. “Good morning! You’re looking well.” It pleased him to say so honestly. Slowly, Abigail Armitage was finding peace. Two months had passed since her last sip of sherry, and she was finding strength through daily prayer. She now had friends in town and was a great favorite with the saloon’s customers. “I was thinking about Katie,” Lim continued. “I wish you could give her some of the roses in your cheeks.”

“My heart aches for her,” Abby whispered. “I know what she is going through....”

Katie looked up then, shading her eyes against the sunlight that streamed through the east windows. “Hello, Lim. I’m hurrying to finish an article for the Gazette. I know I said I didn’t have time to do them anymore, but Gideon is desperate.” She glanced down again, adding, “It’s about the fire at Widow Turner’s last Monday, and how our fancy little Papeete fire engine saved the day.” The committee dispatched to San Francisco to buy a fire engine had found the charmingly decorated hand-pumper on a ship in the bay, destined for the king of Tahiti. The ship’s crew had left for the gold fields, so the Papeete had come home to Columbia.

Lim set a basket on the table in front of Katie. “I brought a few bird’s nests from home. Tsing Tsing Yee just got dozens in for his store, and naturally Mother was the first one there to pick the best of the lot. She thought you might want to make soup and sends these with her regards.”

“How very kind of her.” Katie touched the three tiny, rather pungent-smelling nests. “I must thank her.”

“Are you feeling well?” Lim asked.

“Of course!” Katie declared forcefully. But there were dark smudges under her blue eyes, Lim noticed, and clearly she had lost weight. Katie, who had never been vain, seemed now to be completely without concern for her own appearance. Her faded lavender calico gown was mended at one elbow, and her ebony braid had lost some of its luster.

Standing up, Katie turned her attention to gathering the papers in an effort to avoid Lim’s penetrating gaze. “I must go over to the Gazette now to give Gideon this story. He’s setting type for this week’s edition.”

“I hope he’s planning to leave out the editorials attacking Aaron Rush and his mine,” Lim said. “That man has had a dangerous face the last few times he has come to the saloon. Many thought that Van Hosten was the evil one in that pair, but lately it seems the real truth is coming clear.”

“I know!” Abby chimed in. “Mr. Rush may look weak and harmless, but there’s something in his eyes that frightens me. Gideon has been very brave to print editorials in defense of the miners, but now that the Griffin isn’t around any longer to distract Rush’s attention...”

“Don’t ever speak of the Griffin as a hero again,” Katie said coldly. “He killed my father. And obviously he’s too afraid of being arrested for murder to continue to take risks on behalf of the miners. It’s clear to me that the Griffin was never the champion we once believed him to be.”

When Katie started toward the saloon door, Abby ran after her. “Wait, please! I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking. I didn’t mean to remind you of your loss. It’s only that I’ve been worried about Gideon. He’s been a good friend to me these past weeks, and I’m concerned for his safety.”

She gave her a sad smile. “Never mind, Abby, it’s all right.”

“Would you mind if I walked with you over to the Gazette? I’d just like to say hello.”

“You’ll have to come right back. I realize that business is slow, but there’s always a chance...”

The two young women emerged onto Main Street in time to see the stagecoach rumble past. As they walked, Katie absently watched it stop in front of the Wells Fargo office. Two passengers disembarked, one of them a tall man with lean hips and wide, even shoulders. Thick hair curled over his collar. For an instant, Katie couldn’t breathe. A shiver ran down her spine and her face grew warm as she stood staring at the man’s back, waiting. Finally he turned to catch the bag the stage driver tossed down to him, revealing a sharp-boned profile. Katie’s breath returned in a heaving gasp.

“Are you all right?” Disconcerted, Abby followed her friend’s gaze to the stage passenger. “Goodness, that man looks a bit like Jack from behind, doesn’t he? Did you think it was Jack?”

“I—yes.” She was too stunned by her own reaction to lie.

“You two became friends while he was here, didn’t you? Have you missed him?” Abby was surprised by the sudden glare Katie shot at her.

“Believe me, I’ve had more important things to think about than Jack Adams. Just because you find the man irresistible doesn’t mean every other female shares your weakness!”

Abby rushed to catch up to her, matching her pace. “I’m sorry, Katie! It’s just that... well, Jack is a very attractive man and you’re a beautiful woman, and I think it occurred to many people that the two of you would make a handsome couple. Please, don’t be angry. I’m only saying these things out of affection for you.”

Katie didn’t look at her. “The last thing I need right now is a man—especially one like Jack Adams! Didn’t you say not so long ago that he was a lone wolf, that he could never commit himself to a woman?”

“Maybe he simply hasn’t found the right one.” Abby smiled in spite of herself. “In any case, a commitment may not be what you need. Perhaps a good dose of love and romance would do you more good.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Color flooded her cheeks. “I cannot believe you are saying these things! What about your own feelings for Jack?”

Abby shrugged. “I think I was just... oh, I don’t know—afraid, I suppose, and lonely, too. And then when Jack came into my life, I thought he would take care of everything for me.” She smiled, remembering. “Instead he helped me to understand that I had to sort out my own problems and not expect someone to rescue me.”

“But you think that I should look for a rescuer?”

“It’s not rescuing that you need, Katie!” Suddenly Abby remembered what Jack had said to her about a woman waiting for him in San Francisco. “Well, I suppose that you’ll find romance when the time is right. Jack isn’t here, after all, so it doesn’t much matter what I think!” As they approached the white frame office of the Gazette, she sought to change the subject. “You know, there’s another reason I got over Jack Adams so painlessly. This is something of a secret, so I’ll trust you not to say anything to anyone else.”

Katie stopped and stared at her. “This is the most curious conversation that you and I have ever had!”

Widening her brown eyes, Abby replied, “Didn’t you ask me to be your friend? Aren’t friends supposed to confide in each other?”

“Well, yes, they are.” Chastened, Katie added, “And of course I’ll not betray your confidence.”

A beatific smile spread over Abby’s face. “I find that I have some very tender feelings toward Gideon Henderson.”

“You do?” Katie blinked, nonplussed. “Gideon?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, nothing!”

“Are we so ill suited?”

“No, of course not!” Katie hastened to reassure her. “It’s just that I’m not used to thinking of Gideon in those terms. He’s never been in love, as far as I know.”

“Then you aren’t very observant. I think that he was half in love with you when I first came to Columbia. Then, gradually, we became friends. He loaned me some books.” Abby’s eyes grew dreamy again. “I’ve always been attracted to a different kind of man, but Gideon’s warmth and tenderness, his constancy, make me very happy.”

“Is he... aware? I mean, does Gideon feel the same way about you?”

“I think so, though nothing’s been spoken yet. He’s rather shy.”

Katie felt a rush of emotion and reached out to hug her friend. “I think it’s wonderful. If there is anything I can do, please say so!”

Blushing, Abby murmured awkwardly, “Well, if the opportunity should arise, you might say something to Gideon—just in passing, of course. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Certainly.” Katie beamed. “I’ll be the soul of tact. Let’s go in now and say hello. You’ll have to be getting back to start preparing stew for lunch—”

She broke off in the midst of opening the Gazette’s door, freezing as she took in the scene of chaos—papers littering the floor, office chairs overturned, and Gideon’s desk a shambles with ink splattered over everything. Quickly, her eyes sought out the Adams bed and platen printing press at the back of the room. The platen had been broken in two by a sledgehammer, which lay on the floor nearby.

“Help...” The call came faintly from behind stacks of old newspapers in the far corner of the office.

“Dear God, it’s Gideon!” Katie cried. Scrambling over the wreckage, she reached his side in moments, with Abby only a step behind.

“Gideon!” Abby burst into tears at the sight of him. His body looked broken, his clothing torn to reveal bruises and dried blood. There was a gash in the side of his head that oozed blood, and one eye was swollen shut. His spectacles, smashed, still clung to his nose.

Gideon moaned, “The press...”

“Never mind that! What about you?” Katie looked back over her shoulder at Abby. “Run for Doctor Morgan. Hurry!”

Abby obeyed without a word, though she longed to tend to Gideon herself and her heart was bursting with fear for him. Meanwhile, Katie blinked back tears of her own.

“I’ll live,” Gideon whispered, managing a crooked smile.

“Of course you will!” Her voice shook with emotion. “Abby and I will nurse you back to health. We’ll pamper you, wait on you hand and foot, and cook all your favorite dishes....” Katie paused, swallowing tears. “Gideon, do you know who did this?”

“Don’t you?” His tone was acid even as he gritted his teeth against the pain. “Two men came in late last night. Wearing masks. When they smashed the press, one said, ‘Since you won’t print the truth, it’s best you don’t print at all.’ Then they smashed me, too.”

Katie’s cheeks were wet. “Oh, Gideon, will this nightmare never end?”

An impressive new hotel was under construction across the street from Jonathan Wyatt’s office at the Morning Star, and the inescapable racket was a test for his patience. Drinking hot tea at his desk, he went over galley sheets with a pen and tried not to hear the incessant pounding and clatter out on California Street.

There was a tap at the door before Samuel Clemens poked his head in. “Good morning! Could you spare me a moment of your time?” His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his curls tousled, and his mustache nearly covered his mouth until he grinned.

Jack leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Ah, Sam! Come in. You’re just the tonic I need. Thus far, the day has been far too boring.”

“Well, you’re certainly looking very fit.” Clemens took a seat, his eyes agleam with speculation. Jonathan Wyatt was the last person he’d expect to complain of boredom. Why, his looks alone would be enough to satisfy most men for a lifetime. Sun poured through the windows behind him, burnishing his hair. His immaculate white shirt and vest of watered gray silk emphasized his broad shoulders and tapering chest. Since Clemens’s own looks were less than spectacular, he gave them little thought, but he was forced to concede that there must be definite advantages to possessing the physical attributes of a Jonathan Wyatt. That wasn’t what he said now, however. “People would be surprised to hear that you’re bored, my friend. You own a newspaper, you have a magnificent home and a beautiful woman who is desperately in love with you. You’re young, intelligent, and a darling of society. What more could a man ask?”

Jack regarded the younger man with narrowed eyes. “I haven’t noticed you pursuing any of the goals you think I’ve attained.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Sam... something is missing. I worked hard the past few years to discipline myself and instill a sense of order in my life, but now it seems almost...”

“Sterile?” Clemens widened his eyes.

“Yes. Exactly. I’ve told you that I spent some time in the foothills off and on since last autumn, and when I was there I felt alive. Yet it became rather, uh, disconcerting—as if I were beginning to lead two lives. My home and my business and my roots are here, so when I returned in July I decided to accept this reality. Stay here and face it.”

“But you’re not happy?”

“No. I don’t seem to be. Something is lacking....”

“Passion?”

Jack laughed suddenly. “You’re a crafty dog, Clemens! Do you know, I feel better.”

“Well, don’t give me too much credit. I sympathize with your feelings because nothing drives me madder than an ordered existence! I crave adventure, new experiences, something to make me feel passionate about life. People have pointed it out on many occasions as a character flaw.” His tone was dry. “You’ll work it out. I think the trick is to strike a balance between listening to the head and the heart, but I can’t claim to have achieved that balance yet myself.”

Wyatt glanced down at the galley sheets he’d been proofing and made a derisive noise. “Perhaps it’s just a mood. This work, after all, is dull beyond measure.”

“Galleys?” Sam chuckled and lit a cigar. “That reminds me of a story my friend Bret Harte told the other night. Do you know Harte?”

Jack nodded. “I wouldn’t say I particularly like the man, but I have admired his work.”

“I know what you mean. He is showy and insincere, but he has also been a friend to me and a source of professional advice. And Bret can be amusing. He used to live in Yreka, teaching school and editing the weekly newspaper. Once a galley slip was placed on his desk for his attention. It was an extravagantly written obituary for a Mrs. Thompson. One line read, ‘Even in Yreka, her chastity was conspicuous.’ Of course, the word was ‘charity,’ but Harte didn’t think of that. He merely underlined the word and put a question mark in the margin, signaling the printer to refer back to the manuscript.” Sam paused to chuckle, his eyes twinkling. “Well, as you know, underlining is also meant for words that are to be italicized, and the printer saw this correction in a different light. So, when the obituary appeared in the newspaper, it read, ‘Even in Yreka, her chastity was conspicuous?’—which of course turned the thing into a ghastly, ill-timed sarcasm!”

Leaning back in his chair, Jack laughed easily. When he was with Sam, he knew a sense of freedom and camaraderie that had been missing in his life since he’d returned to San Francisco. “That’s a priceless story, Sam. Did you come over here for the sole purpose of cheering me up, or did you have business to discuss?”

Clemens withdrew folded papers from his inside coat pocket and opened them. “I brought you another story. Have a look and see what you think.”

Rising, Jack reached for the manuscript and glanced at it. “Ah, diversion! You have rescued me all the way around this morning, my friend, and I am grateful.” He smiled and came around the desk to shake Sam’s hand.

“Speaking of diversions, how is the ravishing Miss Braithwaite?”

“The same.” He gave him a rueful look. “I’m certain that she’d like to make wedding plans, but I can think of nothing I’d like less. I suppose I continue to see her out of convenience.”

“Or until someone else comes along to lure you away?”

Jack was surprised at the immediate intensity with which Katie MacKenzie’s image appeared in his brain. His gaze was far away as he replied, “Hmm... perhaps. But I don’t envision that happening here in San Francisco.”

“I’ve been thinking about journeying to the foothills myself,” Sam said casually. “Steve Gillis, who shares my lodgings, has a brother, Jim, who is pocket mining in a place called Jackass Gulch. Whenever we have a bad day, Steve and I dream of going off to join Jim, and one day we very well might!”

“I know Jackass Gulch. It’s quite a sylvan spot now; nearly deserted.”

Clemens opened the door and smiled. “Who knows? We may both see that paradise ere long. When challenge and adventure beckon, a wise man heeds their call!”

Chapter 12

October 12, 1864
Columbia

Warm, soapy water swished against the sides of the tin bathtub as Katie MacKenzie stepped out onto the kitchen rug. Midnight had passed, and moonbeams streamed through the windows, silvering her wet, classically molded body.

As Katie dried herself slowly in the haze of shadow and starlight, she felt both refreshed and weary. It had been a busy autumn thus far... almost busy enough to prevent her from dwelling on her father’s death. Yet she still felt that familiar ache in her heart and a yearning to weep when she thought of him, and any discussion of the Griffin sent waves of impotent anger rushing over her. For the first time in her life, she hungered for revenge. Katie’s friends, and the regular customers at the saloon, tactfully refrained from mentioning the highwayman.

Beyond her grief and rage, however, were questions about the future. In their own way, those were the most troubling thoughts of all. Katie’s prospects for the years ahead were uncertain at best. She owned a business that generated barely enough income to feed her, Abby, and Lim, whose parents had left for San Francisco in August. Moreover, she felt isolated in Columbia. There was little to challenge her intellectually, especially now that the Gazette could no longer be printed, and an unfamiliar, aching loneliness swept over her at unpredictable moments.

Upon leaving Columbia, Yong and Choy Sung had sold their house and laundry to Aaron Rush, who had now begun to mine the valuable lots. Lim’s parents had agreed to let their son stay in Columbia until Katie’s need for him was less acute; he had moved into the spare bedroom above the saloon, and Abby had taken Brian’s bedroom at Katie’s house.

Abby’s companionship had eased Katie’s loneliness until Gideon’s injury a month ago. Ever since, he had been recuperating at the saloon, where the women could take turns caring for him. Then, saying it would be more convenient, Abby had returned to the saloon herself, setting up a cot in the kitchen so that she could be near him. Watching them grow closer, Katie felt happy, and during the day she enjoyed the sense of family she felt with her friends. Yet, the nights seemed endless....

Garbed now in a diaphanous lawn nightgown, she padded barefoot into the bedroom and picked up her mother’s silver-backed brush. She didn’t bother to light a lamp but sat on the edge of her moonlit bed and ran the brush through the mass of damp ebony curls that cascaded down her back. An unseasonably warm breeze wafted through the open window, caressing her, and Katie was lulled into lying back. She spread her hair out over the snowy pillows, closed her eyes, and let the dreams come.

Lately, it was a rare night that passed without a dream of Jack Adams. Often they were intense enough to awaken her and thus imprint themselves upon her memory. Sometimes he was at the bar, burnished by hazy sunlight, his sage-green eyes gleaming as he reached out to touch her. Every detail of him was letter perfect, from the golden flecks in his eyes to the sprinkling of hair across the backs of his hands. Katie could even smell him. She would yearn to touch his body and drink in his warmth. Sometimes they would kiss, but as she became aroused, her conscious mind would interfere and she would awaken, trembling and frightened.

Tonight, though, Katie felt reckless. With the balmy night air whispering over her clean skin, she welcomed Jack Adams to her dreams.

Jack was aware of a distinct feeling of unreality as he walked down Columbia’s Main Street, deserted and still after midnight. The warm breeze reminded him of the summer night he’d left this town, intending never to return.

For the hundredth time, he pieced together the series of events and choices that had led him back to Columbia. Yes, it was true that he’d missed Kathleen MacKenzie. He could admit it, if only to himself. And he’d grown more restless and felt more stifled with each passing day. The life Jonathan Wyatt led had become unsatisfying; he missed the spicy unexpectedness of being Jack Adams in the foothills... with Katie.

Still, the idea of returning to Columbia had seemed out of the question. He’d fought against the urge for so long that he thought he’d beaten it into submission. His world in San Francisco—his mansion, his newspaper, his uneasy relationship with Genevieve—had been created by no one but himself, and he must accept it. Besides, Columbia was dangerous for him now that the Griffin was wanted for murder. And what about Katie? The burden of guilt he carried for her father’s death nearly overshadowed his tentative feelings for her. She would wish him dead if she knew the truth.

But then one day in early October, he ate lunch with Samuel Clemens and Bret Harte at the Palace Hotel. Casually, Clemens mentioned a letter that Steve Gillis had received from his brother in Jackass Gulch. It detailed the destruction of the Columbia Gazette’s printing press and the attack on Gideon Henderson.

Jack left the next morning with a new platen for the Adams press in the back of his wagon.

After a difficult journey, he’d arrived earlier today in Angel’s Camp, a mining town northwest of Columbia. There, Jack had encountered a prospecting friend and spent the afternoon at the Angel’s Hotel, eating, drinking, and reminiscing.

He’d felt a strange urge to postpone his confrontation with Columbia and Kathleen MacKenzie. It had all seemed simple enough to him when he left San Francisco. Gideon was in need of a working press, Aaron Rush needed to learn that he couldn’t play God, and Jack could to fill those needs. The fact that he’d be seeing Katie again seemed incidental.

Yet once he was fed, bathed, and clad in clean buckskins and a white shirt, driving in the autumn twilight from Angel’s Camp up the hills toward the Stanislaus River, Jack found that his mind was crowded with memories of Katie. He could see her again, wearing the white percale dress with the violet dots and sash, glossy black curls spilling around her shoulders. He smiled, remembering her animated outrage when he’d proposed that she pretend to be his wife for the benefit of Cecelia Chelstrom. But then, in front of the Wells Fargo office, she had gazed up at him expectantly. Jack would never forget the sight of Katie’s mouth, exuding a heady mixture of innocence and hunger.

When he had finally hauled his wagon up Parrot’s Ferry Road, just a few miles from Columbia, it was late. Behind and below, the Stanislaus River shimmered with the reflection of countless stars. Jack tried to think of Gideon, of the story he would tell to explain the platen.

But, Kathleen simply would not be excluded from his thoughts. His memory of her was as fresh as if he had seen her that morning. He wasn’t sure what it meant, and he didn’t want to know. His other self had whispered that he’d been a fool to come back. As the wagon trundled over the brow of the hill that sloped gently into Columbia, he flicked the reins and surged forward in reckless surrender to whatever lay ahead.

Now, strolling down the eerily quiet Main Street, Jack realized that he he had tarried too long in Angel’s Camp. At this hour, the MacKenzie Saloon would be locked up, along with the miners’ boardinghouses and the hotels. He still had his key for the MacKenzie house, and he felt it now in the pocket of his buckskins. Brian MacKenzie might be dead, but Jack had slept many nights in that parlor.

Walking up Jackson Street, he convinced himself that Katie couldn’t be living in that house alone. Surely Abby was staying there, too, and she was a chaperone of sorts. He would tell them that he only wanted to sleep and would leave at first light before anyone even knew he had been there.

Jack let himself in through the white picket gate, noting that the vines that had spilled flowers over the porch roof in June were now beginning to change color. Yet the night was so balmy, it still felt like summer. He knew a painful wish to turn back the clock—back to when Brian MacKenzie’s snores had rumbled out of his small bedroom.

The house was dark. Jack’s heart thudded as he knocked on the door. He anticipated Kathleen’s appearance in the shadows, the first sight of her face. How would she react? Would she touch him? His palms moistened suddenly at the thought.

But moments passed and nothing happened. The house was silent, and suddenly he was aware only of a powerful sense of fatigue. He was utterly exhausted, eyes burning, and without a place to sleep. Perhaps Katie was in her bedroom with the door closed and simply hadn’t heard him knock. Or had she moved to the saloon with Abby to avoid this houseful of memories?

Jack was too tired to further consider the possibilities. Sleep first, think later, he told himself. Taking the long, slender key out of his pocket, he paused, then inserted it in the lock and turned it. The door swung open gently, and his first sight of the familiar, darkened parlor heightened the dreamlike atmosphere. It seemed that at any moment he might wake up and find himself in his bedroom in San Francisco.

Of course, the cot Jack had slept on in the parlor was gone, and the tapestry sofa looked smaller than he’d remembered. Pulling off his boots, he padded into the little kitchen. The same bright, embroidered cloth covered the table, and a bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums filled the pitcher at its center. Jack felt an unexpected tightening in his chest.

The door to Brian’s room was closed. Tentatively, he tried the doorknob and discovered it was locked. Resigned now, he went on to Katie’s bedroom and found the door open. He would have to awaken her, apologize for letting himself in, and ask if he could stay the night in Brian’s room. His heart began to pound almost painfully as he stepped into the doorway and saw her lying on top of the sheets. The filmy, lace-edged nightgown she wore molded softly to the curves of her body and had edged up just enough to expose slim pale legs. With her dark curls fanned out over the pillows, Kathleen looked like a sleeping angel.

Jack bent over the bed and gently touched her shoulder. “Kathleen,” he murmured.

Immediately she opened her eyes as if she’d been expecting him. “Jack.” She smiled sleepily. “You’re here.” Standing above her in his moonlit white shirt, he seemed a perfect product of her dreams, more real than ever before. Sleep washed over her, ebbing and flowing like a gentle wave on a beach.

“Do you mind if I sleep in your parlor tonight?”

His voice seemed to come from far away. With an effort, she whispered, “No. Don’t leave me.”

Utterly exhausted, Jack looked at her sleeping form and sighed. The snowy linens on the bed looked infinitely inviting. I’ll just sleep for a few hours, he promised himself, then leave before she wakes up. Easing down on the bed, pulled off his boots and tried to pretend Katie wasn’t there. The sensation of the cool pillow against his cheek was bliss and sleep enveloped him instantly.

From the dream-tinged depths of sleep, Jack became aware that he was hot and uncomfortable in his clothes. He never slept in clothes. Removing them was simple reflex; he didn’t even have to wake up to pull them off, cast them onto the floor, and lie back again. Then, savoring the warm breeze that caressed his bare skin, he let the strong current of sleep pull him under again.

Later the air cooled, and Jack and Katie both sought warmth instinctively, gravitating toward each other as they lay on their sides. At first he was only dimly aware when a warm back touched his chest. But then, as Katie snuggled closer, her derriere molded itself against his hips. Dreaming, he felt his manhood growing warm, brushing his upper thigh as it hardened, twitching slightly with each beat of his heart. A hot, pulsing need began to build within him. Through the gossamer confection of her nightgown, Jack could feel the warmth of her flesh, and involuntarily he tensed the muscles in his loins.

The veils of sleep were lifting one by one, but this had to be a dream. When she snuggled nearer, Jack pressed himself against the delicate niche that bisected her fanned bottom. His eyes opened as reality intruded, but he was powerless now to quell the feelings that held him in their grip.

Katie was dreaming that she and Jack were lying in the meadow overlooking the Stanislaus River. It was growing cold and she liked being held and protected by his hard male body. The contrast between them felt good. The place between her legs was warm and tingling pleasantly, like her breasts. This time she didn’t want to wake up... didn’t want the feelings to go away.

Jack ached with hunger. He touched his mouth to the baby curls at the back of her neck, nuzzling, breathing in the scent of her soft skin and fresh-washed hair. Driven by instinct, Katie pressed her hips back against him and moaned softly.

At last, Jack lifted his right hand and placed it ever so gently on her thigh. He swallowed a moan when he discovered that Katie’s gown had slipped up on that side, so that he was caressing bare, satiny skin. Tentatively he moved his palm to her hip and let his fingers curve into the hollow of her belly. On fire, he held his breath, afraid that she would awaken and stop him, afraid that she would sleep on and condemn him to the madness of his desire. At that moment Katie’s thighs parted slightly, her right leg slipped backward between his, and Jack was utterly lost.

He heard her breathing quicken and recklessly slid his hand over the tissue-thin stuff of her nightgown. His agile fingers played upward until they grazed the ripe curve of one breast. She was so warm, so eager, but he held himself back, lightly tracing circles around her breast with his fingertips. Finally he took the soft nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it gently as it puckered.

Katie was swimming in a sea of sensitized pleasure, half-awake but unwilling to release the dream. Tingling frissons of arousal traveled from her nipples to her loins, and she could feel her breasts swelling, becoming fuller and warmer, in Jack’s deft hands. In the mists between sleep and consciousness, her carefully tended inhibitions were stripped away, for the first time allowing her body to revel in the passions of womanhood. When Jack’s fingers slid slowly, slowly downward over the surface of her nightgown, then pressed with consummate skill against the hidden source of her arousal, Katie moaned and turned in his arms.

“You’re really here,” she whispered.

Her hunger, suppressed for so long, would no longer be denied. This time she wouldn’t flee from her desires. In the darkness her lips sought Jack’s, opening against his mouth, while her arms wound round his neck. After an eternity of ravenous kissing, nibbling, tasting, he reached down to gently slip the nightgown up, up, and finally over her head. Then, drawing back, he studied her in the moonlight. Her face, pale against the ebony spill of her hair, was turned to one side. Her eyes were nearly closed, but her lips were parted, and he recognized the telltale cadence of her breathing. Reality intruded suddenly, pricking his conscience.

“Kathleen—”

She moved her face against his cheek and simply nodded, not wanting him to speak and disrupt the dream. For once, she didn’t want to think, she just wanted him to take her.

Jack trailed his fingertips over her throat, shoulders, the lush curves of her breasts, the hollow of her tummy, her hips, and her lithe legs... Carefully, he avoided the place he knew ached to be touched. Katie stretched and writhed beneath his hands, then moaned as Jack began to retrace her body with his lips. He found pleasure points that had gone undiscovered until tonight: the back of her neck, her spine, the small of her back, the tender insides of her elbows, her wrists, her palms. With lips like butterfly wings, he kissed along her sides, then gently sought the delicate rosebud nipples of her breasts. She sank her fingers into his hair as he sucked slowly on first one and then the other, excited beyond belief by her gasps of pleasure. He touched her intimately, expertly, and she shuddered and clung to him. When he knew that she was ready, Jack moved to cover her body with his, eyes agleam in the pale light of the waning moon. He could wait no longer.

Katie opened her thighs to him, driven by primitive longings, and felt the firm heat of his erection pressing against her own aching need. She moved against him, hungry for something she didn’t understand. Jack’s face was above hers and their eyes met. He braced himself on either side of her and she reached out to touch his shoulders and the hard planes of his chest, loving the feeling of his lean-muscled male body against her soft form. She nuzzled his neck. He smelled of soap and, intoxicatingly, of Jack. When she murmured his name aloud, he smiled down at her.

They kissed then, commingling wonder and passion between their lips. His state of arousal was beyond any he could remember and Katie was invitingly moist against him. Carefully, he shifted slightly and entered her. Encountering a thin barrier, he withdrew a little and began again. He pushed forward gently, paused, then pushed again, savoring the pulsing rush that came with each movement. As hot as he was, Katie was even hotter inside. Jack took her virginity as tenderly as he could, feeling her constrict even more tightly around him at the first shock of penetration. After this initial reaction, however, she relaxed and arched her hips to meet his. He was careful at first, but gradually Katie’s own rhythm increased, and together they began to soar.

Katie was astonished by her own passion. The sensation of Jack’s thrusts deep within her, the sight of his wild, masculine silhouette above her in the moonlight, sent fire coursing through her blood. Instincts she hadn’t known she possessed were freed by the merging of their bodies. Jack cupped her buttocks in his hands, and Katie wrapped her legs around his waist and clung to his wide back as they rode higher and higher together, their bodies agleam with perspiration.

This is beautiful, she thought, tears stinging her eyes. At last Jack arched his neck, froze for an instant, then let out a long, low groan.

They lay together, panting softly, their faces side by side. Katie felt him pulse slightly inside her and tightened her own muscles in response, embracing him. Warm currents of absolute contentment washed over her. Softly she ran her fingers down the tapered sides of his back.

“Mmm,” he murmured.

She smiled against the side of his face. After a while, he withdrew and turned to look at her, bracing himself on an elbow.

“Ah, Kathleen... what a lover you are,” he whispered. He lifted her hand and gently kissed each delicate finger.

Giddy with pleasure and a sudden wave of fatigue, Katie nearly giggled. “Thank you,” she replied, smiling radiantly, then closed her eyes.

Jack smoothed the silky black curls from her brow and drank in the sight of her face in repose. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks, and her lips were full and tender looking. He felt his heart clench and was almost afraid to wonder why.

Oh God, he thought, what have we done?

Chapter 13

October 12, 1864

The sun was warm on Katie’s face and the insides of her eyelids were on fire. Still, it was difficult to wake up. She was dreaming that she had come into the house and found her parents eating breakfast in the kitchen. Her mother, looking up to smile lovingly, was unchanged. She wore the cameo brooch at her neck, and her rich black hair was pinned up into a chignon. Brian invited Katie to join them, and she obeyed, not wanting to question their return to her life.

Then a mockingbird called from the peach tree outside the bedroom window and reluctantly Katie opened her eyes. Reality returned in a flood of morning sunshine. What time was it? How could she have slept so late? When she turned to get out of bed, she became aware of the tenderness between her legs and realized that she was naked. Her eyes widened in horror.

The dream came back in a spine-chilling rush. Jack Adams had been in her bed; he’d made love to her. Blushing as she remembered each intimate caress, Katie threw back the sheet and saw the spots of blood. It had been real! He’d not been a dream at all, but flesh and blood, and their lovemaking had been more sensuously explicit than anything she’d ever imagined. And worst of all, she had been an enthusiastic participant.

Panicked, Katie pulled on the discarded nightgown and rose to pace back and forth across the bedroom. What had happened to him? Where was he now? How dare he come into her house, into her bed? She couldn’t believe what her mind insisted was true. How could it have happened? It was impossible!

Heart pounding, Katie washed and dressed in her plainest faded pink gown. She buttoned it up to her throat and wore no petticoat or adornments of any kind. Sitting at her dressing table, she stared at her flushed face. Was it her imagination, or did her lips look a little swollen? Oh, God! What had come over her? Was she mad? Possessed? Katie brushed her hair back and braided it so tightly that it hurt, then got up and hurried out of the house.

On Main Street, she suffered through a conversation with Victoria Barnstaple about the unseasonably warm autumn, distractedly returned greetings from various townsfolk, then tried to calm herself as she entered her saloon. Her heart was thudding wildly, but all seemed well. A couple of miners were having morning beers at the bar, while a few of the tables were ringed with men eating breakfast. Lim waved to her from behind the bar, but he seemed preoccupied. Katie began to breathe easier as she greeted her customers and made her way toward the kitchen.

“‘Bout time you got a new cook, Miss MacKenzie!” a grizzled mountain man exclaimed from his table near the end of the bar. “These’re the dandiest flapjacks I ever tasted! Lighter’n my sainted mama’s!”

“Oh.” Katie pasted on a smile. “Thank you.”

Puzzled, she backed toward the door of the kitchen, which was a small, makeshift affair off the rear of the saloon. The mouthwatering aromas of sizzling eggs and sausage, coffee, pancakes, and fresh-baked apple muffins wafted out to her as she approached. She could hear muffled voices—Abby’s, and then, for an instant, a man’s, followed by loud laughter from Gideon.

“Gideon, are you certain you should be out of bed?” Katie demanded as she entered.

His reply was lost in the fog of the next few moments. Katie froze at the sight of Jack Adams standing over the cast-iron, wood-burning stove, using a spatula to turn flapjacks with practiced ease. He wore a towel knotted snugly around the hips of his faded dungarees, and the sleeves of his blue shirt were turned up to reveal the strong tanned forearms that she remembered all too well. Jack’s hair was shorter than it had been that summer, freshly washed and brushed back from his irresistibly attractive face. His grin flashed in the sunlight, and a day or two’s worth of stubble glinted on his cheeks.

“Surprised to see me, Miss MacKenzie?” he inquired huskily, the arch of his eyebrow betraying his amusement.

“In my kitchen?” Katie heard herself reply. “Of course I’m surprised. What are you doing here?”

“Cooking breakfast.” He turned back to his work.

Abby exchanged looks with Gideon, who sat on a chair near the back stairway. Abby’s big eyes widened further as she took in the angry set of Katie’s jaw. Rushing forward, she hastened to explain, “I hope I didn’t make a mistake, asking Jack to cook! It’s just that you didn’t come in, and I didn’t want to disturb you, and I was having a hard time keeping up, so when he offered—”

“Never mind, Abby. It’s all right.” She indicated the three laden breakfast plates on the oak sideboard next to the stove. “Shouldn’t you serve those?”

Her friend scooped them up and made a quick exit, grateful for the opportunity to escape. Katie approached the worn pine work-table that ran down the center of the cozy room and set about turning muffins out of their tins. She tried to pretend that Jack was not standing just a few feet away, even though every breath she took was an effort.

Suddenly Gideon exclaimed, “Katie, did you hear the good news?”

She glanced up from refilling the muffin tins, her eyes flashing. “No, but I’d be grateful to hear some.”

“Jack’s brought us a platen! That’s the reason he came back. We can repair the press and resume production of the Gazette!”

Jack ladled pancake batter onto the griddle, not looking up as he said casually, “I heard about Gideon’s misfortune in San Francisco. I happened to have access to a platen, so I brought it along.”

“How noble of you.”

He pretended not to notice her tone. “That’s very flattering, but I cannot allow such kind words to be spoken without a disclaimer on my part.” Bubbles broke on the surface of the flapjacks, and he flipped them neatly. “My motives were a bit more complex than a simple desire to serve justice and restore Columbia’s freedom of the press. Certainly I wanted to help Gideon, but I also wanted to thwart Aaron Rush. He needs to be taught a lesson.”

“And you’re just the man to do it. I declare, Mr. Adams, you could teach moral decency lessons in the schoolroom!”

This time Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Why, Miss MacKenzie, I had no idea you had such a high opinion of my character!”

Abby reappeared then, carrying a stack of dirty plates. “Everyone’s been served, so I think we can relax for a moment. It’s late enough now that there may not even be any more breakfast customers. I’ll go around with the coffeepot, then start washing dishes.”

Katie reached for a mug and hastily filled it with coffee before Abby took the pot away. She leaned against the wall, drinking and watching Jack finish the last of the flapjacks. When they were done, he picked up the tins of muffin batter and looked over his shoulder at Katie.

“Do you want me to put these in the oven?”

“Yes. They’re good for lunch, too.” Their eyes met for an instant, and she felt the heat in her cheeks.

Jack wiped off the griddle, washed his hands, then untied the towel around his hips. “If you don’t mind, I could use some breakfast myself.”

Katie took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Could you spare me a few minutes of your time first?”

“As always, I am at your disposal.”

Her blush deepened. “I would like to speak to you in private. Shall we go back to the storeroom?”

Gideon smiled and waved at them, then returned to gazing out the window. “Go right ahead. I’m just enjoying the view!”

Katie led the way through the saloon, back into the shadowed storeroom. She waited for Jack to pass inside, then closed the door behind them. Crossing the floor, she stopped amid the crates. Faint, dusty rays of sunlight streamed through the single window as she turned to confront him. Jack leaned against the door frame, arms folded, watching her and waiting with keen interest and admiration.

“You are more odious than I ever dreamed!” Katie said, her voice dangerously quiet. “How dare you take over my saloon on this of all mornings? And how dare you pretend that you...” She faltered, then took a deep breath and continued, “That you didn’t do what you did?!”

Jack suppressed a smile. “Before I answer those charges, it might be helpful to know exactly what you’re referring to.”

“I am referring to your violation of my body last night.” Her heart was pounding madly as she spoke the words. To keep him from seeing how her hands shook, she balled them into fists.

“That’s an interesting turn of phrase,” he remarked, looking calmly into her eyes. “Are you suggesting that I forced you?”

Katie’s voice rose. “I will not allow you to stand there, the picture of self-possession, and infer that it was I who initiated our—that—what happened!”

“I said no such thing. For God’s sake, Kathleen, what we committed was not a crime. It’s not necessary to apportion blame! We are adults who have been attracted to each other for some time, and I happen to believe that giving in to our feelings was not a sign of weakness.”

“I did not ask you here to discuss my physical desires, Mr. Adams! They are no concern of yours! You obviously broke into my house and seduced me. I was not even aware of what I was doing. I was dreaming!”

He walked toward her. “Kathleen...”

“Don’t come any closer!” Her blue eyes shot sparks at him.

Jack stopped, then said gently, “You looked at me. You called me by my name.”

“I thought I was dreaming!”

“Of me?” he queried softly.

“I don’t remember! Why, I barely remember any of it!” Katie’s cheeks flamed in betrayal. “It wasn’t until I saw the—the evidence, in the daylight, that I realized it had really happened. Still, I tried to think of another explanation. I believed that you were still in San Francisco. Of course, when I came into the saloon this morning and discovered you shamelessly taking over—”

“Unjust!” Jack protested. “I was only trying to help.”

“You are an overbearing cad!” Katie cried. “You forced yourself into my bed, and then you had the nerve to impose yourself upon my business! That is the simple truth, and I will not allow you to attempt to justify your behavior!”

He gazed off into the distance for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. “All right. I’m going to agree that what happened last night between us may have been a result of poor judgment on my part—but our lovemaking was completely mutual. You were as eager as I!” Jack paused to rake a hand through his hair. “Don’t you see that what we shared, and what you felt, was not bad. On the contrary—it was natural and beautiful.”

“You took advantage of me.”

“That wasn’t the way it happened. I arrived in town late; everything was closed up. I was exhausted, and I thought that I might sleep in your parlor. You didn’t answer when I knocked. I wasn’t even certain you were staying there, so I used my key.”

“You did break in!” she cried triumphantly.

“I wasn’t sneaking around. I went straight to your room to inform you of my presence and give you a chance to throw me out. I asked if I might sleep on the sofa, and you insisted that I stay there with you! I assumed that you... that you were lonely, and all I wanted at that moment was a place to close my eyes. Truly, I only meant to lie down next to you for a few hours. I don’t even remember taking off my clothes. When you began to snuggle against me, I was only half-conscious—”

“Oh, I see! It was my doing! Next you’ll say that I seduced you, and you were powerless to resist my advances!”

“Nothing of the kind.” He strove to keep his voice even. “But I do think that we both were more inclined to succumb to passion because we were rather drugged with sleep.”

“I don’t remember succumbing to anything,” she insisted stubbornly. “All I know is that you forced yourself upon me.”

“I think you remember a great deal more than you are willing to admit, Kathleen.”

The tenderness in his voice was like a caress, and Katie felt a hot chill run down her spine. That was the problem: she did remember, and it was sheer torture. “Mr. Adams, I feel that it would be pointless for us to continue this conversation. When are you leaving Columbia?”

She was a little fireball with a veneer of ice. Jack’s eyes strayed helplessly to Katie’s full, rosy mouth, and he almost sighed aloud. “I’m not quite certain.”

“I thought you came to deliver the platen. Well, you’ve accomplished that noble goal, so I see no reason for you to linger here.”

He smiled dryly. “Be that as it may, I cannot make my plans on the basis of your opinions. I have other things to see to here in Columbia, and I have no way of knowing how long that will take.”

Her curiosity was keen, but she affected an attitude of nonchalance. “My goodness, how very mysterious you are. Well, I suppose that I shall just have to tolerate your presence in town, but I see no reason why I should have to tolerate your company.”

Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Have I been banished from your circle of friends?”

“I think it would be stretching the point to say that we were ever friends. And in light of your behavior last night, I see no reason for any further contact between us.” Katie tilted her nose upward, thinking it an inspired touch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...”

He suppressed a chuckle as she swept past him toward the door. As she turned the knob, he said, “Kathleen, you’re a woman. You cannot simply force your desires back into a box and lock it in the attic.”

“Once again, sir, you underestimate me!” Katie shot back, then made her exit.

Jack nearly succumbed to an impulse to applaud.

Chapter 14

October 14 - 15, 1864

“Missy want bamboo shoots? Fresh!” Tsing Tsing Yee grinned broadly at Katie across the glass counter of the Chinese store. With his long white queue, silk tunic, and round steel spectacles, Yee looked ancient and fragile. The old man was not even as tall as Katie.

“No, thank you, Mr. Yee. We’re cooking Hangtown fry for lunch today. All I need are oysters and eggs.”

“Hangtown fr-ly?” He repeated the words warily.

“Haven’t you heard of it?” Katie exclaimed, her eyes dancing. “My father told me that he was in Placerville back when it was called Hangtown. A miner who had just made a strike came into the Cary House when Papa was having lunch, and demanded the most expensive dish in the house. He was told that the most expensiveingredients were oysters and eggs, which cost a dollar apiece. Well, the cook scrambled the eggs with some onions, then folded in oysters, and the dish was christened ‘Hangtown fry’!”

“But—” Tsing Tsing Yee sounded perplexed. “But it not new! It egg foo yung! Chinese!”

Katie succumbed to laughter, and Lim, who stood nearby, joined in. “Of course it is!” he assured the old man. “The cook must have been Chinese, too. But white people don’t want to know that, or hear that one of us is cooking their food, or they would have to worry about rat’s tails or cat’s paws in their food. And they can’t admit to liking Chinese food, either. They give our dishes new names and pretend they made them for the first time!”

Yee scratched his head as Lim wandered away to study the shelves of spices. “I don’t understand.”

“To tell you the truth, Mr. Yee, neither do I,” Katie admitted.

He returned to more familiar ground. “You want mushrooms?” he said, holding up a box of dark, dried fungi. “Two kinds. Imported! And fresh, too!” The small, wizened old man turned, pointing to a bin filled with grayish mushrooms. Katie noticed that Yee’s queue was so thin now that it made only a tiny line down his back, as if it had been drawn there.

She returned his hopeful smile. “Yes, some mushrooms would be nice. I’ll take a handful or two of the fresh ones.”

As he assembled her purchases, Katie browsed around the dim, cool store. Lim was staring at the glass containers of exotic spices that lined one wall. Indeed, everything seemed exotic in this place, even the smells—incense, coriander, pungent bottled sauces, Chinese vegetables, dried fish, peppers, jasmine tea. Tsing Tsing Yee and his wife also sold Chinese silk, fireworks, and, it was rumored among the Caucasian population, opium. Katie had grown up eating Chinese food at Lim Sung’s house, and she loved it. It seemed a shame to her that rampant fear and mistrust of the Chinese had prevented her people from discovering Chinese cooking. Now that so many “celestials” had been driven from Columbia, Tsing Tsing Yee’s business was beginning to founder.

“Katie, have you seen Mr. Yee’s egg?” Lim called softly from the back of the store.

“Not since I was a little girl,” she replied, going to join him. “He showed it to Mama and me.”

Yee was taking a beautifully decorated lacquer box from a cupboard. Smiling serenely, he opened it and withdrew a glass case. In it was an exquisite, intricately carved jade egg.

“From Tang dynasty,” Yee explained in hushed tones. “Very, very valuable. Egg has always been in my family.”

Katie stared, awestruck. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

“I’ll bet it’s worth more than all the gold that’s ever been weighed at Wells Fargo,” Lim declared.

Another voice remarked, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right.”

The three of them looked up, startled, and saw Aaron Rush drawing near. Although he was a heavyset man, his tread was light and nearly soundless. Smiles wreathed his plump, pink face, and the top of his bald head glistened with beads of perspiration. As usual, Rush wore a brown suit, waistcoat, and a pearl stickpin in his black silk tie. From his breast pocket he withdrew a wilted brown silk handkerchief and applied it vigorously to his brow. “That’s quite a treasure you have there, Mr. Yee. Mind if I have a closer look?”

Hesitantly, Yee opened the fingers that he had folded protectively over the glass case at the sound of Aaron Rush’s voice. “I put it back now,” he said as soon as the mine owner had glimpsed the egg. Moments later the case and its black box were locked safely in the cupboard.

“I don’t suppose you’re interested in selling that egg,” Rush said genially.

“No!” Tsing Tsing Yee cried instantly, his face drawing up in an expression of fear.

“Just asking, friend, just asking!” Rush laughed and clapped a beefy hand on the old man’s shoulder. “No need to panic! Now then, might I speak to you privately? It’s rather important.”

Tsing asked his wife to come out and finish Katie’s transaction. Katie stood at the counter and took her time counting the money, one ear strained to catch bits of the conversation between the elderly Chinese and Aaron Rush. They were in the back room, but the door was ajar just enough to permit their voices to filter out when the pitch rose high enough.

Katie said nothing, but she studied Ah Yee. She was a beautiful old woman, as tiny as her husband, with skin like crinkled parchment. From time to time, Ah glanced toward the back of the store, clearly perturbed. Finally Lim spoke.

“Mrs. Yee, is something wrong?”

“Big man want to buy store. Keeps saying he pay more and more. He smile, but not in his eyes,” she said sadly.

Katie covered the old woman’s wrinkled hand with her own. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Yee. Everything will be all right.”

“I hope so. Tsing not strong anymore.” She looked down and sighed.

Outside, Katie strode angrily down Main Street, her basket swinging in the sunlight. “Why doesn’t that man leave us alone? I hoped so much that this evil would end when Van Hosten was killed. I hoped that some good might come of Papa’s death....”

“Well, I think that the truth about Aaron Rush has been slow to come to light,” Lim said thoughtfully. “We hoped for the best, and he’s deceiving.”

“I know!” Katie cried. “We hardly ever saw him when Van Hosten was alive, and when he did appear in town, he was always so jovial. I doubted that he even knew what his partner was up too. I really believed that everything would be different with Rush in charge.”

“Many people are still misled by him. It was his apparent kindness that convinced my parents to sell their land at last.”

Katie looked grim. “Well, now that we have a platen for the printing press...”

“Thanks to Jack Adams,” Lim put in.

“We can start putting out the Gazette again. I intend to write an editorial that will expose, once and for all, what Aaron Rush and his cronies are all about!”

“Katie, I think you ought to be a bit more cautious.” Lim stopped, noticing that her attention had been diverted to the bench in front of the City Hotel. On it sat Jack Adams and a stunningly beautiful young lady. She wore a stylish black-and-white-striped silk day gown with a braided hem and let her matching parasol drop back to reveal wavy chestnut hair drawn into a flattering chignon. Her face was lit by a radiant, adoring smile that Katie recognized all too well.

“Who’s that with Jack?” she whispered.

“Maggie Barnstaple. She’s Mrs. Barnstaple’s niece. Abby said that she was sent here from New York after some sort of scandal.”

“Hmm. She looks the type.” Katie’s cheeks were flushed. “Miss Barnstaple had better take heed, or she’ll find herself in the midst of a worse scandal, courtesy of Mr. Adams.”

“What’s wrong, Katie? You sound jealous.”

She hurried on ahead of him. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Lim!”

A cloud of dust rose as Katie attempted to straighten the papers littering Gideon’s desk at the Gazette. As usual, cleaning the office was a task that seemed endless. Sneezing repeatedly, her eyes full of tears, she fumbled for a handkerchief. When one appeared in her hand, she gave it no thought until she had wiped her eyes and blown her nose. Then she looked up, expecting to find Lim at her side.

“Please don’t yell at me, Kathleen. You’re in my debt now, remember!” Jack Adams’s voice was laced with amusement.

For a frightening moment, she couldn’t get her breath, overwhelmed by the sight of him. Jack just seemed to get better looking each time they met, which maddened Katie no end. Today she was keenly aware of his sage-green eyes with their flecks of gold. Under slightly hooded lids, they were knowing. Katie felt as if they absorbed all her secrets at a glance. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. Thinking meanwhile that she must look frightful, her hair coming down, her face smudged, the tip of her nose red from sneezing.

The corners of Jack’s sensual mouth curved slowly upward. “I heard that you were going to start up the Gazette again, and I felt it was my responsibility to make certain that the new platen was in working order. After all, it hasn’t been tested on this press.”

“More likely you stopped by to remind me of your generosity and to corner me into thanking you.” For an instant she was abashed at her rudeness, knowing full well that as a representative of the Gazette, she did owe him a vote of thanks. But then pride overcame her better instincts, and she couldn’t resist adding, “In any case, I’m surprised that you were able to find the time in your busy schedule.”

Jack had been walking toward the printing press, but Katie’s words stopped him dead. “What an interesting thing to say!” He turned to stare at her, wide-eyed. “Knowledge derived from my extensive dealings with women over the years leads me to suspect that there might have been a bit of jealousy behind your words. But of course, that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

She damned the traitorous blood that rushed to her cheeks. “Absolutely!”

“Yes, because you despise me, isn’t that right? I am an overbearing cad, if memory serves me, and you desire only to sever all contact between us—forever.” He spread his hands wide in a gesture of anticipation. “Dare I hope that you’ve changed your mind?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, it’s been three days, which in some matters could be defined as forever, don’t you think? Your interest in my ‘busy schedule,’ as you put it—by which I assume you mean the time I’ve spent with the charming Miss Barnstaple”—he gave her a devilish grin—“prompts me to hope that you might have had a change of heart.”

Katie was furious. How dare he laugh at her? “Mr. Adams,” she said, mustering her iciest tone of voice, “let me assure you that I have not experienced a change of heart where you are concerned. I wish I could completely erase you from my life, past and present.”

One of his eyebrows flicked upward slightly. “Those are cold words, Kathleen.”

“I mean them.” Pride threatened to choke her.

“In that case,” he replied, turning back to the platen, “you won’t need to clutter your mind with thoughts of my social activities. Since there is nothing between us whatsoever, it’s only natural that I should seek female companionship elsewhere.”

“My only concern is for Miss Barnstaple’s welfare,” Katie said, bristling. “You have a way of infecting unsuspecting females with the stench of scandal.”

Jack kept his eyes on the platen as he worked, but his voice was hard. “You’re on the edge, my dear. Watch your step.”

Returning her attention to the papers on Gideon’s desk, Katie found that her hands shook and she could hear the pounding of her heart. Frantically, without giving thought to what she was doing, she arranged everything into piles. When Jack walked back across the office, approaching the desk, Katie didn’t look up. She prayed he would leave without another word.

“Let me know when you’re ready to print,” he said tonelessly. “I want to be certain that it’s working properly.”

“You needn’t bother. Besides, what do you know about printing presses?” She heard the tremor in her voice. “Just because you found a platen for this press, that hardly makes you an expert! I’m sure that I know more about it than you ever—”

His bronzed hand shot out to grip her forearm. “Why don’t you hold your tongue for a change? You haven’t the slightest idea what I do and do not know. I went to a lot of trouble to get that platen up here, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you order me to stay away from it!”

Katie struggled to free herself, but his fingers were like steel on her flesh. “Let go of me, you savage! I’ll have Gideon tell you himself if that’s what it takes to keep you away!”

“Fine. You do that.” Jack’s eyes flashed. “Oh, and one more thing, Miss MacKenzie. Stay clear of Aaron Rush. Write about the church social and your latest recipe for soup, but if you value your life, you won’t write any more about Rush and his mine.”

“Get out!” she cried.

Jack released her then and strode out the door, which banged shut behind him. Katie threw a bronze paperweight at the door, fighting an urge to weep. She hated Jack so much, her heart threatened to break.

“What I need, is proof!” Katie declared, setting a piece of lemon custard pie in front of Gideon.

When he picked up his fork, the pain in his shoulder made him wince. “If only I hadn’t tried to lift those pots the other day....”

“Helping Abby again? Your newfound chivalry will do you in yet!” She was smiling, but there was a note of frustration in her voice. “Oh, Gideon, I wish you were well—well enough to come back to work at the Gazette.”

“Yes, of course, so do I.” This wasn’t entirely true, for he was reveling in the days spent with Abby, though still uncertain what these new feelings meant. “Now, tell me, what’s all this about ‘proof’?”

“I need to find some evidence that Aaron Rush has been threatening and blackmailing people to get their land, just as he and Van Hosten did to get hold of people’s claims in the past. If I’m going to write an editorial exposing him, I must have some facts to back up my allegations—”

“Katie, I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Gideon strove to sound calm, looking around the saloon to make certain no one could overhear them. “Jack was telling me that it would be wise to lie low for the time being and just keep an eye on Rush. He thinks that—”

“Don’t bore me with Mr. Adams’s thoughts on this or any other subject!” she cried. “He delights in interfering in my life, even going so far as to poke his nose into the activities at the Gazette. That’s one of the reasons I miss you so much, Gideon. If you were there, he wouldn’t be able to meddle because you would be able to test the new platen yourself.”

Gideon stared, nonplussed. He still hadn’t decided what to make of the animosity between Katie and Jack, but one thing was clear: although Katie had seemed to be living on the brink of frenzy these past few days, she was more alive than at any time since Brian’s death. Now, watching her get up to pace between the table and the bar, Gideon took a careful breath.

“I know you won’t enjoy hearing this, but I like Jack and I appreciate the interest he’s shown in the Gazette. Do you have any idea how much trouble he went to getting that platen all the way up here? Not to mention the fact that it didn’t cost me a cent—”

“How could he charge you for something you didn’t order?”

Gideon tilted his head in a gesture of mild admonishment. “Now, Katie...”

“Well, it’s true,” she muttered.

“I think you’re being unfair to the man.”

She whirled around, eyes flashing. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that I might have reasons? That perhaps he’s been unfair to me?”

“Obviously, since you haven’t shared the facts behind your quarrel with Jack, I am unaware of anything beyond the unreasonable attitude you have toward him. As for myself, I like him and I trust him. Furthermore, I have asked him to do what he can to help at the Gazette in my absence, and he was kind enough to agree.” Gideon met Katie’s furious gaze, adding, “He agreed in spite of the fact that it must be distinctly unpleasant for him to have to deal with you.”

Her mouth fell open in shock. “Unpleasant for him? How can you say such a thing? Gideon Henderson, I thought you were my friend!”

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I have to condone your behavior. I am also the editor of a newspaper, which I would like to see resume production in my absence. Jack apparently has worked on a paper in the past, and I am grateful for whatever expertise he can contribute.”

Katie’s cheeks were pink with frustration. “But you certainly can’t mean to let him dictate what we’ll print!”

“I have respect for the man’s judgment. If he feels that it would be dangerous to print negative editorials about Aaron Rush at this time, I think it would be wise to take that advice. At least for the time being.”

“Well, I don’t! Have you forgotten that my father is dead, partially as a result of Rush and Van Hosten?” she exclaimed. “That’s the trouble with people in this town—they’ve been too cautious for too long. Whatever happened to freedom of the press?”

“I haven’t forgotten about Brian, or all the others who have opposed Rush and Van Hosten and been harmed as a result... including me! Aaron Rush is a powerful man, Katie, and it may be that other means besides confrontation will have to be employed to bring him down.”

“In the meantime,” she insisted, “the townspeople of Columbia need to be informed of his methods before anyone else is bullied into selling valuable property. Don’t look so worried, Gideon! I won’t print anything without proof.” Turning on her heel, she started toward the saloon door, calling to Lim behind the bar, “I have to go out for a while.”

When she pushed open the door, she nearly collided with a man on his way in. Katie glanced at him and kept on going, calico skirts flying.

Jack Adams paused for a moment to watch her departing figure, then continued on into the saloon. He nodded to Gideon, then inclined his head toward the saloon door. “I don’t think she likes me,” he murmured, his tone dry.

The younger man sighed. “Katie isn’t especially fond of me either right now. Do you have a moment to sit with me, Jack? I thought we ought to talk....”

Chapter 15

October 15, 1864

A soft breeze ruffled the leaves of the cottonwood trees surrounding the recently completed St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. It was a plain but handsome wooden building with turrets and a tall square tower that housed a copper bell that had been shipped around Cape Horn. Hauled the rest of the way to Columbia by mule freighter, the bell had just arrived a few days ago and now pealed joyously in the sunlight, urging the townspeople to come and worship God.

Katie was in need of church this morning. The last three days had been confusing and frustrating, to say the least. It felt good now to be buttoned into a prim white blouse, Mary MacKenzie’s cameo pinned at her neck and her bible clasped tight in her hand. With Abby beside her, she walked from Jackson Street up the grassy slope to the church. Both of them were preoccupied, but Abby suddenly broke the silence.

“Oh, Katie, I nearly forgot! It doesn’t make any sense to me, but Lim asked me to tell you that your friend Tsing Tsing Yee’s egg is missing. Do you know what that means?”

“Missing?” Katie stopped for a moment, stricken. “Does that mean stolen?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Yee told Lim that he went to get it out last night and it was gone. Was it an egg that he wanted to eat?”

“No, no, it was a very valuable piece of Chinese art,” Katie replied distractedly. As they walked the rest of the way to church, she remained preoccupied, held by the conviction that here at last was a chance to prove the full extent of Aaron Rush’s villainy. It seemed obvious to her that Rush had stolen the egg, not merely out of greed, but also as a means of pressuring and frightening Tsing Tsing Yee into selling his store and the land under it. Horrid man! Katie raged silently. If she could find evidence that he had taken it, or better yet, if she could recover the egg, she could use the Gazette to demand that he be punished and forced to leave Columbia.

A familiar voice broke into her reverie. “Good morning, Miss MacKenzie, Mrs. Armitage. Have you met Miss Barnstaple? She’s new to Columbia and longs for some female friends.”

Katie pivoted to behold Jack Adams and Maggie Barnstaple standing under a large blue spruce. Maggie’s chestnut hair was coiled at the base of her neck, and she carried a pagoda-style parasol that matched her stylish green-and-pink silk gown. She and Jack made a handsome couple, Katie was forced to admit. Clad in a well-tailored gray suit, immaculate white shirt, and pearl-gray silk waistcoat with a matching tie, he looked every inch the gentlemen. Jack was also the most compellingly attractive man Katie had ever seen. That realization made her dislike him more than ever.

“How do you do, Miss Barnstaple?” she inquired politely.

“I’m very well, thank you,” Maggie replied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

“Welcome to Columbia,” Abby said with a warm smile. “Did you have a long journey?”

“Very long. I came from New York.”

“Goodness!” Katie feigned surprise. “Why ever would you want to travel all this way?”

Maggie flushed prettily. “I came to visit my aunt, Miss MacKenzie.”

Deciding not to press the issue, Katie said, “No doubt you have found a kindred soul in Mr. Adams, since he is also new to Columbia and in need of friends. Well, we should be going in now. So pleased to have met you, Miss Barnstaple.”

Maggie Barnstaple watched the two young women enter the church, then turned to Jack. “My goodness! I think that Miss MacKenzie is in love with you!”

“Do you indeed?” Jack chuckled softly. “She would be the first person to set you straight.”

“Well, of course—because she doesn’t know it yet.” Maggie ignored his exclamation of laughter. “I recognize all the signs. I was that way when I first met Peter, when I thought that he was unattainable. Of course, even after his divorce, my parents saw to it that I still couldn’t have him.”

“But you mean to wait it out,” Jack put in. “Women are very stubborn when it comes to matters of the heart. Have you never thought that you might just as easily fall in love with someone else?”

“Certainly not! Of course, my parents are hoping that I will do something just that frivolous and fickle.” She closed her parasol with a crisp snap. “It will not happen! Peter and I are meant to be together. The knowledge that he loves me and is waiting for me is all that sustains me through these months of enforced exile in California. When I return to New York in the spring, and my parents see that nothing has changed, they’ll have no choice but to consent to our marriage.” Softening slightly, Maggie smiled and touched Jack’s arm. “Your friendship sustains me, too, Jack. It’s a pleasant experience to be friends with a man, and your company is most enjoyable.”

“It’s pleasant for me as well, knowing that there will be no romantic complications between us. I’ve been snarled in those too often lately.” He smiled down at her. “I like you, Maggie. Now, shall we go in to church?”

Thundershowers threatened that afternoon as Jack sat in the tiny lobby of the City Hotel where he had taken a room. Reclining on a chair of tufted maroon velvet, he perused a three-day-old copy of the Sacramento Union, given to him by the stagecoach driver.

Half of the front page was filled with advertisements for available jobs, jewelry for sale, dentistry, and assorted improbable medicinal potions. The Eureka Bath House and Barber Shop announced “cupping and leeching,” adding that they would dye hair and whiskers any color desired. Jack saw that the Miss M. Atkins’s Young Ladies’ Seminary in Benicia was resuming operations.

He skipped ahead to a long letter from the Union’s “lady correspondent” about life in Paris. She was particularly irate about the lack of respect Frenchmen displayed toward women, citing that Frenchwomen could not walk more than a few steps in public without being insulted. Jack reflected that females seemed to have no such discrimination problems in Sacramento, since the next article was also written by a woman about her visit to the West Point Military Academy. And that completed the Union’s front page, the bulk of which had been written by women. Jack sighed and shook his head. The days of the male-dominated newspaper seemed to be over.

He folded the tattered pages for a moment and thought about Katie and her dogged determination to singlehandedly resume production of the Gazette. She was willful and feisty, but to himself he could admit that he admired her strength. Katie had battled on alone after Brian’s death, not merely coping, but also running the saloon in his stead. Jack liked the fact that she stood up to him and yet he could never forget that she was a woman. She might braid her hair and cover her body with prim gowns, but he was acutely aware of her innocent sensuality. The memory of their lovemaking was fresh and exciting each time he called it up. Katie’s artless passion had infused every kiss, caress, and arch of her hips...

Forcing himself back to reality with an inner shake, Jack thought over his conversation with Gideon Henderson. The younger man had spoken of his concern for Katie’s welfare and asked that Jack keep an eye on her, despite her demands that he stay as far away as possible.

He stood up and stretched lazily. Just because it was Sunday, that didn’t mean that Kathleen MacKenzie was resting....

The white frame boardinghouse that overlooked Washington Street next to the offices of the Columbia Gazette was owned and run by Mrs. Pondhollow, a garrulous old woman who was known to collar weary miners and solicit business on the street. Today, apparently, was no exception. Jack awakened her interest as soon as he rounded the corner from Main Street.

“Good day to you, sonny!” Mrs. Pondhollow tottered forward on two canes to the edge of the wooden sidewalk. “You look like a young man in need of a cozy room and a hot meal. I just happen to have an opening!”

Jack paused before her, shielding his eyes against the sun, and grinned. “Mrs. Pondhollow, we’ve had this conversation twice in the past three days. Don’t you remember? I already have a room at the City Hotel.”

She pursed her lips into a withered smile. “What do you want with that fancy place? I can promise you a clean bed,” she boasted. “No bugs! And my cooking is legendary.”

“Let me strike a bargain with you. I’ll give you some money to reserve one of your lovely rooms, but I’m not certain I’ll be able to stay here. Don’t worry about me if I don’t turn up, all right?”

Mrs. Pondhollow’s eyes glinted. “I suppose that’s fair. Shall I save you some of my delicious venison pot roast and baked squash?”

“No, thank you, I have other plans for dinner.”

“Plans? Hmmph! Probably carousing at one of them dance halls!” She waggled a finger at Jack. “It’s the devil’s work, son!”

He handed Mrs. Pondhollow a five-dollar bill, which was several times more than the price of one of her rooms, and then backed away. “Nice to see you, ma’am. Good afternoon!”

She watched him, eyes narrowed and canes trembling, until he entered the Gazette office. Then, muttering, “It’s the devil’s work!” she backed shakily onto her chair and resumed her vigil for the next unwary victim.

Jack found the Gazette’s front door ajar and entered so silently that Katie didn’t hear him. She was bent over a table covered with trays of type, proofreading the original copy of her latest creation.

Jack paused in the doorway for a few moments to imagine the curves of her hips under the layers of petticoats and skirt. Remembering the feeling of Katie snuggling against him, he sighed involuntarily. She jumped and whirled around.

“You! What areyou doing here?”

He gave her his most disarming smile. “Gideon asked me to keep an eye on you. For some reason, he’s worried that you might print something dangerous.”

“Ridiculous!” she exploded. “I will not be treated like a child simply because I am female. I don’t need any assistance from you to put out the Gazette—or from Gideon Henderson, for that matter.”

“Gideon might see things a bit differently....”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I think he might argue that he has every right to interfere since he owns the Gazette.” Jack spoke with wry irony, then softened his tone. “Don’t you see, though, the issue isn’t power. Gideon is less concerned with retaining control over the contents of the newspaper than with keeping you safe, Kathleen. We’re both worried that your headstrong tendencies will get you into trouble, particularly when it comes to dealing with Aaron Rush and his cronies.”

“It seems to me that men do not concern themselves with their male friends’ ‘headstrong tendencies’ in this matter. You do not rush around trying to protect each other from doing something risky. It just so happens that I am quick-witted, and I am also smart enough to proceed with caution. I need neither a nursemaid nor a guard.” Katie lifted her chin. “And I particularly don’t need you!”

He tried another tack, replying gently, “You know, when your father was alive, he knew how to counsel you in ways that kept you out of danger. I think he’d want someone to look out for you now. I was very fond of Brian, and I—”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” she cried. “Don’t you dare tell me that you are behaving as my father would have wished! Would he have condoned what you did to me the other night?”

Her words were like a slap in the face, and Jack winced slightly. “What happened between us was not planned on my part....”

“Nor on mine! Now, leave me alone.” She turned back to the typeset article and tried to concentrate, but all her senses were alive and tingling. When Jack walked up behind her, Katie caught a whiff of his scent, a mixture of shaving soap, fresh air, and something indefinably male. A sweet, maddening longing swept over her.

Jack looked over Katie’s shoulder and read: PRICELESS YEE EGG STOLEN! The facts were laid out in the story that followed, but the text was also interlaced subtly with hints and speculation. The final paragraph read: “Who could have committed this heartless crime, and why? Privately, some townsfolk have suggested that certain men in power might have reason to terrorize Tsing Tsing Yee. The longtime storeowner has refused to sell his property at any price, and some suspect that the valuable Tang dynasty egg, estimated to be nearly 1,200 years old, may have been stolen in part to frighten its owner. Will a worse crime be committed if Yee does not succumb to this latest pressure?”

As Jack read, he reached forward to brace himself lightly on the edge of the table. Katie glanced beneath her lashes at his strong, sun-bronzed hand, staring at the fingertips that had caressed her so intimately a few nights before. For an instant, she yearned to touch the hairs that glinted on the back of his hand.

“You can’t print this,” Jack said suddenly, his voice hard. The spell was broken.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You were smart, Miss MacKenzie, setting up this story on a Sunday afternoon, when you thought no one would bother you. But fortunately I can keep up with your agile mind. There is absolutely no possibility of this article seeing the light of day.”

Katie flushed slightly. Jack knew her better than she’d realized, for it was true that she had assumed he’d be otherwise occupied with Maggie Barnstaple after church and therefore wouldn’t interfere with her work at the Gazette. “Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me?”

He leaned forward and spoke softly in her ear. “There probably are other things I do better. I’d be glad to show you—again—after you remove this type.”

“You are a scoundrel!” She whirled around to confront him and found his lips a mere breath away from hers. Pulling back as if she’d been burned, Katie vowed, “I will not allow you to bully me any more than I will stand by silently while Aaron Rush bullies Tsing Tsing Yee! Something has to be done, and—”

“You haven’t any proof. You can’t print veiled accusations like this,” Jack said flatly.

The overpowering nearness of him was making her dizzy. “I’m going to get proof!” she vowed, turning her back on him.

Leaning forward so that Katie’s body was imprisoned against his, Jack reached forward with his free hand and began to pull out the type letter by letter. “No, you’re not. You are going to forget about this and concentrate instead on living a long and healthy life.”

Katie thrashed about, grabbing at his hand, until Jack caught her wrists and held them in a grip of steel. Fury boiled up inside her, and she began to yell. “You have no right! Let go of me!”

“You have the damnedest propensity for making seemingly simple situations incredibly complicated! For God’s sake, where did you get the idea that you were responsible for upholding law and order in Columbia?” With an effort, he emptied the last row of type and scattered the pieces across the table.

“Someone has to show some concern for justice in this town! No one else seems to give a fig about it... except, of course, for our erstwhile champion, the Griffin!” She laughed with false gaiety. “And what a hero he turned out to be! In the end, he proved himself a coward like all the rest. After he killed my father, he just slunk away.” With one last flurry of resistance, Katie broke free and spun around to face Jack. Almost instantly he had her wrists pinned against her sides. Their bodies were pressed full length, hearts thudding in unison through the layers of clothing that separated them.

“You can’t stop me from setting the type again,” Katie challenged through clenched teeth.

Jack stared down into her fiery eyes with a mixture of exasperation and admiration. She made him frustrated, but never bored. In Katie’s presence Jack felt keenly, unmistakably alive. How ravishing she looked, her cheekbones smudged with rosy color, her exquisite little nose flaring slightly, her full lips parted, her neck arched. Her breasts were like brands against his chest. Instinctively he bent his head, pausing just above her mouth so that their breath mingled.

Katie was so hungry for his kiss that she could barely speak. “Don’t you dare kiss me,” she gasped.

Jack’s eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.” He drew back. “There, you see? I’m not the brute you accuse me of being. I would never kiss a woman against her will.”

Dangerously close to tears, Katie exclaimed, “Just go away and leave me alone!”

“Ah, well, as you might have guessed, I am unable to grant that request. I can’t leave you here to typeset that story again.” He sighed with mock regret.

“You can’t stay here forever!” she cried, enraged.

“I have no intention of doing so.” Jack’s voice was infuriatingly calm. “As you yourself pointed out, I have better things to do. However, I do have this little problem to take care of first. The obvious solution, as I see it, is to remove you from this office.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t want to leave here. I have work to do!”

“I’m afraid it’s for your own good, Miss MacKenzie. You need to rest. If it will make you feel any better, I’ll write a new story about Yee’s missing egg. Just the facts. Now then, did you bring a reticule?...” The picture of gentlemanly concern, he glanced around the office.

Katie gripped the edge of the table. “I won’t leave.”

Picking up her reticule, Jack walked toward her. He looked exhilarated by this challenge. “I’m afraid that you must.”

“You can’t force me!” Katie’s voice rose.

“But, you see, I can,” he replied mildly. And with one easy movement, he put his hands around her waist and slung her over his shoulder.

“Heathen!”

Clasping an arm around her knees to hold her securely, Jack strode out the door. He took the keys from her reticule, locked the door, then slipped the keys into his pocket. Mrs. Pondhollow tottered forward on her porch to watch their progress down Washington Street. Katie was pummeling Jack’s back, to no avail.

“Don’t you bother to claim your room, sonny!” the old woman screeched.

He turned his head, laughing. “Let me guess. You won’t refund the money.”

“Not to your sort!” Mrs. Pondhollow affirmed, patting the five-dollar bill in her pocket. “And don’t come begging around here next time you need a place to stay!”

“You have my word, dear lady!”

Katie continued to struggle, ignoring the alarmed stares of passersby, right up until Jack carried her through the saloon and deposited her in the kitchen. Abby was peeling potatoes at the big worktable, chatting with Gideon, who sat on a chair next to the window. Although the MacKenzie Saloon did not serve liquor on Sundays, patrons were always welcome for dinner.

“Gideon!” Katie cried. “This brute has demolished a story I spent hours writing and typesetting, and now he’s locked me out of the Gazette office! Not to mention the indignity I have suffered at his hands as he carried me like a sack of flour up Main Street!” Her cheeks were aflame.

Gideon stared at Jack, trying not to smile. “Did you do that?”

“It was the only way, I’m afraid.” Jack smiled at his friend. “Miss MacKenzie’s story about the theft of Yee’s jade egg was filled with thinly veiled suggestions that the crime had been committed by Aaron Rush, accompanied by an evaluation of the suspect’s character and allusions to his past wrongs. It seemed to me that—”

“You needn’t go on,” Gideon broke in. “I can guess the rest.” He looked at Katie. “How many times do I have to tell you—”

“Don’t you scold me! I refuse to be humiliated any further by either of you—you men!” Turning her back on them, she glanced through the doorway to the saloon... and nearly gasped aloud. Aaron Rush was walking in, accompanied by a stranger who was well dressed to the point of gaudiness. The man wore huge side-whiskers, a large beaver hat, ruby shirt studs, and a heavy watch chain, and he carried a ruby-topped walking stick. Katie immediately sensed that the proof she sought might well be at hand, if she could only eavesdrop on their conversation.

But first she had to get rid of Jack Adams and keep him from seeing Rush in the process.

“Katie,” Gideon was saying, “neither of us means to scold you or treat you like a child. But I can’t help being concerned about the fact that you seem determined to place yourself in danger. Not to mention me—and our new platen!”

“I’m only trying to do what’s right,” Katie protested. “It seems that I’m the only person left in Columbia who loves justice!”

Jack cocked an eyebrow at Gideon, who rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what’s come over you,” Gideon said to Katie. “I’ve never seen you with so much... fire. It’s only been since...” His voice trailed off as he met Abby’s eyes, then glanced at Jack.

Katie looked out the window, blushing deeply. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Lifting her chin, she looked at Jack. “Mr. Adams, if you don’t mind, I have work to do. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave—by the back door.”

He gave her a reckless grin. “Whatever makes you happy, ma’am.”

Katie smiled as she watched his departing back. “I feel better already. Abby, could I have a word with you in the storeroom?” They had just begun to walk down the back hallway when she remembered Gideon and turned to shake a playful finger at him. “You must be all worn out from scolding me, but now it’s my turn to treat you like a child, and you owe me some indulgence. You stay right where you are and rest. I don’t want you to move!”

Chapter 16

October 15 - 16, 1864

“Before we go any further, you must give me your word that you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone,” Katie whispered. “Especially Gideon!”

Abby looked worried. “Is it something dangerous?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course not! Would I ask you do anything that would put you at risk? It’s just that I find Gideon’s overprotective attitude rather annoying.”

“I had noticed,” Abby said with a weak smile.

“We are grown women after all, and have a right to some independence. We can think for ourselves, can’t we?”

“Yes...”

“Don’t look so nervous!” Katie gave her a big smile and patted her arm. “I’d never admit it to Jack, but he was probably right about the article I wrote. I need to have some proof that Aaron Rush stole Mr. Yee’s egg, and you can help me get it!”

“I can?” Abby paled.

“You won’t be doing anything wrong. Aaron Rush has come into the saloon for supper, and he’s with a man I don’t recognize. All I want you to do is give them the best service possible, stay near their table almost the entire time they’re eating. Offer them more coffee, extra cream, things like that. And when you aren’t waiting on them, busy yourself nearby so that you can hear what they’re saying. You just might be able to provide the clue I need.”

She tugged at a stray golden curl. “Well, I owe you so much, I’d do anything I could to help you, Katie.”

“I knew I could count on you! Now, you just go on out there and be your own sweet self. Give them a big smile and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take care of the cooking—and Gideon. Then, when Rush and his guest leave, we’ll meet back here. All right?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the spirit!” Katie pointed Abby toward the door and gave her a little nudge. “Good luck!”

For the next hour, Katie cooked, heaped plates with food, and chatted gaily with Gideon. Occasionally she passed by the doorway to the saloon, where she saw Abby hovering over Aaron Rush and his dandified friend. Abby’s performance was impeccable. She was always near them, fluffing her burnished curls with a dimpled hand and displaying her bosom before their appreciative eyes. Finally, as the men applied themselves to generous portions of cranberry pudding, Abby glanced toward the doorway and flashed a triumphant smile above their heads. Katie’s heart raced with excitement.

As soon as Rush and his guest had departed, Katie gave Gideon a bowl of pudding to keep him occupied and hurried toward the storage room. Abby was waiting for her, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“That was fun,” she whispered, nearly giggling. “I felt like one of those spies!”

Katie could scarcely contain herself. “What did they say?”

“Well, it sounded like the rich-looking gentlemen had come all the way from San Francisco. While they were eating dessert, I heard him say, ‘I’m eager to see the item. It sounds like just what I’ve been looking for. One of my clients collects artifacts in that line. When can I see it?’”

Katie clapped her hands with glee. “And what did Rush reply?”

“He dropped his voice real low, and I started talking to another customer at the next table so he wouldn’t suspect anything. But I heard him say, ‘I’m keeping it away from town, Mr. Armbrewster. We’ll have to go by horseback. Can you be ready at six o’clock tomorrow morning?’ And the other fellow nodded. Then Mr. Rush says, ‘Good. Meet me at the livery stable, all right?’ They agreed, then Mr. Rush looked around for me and asked for the bill.” Abby’s revelations had tumbled out, but now she paused. Then, after a moment, she ventured, “Was that any help? Perhaps you can tell Jack and he’ll follow them.”

“Yes, of course, that’s a wonderful idea,” Katie replied distractedly. “But you leave it to me. You don’t have to give this matter another thought, Abby. You’ve done your part splendidly!”

At a quarter to six that next morning, Katie stood in the now vacant icehouse behind the livery stable. During the winter, the ice man took his high-sided freight wagons to the frozen lakes of the Sierras and returned with huge blocks of ice. Properly insulated and stored with several inches of sawdust between them, the past year’s ice had lasted through early September. Now the ice man was away visiting his daughter in Sacramento, and Katie was grateful for this hiding place. She stood stroking the velvety nose of her horse, Willoughby, a gray gelding named for the scoundrel in Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Her eyes strayed restlessly from one side of the livery stable to the other as she waited for Rush and Armbrewster to appear.

Katie was proud of her disguise. In a pair of old dungarees, battered boots, and a warm gray flannel shirt, she could easily pass as a slight, harmless teenage boy—particularly once she’d pinned up her braided hair and covered it with a large brown felt hat that had belonged to her father.

At last she saw them, entering separately, then emerging onto Fulton Street astride the stable’s two best horses. She waited a few minutes before walking Willoughby out onto the street. Rush and Armbrewster were barely in sight, heading east on Yankee Hill Road.

Keeping a safe distance behind them, Katie was grateful for the rain that had fallen during the night. The ground was just damp enough so that the two horses’ hooves left a faint impression. If they turned off Yankee Hill Road, she would know it.

The narrow road passed through land now decimated by years of hydraulic mining. What had once been a fragrant pine grove was now a pitted wasteland punctuated by craggy rocks. The mining town of Yankee Hill was nearly dead. Only a few miners’ cabins, a tiny store, and a ramshackle saloon attested to its brief, lively past.

The journey seemed to take forever. Twice in two hours, the men stopped to stretch their legs and drink from flasks. Katie assumed that Rush was setting such an easy pace in deference to Mr. Armbrewster, who was obviously no horseman. As the morning sun rose higher, she began to feel tired and warm herself. When she glimpsed Rush and Armbrewster turning off the road onto a path that wound upward through shady pines, she sighed in relief.

Soon, however, her mind turned to more important considerations than the unseasonally balmy weather. Now, she realized, it was imperative that she not be discovered. Anyone could have reason to be on Yankee Hill Road, but what excuse would she offer if they caught her in this much more remote area? Katie had never been on this trail before; she had no idea if anyone even lived nearby. Every time Willoughby stepped on a twig, her heart lurched in utter panic until she was certain Rush hadn’t heard. She was afraid to get close enough to see them, afraid that if she could see them, they could see her, too. What if they turned off into the woods again, and the hoofprints were lost in a carpet of pine needles?

For the first time, Katie began to see her situation from Jack and Gideon’s point of view. The word predicament occurred to her. How was she going to get the proof she sought without being discovered? Even more horrifying to contemplate, what would Rush and Armbrewster do if they caught her? Physically, Katie was no match for two big men, and she had no gun. There was no one around to hear her scream, and no one knew where she had gone. If Rush killed her, it would be as difficult to prove his guilt as in all the other crimes he had committed.

At least another hour had passed, Katie figured. She had dropped farther and farther behind, even stopping once to relieve herself a ways from the trail. Before mounting Willoughby again, she glanced up through the pine trees at the azure sky and said a silent prayer. It occurred to her that she could simply turn back, but stubbornness won out. She decided to keep going for another half hour.

A few minutes later, she spied a narrow path that led through the trees toward the south fork of the Stanislaus River. On a hunch, she tied Willoughby to a branch and walked through the trees, keeping to one side of the path. Soon an abandoned old cabin came into view. Her heart began to pound at the sight of the men’s horses tethered outside.

Near the cabin was a clump of lilac bushes, apparently planted by a past owner. Summoning all her courage, Katie scampered across the carpet of pine needles and huddled behind the sheltering bushes. She realized then that her palms were sweaty with fear. She was covered with dust, and her shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to her back. Minutes passed, no one came to flush Katie from her hiding place, and gradually her nerves calmed. She could hear Rush and Armbrewster talking inside the cabin; obviously they were unaware of her presence.

Tentatively, Katie raised her head and peeked through the leaves. There was an open window just a few yards away. Through it she could see Aaron Rush moving about, opening cupboards and drawers, apparently looking for something. Armbrewster stood in the middle of the room, his expression skeptical. Then he turned his back to the window, and Rush walked over to join him.

Were they looking at Tsing Tsing Yee’s egg? Frustrated, Katie strained to hear what they were saying.

Finally Armbrewster’s voice carried to her on the faint breeze: “I’m prepared to pay handsomely—” But the rest was lost.

Bolder now, Katie convinced herself that the two men were far too preoccupied to notice any activity outside the cabin. She simply had to get close enough to see Aaron Rush in possession of the egg, otherwise she would return with nothing but more charges based solely on speculation. On a rush of adrenaline, she crawled from her hiding place and, head down, approached the cabin. She was nearly there when a rabbit jumped a few feet away, causing her to gasp involuntarily.

“What was that?” said Armbrewster.

Katie scrambled to her feet, trying to decide which way to flee, and for a moment her eyes met those of Aaron Rush.

“You!” he shouted. “Boy! What are you doing out there? Wait!”

She turned to run just as he burst out the cabin door, a revolver in his hand. Certain that death was imminent, Katie ran blindly through the woods. She could hear Rush’s heavy footsteps behind her, and his words echoed in her ears.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” A shot rang out each time he uttered the threat.

Every breath Katie took burned. Her legs trembled beneath her as she ran, waiting for the next bullet to hit her in the back, waiting for the fiery pain that would end her life. And as she thought of Jack and all his efforts to keep her from danger, tears scalded her cheeks, caking in the dust that covered her.

“Stop, boy!” The gun cracked again.

Katie felt as if her knees were about to buckle when suddenly she was being hoisted into the air. A horse surged forward beneath her. She leaned against a broad chest, while a strong male arm grasped her securely beneath her breasts. The hand that held the reins was heartbreakingly familiar.

“Jack,” she breathed in disbelief.

“Hang on and don’t speak,” he replied tersely. His arm tightened around Katie’s midriff.

They rode recklessly through the woods, narrowly missing trees.

Birds scattered before them, and an occasional pine bough grazed their sides. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Katie, Jack reined in his horse and turned down toward the river.

“Good work, Byron,” he said, leaning forward to pat the stallion’s neck.

The south fork of the Stanislaus shimmered invitingly in the sunlight. Jack brought Byron to a stop high on the riverbank, amid a stand of cottonwood trees. Unceremoniously he lifted Katie up and dropped her to the ground, then dismounted. She stood off to one side, too shaken and frightened to speak, watching as Jack led Byron to the river to drink, then tethered him to a tree. Katie wondered what had become of Willoughby.

“My horse...” Her voice was a croak.

He was silent for a while before replying coldly, “Worried about him? Perhaps you ought to have given a moment’s thought to Willoughby before you tied him to a branch and left to rush blindly toward certain death. As it is, I sent him home. He seemed glad to go.”

“I suppose he’ll find the way.”

Jack walked toward her. “Certainly you couldn’t have returned him, and if I hadn’t set him free, Rush would have found him by now. Your identity wouldn’t have remained a secret very long. Anyone could have told him who owned that horse.”

“Jack... I—” The words lodged in Katie’s throat.

“Yes?” He was standing in front of her, his eyes like chips of green ice, his mouth set dangerously.

“Thank you. For everything. You—you saved my life.”

He turned his head. “I’m too angry and tired to talk to you about it now. I’m going to wash up before we head back, and I suggest that you do the same.”

“Yes. Of course.” At a loss, Katie watched as he walked down to the riverbank and began to strip off his dusty clothing. Did he intend to bathe? Jack tossed his boots and shirt onto the grass, then began to peel off his snug-fitting buckskins. Katie turned away, then peeked just in time to catch a glimpse of hard male buttocks and long, muscular legs as he waded into the river and disappeared below the surface.

Jack swam underwater a good distance out, then broke the surface with a shake of his head, sending droplets of water flying in all directions to shimmer in the sunlight. It looked wonderful to Katie, who had never felt more in need of the sort of refreshment he was enjoying.

“Hurry,” he called. “We haven’t all day.”

“But...” She flushed.

Jack nearly reminded her that he already had an intimate knowledge of her naked body, but such remarks didn’t suit his mood. “Very well, I won’t look. Will that suit you?”

Half shielded by a cottonwood tree, Katie shed her boots, trousers, and shirt, but she couldn’t bring herself to remove her chemise and drawers. Her hat came off next, and, on a whim, she unbraided her hair and let it fall free. She wanted to feel it floating around her on the surface of the water.

Jack was enjoying himself as Katie gingerly approached the river’s edge. He let the current pull him a ways downstream, then swam back against it, apparently oblivious to her presence. Slowly she waded into the cool water, savoring the pleasant shock of the chill as she took herself deeper. Finally she submerged altogether, then popped back out into the sunlight, ebony hair streaming down her back.

“You might as well take those underthings off and hope they’ll dry a bit in the sun before you have to dress,” Jack called. “Right now they aren’t concealing your body, you know. Wet batiste is provocatively transparent.”

His choice of adjectives made her blush. Glancing down, Katie saw that he was right: she could see right through the gauzy cotton which clung now to her breasts. She stood there a moment, considering. Her underthings were sopping now, and she didn’t relish the prospect of wearing her scratchy old clothes without them.... Sighing, Katie pulled down her lace-trimmed drawers and draped them over a tree branch that hung low by the water’s edge. The sensation of the cool water on her flesh was pure bliss.

The chemise gave her a bit more trouble. The pearl buttons refused to budge from their tiny, wet buttonholes, and Katie soon grew frustrated trying to unfasten them. She’d only managed two when she moved her foot impatiently and came down on something razor sharp.

“Ow!” she screamed, aggravated tears welling in her eyes. Lifting her foot, she saw blood oozing into the water from her big toe. “God’s ears!” she cried, borrowing one of Brian’s expletives.

Jack watched for a moment as she thrashed about. Then, when she fell backward and disappeared, he swam over.

“Are you all right?”

Katie’s face had just emerged from the shallow water. She tried to stand but stepped on her injured foot and let out another yowl of pain. “No! I’m not all right!” When she pushed her hair from her eyes, Jack saw that she was crying. “This has been the worst day of my life!”

“I can assure you,” he replied dryly, “that it hasn’t been a favorite of mine, either.” Reaching out, he put an arm around her waist for support. “Don’t cry. Let me take a look at that foot.”

“No! I’m not decent!” She pulled the sheer, wet chemise over her breasts and tried not to think about the fact that, under the water, Jack’s hand was resting on her bare hip.

“I said I wanted to look at your foot,” he repeated patiently.

It hurt so badly that Katie complied, still weeping in exhausted frustration. She lifted her foot out of the water and held on to his shoulders with one hand as he bent down to inspect her cut.

“It’s not bad,” he pronounced, pulling a tiny shard of glass from her toe. “I think you’ll live.”

Katie’s tears subsided as he continued to hold her foot, his hand sliding down to gently massage her instep. To her surprise, his touch sent a current of intense pleasure coursing all the way to her inner thigh. She stared at Jack’s wide, brown back and square shoulders, her gaze lingering on the curls at the nape of his neck. Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. “Jack, if you hadn’t been there today, he would have killed me.” The words spilled out of their own accord. “You were right, right about everything. I should have listened to you. You have every right to be angry with me.”

Jack released her foot, straightened, and looked down at Katie for a long moment before gathering her into his arms. “I just couldn’t let anything happen to you, Kathleen,” he said softly. “I was angry because you’d put yourself in so much danger.”

When his hand stroked her back, then pressed her against him until their hips met beneath the water, Katie felt as if a dam had burst inside of her. She melted against Jack’s strong body and opened her mouth to receive his kiss.

Chapter 17

October 16, 1864

Jack’s mouth captured Katie’s full, ripe lips, and their tongues met and caressed in a feverish reunion. She couldn’t get close enough to him. Her arms wound around his neck as she pressed nearer, and in the chill water, the warmth of her belly nurtured his erection. When she felt him stiffen and rise against her, Katie was utterly lost, consumed with desire. Their hearts pounded in unison as they devoured one another in a frenzy of passion.

The rest of the world slipped away. Katie’s reality centered on Jack—the taste of his mouth, the sure touch of his fingers, the warm, strong, living presence of his body—and the currents of energy that flowed between them. It was more than desire or lust: each kiss, each caress, was charged with intense emotion.

Jack’s hands disappeared under the water to grip the edges of Katie’s chemise, pulling outward to force the recalcitrant buttons from the fabric. Dreamily, she glanced down and watched for a moment as the tiny pearls drifted through the water, zigzagging lazily until they settled on the gravel bed below.

Jack turned so that the current of the river was at his back. As the water lapped against Katie’s breasts, they bobbed slightly, the taut, aching nipples turned up as if seeking the sunlight. Occasionally they broke the surface of the water in tantalizing invitation. Jack reached down to cup one breast with both hands, then lowered his head to nip gently at the sensitive pink bud. Katie gasped, astonished by the sudden shock of pleasure. She suffered the sweetest torment as Jack kneaded her swelling breasts and teased each nipple with his tongue and lips. When his mouth moved higher, blazing a fiery trail up to Katie’s throat, her head dropped back and her hair floated out on the water behind her.

“Kathleen.” He spoke her name with husky warmth. “Kathleen, look at me.”

She opened her eyes slowly, unable to speak, and met his passionate gaze.

“You’re aware that it’s me?” he whispered. “That this is no dream?”

Somehow Katie managed to nod, then twined her arms about his neck in search of his kiss. Jack cupped her buttocks in his hands and lifted her upward. Buoyant in the water, she wrapped her legs around his hips, thrilled to feel the hard pressure of his manhood against the core of her desire. Jack supported her under the water with one hand while the other molded one of her breasts. Shivers of delight transported her as his lips encircled the eager nipple; he swirled his tongue over the swollen peak, sucking gently until she began to pant and move her hips against his in a timeless rhythm. When Jack shifted slightly to position himself between her legs, Katie rocked back and forth against him, her body light in the water. Aided by the water, she slipped back and forth until, suddenly, there was a burst of delicious, throbbing sensations deep in her loins that undulated in waves over the rest of her body.

Jack’s heart tightened with tenderness as he watched her enchanting face contort at the moment of her release. She made a sound of primitive joy, her nails digging into his back and her legs tensing around his hips, and he could feel her spasms against the length of his manhood. Again she moaned, this time reaching blindly under the water, begging wordlessly for his entry.

He carried her to a quiet, shallow pool at the river’s edge where the thick branch of an oak tree arched out in a curve before them. Still holding her in his arms, he kissed her with sensuous deliberation before setting her on her feet. Katie stood spellbound with anticipation, waiting to discover what would happen next. When he removed her chemise and reached up to drape it over the oak branch, Katie stared boldly at his chiseled body. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man in the world.

Jack looked over his shoulder at her, smiling in a way that made her blush with excitement. When he gathered her into his arms, Katie sighed openly and gave herself up to sensation. With feverish abandon, she feasted upon her lover, running her hands down his tapering back, kissing the warm expanse of his chest, then nuzzling his nipples as he had done to hers. When they tautened against her soft lips and she heard Jack’s sharp intake of breath, Katie was delighted by her discovery. Her hands strayed lower, exploring and caressing until Jack could stand no more.

Carefully he swept her flowing hair over one shoulder and kissed along the side of her neck, turning her so that her back nestled against his chest. Katie shivered at the twin sensations of Jack’s lips on her shoulders and the sweet, sensual play of his fingers down her arms and over the tender insides of her elbows.

Sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling Katie’s graceful back. When Jack moved forward and pressed himself against her, closing his eyes and breathing in the honeyed scent of her hair, she felt a fresh surge of arousal. He held her fast, reaching around to cup her breasts, then trail his hands over her belly to caress her more intimately. Katie reached for a tree branch that hung just above the water as Jack gradually came into her. They moaned softly in unison, savoring each sensation, until Katie was completely filled. He shut his eyes for a moment, snug inside her warmth.

Then, slowly, he began to move, letting the ecstasy build. Katie pushed against the branch to meet his thrusts, while he framed her hips with his hands. The sound of their breathing filled the air, fueling their passion. When Jack nipped at her neck, then caressed his way down her back with his lips, Katie bent with him, sighing. The sensations of their coupling were the keenest, most exquisite she had ever known. Just when she was certain she could bear no more, he leaned forward to encircle her with one arm below her breasts, while his other hand reached around in front to brush the soft curls protecting Katie’s womanhood. Still moving inside her, he gauged the level of her arousal and lightly pressed his fingers against her. She whimpered and released the branch, wondering how he knew exactly how to touch her, how he knew exactly what she needed. As her climax built, his fingers pressed again, paused, then pressed again, and again. Suddenly she cried out, shuddering, as Jack thrust deep inside of her, feeling his own spasms begin. It was as if his entire being were centered in his loins, in the contractions that left him pulsing in the aftermath.

A minute passed before he could speak, and then his voice was a hoarse whisper. “My God....” He stayed inside Katie, keeping them securely joined, his face buried in the curve of her neck.

Sagging within his strong embrace, she felt stunned by her own abandon. “I feel...” Her mouth was parched. “I feel as if I’ve been turned inside out.”

“Well said, my love.”

Katie tensed slightly at the endearment. “I’m so thirsty.”

Sensing her uneasiness, Jack gently withdrew and took a step backward. Immediately she reached for her chemise and drawers, nearly dry now in the breezy sunlight.

“You must be hungry, too,” he said. “I know I am. I have some food and water in my saddlebags.”

Her cheeks burned, and she kept her eyes averted. What must he think of her? “Yes, I am hungry. I’ll dress and join you.”

Pulling on his own clothes, Jack pondered the situation. What was she feeling? He wasn’t even sure what he felt himself, but there was an unsettling ache in the region of his heart.

Katie took her time, waiting until he had set out the food and water before she joined him. She could feel his eyes on her, and it worried her to think that he knew her so well. After all, he had awakened parts of her she hadn’t even known existed. Could he read her mind as well? Did he understand the confused workings of her heart?

When he handed her a tin cup filled with water, Katie drank deeply, keeping her eyes down to avoid contact. Then she accepted a chunk of bread and an apple and sat down on the ground to eat.

Jack watched her for a long moment. “Kathleen, I think we should talk....”

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But we can’t pretend it didn’t happen—”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Katie said, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremor in her voice. “I intend to pretend that this entire day didn’t happen!”

Jack turned away, raking a hand through his hair. He’d let her have her way—for the moment, at least. They both needed time to sort things out. Then he smiled slightly, with a trace of bemusement. Every other woman he’d made love to had clung to him afterward, seeking kisses and declarations of love. With Katie, he’d experienced sensual delights beyond his wildest dreams, and now she treated him like a stranger. Of course, from the first their entire relationship had been unlike any he’d known before. Why should it be any different now?

The afternoon brought a cool breeze that hinted of autumn’s late arrival. How appropriate, Katie thought as she and Jack rode down Yankee Hill Road toward Columbia. Clouds gathered over the tree tops, promising rain.

She sat behind him astride Byron, trying not to tighten her hold around his waist or lean against his back. The attraction she felt for this man frightened her. It had been there, simmering, all along, she realized now. The events of the morning made it impossible for her to deny her feelings any longer. She could admit to herself that she craved him helplessly, that she adored everything about his physical presence. His kisses were intoxicating, the scent of his skin made her giddy, just looking at him was a feast for her eyes. She loved to touch him, to feel the warmth of his body and the soft texture of his hair. Worst of all, when he touched her, she simply lost her mind. She had no control over her response. He had some sort of magic in his fingers, his mouth, his—

“Are you all right?” Jack asked softly.

Katie flinched. “I’m fine!”

“I thought I heard you sigh.”

“I’m a little tired, I suppose.”

“Well, we’re almost there.”

“Good.” She was grateful that Jack couldn’t see her flaming cheeks. What was this madness that came over her when he was near? She was forced to accept the loss of control of her body; she had no choice. But certainly this did not mean that she was in love with Jack Adams. The very thought filled her with panic. No, what she felt was lust, a weakness of the flesh. Now that she understood her malady, she could take steps to effect a cure.

“Here we are,” Jack said, reining Byron in in front of Katie’s house. This time he played the gentleman and dismounted first, then reached up to assist her.

Steeling herself against the contact, Katie slid from the horse’s back into his arms. His touch sent shivers down her spine, but she took a breath and, trying to sound polite and detached, said, “Do you have a few moments to spare? There is something I would like to say to you.”

“Certainly.” He watched as she walked ahead of him up to the house, a model of composure. “Kathleen—just a moment. I’d like to stable Byron first, and check to make sure Willoughby has returned. Can this wait until then?”

She turned back. “All right. But please hurry.”

In the house, Katie made herself a cup of tea. She was too restless to do anything but pace the parlor until she saw Jack striding up the walk. Opening the door, she waved him in.

“Willoughby is fine,” he said. “I gave him an extra carrot.”

“Thank you. I’d offer you something to drink,” Katie said, perching on the edge of the settee, “but I’d like to keep this as brief as possible.”

Jack took the rocking chair nearby and leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “Why don’t you just tell me what is on your mind?”

She found it hard to look at him without feeling that warm, disturbing sensation inside. “All right. I just wanted to say that I am aware of the fact that I seem to be physically attracted to you I admit it.”

He arched an eyebrow slightly. “And?”

“And I see it as a weakness like any other that must be dealt with,” she continued primly. “If I were unable to refrain from eating a whole peach pie whenever I baked one, I would not bake them anymore. So, then, must it be where you are concerned.”

Jack gave a shout of laughter. “You’re comparing me to apeach pie?”

“That was just an example.”

“Actually, I suppose I should be flattered, considering some of the other things you’ve compared me to.” His eyes twinkled.

Folding her arms across her breasts, Katie persevered. “Abby has realized that she has a weakness for sherry. She does not drink liquor anymore. The principle is the same. I intend to avoid being alone with you.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Kathleen...”

“There’s really nothing else to be said.”

Jack knew his own share of frustration and confusion where Katie was concerned, but he was also sharply aware of the sweet, welling tenderness that overpowered him when he looked at her. It worried him not a little. “All right. For the time being, we’ll leave it at that. Your solution may be the best.”

“What other is there?” she replied, blue eyes huge in her delicate, pale face.

A knock at the door interrupted them. She answered it and discovered Lim Sung standing on the porch.

“Katie, where have you been? I’ve looked everywhere!”

“Come in, Lim. What is it?”

He joined them in the tiny parlor, taking in Jack’s presence and Katie’s disheveled appearance without comment. “There’s good news. Tsing Tsing Yee’s egg has been returned. He just discovered it on a shelf in the store.”

“But certainly you aren’t suggesting that it was there all along?” Katie cried. “I’m positivethat Aaron Rush had it! He was keeping it in a cabin in the woods, and planned to sell it to that Mr. Armbrewster. I followed them there today. They were discussing price—”

“Did you see the egg?” Jack asked.

“Well, no. They seemed to be looking for it—”

“Katie,” Lim broke in firmly, “Mr. Yee’s egg was returned by the Griffin! He left one of his embroidered handkerchiefs under the enamel box.”

Katie’s mouth dropped open in shock. Jack sat back in the rocking chair and commented, “It sounds as if the Griffin did his work before Rush and Armbrewster reached the cabin this morning.”

She sat down weakly, trying to take it all in. “I suppose this makes the Griffin a hero again.” She clenched her hands and set her mouth stubbornly. “Well, people can think what they want, but my feelings toward that outlaw will never change. I never hated anyone before, but I hate him. He killed my father, and I intend to see justice served. If I ever meet the Griffin face to face, he will die by my hand!”

Part Three

Chapter 18

October 17, 1864

In the pale blush of early dawn, Katie awoke hugging her pillow lengthwise against her body. Her face was buried in it, and she smiled and sighed, dreaming that she was snuggled against Jack’s warm, wide, tanned back. This was the ultimate pleasure, to sleep with Jack, to mold herself to the hard curves of his body, to listen to the cadence of his breathing—

Katie’s eyes shot open and she sat up, staring in horror at the pillow. What on earth was wrong with her? She wished she could shake herself and, in the process, dislodge Jack Adams from her system.

Instead she got up, bathed, and made two large pans of gingerbread, welcoming the flurry of activity as a distraction from disturbing thoughts. When Katie arrived at the saloon, carrying the gingerbread wrapped in towels, she found Gideon sitting at the bar sipping coffee.

“I’m going back to work today, Katie,” he announced.

“You are?” She set the pans on the bar and took the stool next to him. “Are you certain you feel well enough?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I think I’ve been well enough for a while. I’ve just let Abby convince me otherwise because I enjoyed this life of leisure.”

“You’ve been happy with her, haven’t you?” One ebony tendril curled wistfully over Katie’s brow, lending her an air of girlish vulnerability. When she reached up absently to push it away, Gideon stopped her.

“Leave it.” His smile was warm. “It’s pretty. You’re pretty, Katie. You look quite... uh, womanly lately. Hard to explain. If I weren’t in love with Abby, I’d be fully under your spell.”

“In love!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I thought so!”

Gideon pushed up his spectacles and grinned. “I was forced to come to grips with the thing when I realized that I was perfectly well and the time had come to leave here. I think I had the idea that, when my recovery ended, my... uh... connection with Abby would have to end, too. Then it came to me that we do not necessarily have to deny ourselves those things which give us the most pleasure. So, last night, I spoke to Abby, and she has agreed to marry me.”

“Marriage?” Katie repeated, awestruck. “How... wonderful! Congratulations!” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“Thank you.” Gideon beamed with happiness.

“Will you do it properly in church? With a white gown for Abby, and flowers, and—”

“A maid of honor?” he supplied, laughing. “Yes, of course. And Abby insists on a church wedding. She feels very close to God these days.”

Katie nodded. “Abby has become very wise. When will the wedding take place?”

“In about two weeks, I think. Abby’s gone to talk to Mrs. Barnstaple about helping to make her wedding gown. Working here, she simply hasn’t the time to do it all herself.”

“I’ll make the cake,” Katie declared. “And we’ll have a party here. Who will be the best man?”

Gideon looked at her and swallowed. “I’ve decided to ask Jack.”

“Jack?” she echoed in disbelief.

“Yes.” His tone was dry. “You remember Jack Adams, don’t you?”

“Of course! You needn’t tease me, Gideon. I was just surprised. After all, you barely know the man—”

“He’s the best friend I have in this town now. All the men I grew up with here have either gone east to war or off to San Francisco or Nevada to make their fortunes. I’ve grown to like Jack very much. He has the kind of integrity that’s hard to come by these days. I realize that you don’t like him, but I certainly can’t understand why. He likes you, Katie, and he worries about you.”

Mixed emotions gave her pause. “In all honesty, I have reason now to like Mr. Adams myself... although I have not forgotten that he has serious character defects. For the moment, however, we have called a truce.”

“Won’t you tell me why? I’m a terrible snoop, you know.” He grinned. “All newspapermen are.”

Katie couldn’t help laughing. “Well, let’s just say that I defied Mr. Adams’s warnings about Aaron Rush and nearly got myself killed. It was Jack’s concern for me that led him to... follow me and, ultimately, rescue me. So, you see, I owe him...”

“Your life?”

“Well,” she allowed, “at least a debt of gratitude.”

“That’s good.” He watched her with keen gray eyes. “It’s a start. You two ought to be friends.”

“I think that we are now... to a certain extent.”

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard that the Griffin returned Tsing Tsing Yee’s egg. I’m sorry you weren’t able to get the proof about Aaron Rush that you were looking for. We’d all be better off if you had.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not finished yet,” Katie declared. “That man will be brought to justice—”

“If it’s the last thing you do?” an ironic voice interjected from the doorway.

Katie’s heart leaped at the sight of Jack striding toward them. His appeal seemed to grow more potent with each passing day. She was stirred by the casual, catlike grace of his movements, the set of his shoulders, the shape of his hands...

Stop it! she scolded herself. He took the stool next to Gideon and reached forward to pour himself a cup of coffee from the pewter coffeepot on the bar. Then he gave Katie a sidelong glance.

“I think you would be wise to forget about Aaron Rush for the moment. Leave it be.”

She smiled sweetly. “I appreciate your advice, Mr. Adams, and I promise to consider it carefully.” Turning to Gideon, she inquired, “Aren’t you going to announce your good news?”

“Oh—certainly!” He flushed. “I’ve asked Abby to marry me, and she has agreed.”

A sudden, sincere smile lit Jack’s face. Putting out his hand, he said, “Congratulations, Gideon! I couldn’t be happier for the two of you. Ah, and you’re a lucky man, you know. Abby’s quite a woman.”

Gideon nodded. “I know. And I have you to thank for bringing her into my life.”

“It was my pleasure. It’s very satisfying to see that two people can successfully navigate the course of true love!”

Katie gave him a quick glance, then looked away as Gideon asked Jack to be his best man.

“Consent? I’d be honored! Except that I’m not certain I’ll still be in Columbia....”

“We’re hoping to have the wedding as soon as possible. Abby is off right now checking with Mrs. Barnstaple to see how quickly her dress, and Katie’s, can be done.”

“Katie’s?” Jack echoed, his tone casual.

“Katie will be the maid of honor.”

“I see.” He sipped his coffee. “Well, if this momentous occasion can take place within the next fortnight, you can depend on me to be by your side, my friend. I’ll just remain in town a little longer.”

Katie felt her cheeks growing warm as the two men shook hands again and was grateful for the distraction when a stranger entered the saloon.

Jack glanced up, too, his mouth going dry at the sight of Samuel Clemens walking toward him. Sam was smiling at the unexpected sight of his friend, and Jack knew a momentary sense of panic. Jumping off the bar stool, he walked forward, hand outstretched.

“Well, if it isn’t Samuel Clemens! I hope you remember me. The name is Jack Adams. We met in San Francisco this past summer.”

Sam caught the barely perceptible wink that Jack sent his way and managed to conceal his confusion. “Of course I remember you, Jack. I’d hoped that we were friends! I can only assume that you questioned my memory because each time we met you were sober and I was... not”.

“It’s good to see you again, Sam, and to discover that your wit remains intact,” Jack said, laughing. “Allow me to introduce you to my friends.”

As the introductions were made, Katie studied Clemens. His was an interesting face—rather craggy, with deep-set, snapping dark eyes under bushy brows and a mouth that was partially obscured by a thick mustache. His head was crowned by a wild mop of reddish-brown curls. As he smiled at her with frank interest, Katie tried to place his name.

“Aren’t you a writer, Mr. Clemens?”

“I like to think so, though there are plenty who would disagree, Miss MacKenzie,” he replied with a chuckle.

“I knew it—you’re Mark Twain!” she cried. “I’ve read your work in the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise, and more recently in the San Francisco Morning Star. The stage drivers are kind enough to bring me newspapers when they think of it. You are very talented, Mr. Clemens!”

“And you are a young lady of rare taste and judgment,” Sam replied.

“Miss MacKenzie is not just the owner of this saloon,” Jack explained. “She is also a newspaperwoman herself. She’s on the staff of the Columbia Gazette, which is owned by Mr. Henderson.”

“Call me Gideon,” the young man protested. “And Katie and I are the staff of the Gazette. I couldn’t do without her.”

Unable to suppress her curiosity, Katie inquired, “Will you be in Columbia long, Mr. Clemens? I am eager to learn more about your trade, and would be very grateful for anything you could teach me.”

Sam was about to reply that Katie was already acquainted with a great source of knowledge—Jack—but his friend gave him a quelling glance. “Actually, I’m on my way to Jackass Gulch to spend more time with the Gillis brothers, but I’ll undoubtedly travel over here from time to time, especially now that I am acquainted with you, Miss MacKenzie—and Mr. Henderson.” Sam looked directly at Jack. “Do you know, I thought I was thirstier than anything else, but now I find that I have a powerful longing for a bath and a shave. Mr. Adams, would you mind showing me the way to the best barbershop in town?”

Jack smiled. “I’d be glad to. Then you can return here for a hot meal. What are you serving today, Katie?”

“Sausage and beans,” she replied, “with fresh gingerbread.”

Sam sniffed at the covered pans. “Smells wonderful! Save some for me; I’ll be back.”

When the two men emerged onto Main Street, Jack closed his eyes and laughed with relief. “My God, but the sight of you scared me! That’s been my fear all along—that someone from my other life would appear in Columbia and call me ‘Wyatt.’”

“Your ‘other life’?” Sam peered at him closely. “This is all very interesting. I must say, I wouldn’t have taken you for a man with a secret.” His tone deepened melodramatically. “Out with it now, my friend. Who are you really? Jonathan Wyatt—wealthy, disciplined owner of the San Francisco Morning Star? Or Jack Adams—gold country renegade and... and what? Prospector? Barfly?” Sam’s heavy brows rose questioningly.

“If I tell you, you must swear that it will go no further.”

“You have my word. I have some dirt of my own that I’ll ask you to help me keep under the rug.”

Jack nodded. It would be a relief to share the truth with a friend, especially one who was present in Columbia. They walked into a secluded grove of birch trees behind the Wells Fargo building. Jack glanced around to be certain no one could overhear, then said simply, “I’m the Griffin.”

Clemens’s mouth dropped open. “The foothills’ own Robin Hood? Are you serious?”

Jack nodded ruefully. “I’m afraid so. It began simply enough. Rush and Van Hosten had deprived my brother, Conrad, of the gold he discovered near here. I merely came up to Columbia to see that justice was done....”

“Unbeknownst to Conrad?” Sam was fascinated.

“That’s right. He still doesn’t know. In fact, the only person, outside of yourself now, who does know what I’ve been doing is my grandfather.” He paused to run a hand through hair. “At any rate, when I discovered how widespread the injustice was, one thing led to another, and I went on with it. I liked seeing the miners get their due, watching Rush and Van Hosten squirm. Then I returned to my life in San Francisco and thought to put an end to it, but I had to come back. I really hoped to resolve the entire situation without bloodshed.”

“Until Van Hosten and that saloon keeper were killed.”

“That’s right. And the saloon keeper was Brian MacKenzie, Katie’s father.” It pained Jack to speak the words.

“Oh, Lord.” Sam paled.

“It was Van Hosten who shot him, but no one knows that. It shouldn’t have happened. Everything began to get complicated when I returned to Columbia last summer and spent enough time here to make real friends. The charade began to seem real. When I went home, just before you and I met, my life as Jonathan Wyatt seemed rather dull and trite. I found that I missed my other identity. Sometimes I’m not certain anymore which man is really me!” Jack bent to pet a calico kitten so that Clemens couldn’t read the depth of emotion and conflict in his eyes. Sam watched him sympathetically.

“Now that little talk we had in your office makes more sense than ever. I can certainly see why you were so preoccupied in San Francisco, trying to pick up your ordered existence!” Sam gave a cough of dry laughter. “Believe me, I understand. I’ve had more than my own share of identities, with occupations of every sort in various locales.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t have come back here, but I felt compelled. When I heard that Rush’s henchmen had wrecked the Gazette’s printing press, I brought one up here.”

“A noble excuse!” Sam teased knowingly.

Jack smiled, straightening. “Thank you. I thought so at the time. But I didn’t consider the complications. I have friends here now, and I don’t like lying to them about who I really am.” He paused, rubbing his jaw. “It’s a mess. I was going to leave in a day or two, but now Gideon Henderson has asked me to stand up with him at his wedding, so I’ll have to remain for at least two more weeks.”

Sam was contemplating a tree branch as he listened to Jack’s story. “Katie MacKenzie doesn’t know that you’re the Griffin, and she believes that the Griffin is responsible for her father’s death.”

Jack winced. “That’s right.”

“What’s between the two of you?”

“I’m not entirely certain myself. We’re friends, when Kathleen isn’t furious with me.”

Sam pressed, “But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“What makes you think so?” Jack asked uneasily.

“Well, I’m no expert on this sort of thing, but the air seemed to be charged between the two of you in a way that I’ve witnessed before. And for what it’s worth, I didn’t feel it between Jack Wyatt and Genevieve Braithwaite.” Clemens sniffed, took out a handkerchief, blew his nose, then added, “But, as I said, I’m no expert.”

“I... uh, appreciate your opinion, but the fact is that there can’t be anything permanent between Kathleen and myself. She doesn’t even know my real identity, and of course, beyond that, if she discovered that I was the Griffin, she’d kill me outright.” Jack paused, stared back toward the saloon, then shrugged.

Sam nodded slowly. “You’re right, my friend. It’s a mess.”

“Why don’t you tell me your own dire story en route to Snyder’s Shaving Saloon? Perhaps it will cheer me up!”

Laughing, they set out. The morning was growing warm, and Clemens took off his coarse brown sack coat, a loose-fitting garment with high, short lapels that had become popular for the most informal of occasions. He draped it over his aim, loosened his collar, and began with a question. “Have you ever met my friend, Steve Gillis?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

“Well, you will. He left San Francisco with me. Actually, you might say that he caused me to leave San Francisco.” Sam glanced at Jack, eyes twinkling. “Steve and I are making a history for ourselves of leaving places in a hurry. One day I’ll regale you with the full account of our departure from Nevada, which came about at the invitation of the governor himself. Steve had gotten me involved in one of the duels that were fashionable in Nevada then, unaware that there was a new law against it. When the governor pointed it out to us, we decided to go to San Francisco rather than the penitentiary.”

Jack felt himself relaxing. Clemens’s laconic style both amused and entertained him. “It’s coming back to me now. Wasn’t Steve Gillis your partner in debauchery when you let rooms from that Frenchwoman?”

“That’s right. I’d like to blame him for all our adventures, but I suppose I must play some role in them....” Sam grinned. “At any rate, it’s been a rather quiet autumn, except for the trouble I’ve been making for myself as a newspaperman. I’ve been feeling a bit of heat for my attacks, bravely printed by your paper, on corruption of politicians and police. After you left San Francisco, I wrote a piece damning the mobs who hunt Chinese in the streets, and I received a few threats. Naturally, I’m far too courageous to run away, but Steve took the matter out of my hands.” His tone was ironic.

“You know that we’ll print anything you write,” Jack said seriously. “I gave Edwin Murray orders to that effect before I left.”

“I know, and I’m grateful. And I’m sure I’ll do more work for you if you’ll have me.”

“Now that that’s settled, tell me what caused you and Steve to make such a speedy exit from San Francisco.” The Presbyterian pastor and his wife nodded as they passed the two men, and Jack smiled in response.

“I’ll condense the story for your benefit,” Sam was replying. “We went out to a saloon one night, bemoaning the sad state of our social lives. But Steve is a man who likes a bit of excitement, especially after consuming whiskey. One thing led to another, and he became involved in a brawl. The authorities were alerted, Steve was taken into custody, and I was dispatched to raise the money to post bond. Once he was released, it seemed wise to absent ourselves from San Francisco for a while.”

“I see!” Jack laughed. “Your facility with words serves you well, my friend. What you meant to say was that you are now a fugitive!”

“Why would I mean to say a thing like that?” Sam replied innocently, then joined in his friend’s laughter.

“I just wanted to be absolutely certain that I understood the situation correctly. You and Gillis ran away from San Francisco, using his run-in with the police and assorted other unsavory types as an excuse to escape to Jackass Gulch, which you had been longing to do all the time.” Jack’s eyes glinted with amusement.

“I guess grown men need weighty excuses in order to leave the responsibilities of work behind and run off to the foothills,” Sam replied calmly.

“Truer words were never spoken.”

The two men nodded soberly, in unison. When they reached Snyder’s Shaving Saloon, Jack opened the door and smiled as his friend passed by. “I’m glad you’re here, Sam.”

Their eyes met for an instant in shared understanding. “I’m glad, too, especially now that it’s clear I won’t be bored!”

Chapter 19

October 22, 1864

“Lovely, just lovely!” proclaimed Victoria Barnstaple. She darted forward like a sparrow, hands fluttering to her bosom as she beamed at Katie. “My dear, that color is ideal for you! I could only be more pleased to see you wearing white—as the bride!”

Katie flushed. “Oh, Mrs. Barnstaple, let’s not think about that.”

“I know that your dear parents would want me to remind you that life’s true gifts are only possible when one has a mate to share with,” Victoria chirped.

Katie made no reply but waited patiently as the older woman put a few more pins into the yards of lavender-blue silk taffeta that flowed outward from Katie’s waist. “This is the stiffest, widest crinoline I’ve ever worn,” she murmured at last, squirming slightly.

“Well, that’s good! You should be used to the more disciplined aspects of womanhood by now, my dear. One day, after you’re married, you’ll be attending all manner of important social occasions, and you must be at ease in your corset and crinoline.”

Katie bit her tongue, then tried to change the subject. “I’m anxious to see Abby’s gown. She must look very beautiful.”

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Barnstaple agreed distractedly. Inserting the last pin, she stood back and examined Katie with a critical eye. “You really do need a new hairstyle, my dear. How will you wear it at the wedding?”

“In a chignon, I thought.”

Victoria pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes as if to gauge the overall effect. “Yes... Yes, that should look very nice. I wish you’d wear it that way more often. Anything but that braid! You know, Katie darling, you are blessed with extraordinary natural beauty. I cannot fathom why you go to such extremes to conceal it.”

Her frankness caught Katie off guard. “I’m not entirely certain myself, Mrs. Barnstaple, but I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

“Well, good. You may remove that gown now. I suppose you have to be getting back to that saloon.” She sniffed as she helped Katie lift the layers of taffeta over her head. “It’s not right, you know, a girl your age running a place like that. Some people would call it an open and shameless enticement to evil—”

“But you know our saloon isn’t like that!” Katie protested.

“You serve liquor, don’t you? I never approved of Brian letting you work there, and I approve even less of you, whose mother was a proper lady, acting as proprietress of such an establishment. It simply isn’t right.”

Katie stepped out of the crinoline and petticoats, then reached for her own frock of blue-sprigged cotton. “I appreciate your advice and I know you have my best interests at heart, but the simple truth is that the saloon is the only means of support available to me. I intend to make my own way, without having to depend on others.” She cast about for another subject. “Tell me, how is your niece? Is she enjoying her visit to Columbia?”

“Oh, yes, I think so, though she hasn’t made the acquaintance of many young women her own age.” Victoria began to fasten up the back of Katie’s dress. “She spends more time with that Jack Adams than anyone, and I shudder to think what her parents would say. But then, Margaret has always been headstrong. She wouldn’t heed my brother and his wife, and she won’t heed me. I love the girl, but—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I do need to get back to the saloon.” Katie suddenly felt very warm. “Thank you for making the gown for me, Mrs. Barnstaple. I truly do appreciate it.”

“Well, I’m glad to help you and Abigail. She seems to be a nice young lady, and of course, I’ve always loved Gideon. His mother is one of my best friends.”

Katie backed toward the front door and lifted the latch. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Your gown should be finished by Thursday, which leaves us time for any last-minute alterations before the wedding on Saturday. Why don’t you stay for tea when you come to try it on?”

“I’d love to.” She kissed Mrs. Barnstaple’s cheek. “Good-bye!”

As she emerged onto Fulton Street, Katie’s smile faded. She’d tried not to think about Jack and Maggie Barnstaple; she’d told herself that he couldn’t feel anything for the other girl, not when he’d shared such intimacy with her. But if the worst were true, it cheapened everything that had passed between them. The fact that she had turned him away was little comfort. Katie continued to feel an intense attraction to Jack and that shamed her, especially because the memories of their lovemaking were still so vivid.

Fate seemed intent on testing her, for when Katie rounded the corner of Main Street, bound for the saloon, she saw Maggie Barnstaple and Jack standing in front of the dry goods store. He was holding her bolts of lace and striped silk, and the two of them were laughing at the antics of a calico kitten in pursuit of a butterfly.

Before she could think, Katie fled back around the corner. She knew only that she couldn’t face them. No sooner had she leaned against the wall of the Douglass Saloon to collect her thoughts than a beefy hand gripped her wrist. She gasped and stared into the face of a man she recognized as one of Aaron Rush’s henchmen. He wore a derby that partially covered the scar that slanted across his forehead.

“Excuse me, sir!” She tried to free her wrist from his grasp, fixing him with an angry glare.

“Settle down, missy, and heed my words,” the man growled. “You’re too pretty to be sticking your nose into affairs that don’t concern you. Watch yourself, or something might happen that’d make you wish you’d behaved more like a proper lady!”

In spite of the wave of fear and revulsion that swept over her, Katie’s outward composure did not waver. “You may tell Aaron Rush for me that his cowardly threats do not frighten me in the least. Unlike so many of the so-called men in this town, I will not be bullied! Now, unhand me!” She twisted free and walked away, head high.

“You’d better think again, girlie, before you find yourself in the kind of trouble that you can’t smart-talk your way out of!” the man hissed after her.

Katie strode onward, sensing that he had turned and gone off down the street. After a minute she realized that she was walking back the way she had come, but she had no desire to return to the saloon. Lim and Abby were both there; they didn’t need her. Besides, that hideous man was probably lurking on Main Street, waiting for her to pass him again so that he could mutter more threats in her ear. Without conscious direction, then, she continued up Fulton Street, her mind flashing back and forth between images of the man in the derby and Jack and Maggie laughing together in front of the dry goods store. She ached inside, she felt jumpy, and she longed to escape, if only for a few hours.

Samuel Clemens had stopped in the saloon again only two days ago. Fresh from a bath at the barbershop, and wearing a new shirt, he had regaled Katie with tales of his unsuccessful attempts at pocket mining. And before taking his leave, he had invited her to visit Jackass Gulch any time she wished.

It was the perfect solution, Katie decided, and, feeling a little better, she stopped at last to look around her. To her surprise, she found herself on the very doorstep of the livery stable. When she entered and heard Willoughby’s joyful whinny at her appearance, she took it as a sign that she was doing the right thing.

Samuel Clemens stood in the doorway of the Gillis cabin, shading his eyes against the sun as he watched Katie MacKenzie ride up the grassy, golden hillside scattered with scrub oak, pine, and manzanita.

She waved, and Sam waved back, drinking in the sight of her. Katie had hitched up her dress and petticoat to sit astride the horse, and her slim calves gleamed in the sunlight. Her slender shoulders and firm young breasts showed to great advantage in her snug bodice, and her smiling face glowed with good health. The wind had nearly loosened her braid, but it still flew out behind her like a banner, announcing the free spirit of its owner.

When Sam walked forward to help Katie dismount, he nearly succumbed to an urge to declare her beauty aloud, but he caught himself in time. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said instead. “Welcome to Jackass Gulch, Miss MacKenzie.”

“Didn’t you invite me? I might be mistaken....” Her tone was light, teasing. “And you must call me Katie. Everyone does.”

“I seem to remember my friend Jack using a more proper form of address.”

“Well”—she turned away to pat Willoughby’s damp neck—“I like to keep Mr. Adams at arm’s length. We don’t always see eye to eye.”

Deciding that it might be wise not to pursue the matter further, Sam took the horse’s reins and hitched him to the post in front of the cabin. “Tell me, then—to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Katie gave him a fresh, honest smile. “I was having one of those days that makes you long to be anywhere else! This seemed like a good place to escape to, and I knew I’d enjoy your company. I admire you and your work tremendously, Mr. Clemens—”

“Sam,” he corrected.

“Sam.” Katie beamed. “I’ve been wanting to have a real conversation with you ever since we met.”

“Dear lady, I am at your disposal.” His eyes danced above the heavy mustache.

“Are you certain I’m not interrupting? Were you writing when I arrived?”

“No and no. I’ve done very little this past week except sleep, eat, exchange yarns with my friends, and make a few halfhearted attempts at pocket mining. I’m afraid I’ve been shockingly lacking in virtue since I arrived in the foothills.”

“Perhaps you needed a respite,” Katie suggested.

“I did. We all need one from time to time, hmm?” He smiled at her and winked almost imperceptibly as they strolled toward a grove of pine trees. “Besides, I’m lazy at heart, and always glad of an excuse not to work. Why don’t you sit down under this tree, I’ll get you some refreshment, and you can tell me what’s been frustrating you in Columbia. All right, Katie?”

She nodded and did as he suggested, watching until he disappeared into the spare rectangular cabin with its stone chimney. The rustling pines offered welcome shade from the sun, and Katie leaned against the broad tree trunk behind her and closed her eyes, breathing in the clean, fresh scents of autumn. Sam appeared a few moments later with two battered tin cups.

“I apologize for these,” he said with a wry smile. “My host, Jim Gillis, is a mountain bachelor, and lives as such. And all I could find to drink was cold coffee and whiskey, so I brought water instead.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.” Katie accepted the cup and drank deeply. “I was thirsty!”

Clemens joined her on the ground. “I’ve heard a little about you already, Katie MacKenzie, but I’d like to know more. Won’t you enlighten me?”

“Oh, there’s really not much to say.” She waved a delicate hand. “I came here to learn about you. I’m just a girl who has spent her life in one town. I’ve never fit in with the other well-behaved, traditional females. I helped Papa in his saloon after my mother died when I was ten, and ever since the Griffin killed Papa I’ve run the saloon with the help of my friends. I’ve never yearned to marry and take care of a man. There are too many things I want to do myself! I’ve read all my life, and dreamed of traveling. I’d like a life like yours, Sam.” Katie sighed. “I suppose I ought to have been born a man.”

“And deprive the world of your vivacity and beauty?” Sam cried. “No, my dear, I think not. There isn’t the least doubt in my mind that you were born in the right body!” He paused to admire the soft blush that stained Katie’s cheeks, charmed by her fresh modesty. “Besides, you don’t have to be a man to pursue your dreams. This is the West, Katie. You’ve flouted convention in Columbia, so why not flout it somewhere else—like San Francisco? What is it you’d like to do?”

“I’d like to write. I want to be a newspaperwoman.”

“I thought you already were.”

“Oh—yes, I suppose so, but much of the time it feels as if Gideon and I are playing at printing a newspaper. How did you get your start, Sam? Did you dream of writing as a child?”

“Lord, no!” He laughed heartily and smoothed his mustache. “I think it’s human nature to yearn to be what we were never intended for. I have had just two powerful ambitions. One was to be a riverboat pilot; the other a preacher of the gospel. I accomplished the first, but was interrupted by the war. The second was impossible for me because I hadn’t the call, or the gift, if you will.” Sam leaned back against the tree and paused to drink from his tin cup. “I’ve become a writer almost by default. It galls me to face facts, but the truth is that this is where my talents lie. I still pretend to myself that I might be able to make a serious contribution to the literary world, but I am slowly coming to terms with my real gift...”

Katie leaned forward, fascinated. “And what is that?”

Clemens smiled crookedly. “My true calling is to literature of a low order—humor. God seems to want me to make others laugh. It strikes me as a rather poor, pitiful business, but I fear it’s what I was made for.”

She was silent for a moment as she digested this. “I think that your gift is great enough that you can put it to any use you choose, but I also believe that the ability to write humor is a rare and special talent. There are very few people who possess real wit, and you are one of them! Wit is what sets your work apart.”

“I appreciate your kind words, dear Katie.”

“I am completely sincere! And whatever your real gift may be, I must tell you how much I admire the articles you have written speaking out against corruption and the persecution of the Chinese in San Francisco.” Her expression was earnest. “You have set an example that I am trying to follow right here in Columbia. You may be aware that we have our share of crime and corruption, too.”

“If you mean the Rush mine, yes, I’ve heard, but I must caution you against using me as a model of any sort.” There was nothing playful about Sam’s tone now. “Speaking out against corruption can be dangerous, even for a man. Those who mix crime with their business dealings are not above committing other crimes, especially when they’re threatened. You might assume that you’re safe because you’re female, but I wouldn’t depend on it.”

“But someone has to have the courage to take a stand!”

“Leave it to the men who can defend themselves, or run away if they smell danger, as I did.”

“You?!” she exclaimed in disbelief.

“I hate to disillusion one of my admirers, but that’s part of the reason I’m here. I began to hear rumblings, and it seemed wise to remove myself from San Francisco until they died down. And in all honesty, I did have another motive. I’m still young and foolish enough to entertain dreams of easy wealth. Pocket mining could be my ticket to a life of ease! That’s what Jim Gillis has been doing while living here in this cabin, so his brother Steve and I thought that we might as well give it a try, too. Let me show you around.” Sam got to his feet and held out a hand to her, seizing on the distraction before the conversation could drift onto shakier ground. He didn’t know what he’d do if Katie raised the subject of the Griffin.

She was too polite to interrupt him, so she waited, following Clemens over the hillside as he explained pocket mining to her. “You may remember that a dozen years ago, there was a veritable city on this hillside, or at least that’s what Jim Gillis tells me.” He glanced at Katie and received her nod. “Well, as you know, when the placer gold played out, this town died along with the dreams of its inhabitants. Those who stayed on, however, found an alternative to working for Rush and Van Hosten, an alternative to hydraulic mining.”

Katie found that her interest was piqued. “I have heard bits and pieces from miners at the saloon, but I’ve never fully understood what pocket mining meant.”

“Well, it’s risky. The men with families who are forced to work for Rush in order to put food on their tables would find this less dependable. Unlike ordinary placer mines, the gold here isn’t distributed evenly through the surface dirt. It’s collected in little spots, and they are far apart and hard to find... but if you discover one, you have yourself a fortune.” Sam gestured at the gouges in the hillside. “It can take years. Jim Gillis spent the first eight months of the year digging around this hill, buying his groceries on credit, until he finally discovered a pocket and took out three thousand dollars of gold in a couple of scoops of his shovel. He paid off his debts, then went on a spree until every cent was gone, bought more groceries on credit, and returned here to start digging again.” Clemens grinned as he told the story.

“He sounds like a colorful character! My childhood was crowded with men like Jim Gillis. They settled these hills, and though most either died from hard living or moved on, they’ve left their stamp. It’s just too bad that all their dreams couldn’t have come true.”

Sam chuckled. “I’ll echo that sentiment. I confess to a few dreams of my own but I haven’t much hope that they’ll be realized here. My luck was abysmal in the mines of Nevada.”

“Well, at least you have some other skills to fall back on.” Katie glanced up at him as she spoke and stepped sideways into a hole that had only been partially filled in. Her ankle turned as she lost her balance and cried out, but Sam reached out and caught her before she could topple over.

“Take care, Katie MacKenzie,” he said with a fond smile, enjoying the sensation of her soft, female form in his arms. “Certain people would hold me responsible if you were hurt in my care.”

“What do you mean by that?” She held on to him and tested her ankle, ignoring the sound of approaching hoof beats. Sam didn’t look, either; he assumed the rider was one of the Gillis brothers, who were due back from Angel’s Camp. After a short silence, however, a pair of hands gripped his shirt from behind and yanked him away from Katie.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing, Clemens?” a hoarse, angry voice demanded.

Before Sam could reply, Katie looked up in shock to see that her friend’s attacker was none other than Jack Adams. “Leave him alone!” she cried. “He’s been very kind to me!”

“Oh, is that what he calls it? I imagine that there are plenty of women in San Francisco who might use a different word!” Jack released Sam but continued to glare at him. Clemens’s own eyes began to twinkle.

“My good friend, I fear that you are giving yourself away. I can assure you that my own motives where Katie is concerned are immaculate. When you rode up, I was merely coming to her aid after she stepped in a hole and lost her balance.”

“That’s true!” Katie exclaimed. In spite of her outrage, she found that her heart was beating rapidly. In his rage, Jack looked wildly attractive.

“Well, that’s not what it looked like,” he said darkly, slanting a menacing look at Katie. “What are you doing here, anyway? Lim and Abby are out of their minds with worry. For God’s sake, they thought you’d been kidnapped by Aaron Rush!”

“Were you looking for me?” She couldn’t stop the question. “Were you worried, too?”

Sam cleared his throat. “I think I’ll leave you two alone to sort this out. Jim and Steve will be back any minute, so I’ll just head back to the cabin and see what I can scrape together for supper.” He gave Katie a nod of his curly head. “I enjoyed your visit, Katie. Feel free to ride over any time.”

“Thanks, Sam. You’ve been very kind.” She favored Clemens with a dazzling grin. When he was halfway to the cabin, Katie turned back to Jack. “Well?” she said sweetly. “Are you going to answer my questions?”

“You’re damned right I was looking for you, you little hellion! What got into you, leaving town like that without telling anyone?”

He’d stepped in front of her, and she could feel the heat and energy emanating from his strong body. “I’m surprised you had time to bother with me,” she heard herself snap. “Last time I saw you, you were all wrapped up in the simply darling presence of Maggie Barnstaple. I wouldn’t have believed that you could tear yourself away!”

Suddenly Jack was tired of games. “Jealous?” he taunted softly. “There’s no need, my sweet. Maggie is in love with someone back in New York. She’s determined to wait out her parents’ disapproval and marry him when she goes home. There’s never been anything between us except friendship.”

“I distinctly remember you encouraging me to think otherwise!”

“Those were your thoughts, Kathleen. I didn’t put them there, nor did I ever verify your suspicions.”

“Well, I didn’t put jealous thoughts in your mind today, either! I simply rode out here to get away from Columbia for a change. I admire Sam’s work, and that’s what I came to talk to him about. Nothing happened between us!”

His eyes caressed the elegant line of her neck, lingered on her parted lips, and finally met her fiery gaze. “Good.”

Suddenly it dawned on her that they were having what amounted to a lover’s quarrel, in spite of their agreement and her resolve that nothing lover-like must ever pass between them again. Katie couldn’t breathe. She ached for Jack’s touch, and when he slipped his hands around her waist and gathered her into his arms, she expelled an almost involuntary sigh of relief.

“You drive me to the brink of madness,” he whispered. His mouth burned hers in a mutually ravenous kiss, their hearts pounding in unison. Her fingers clung to his back, reveling in the feel of his muscular warmth through the fabric of his shirt. Jack’s hands slid down to cup Katie’s buttocks, fitting their bodies more tightly together and fusing their arousal.

Dimly, she realized that she would drop to the ground and give herself to him right there in broad daylight if he wanted her to. “Oh, my God, stop!” she panted, dragging her mouth away from his. “This is madness!”

Jack released her and took a step backward. Katie lifted her hands to burning cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough with shock. “I never meant—”

“It’s not your fault.” She blinked back frustrated tears. “I don’t know what possesses us, but it can’t happen again. It just can’t!”

Jack’s body seemed concentrated in the thud of his heart and the wild throb of his desire for Katie. He’d never felt this way before, and that realization sent a stab of fear through him, straight to the hidden depths of his soul. “You’re right.” He nodded. “You are absolutely right. Come on. Let’s go home.”

Chapter 20

October 22 - 27, 1864

“Well, thank you—I guess—for escorting me back to town,” Katie said as she slid from Willoughby’s back and handed the reins to Jack. “Are you sure you don’t mind returning him to the stable?”

“I have to go there anyway. You go on inside and let your friends know you’re all right.” Jack’s voice was huskier than usual, and he avoided her eyes as he crossed Willoughby’s reins with Byron’s.

“Yes, I suppose I should.” Katie fiddled with the handful of straggly, late-blooming poppies that Jack had picked for her when they’d stopped to stretch their legs on the way back from Jackass Gulch. She wasn’t sure why they both were so ill at ease, and further, she didn’t want to think about it. “Well, good-bye.”

Jack glanced down at her, nodded, and nudged Byron to turn back down Main Street. Katie walked slowly toward the saloon, watching until Jack and the two horses had turned the corner of Fulton Street. Confused, bittersweet emotions assailed her mind and battered her heart, leaving her utterly drained.

Inside the saloon, Lim and Abby rushed to meet her, exclaiming their relief and plying her with questions. When their curiosity had been satisfied, Abby said, “Thank goodness Jack stopped by looking for you. Otherwise, you might still be in Jackass Gulch, and we’d still be worrying about you!”

Katie’s eyes widened. “Jack was here? Looking for me? I thought you sent him to find me.”

Lim shook his head, watching her all the while. “No, he came here, then he went to look for you at home, then he came back again. He brought you a present.”

She was completely confused. “He certainly didn’t say anything to me about a present. Where is it?”

“It’s a she,” laughed Abby, “and she’s in the kitchen, lapping milk.”

Lim disappeared around the corner and returned holding a tiny bundle of furry patchwork. Katie stared. It was the calico kitten Jack and Maggie had been watching in front of the dry goods store.

“Jack said he was keeping his eye on her most of the day until he was satisfied she was an orphan,” Abby explained. “He just had a feeling that you’d be the person who could give her the love she needed.”

Tears stung Katie’s eyes. “He said that?”

They both nodded. Lim held out the kitten and Katie lifted it, gazing into its bright blue eyes, then held it against her cheek. The warm, velvet-soft body began to purr immediately. “I love her,” she whispered. Her eyes fell on the orange poppies that lay on the bar. “I’ll call her Poppy.”

Timing up the collar of his long tan duster against the evening chill, the Griffin watched Aaron Rush’s two assistants leave the mining offices which were located a short distance south of town. The miners themselves had gone home more than an hour before, and now it seemed that even loyalty to Rush could not keep his closest aides from their supper. The Griffin was concealed behind a cluster of pine trees as the pair walked by. He heard the bigger man say, “Damn it all, I’m starved! The boss has that Chinaman to cook for him when he decides to put the books away and go home, but I don’t got servants and I need food!” His companion, a thin fellow whose red face bespoke a fondness for whiskey, laughed and nodded his agreement as they reached their horses, mounted, and rode away.

Jack narrowed his eyes at the one-story brick building that housed the mine offices. The front windows were lit, and he could see Aaron Rush inside, moving around from time to time. Jack glanced back down the road toward town. He’d been staying away from Columbia, spending most of the past two weeks at the Gillis cabin as he waited for Gideon and Abby’s wedding, which would take place tomorrow. There was a war going on inside him over Katie. He craved her, yet he couldn’t let himself go near her. He’d begun to think of her as a fire, warm and inviting, yet dangerous if he got too close. And it seemed that he couldn’t stop himself from getting too close. As soon as the wedding was over, he was going back to San Francisco. The Griffin was retiring, but first he had to tend to some unfinished business.

Carrying his hood in one hand and his shotgun in the other, Jack took a circuitous route through the trees that led to the back of the office. Working for Harold Van Hosten had acquainted him well with the floorplan of the building. Pausing outside the rear door, he slipped the hood over his head and adjusted the eyeholes. Then, holding the shotgun lightly, he eased open the door and moved silently down the dark hallway. The door to Rush’s office was ajar. Jack stood in the narrow bar of light, looking at his nemesis, who sat hunched over a magnificent desk.

Aaron Rush appeared harmless. Sweat soaked his white shirt and unbuttoned brown waistcoat, and his plump, pink face showed signs of obvious fatigue. He took a long drink from the snifter of brandy at his elbow, then rubbed his eyes with meaty fists. Jack wondered how such a man could be capable of so much evil.

Stepping into the room, the Griffin spoke. “Mr. Rush, might I have a few minutes of your time?”

Rush looked up and gasped, paling visibly. “You! You devil! How dare you come here and show yourself to me?”

“I simply walked in the door,” Jack replied dryly. “It didn’t require a surfeit of daring on my part. There are some matters I would like to discuss with you.”

Rush fumbled in a drawer, and Jack raised his shotgun and aimed it at the older man. “Looking for your pistol? Take it out and set it on the desk, please.”

Now Aaron Rush turned beet red. “Oh, you’re smooth, Griffin, but that smart mouth of yours won’t save your hide. I’m going to see you dead!”

“Not tonight, however. Just set the gun on the desk,” Jack repeated patiently. When Rush had complied, he walked over and picked up the pistol. “Now then, since my more subtle warnings regarding your conduct seem to have had little effect, I thought it might be best to spell things out, so that there would be no room for misunderstanding.”

“You’re a thief and a murderer!” Rush shouted.

“Then we have something in common,” Jack shot back coldly. “I wish I were more inclined toward cold-blooded murder; I could save myself and this town a lot of time and trouble. However, gentlemen that I am, I’m going to give you one more chance.”

Sweat trickled down Rush’s high, flushed forehead. “I’ll see you dead, Griffin!”

“You are repeating yourself,” Jack replied in bored tones. “Now shut up and listen to me.” He placed the cold barrel of the shotgun against Rush’s jowl. “Are you listening?”

The older man swallowed, blinking rapidly. “All fight. Yes.”

“I want you to stop harassing the good people of Columbia. Leave Tsing Tsing Yee in peace. Stop trying to force him, or anyone else, to sell their properties to you. Understand?”

Aaron Rush gave an almost imperceptible nod of assent, his beady eyes straying constantly to the barrel of the shotgun that pressed his hot flesh.

“I want you to start treating the miners fairly. Pay them what they’re owed, and stop trying to cheat people out of their claims. You have plenty of gold without taking the small amounts others might find.” Jack paused for a moment to let his words sink in. “Finally, leave Gideon Henderson and the Gazette alone. Henderson and Kathleen MacKenzie must be allowed to write what they please. If I hear that you have harassed Kathleen any further, or harmed a hair on her head, I’ll kill you. That is a promise.”

Rush felt a surge of joy as he recognized the tone of the Griffin’s voice. A sly smile touched his mouth, and his eyes gleamed triumphantly as he nodded. “Of course. Whatever you say.”

There was nothing more that Jack could do. He drew the shotgun back, sick inside with the realization that he’d shown his hand. “I won’t take any more of your time, then, Mr. Rush. If you value your life, you’ll remember what I’ve said and behave accordingly.”

Aaron Rush waited until the Griffin had gone, then stood to look out his window, watching as the hooded man tossed Rush’s pistol into the hydraulic mine pits. When the Griffin swung up onto his horse and rode off into the woods, away from town, Rush allowed a slow, malevolent grin to spread over his face.

“Kathleen MacKenzie, eh?” he whispered. “My dear Griffin, at last I have discovered your Achilles’ heel!”

“I can’t believe I could have been so stupid!” Jack shouted, pacing across the dirt floor of the Gillis cabin.

“Sure you don’t want a whiskey?” Sam inquired again. He sat by the fire, thankful that the Gillis brothers had gone off to Tuttletown to take in the show at the fandango hall. In his present mood, Jack didn’t seem to care who knew he was the Griffin.

“Even while I was saying those things about Kathleen, warning him to leave her alone, I could hear the—the—”

“Emotion?” Sam suggested helpfully.

Jack stopped in his tracks and threw Clemens a quelling look. “Hmm... all right, yes, I could hear the emotion in my own voice. Just that undercurrent of passion, and that was all it took. Suddenly there was this smug twist to Rush’s mouth, and this light in his eyes. Instead of sapping his power, I fear I’ve handed him just the weapon he’s been looking for....”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“God, I wish I knew! I only confronted him because I’m leaving for San Francisco tomorrow, after the wedding. Of course, he doesn’t know that. I thought if I was menacing and mysterious enough—as the Griffin—and if he feared he might die if he defied me, I could leave with some peace of mind. But now I think it may have been a mistake. Rush has the idea that he’s omnipotent, that he can do whatever he pleases without consequence. He hates the Griffin, and he may well view Kathleen as a weapon now, to use against me.” Jack stopped to stare at Sam, the chiseled planes of his face accentuated in the fire’s glow. “Rush might try to harm Kathleen in an effort to draw the Griffin out. He won’t know that I’m gone.”

A long silence fell between them, broken only by the hissing of the damp wood. Finally Clemens puffed at his cigar and shrugged as he exhaled a stream of smoke. “Have you thought of taking Katie with you?”

Jack ran a hand over his tired eyes. “I suppose it might be the only way. If I left here alone and anything happened to her...”

“Frankly, my friend, I think it would be the best thing for her, Rush or no Rush.” Sam leaned forward, warming to the subject. “That girl needs to spread her wings, and she can’t do it here. She’s wasted in Columbia, slaving at that saloon and writing newspaper articles that few people ever read. In San Francisco, Katie would thrive, especially with the financial security you could provide.”

Suddenly Jack felt drained. He took the chair next to Sam’s and stared into the fire. “You’re right, of course. The question is, how do I accomplish this?”

“Any ideas?” Sam inquired innocently.

He swallowed, then mustered a bleak smile. “I suppose I could marry her....”

“To tell you the truth, I think you’d be doing both of you a favor!”

Jack pretended not to understand. “Well, under the circumstances, it would hardly be a conventional marriage, but that’s not the point right now—”

“I’m not one to interfere,” Sam said bluntly, “but if I were you, I’d a damned sight rather be married to Katie MacKenzie than your porcelain-proper Genevieve Braithwaite!”

Jack was numb. He couldn’t let himself think past the moment for fear of colliding with emotions that shook him to the core. “I’d rather not debate that issue right now, if you don’t mind. Of more immediate concern is how in hell I’m going to talk Kathleen into marrying me at all. It’s insane to think that she’ll agree to this.”

A slow smile spread over Sam’s face, widening his mustache. “Never try to second-guess a woman, my friend. I’ll wager that if you were to just flat-out ask her, adding a sentimental word or two, you might be surprised by her answer.”

Jack’s eyebrows arched upward as he shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know....”He sighed. “If I tell you something, will you give me your word that it will go no further?”

Clemens nodded. “Of course.”

“Nothing’s ever scared me more than the idea of proposing marriage to Kathleen MacKenzie.”

“Hmm. You don’t say.” He puffed on his cigar, then added casually, “I wonder why that is?”

“You do?” Jack’s tone was acid. “I don’t, and furthermore, I don’t want to discuss it!”

Gideon and Abby’s wedding day dawned chilly and overcast. Katie woke at first light after a restless night’s sleep. She had bathed the night before, and the curls that tumbled down her back when she got out of bed were still damp and fragrant.

Poppy mewed and stretched at the foot of the bed, watching her mistress pad barefoot out of the bedroom. The kitten considered following, but her little eyes drooped and closed, and soon she was purring through another dream.

Crisp, bright autumn leaves tumbled from the tree in front of the house. Standing at the kitchen window, Katie watched them fall and join the others that covered the neat front yard. Where was Jack? She hadn’t seen him, or Sam, since he had left her in front of the saloon days ago, and even Gideon had begun to worry that his best man might have left the foothills. Would he come to the church today? Her heart tightened at the thought of seeing him again. By now she was past wishing she’d never met Jack; he was in her blood—he’d taken her from the achingly sweet fantasies of a young lady to the ardent reality of womanhood, and it was no longer possible to pretend otherwise.

She made a pot of tea and poured a cup. It was halfway to her lips when the sound of hoofbeats startled her and the hot liquid sloshed over the rim and onto Katie’s bare toes. She didn’t feel it: her heart seemed to be beating in every part of her body as she peered through the window to see Jack dismount and stroll through the front gate.

There was a knock at the door. Katie managed to return the teacup to its saucer, then crossed to the parlor and opened the door a few inches.

In spite of his preoccupied state, Jack was enchanted by the sight of Katie peeking out, black-lashed sapphire eyes wide in her delicate, pale face. “Kathleen, could I talk to you for a few minutes?”

“I—I’m not dressed.” She thought he looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept, yet it only intensified his appeal. When he cocked a sardonic brow at the prim flannel nightgown that covered her, neck to toes, Katie saw his point and opened the door. “I suppose it’s a bit late to bother with propriety, isn’t it.”

Jack smiled. “I’m afraid so.”

Once he was inside, she kept herself busy fixing another cup of tea while Jack sat at the kitchen table and watched her. Finally there was nothing left to do but join him. “Gideon will be glad to see you. He’d begun to worry that you had gone back to San Francisco.”

“What about you? Were you worried?” He watched Katie over the rim of his teacup, his eyes keen. “Did you care?”

She blushed instantly, helplessly. “I thought we agreed that it would be better to omit such personal questions between us.”

“I changed my mind. We don’t seem to have had much luck trying to undo what’s already been done. Perhaps it would be better to go forward instead.”

His eyes held hers in a way that made it difficult for Katie to breathe. “I... don’t understand what you mean.”

“Look, Kathleen, I know this is sudden, but only in one respect. There is actually a great deal between us; we already have a relationship of some depth. Only the acknowledgment of it is sudden. I am admitting that I have strong feelings where you are concerned, but before I go any further, perhaps I should ask if you are prepared to be honest about your feelings for me.”

Jack’s voice was gentle, melting Katie’s defenses. Inwardly she groped for a touchstone, some past encounter between them similar to this one, but there was none. This time he wasn’t taunting or challenging her, nor was he breaking down her will with the sheer force of his own. At this moment, Katie felt that Jack sincerely wanted to know what was in her heart. She gazed into his eyes, caught by the soft flecks of gold within the green, and just this once allowed herself to trust him. “Yes. I have feelings for you. It’s no use pretending otherwise, though I’ve certainly tried.”

“You’ve already admitted that you’re physically attracted to me, and you’re certainly aware that it’s mutual. Perhaps you’ve thought that it’s simply because you’re lovely and available in this rather remote locale. The truth is that I have never felt so powerfully drawn to any other woman.” The sight of Katie’s slowly flushing cheeks disarmed him. Smiling, he reached across the space between them to take her hand. It was soft and small in his own. “What I would like you to tell me is whether or not you feel something more toward me.”

“Are you talking about... love?” Katie heard herself speak from far away, over the roaring of blood in her ears.

“Well, not necessarily,” he replied carefully. He felt as if he were walking a tightrope: unable or unwilling to fully explore his own feelings where Katie was concerned, yet obliged to bring things out in the open just enough to persuade her to marry him. “Do you think that there is friendship between us? Do you care for me at all?”

She nodded slowly, confused. “Jack, why are you asking me these things?”

He pulled his chair closer to hers and touched her cheek with his fingertips. “I can’t ignore the bond that has formed between us any longer. I have to return to San Francisco today, and I don’t know when, or if, I’ll be back here. I do know that I don’t want to leave you behind. I’m offering you a new life, in a city that I think you would find very exciting. If you come with me, you’ll discover that my existence there is quite different from the one I enjoy here. I know you’ll be shocked to hear this, but I actually own a business in San Francisco, and am considered to be—dare I say it?—a respectable citizen. I can offer you a comfortable home and financial security.” Jack’s tone was wryly detached as he recited the list of his own qualifications. “Actually, I think that we could deal quite well together. I realize that this is sudden...”

Katie’s head was spinning. Surely this couldn’t be happening. Any moment now she would wake up in her bed and find that their entire conversation had been a dream.

“But all I ask,” Jack continued, running a fingertip along Katie’s jaw and sending delicious shivers racing down her spine, “is that you think about what I’ve said for the rest of the morning. You can give me your answer when we all meet at the church this afternoon.”

She tried to digest his words. “I’m not sure I understand. Are you asking me to be your... mistress?”

Jack stared for a moment, startled, then threw back his head and laughed. “God, no! Did I forget to mention marriage?” Amused, he dropped to one knee and clasped her hands. “Kathleen, I am asking you to be my wife.”

A knock at the door interrupted them. “Who is it?” Katie called, her voice cracking.

“It’s Mrs. Barnstaple, my dear. I thought I ought to check the hem of your gown one more time, just in case.”

Alarmed and confused, Katie tugged at Jack’s hands. “Get up,” she hissed. “You’ll have to go out the back door. I could never explain the two of us, with me in my nightgown, to her!” Turning her head, she called again, “Wait just a moment, Mrs. Barnstaple—I’ll be right there!”

The absurdity of the situation did not escape Jack as Katie rushed barefoot across the kitchen and opened the door for him.

“Go!” she urged.

Jack grinned. “Is this any way to treat the man who has just knelt before you and offered you not only his heart, but all his worldly goods as well? Shall I interpret your behavior as a hint to brace myself for rejection later in the day?”

“Will yougo? I can’t even think straight right now—we’ll have to discuss it at the church,” Katie replied, feeling utterly crazed. When he had stepped into the backyard, a thought occurred to her and she stopped in the midst of closing the door. “Wait! I just want to know one thing. Does your sudden desire not to leave me behind in Columbia have anything to do with Aaron Rush?”

Jack met her suspicious gaze unflinchingly. “My dear, if you imagine that I am chivalrous enough to propose marriage to every damsel in distress whom I encounter, you are giving me far too much credit. Believe me, I am no knight in shining armor!”

“Of course. How could I have forgotten?” she murmured dryly. Still, watching Jack saunter across the yard and vault lightly over the picket fence, his lean-muscled body outlined against dungarees and a faded red flannel shirt, Katie felt the familiar waves of desire wash over her. To say the least, the decision that faced her would necessitate a tug-of-war between her head and her heart....

Chapter 21

October 27, 1864

The fragrance of pink and ivory hothouse roses enveloped Katie as she held the bride’s bouquet together with her own. Abby stood in front of her, clasping Gideon’s hands as they listened to the minister.

For the most part Katie was far away, her thoughts a jumble. But there remained a quiet corner of her mind that attended to the moment, enjoying the occasion and all its trimmings. She felt quite beautiful in her gown—a lavender-blue silk taffeta with goffered flounces around the hem—and she had been surprised and pleased when she’d first glimpsed herself in the mirror. Wrapped in a sash of fringed white silk, her waist looked tiny. Her breasts were high, and her creamy neck and delicate features were set off perfectly by the simple, rose-studded chignon at the base of her neck. The events of the morning left her with pink-smudged cheeks and bright, thick-lashed blue eyes that were accentuated by the pale violet of her gown.

Abby, too, looked radiant. Because this was her second marriage, she had opted for a dress of cream-colored muslin in the same style as Katie’s, with a fringed sash of pink silk. Her golden curls were cunningly adorned with a garland of pink and ivory roses that matched the bouquet Katie now held for her. Abby’s soft doe eyes were clear as she repeated after Pastor Hitchcock:

“I, Abigail, take thee, Gideon, to be my wedded husband, and I do promise and covenant, before God and these witnesses, to be your loving and faithful wife, in plenty and in want, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live.”

Katie heard the words and held them close to her heart. How serious it all was! Gazing past the bride and groom, she saw Jack, his profile burnished by the light that filtered through the stained-glass windows. He was tanned and handsome in his gray suit and blue silk cravat, accented by a white rosebud pinned to a lapel. Katie stared at his roguish features, which were sober yet softened by affection for his two friends. There was a great deal that she didn’t know about Jack. For instance, what had become of the woman he had told Abby was waiting for him? However, what she did know was important. In spite of their quarrels, he was a good man and a loyal friend. He was intelligent and witty, and he seemed to be honest. He wanted to take her away from Columbia, which both frightened and excited her. Katie was stimulated by his company; she couldn’t imagine being bored by Jack, unlike nearly every other man she had met. And last, there was the matter of the intense physical attraction between them and the deeper feelings that she could no longer deny were in her heart.

There had been a certain detachment on Jack’s part, even as he proposed marriage, that worried her. There were a great many risks involved if she agreed, but even that thought sent a thrill through her body. The more she considered Jack’s proposal, the more she realized that a new life in San Francisco as Jack Adams’s wife held the possibility of great happiness and fulfillment.

Pastor Hitchcock was saying, “By the authority vested in me as a minister of the Church of Christ, I now pronounce you man and wife.”

As bride and groom kissed, Jack glanced sideways and met Katie’s eyes. It was apparent that she had been looking at him; now she blushed tellingly. He suppressed a smile. Caught up in the challenge of convincing her to marry him, Jack had kept his own fears at bay. Now, as they threatened to rise again, he made a conscious effort to suppress them. The thought of committing himself to a lifetime with any woman was disquieting, to say the least. But Kathleen MacKenzie was not just any woman. His heart told him that there were good reasons to take her as his wife: she was intelligent, lively, and beautiful. Thoroughly unique. And she excited him physically to an extent that he had not believed possible in the past. But was that a qualification for a wife? Jonathan Wyatt, self-contained editor of the Morning Star, had his doubts. Katie was nothing like the woman he had long ago decided would make the best sort of wife. When it had become clear that he was reaching the age at which a family was desirable, Wyatt had thought that an orderly sort of marriage would be best. Passion, in and out of bed, would be less complicating if sought outside the home.

Well, it was no use having second thoughts now. He’d already proposed. As the organ sounded the recessional and Gideon and Abby walked back down the aisle, Jack went to meet Katie and offer her his arm. She gave him a guileless smile that bespoke her own mixed feelings and softened his heart.

Emerging from the church into the cool, drizzly afternoon, they found a congratulatory crowd already forming around Gideon and Abby. Pastor Hitchcock came over to shake Jack’s hand and then he turned to Katie, smiling.

“I have to tell you, my dear, how very beautiful you look today. I confess, as I watched you come down the aisle, I worried for a moment that you might outshine the bride!”

“I appreciate the compliment, Pastor, but I don’t think there was any danger of that,” Katie replied, laughing. “Abby was the loveliest, most radiant bride I have ever seen.”

“Yes, it’s a wonderful day, isn’t it? Romance is in the air!” The old man breathed deeply and sighed. “This occasion must be the stuff of dreams for you, my dear.”

“Actually, it’s more the stuff of fear!” She laughed again, nervously. “Marriage is a very serious step, isn’t it?” Katie felt Jack’s sharp glance but kept her eyes on the minister.

“That’s very true, my dear, but that’s where the magic of love steps in. Love allows us to take risks and meet challenges that we might otherwise shy away from if...”

“We were in our right minds?” Jack supplied helpfully.

Katie shot him a reproving look, while Pastor Hitchcock chuckled uneasily. “Well, I see that the crowd is thinning, so I suppose I should go over and congratulate the happy couple. Thank you for being part of the ceremony, Katie.” He clasped both her hands, then turned to Jack and shook his hand again. “You, too, Mr. Adams.”

When the minister had walked away, Jack saw his chance and took Katie’s arm. “You and I need to talk.”

“But we can’t just leave!” Panic rose in her.

“This won’t take long.” He drew her along beside him until they were behind the church, sheltered between two oak trees, their orange leaves spangled against the slate-colored sky. “Have you made up your mind?” he asked bluntly.

“I don’t know!” she cried, confused by his manner. “This is all so sudden, I haven’t had a chance to adjust to the idea—”

“Kathleen, there isn’t time for you to adjust. I have to leave today.” He stared at her for a moment, then his mouth curved slightly in an ironic smile. “Look at it this way: do you think you’ll get a better offer from the men you meet here in Columbia? Setting your feelings for me aside, this is a rare opportunity for you to enrich your life. You have too many gifts to waste them slaving your best years away in that saloon. Columbia is fading; we both know that. San Francisco is in full bloom. Come with me. You can have a home, children, interesting friends, all the books and culture you could possibly desire...” Jack paused, gazing into her eyes. “And you can have me. I’m not so bad, am I?”

Katie blushed again, dropping her eyes when he reached out to take her hand. His fingers were warm as he stroked hers, one by one, up to her fingernails. “No... of course not. It’s just that I’m—afraid, I guess.”

“Kathleen,” he whispered, “look at me.” Tipping up her chin, Jack caressed the delicate line of her jaw with his forefinger. He could feel Katie melting beneath his touch. “There is risk involved for both of us, but I’m a bit tired of playing it safe where my personal life is concerned. I’d rather be married to a warm-blooded woman than a porcelain doll.”

Katie gasped when his lips grazed hers. Then Jack was kissing her passionately, holding her chin with one strong hand while his free arm rounded her back to press her body against the length of his own. His mouth was a brand of fire, burning her doubts away, extinguishing all thought. Katie trembled in his embrace, surrendering to his touch with uncontrollable desire.

At length, he lifted his head and commanded roughly, “Say yes.”

Katie’s senses swam, and she held on to him for fear her knees would give way. Desperately, she sought to retain a measure of control over the situation. “Just a moment. First you must promise me one thing.”

Jack lifted his eyebrows quizzically. “Indeed?”

“You have to promise me that you won’t try to rule me. As your wife, I will not be your possession. I have been independent too long to take orders from anyone. Even my husband!”

He grinned, enjoying the light that flashed in her eyes. “All right, I promise not to attempt to rule you.”

“Then, yes, I’ll marry you.”

If Katie had been expecting Jack to fall to his knees with relief, declaring his love for her, she was doomed to disappointment. “Well, good. That’s settled,” he said, looking distracted. “There’s a stage at three o’clock, and we must be on it. We’ll be married in Sacramento tomorrow, and go on to San Francisco by riverboat the next morning.”

“Three o’clock!” she exclaimed. “But I have to pack!”

“You won’t need much. We’ll have new gowns made for you in San Francisco. Just toss the possessions that mean the most to you in a trunk, say good-bye to your friends, and we’ll be off. Oh, and don’t tell anyone—not even Abby or Lim—where we’ll be living. You can write to them later, but for the time being, I’d rather not have it get back to Aaron Rush.” Jack’s tone was casual.

He was already steering her back around the church, and Katie felt as if she were jumping off a cliff into the vast unknown.

“Are you going to tell Katie that you’re the Griffin?” Sam Clemens asked Jack as they walked toward the MacKenzie Saloon.

“Of course not! I haven’t even told her yet that I’m Jonathan Wyatt.”

“Really!” Sam’s thick brows jumped at this intriguing bit of information.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to explain that part. I can almost tell her the truth—that I was bored with my respectable existence in San Francisco. She already knows that I have a different sort of life there, with a stable income and a home—”

Clemens laughed. “That’s rather an understatement, my friend.”

“Do you imagine that Kathleen will be disappointed?” Jack shot back dryly. “As for the Griffin, I’m leaving him behind for good this time. I’ve done all I can under that guise, and can only hope that Rush will take the Griffin’s advice to heart—and the townspeople will stand up to him on their own.”

“What will happen to the saloon?”

“Kathleen doesn’t want it sold yet. I suppose she half fears she might need to return one day if marriage to me proves too unbearable.” His voice was laced with irony. “I spoke to Gideon, Abby, and Lim after the wedding, while Kathleen went home to pack, and they’ve agreed to run it for her. She has no desire for any share of the profits, only that the place be maintained as in the past, and continue under the MacKenzie name. I’ll supply them with the needed funds.”

The wedding reception, which had been held at the saloon, was ending, and Jack and Sam had to wait for a stream of guests clad in their Sunday best to pass by on their way out before the two men could enter. Inside, the scarred tables were covered with white linen cloths, plates with half-eaten slices of cake, and empty wineglasses. The table in the center of the room held the wreckage of the magnificent tiered wedding cake that Katie had labored over for days. Abby, still clad in her bridal gown, stood near the bar with Gideon, while Katie and Lim were emerging from the kitchen, talking animatedly.

“Hello, Mr. Adams.” Maggie Barnstaple approached, resplendent in a gown of sea-green silk, its neckline and hem flounces edged with black guipure lace. Holding out her hands, she clasped his and leaned forward to peck his tanned cheek. “It seems that congratulations are in order for you as well as Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. What a rascal you are, conducting your courtship of Miss MacKenzie in secret!”

“Yes indeed,” said Victoria Barnstaple, stepping up beside her niece. Her birdlike features were pinched with suspicious disapproval. “I find it rather curious myself. I would have hoped, since Katie’s dear parents are both deceased, that she might have come to me for a few words of advice. But then she tells me that your proposal was rather sudden.”

“But no less sincere, I assure you, ma’am,” Jack said with all the sobriety he could muster. He introduced Sam to the two women, then continued, “If it will help to allay your concern, Mrs. Barnstaple, I can promise you that Katie will want for nothing as my wife. I’ll be good to her.”

“She won’t even tell me where the two of you will be living!” Victoria protested, her voice rising.

“May I speak to you frankly, trusting that whatever I say will go no further?” Both women nodded, and he continued, “I’m a bit worried about Kathleen’s safety. Because of her outspokenness, certain people in Columbia bear her ill will, and I’m anxious to take her away from here. Perhaps I’m merely overreacting like any man in love, but I’d rather wait a while before telling anyone where we’re living. It may seem to you that I’m exercising too much caution—”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Barnstaple said, her face softening considerably. “Darling Katie’s safety must come first, and it pleases me to discover that you share my concern for her welfare. I suppose that there’s nothing for me to do but wish you both well, say a prayer, and wait for a letter.”

“I appreciate your understanding, ma’am.” Jack gave her his most sincere smile and turned to Maggie. “Miss Barnstaple, may I say that it has been a great pleasure knowing you? You are a delightful young lady, and I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you, Mr. Adams. Your friendship has meant a good deal to me, too. I shall miss you.”

Looking back over his shoulder at Sam, Jack winked slightly. “Mr. Clemens will be in town from time to time. He’s been a great friend to me, and I’m sure he’ll be glad to drop by and visit with you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Sam affirmed with a grin.

The women bade them farewell then, and Jack turned his attention to Katie. She was behind the bar, dusting the jars of brandied fruit with a wistful expression on her face.

“Look at her,” Jack murmured, scarcely aware that he spoke the thought aloud.

“It would be hard not to love such a beautiful creature,” Sam observed. “She’s glorious to look at, but a good portion of that is radiated from within. In her own way, Katie is untamed, yet also more civilized in her views and values than most people I’ve known.”

Staring at her, Jack felt the familiar rush of desire, admiration, affection, and fear, but he was becoming used to it. He braced himself and waited for it to pass. Then, as if reading his mind and heart from across the room, Abby came over. Jack didn’t see her until she put her hand on his shoulder.

“Everything will be fine,” she whispered. “Try to relax and trust in God.”

Jack smiled at her fondly. “Thanks, Abby. You’ve become quite the sage... and you’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”

“Flatterer.” She beamed.

Sam looked at his pocket watch. “It’s half-past two, in case anyone’s interested.”

“It was good of you to let Katie come alone to make her farewells,” Abby told Jack. “It’s hard for her to leave Columbia, her friends, and the saloon.”

“I think the change will do her good, though, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Heavens, yes! She’s strong, and she’ll adapt—but that doesn’t make the parting any easier.” Abby met his eyes earnestly. “You be good to her, Jack. You have a real chance for happiness.”

Before Jack had a chance to reply, Katie came out from behind the bar. She wore Brian MacKenzie’s favorite dress, the gown of violet-dotted white percale with the lace collar and violet sash. Her hair was still caught back in the smooth chignon that made her eyes look enormous, and she wore her mother’s cameo at her neck. Lim and Gideon both hugged her, then walked over with her to say their good-byes to Jack.

“Lim, you mustn’t be sad. We’ll be together again soon,” Katie promised. “You’ll all come and visit me—us—and we’ll have a fine time.” She looked up at Jack. “Isn’t that so?”

“Absolutely.” He nodded. “You are all welcome at any time in our home.”

More farewells were exchanged all around, then they walked as a group down Main Street to the stage depot. Katie found herself thinking back to scenes from her past as she gazed around at the buildings. The doors to the Wells Fargo office were open next door to the stage depot, but William Daegner, the agent, had no customers today. Katie thought back to years gone by, when men had been lined up for over three blocks, waiting to reach the beautiful gold scales where millions of dollars’ worth of gold was weighed.

Gideon patted her shoulder, sensing her mood, and Katie looked up into his eyes. “It’s sad, isn’t it, how Columbia has changed?”

“Well, change is part of life, I think.”

“I know.” She gave him a brave smile. “I’m ready.”

The stagecoach was waiting in front of the depot, ready to depart. There were no passengers from Sonora who were continuing on. Jack had already purchased their tickets, and now he and the driver lifted Katie’s hastily packed trunk up on top. Jack’s own small bag followed, but Katie insisted on keeping the one she carried with her. Sam, Abby, and Gideon exchanged hugs and good wishes with the departing couple. It wasn’t too difficult for Katie to leave them, since she knew that they would all be happy and fulfilled without her. In Lim’s case, however, it was different. They had grown up together, sharing their dreams, and Katie found this parting to be the most wrenching of all.

“I’ll write to you soon, I promise,” she told him through a mist of tears.

Lim held her hands. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll take care of the saloon for you, and we’ll look after your house, and Willoughby.”

“Only for a little while. Abby and Gideon will look for someone to help at the saloon, and you’ll be able to begin a new life in San Francisco. It will be just the way we always dreamed—”

“Yes.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I hope you find all the happiness and love you deserve, Katie.”

“I intend to!” They grinned at each other, and then Jack was gently handing her into the stagecoach.

Moments later Katie was leaning out the window, waving as the stage turned up Washington Street. She continued to look back all the way north on Broadway, until they rumbled onto Parrots Ferry Road and the last building had faded from sight. Then, no sooner had she settled herself next to her betrothed, trying to think of something to say, than a faint “meoww” broke the silence.

Jack looked startled. “What was that?”

Fearlessly she met his gaze. “It’s Poppy.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Poppy!” Katie reached into the carpetbag she’d brought on board and lifted out the calico kitten. “You gave her to me, remember? Surely you didn’t imagine that I would leave her behind?”

Jack stared, astonished, at the scrappy little kitten, then began to laugh. “To tell you the truth, I’d forgotten all about that kitten, but I can assure you that if I had remembered, I certainly would not have expected you, of all people, to abandon her.”

Braced for an argument, Katie felt a trifle deflated. “Well—good!” She sat back against the worn upholstered seat and concentrated on soothing Poppy.

Jack watched, smiling as he thought of Harriet, his grandfather’s enormous old gray cat, who took for granted her autocratic position in the Wyatt household. No one, it seemed, would be spared the changes that Katie’s arrival would cause, and Jack was beginning to look forward to watching the drama unfold.

Chapter 22

Sacramento, California
October 29 - 31, 1864

From the moment of her departure from Columbia, Katie had little opportunity to dwell upon the past. She hadn’t traveled to Sacramento for years, and the winding, bumpy journey was fascinating in itself. The weather continued to be chilly, bleak, and damp, but the landscape was inexpressibly lovely to her fresh eyes. As they descended toward California’s central valley, the hills softened and the pine trees began to disappear. The bleached summer grass, not yet returned to green lushness by the rains of autumn, served as a backdrop for dramatic scrub oak trees. Their twisted branches were clotted with mistletoe or blanketed in golden-yellow wild grape. Against the dark background of the oak, scattered ailanthus trees sprang out in pale lemon, or an occasional poplar blazed orange fire. Where the dry creekbeds marked canyon bottoms, there were feathery willows, and the entire underbrush was a tangle of low-growing wild peach, dense manzanita, and red-berried toyon.

And the views changed constantly. In Calaveras County, the bare hilltops were littered with chunks of dark porous rock. Ages ago a volcano had spouted here, and the broken lava mixed with fragments of slate to make it hard going for the stagecoach.

Jack’s horse was ridden partway by an extra stage driver. When more passengers joined them, however, Jack gave up his seat and transferred to Byron’s back. It left little opportunity for communication between Katie and her future husband, but she found that she didn’t mind. His nearness only served to remind her of the chance she was taking, leaving behind a familiar, emotionally safe world and heading toward a future filled with unknowns—as someone’s wife. Every time Katie glanced out the stagecoach window at Jack, ruggedly graceful astride Byron, countless conflicting emotions rushed over her as she thought of sharing the rest of her life with him. Warm, excited, and panicky, she would turn to one of the other passengers and strike up a diverting conversation or hold the purring Poppy nearer for reassurance.

When they reached Sacramento the next day, Katie was dusty and tired but too excited to think of sleep. With an unsettling mixture of anticipation and fear, she allowed Jack to help her down from the stagecoach. The office for the California Stage Company was located in the Orleans Hotel, where, she learned, they would spend their wedding night.

The Orleans was probably the grandest hotel in Sacramento. Originally it had been shipped, precut, around Cape Horn from New Orleans, then assembled piece by piece on Second Street. After it had burned in the fire of 1852, the Orleans was immediately rebuilt in brick and now boasted a reading room, billiard room, saloon, and the stage office. Upstairs the accommodations ranged from tastefully modest rooms to plush, spacious suites.

Katie moved through the next few hours in a daze. Jack took a suite for them, comprised of a parlor, bathroom, and bedchamber, all decorated in shades of forest green and ivory. Then he went off to make arrangements for their wedding while Katie took a long, hot bath and washed her hair with French soap that smelled of damask rose. Afterward she put on a soft cotton chemise and dried her hair in the sunlight that streamed through the bedroom windows. Their suite overlooked Sacramento’s bustling, muddy streets, while the wide Sacramento River wound behind, barely a quarter-mile in the distance.

Slipping into a wrapper, Katie peeked around the parted draperies and wondered at all the people who walked and rode along the thoroughfare below. Some of them looked like the rough mountain men and miners who frequented her saloon in Columbia, but many more appeared to be prosperous, civilized members of an upper class. Friendly merchants exchanged greetings with passersby, while children walked with their mothers or played together on the wooden sidewalks. There were establishments of every description: general stores, a French importer, provision stores, a daguerrotype gallery, bakeries, a millinery shop, banks, and hotels as far as she could see. A block behind the Orleans was the waterfront, crowded with vessels, while the river was dotted with fishing boats. Sacramento exuded an energy that was irresistible, and Katie found herself looking forward more than ever to discovering the delights of San Francisco.

A knock at the door roused her from her daydreams. Expecting Jack, she was surprised to find a meek-looking maid standing in the hallway.

“Mr. Adams asks that you meet him downstairs at five o’clock.”

“What time is it now?” Katie asked.

“It’s nearly four,” the girl replied. “There’s a clock on the table in the parlor.”

“Oh. Thank you. Could you come back in half an hour to help me fasten my gown?” Katie asked.

“I’d be happy to, ma’am!”

Katie was glad of the brief respite. It allowed her to lie down for a bit, then dress leisurely. She wondered if Jack intended to be married without a bath and shave, dressed in the flannel shirt and dungarees he had been wearing when they arrived. Would he then come to their marriage bed with the dust of the road on him? Katie decided not to think about it. Instead, she thought of the vices Jack did not have. Unlike nearly every man she knew, he did not drink liquor, smoke cigars, or chew tobacco. During the years spent in the saloon, Katie had developed a powerful aversion to the smelly brown liquid filling the spittoons. A little dust on Jack’s body would be a blessing compared to tobacco juice in his mouth!

At ten minutes before five o’clock, the maid had departed again, and Katie stood surveying herself before the full-length cheval mirror in the bedroom. She wore the gown from Abby and Gideon’s wedding because it was the best one she owned. Perhaps it was too fancy for the wedding Jack had in mind, but stubbornly, Katie didn’t care. Even though they wouldn’t be married in a church, with all their friends present, she still wanted to look as much like a bride as possible.

It took her a few minutes to pin her ebony hair into a smooth, loose chignon at the base of her neck. Her deep blue eyes were brilliant with excitement, her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she had applied some rose-tinted salve to lips. The gown fit beautifully, showing off her white shoulders and nipping in at her waist. As her only adornment, Katie pinned her mother’s cameo between her breasts. She wished she had flowers and suddenly found herself remembering her birthday, and the bouquet of lilies and larkspur that her father had given her. She had met Jack that day. How long ago it seemed! For a moment, she closed her eyes and pictured both her parents in her mind, together, watching over her and smiling. This was her wedding day, and she knew they were with her in spirit, praying for her happiness.

Poppy was curled in the corner of a green velvet settee in the parlor, purring contentedly after her lunch of fresh salmon. Katie paused to stroke the kitten, then rustled into the hall and closed the door. The walk downstairs seemed endless. Her palms were damp, and she felt slightly nauseous. Would Jack laugh when he saw that she had dressed so elaborately? What if he made her go back upstairs and change into a dress that better matched his own attire?

Then she stepped into the ornate lobby and saw Jack stand and come forward to meet her. Clad in a perfectly tailored midnight-blue morning coat over a crisp white shirt, simple wrapped cravat, double-breasted waistcoat, and black trousers, he was indescribably handsome. His hair had been trimmed, he was freshly shaven, and his clean, tanned face looked appealingly healthy against the white of his collar.

Although overwhelmed at the sight of him, Katie was determined not to show more emotion than he did. Taking her cue from his friendly but polite smile, she held out her hand and said, “How did you manage this miraculous transformation?”

“Surely you didn’t expect me to attend my own wedding in the guise of a grimy frontiersman?” He laughed softly. “Actually I have friends here in Sacramento, and in the past I have kept some clothes at their house against the occasional concert or play. Today, I visited Stephen and Amanda to ask them to act as witnesses for our wedding—and while I was there, I bathed, shaved, and put on more suitable clothing. I thought you might appreciate the time alone.”

During this speech, Katie sensed a preoccupation in Jack as he steered her through the lobby of the Orleans Hotel and out onto Second Street. Now she could feel the tension emanating from his strong body, which fueled her own anxiety. “Jack, is something bothering you? Have you changed your mind? If so, you may certainly tell me, and I can assure you that I will understand. I mean—”

Looking down, he gently placed a silencing finger over her mouth. “Hush. No, I haven’t changed my mind, but yes, I admit that something is bothering me. I thought we would walk to the church so that I could talk to you about it.”

“All right.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, turning west onto K Street and heading away from the river. Jack guided her through the muddy thoroughfare and up onto the wooden sidewalk as Katie gingerly held up her skirts. Finally he said, “Jack Adams is not my real name.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your name, when we marry, will be Wyatt. My true name is Jonathan Wyatt. Adams is my mother’s maiden name.”

“I don’t understand!”

“I became Jack Adams when I went to the foothills because the life I led there was so different from the one I have in San Francisco. I felt like a different man, and I suppose it was an escape. When I was there, I gradually became another man, and in time that identity seemed more real to me than the one I had as Jonathan Wyatt, in San Francisco.”

Katie was shaking her head. “It’s so confusing... but perhaps I do understand. Perhaps I’m just stunned. It simply never occurred to me...” She twisted her hands together, thinking. “It makes sense, in a way—your trips back to San Francisco and the vagueness of your answers whenever I asked about your life in the city. Looking back, you did seem torn between the two existences. What concerns me most right now, however, is—” Katie broke off, wondering how to phrase her thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Who is Jonathan Wyatt? Do I know the man I am about to marry?”

Jack turned and looked down at her, his sage-green eyes sober. “I can’t imagine that the man you know will change very much, but on the other hand, I hesitate to make any promises. I honestly don’t know. You’ll understand better when we arrive in San Francisco and you are able to see for yourself what your life will be like.” He started to walk again, steering Katie around the traffic outside a dry goods store. “Perhaps it would be best for you to approach this marriage from a practical standpoint, rather than dwelling on my personal qualities as a husband.”

Katie’s head was spinning. “What do you mean?”

“You haven’t forgotten what we talked about when I first suggested marriage to you?”

“Don’t you mean proposed marriage?” Somewhere at the back of her mind an alarm was sounding, setting her nerves on edge and alerting all her senses. Jack’s tone of voice was too studied, too casual. He’d been holding her at arm’s length ever since the scene between them at the Gillis cabin, and at the time that had suited her own need to keep a safe distance from her feelings. Now, however, on the brink of their wedding, he was withdrawing even further, and it frightened her.

Jack ignored her correction. “We agreed that there were plenty of sound reasons for you to marry me, aside from the relationship between us. It might be wiser for you to focus on those for the time being, rather than on me. I feel confident that you and I will have a perfectly respectable marriage if we allow enough time to get our bearings.” He gave her what was meant to be a reassuring smile. “There’s the church.”

Startled, Katie found that they’d turned the corner of Sixth Street and were approaching a handsome brick church. A well-dressed young man and woman were standing on the steps, waving.

“Hello, Jack,” the woman called. “I’m so excited! Do hurry and introduce us to your beautiful bride!”

The next few hours passed in a blur of unreality for Katie. Reverend Benton, a dynamic Congregational minister who had already made his mark in Sacramento, performed the wedding ceremony in a church that was empty except for the bride, groom, and Stephen and Amanda Knauer, who acted as witnesses. Reverend Benton had agreed to marry them as a favor to Jack, who apparently was a long-standing friend. The Knauers seemed overjoyed that Jack was finally taking a wife, and it soon became clear to Katie that they believed he had been overcome by true love. Amanda found the sheer romance of it all quite thrilling.

During the ceremony, Jack was irresistibly charming. He had even arranged for a small bouquet of white roses to be delivered for the bride. Everyone exuded pleasure, so Katie tried her best to act her part, too. She smiled into Jack’s eyes as she recited her vows, promising to love, honor, and cherish Jonathan Wyatt, although the name meant nothing to her and the man himself was little more than a stranger. As if sensing her numbness, Jack elicited a shock of passion from her by kissing her intimately after they were pronounced man and wife.

The Knauers took the Wyatts in their carriage to their large brick home on Third and N streets, and there the newlyweds were treated to a delicious candlelight supper of pea soup, pheasant, apples and rice, carrot pudding, and Damson plum tart. Katie ate and chatted dutifully, though she couldn’t taste the food and the champagne went to her head. She wished that she had followed Jack’s example and declined it. When Amanda Knauer remarked worriedly that Katie appeared to be a bit pale, Jack replied that she was merely tired from the long journey and the excitement of the day. Fondly he patted her hand, and Katie nodded and smiled agreement. She felt as if she had been dropped into a play set on an unfamiliar stage with actors who were all playing their roles to perfection—and demanded the same of her. Even Jack seemed transformed; sophisticated and at ease among Sacramento’s most elite citizens, he bore little resemblance to the man she had known in Columbia. His voice seemed more cultured, his laughter softer, his conversation more careful and intelligent. His movements were more controlled, less infused with masculine energy. In short, Jonathan Wyatt was a gentlemen.

It was past nine o’clock when the Knauers’ carriage deposited them at the Orleans Hotel. Katie had never felt more drained, and desired only to climb into bed, pull the covers over her head, and sleep endlessly. She moved up the stairs in a fog, barely aware of Jack walking next to her until he unlocked the door to their suite and lightly touched the small of her back to signal her to enter. Even through her gown and corset, the brush of his fingers sent fire streaking over her nerves. Involuntarily her eyes were drawn to the wide gold band on her left hand as she remembered that the wedding night still loomed before them. Her heart began to pound so loudly, she was certain he must hear it.

Inside, Jack went immediately into the bedroom and lit the lamp next to the magnificently carved Gothic revival bed. Katie hovered in the doorway, watching as he stripped off his coat and sat down on the forest-green velvet bedspread. She liked to watch Jack move: he was graceful and masculine all at once, the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexing against the fine linen of his shirt as he bent to remove his shoes. Soft lamplight burnished his hair, and when he looked up at her, Katie was struck by the sober male beauty of his face.

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Wyatt?” he asked softly.

“Fine, I think.” She tried to smile. “A little tired.” She prayed that he would suggest she get a good night’s sleep.

He stood up and held out his hands to her. “Why don’t you let me help you relax?”

Katie went to him with trepidation. Her cheeks were warm, but her hands were cold as she put them in Jack’s. “It’s hard to believe that we’re really married.”

“But it’s true. You are my wife now, Kathleen.”

The tone of his voice told her that he fully intended to exercise his rights as her husband. She had come to believe that the physical attraction between them was too vital to extinguish, but now she felt as shy as if Jack were touching her for the first time. In the past, she had given herself over to the loss of control, to the flame that caught and spread in spite of its forbidden nature. It had seemed to Katie that they were both powerless... then. Was that passion lost now? Everything seemed different, including Jack himself. It was as if they were strangers who had met on their wedding day.

Slowly Jack turned her around and began to unfasten the back of her gown. She felt freezing cold; it was all she could do to keep from shivering. After sliding the sleeves down her arms to free the top half of her body, Jack put his hands on her shoulders and kneaded gently, soothingly. Something seemed to break inside of Katie. She nearly sagged against him and whimpered with pleasure. His fingers found every source of hidden tension, probing expertly until she sighed with gratitude. When the touching ceased she held her breath, eyes closed. Time seemed suspended... and then warm, firm lips pressed the nape of her neck, burning, sending shivers down her spine. Suddenly Katie was anticipating the next step, when he would pull her into his arms and kiss her in earnest.

“Relax, Kathleen,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “And wait.”

His tone was seductive, and she was startled to feel a hot twinge between her legs. Jack removed her gown and unwieldy crinoline, leaving Katie standing in stockings, lace-trimmed drawers, chemise, and corset. He surveyed her, and the patient, predatory gleam in his eyes made her blush. Her heart beat not with fear, but with expectation. From beneath her lashes, Katie watched as he removed his waistcoat and unbuttoned his snow-white shirt to give her a glimpse of the tanned, lean-muscled chest behind it. The memory of his scent and warmth heightened her desire.

With excruciating slowness, Jack unlaced Katie’s corset, tossed it aside, then slid down her gauzy drawers so that she could step out of them. Then he stood back and gazed at her for a moment. Her legs were slim and sleek in the creamy stockings, and the simple cotton-and-lace chemise nipped in at her waist and clung to the curves of her full breasts. Jack’s blood pounded. Reaching around, he removed the pins from her hair so that it spilled in soft, fragrant waves to her hips.

“My God, but you are beautiful,” he murmured. Try as he might to distance himself from her emotionally, the physical passion Katie elicited from him always caught him off guard. There was something about her—that mixture of intelligence, naiveté, gloriously innocent beauty, and lush, untutored sexuality—that aroused him in a way that no other woman ever had.

Katie could feel Jack’s heat as he stood before her and ran his fingers lightly up her arms, caressing her throat and shoulders, then down over the sides of her chemise. His eyes held hers as he paused for a moment before grazing her breasts with his fingertips. Instantly Katie’s breathing changed. The tingling ache in her breasts was almost unbearable. Her nipples tautened against the thin cotton of the chemise, and she felt an ache begin to build deep inside her, a throbbing that left her moist with desire. Still gazing into Katie’s eyes, Jack reached for her trembling hand and placed it over the ridge outlined against his trousers. Her blush deepened even as she curved her fingers around him.

“I want you, my beautiful wife,” he said huskily.

Katie nodded. “I want you, too,” she managed to whisper.

He flicked open the tiny buttons of her chemise, his eyes devouring her body as it slipped to the ground. Proud and shy, she stood before him, naked except for the pale stockings. Jack moved closer and traced the curve of her waist and hips with wondering hands, then cupped her buttocks and drew her against him. Involuntarily, she arched against the hardness of his manhood. Her nipples, pink and soft as rosebuds, pressed the crisp hair on his chest. His shirt had disappeared, and now Katie fumbled boldly with the buttons on his trousers. When he was naked she longed to touch him, but the sight of his erection and the male strength of his body made her shy. Smiling, Jack drew back the bedclothes, scooped Katie up, and deposited her on the soft sheets.

Katie stretched like a cat, luxuriating in her own sensuousness. As the lamplight spread its amber glow over the tantalizing curves of her body, she looked up to see Jack poised above her like a bronzed god. There was nothing similar about their bodies except for a common beauty.

Jack knelt between her legs and slowly lifted one so that the ankle rested on his broad shoulder. With exquisite deliberation, he rolled the stocking down Katie’s leg, his fingers trailing fire. When her foot was bare, he kissed her instep, the slim curve of her ankle, and then each toe until she nearly cried out from the rush of intense sensations.

Through the mist of her arousal, Katie marveled dreamily at the sight of Jack’s torso as he knelt before her: the muscled definition of his chest, the ridges of his flat belly and narrowness of his hips, the line of dark hair that led downward to the proud essence of his masculinity. She loved the strong, leonine curve of his head and neck as he bent toward her. The painstaking care he took to bring her to new heights of pleasure made her feel precious and more feminine than she had ever imagined possible.

By the time Jack had removed Katie’s other stocking and paid homage to her left foot, she thought she would go mad with longing. Every nerve ached for him, and now, as he came to her, she held up her arms in welcome. The sensation of his hard, warm body pressing against the length of her own made her gasp. She drank in the feel of his back, she sought his mouth, she rubbed against his chest, and she yearned for release from the feverish pressure in her loins.

Jack was hungry, too. Katie’s mouth was ambrosia, and he drank his fill before tasting her neck, shoulders, and, finally, her breasts. They were swollen with desire, the rosy nipples eager for his lips. Katie strained against him as he leisurely kissed and circled his tongue around each one, molding a breast with one hand while his other strayed lower, caressing the satiny surface of her belly until he found the moist, hot place between her legs. His fingers surprised her. His evocative probing, combined with the sensation of his mouth at her breast, made her pant. She writhed helplessly as Jack’s skilled touch brought her higher and higher until, at last, she seemed to burst under a tidal wave of acute ecstasy. For a moment she felt paralyzed, as if she’d been cast up on a beach after a storm. Blissful sensations continued to radiate from her loins, but she ached for something more.

Jack moved upward to kiss her again, his tongue working its magic with ease. Then Katie’s hands sought and found his pulsing member, which suddenly seemed to grow even larger as he groaned with pleasure. When he moved inside her hands, her hips joined in the rhythm, and then, when the ache had reached the point of pain, Katie guided him home. His first thrust gave them both a jolt, and Jack paused for a moment, reveling in the sensation. They mated then in earnest, their damp bodies straining together, the world and all its cares forgotten. Through it all, they kissed and touched, as if they couldn’t get close enough. Katie spiraled higher and higher, crying out when she climaxed again, arching against him with all her might. Jack’s own release came soon after in a burning series of contractions that left him spent and dazed. Slowly he lowered himself next to Katie and, gazing deeply into her eyes, reached out to caress her cheek with reverent fingers. He’d almost forgotten what it was like with Katie....

“Meoww!”

Poppy sprang blindly into the air, hooked her claws into the velvet bedspread, and hoisted herself to safety near their feet. Katie managed a soft giggle as she lay cradled in against Jack’s chest, trying to get her breath back. The kitten scrambled toward them. Her mistress reached out to pet her and Poppy purred and writhed with pleasure.

“Are you all right?” Jack inquired.

“Yes....” Was it simply weariness that she detected in his tone? “How do you feel?”

He stroked the damp curls back from Katie’s brow and sighed. “Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt that this marriage has been consummated,” he said dryly. “There’s no turning back now....”

Chapter 23

November 1 - 2, 1864

“Sacramento is said to be another wonder of the world,” Amanda Knauer announced proudly, “for it has risen as rapidly, and been burned down as many times, as San Francisco. We have floods to contend with, too. And yet Sacramento thrives, even though the prosperity brought by gold is past. Other towns have died in the last few years, but we will continue to grow because we were wise enough not to rely on the gold for our security.”

Katie looked around the bustling waterfront. Jack and Stephen were off making certain that Katie’s trunk was loaded properly on the steamer they were about to board for San Francisco. She wasn’t particularly interested in discussing the economy of Sacramento, but Amanda seemed so earnest, and it was, after all, a way to pass the time. Katie certainly didn’t want to answer questions about her relationship with Jack, several of which Amanda had already attempted to pose. “It clearly is evident that Sacramento has become quite the shipping center.” She gestured below them at the river, which was crowded with barks, brigs, schooners, sloops, steamers, and barges.

Amanda nodded, dark eyes wide in her pale, thin face. “That’s only part of it. This valley is going to provide a bounty of food. Already we have many flour mills, and thousands of acres are planted with fruit orchards and other crops. We have dozens of brickyards, several lumber mills—”

“Kathleen, it’s time to board!” Jack approached, winding his way through the bales, crates, and boxes that were being unloaded along the levee.

Katie glanced back at the unfinished-looking city, shrouded in the pinkish-gray fog that marked most sunrises in the Central Valley at this time of year. The distant mountains where she had spent nearly all her life were hidden from view. In the midst of her excitement, Katie felt a bittersweet pang for the life she was leaving behind. “I want to thank you and Mr. Knauer for your many kindnesses,” she said, taking Amanda’s hand. “I’ll always remember Sacramento as the place where I began my marriage.”

“It was our pleasure.” Amanda beamed. “I hope you realize how lucky you are to have caught Jack Wyatt. Wait until the female population of San Francisco hears! I wish I could be there to witness the reaction as the word spreads....”

Jack took his wife’s arm, giving Amanda a sharp look as he did so. “Don’t talk nonsense, Mandy. I’m certain that the only response to the news of our marriage will be warm congratulations.”

“What about Gen—” Amanda caught herself, realizing that Katie might not even know about Genevieve Braithwaite. “Of course, you’re right. You know how we women are, we just love the thought of gossip! Now you two have a wonderful trip, and give our love to—”

“I’ll be sure to pass along regards to all your friends,” Jack cut in. He gave Amanda a kiss, shook hands with Stephen, and waited while Katie made her good-byes. At last the newlyweds boarded the magnificent steamer.

Jack told Katie that the steamships that plied the Sacramento River were known as water palaces, and she mentioned that Samuel Clemens had called the riverboats he had piloted “wedding cakes on water.” Jack laughed at that, and Katie delighted briefly in the conversational spark. It was reassuring to recall that they had once engaged in heated verbal exchanges, matching wits with gusto.

Soon after they boarded the Senator, however, Jack slipped back into his role of detached husband. He stood on deck chatting with some businessmen he knew who were traveling to San Francisco, while Katie strolled around and admired the steamer. The Senator was indeed a water palace. From the dock it had looked like a splendid white house, a first impression unsullied by the view close up, for inside it boasted fine, large doors, spacious windows, and galleries with fittings and furniture to match. In the ornate saloon, Katie observed the rather curious mixture of passengers. The women were nearly all well dressed and appeared to be refined, but such was not the case with the men. Although some, like Jack, wore tailored suits, most looked as if they had come from the foothills in their worn jackets and work boots.

Every male on the steamer seemed to be chewing tobacco, even the boys. Katie found this disheartening, for she’d hoped the habit would not be so widespread in the larger cities. At least they didn’t spit as often as the miners of Columbia, although many of the men used their fingers for handkerchiefs. Katie reminded herself that she was still in the West, where men rejoiced in defying rules of etiquette.

South of Sacramento, the river was beautiful. Sloughs and hidden coves branched off in every direction, thick with water hyacinths. Fish jumped as they fed, and flocks of geese and ducks flew overhead, their cries filling the morning air. It was a new world for Katie, and she loved it all.

At length, Jack found Katie and took her to the dining salon for lunch. In spite of the room’s elegant appointments, the passengers’ manners made the meal a crowded, rushed affair. While they ate, Jack remarked that the steamer was making excellent time. It was always much quicker to travel downstream to San Francisco rather than the reverse, and the tide was out, which further hastened their journey. With luck, they would dock before sunset.

“I hope that you’ll have your first look at San Francisco in daylight,” Jack said, spearing a last bit of potato. “It’s nothing like Columbia....”

He gave her a wry smile, and Katie took a deep breath. The future was rushing toward her now, and there was nothing she could do to slow its approach. In a way, she was glad. Soon she would see her new city, her new home, and have some idea what the future would hold. She told herself that in just a few hours, the uncertainty would be over.

“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wyatt,” Elijah said, receiving the news of his employer’s marriage with his usual unruffled composure. If he was shocked, he didn’t show it. “Welcome to San Francisco.”

The black manservant’s warmth came as a great relief to Katie. As Jack handed her up into the beautiful carriage awaiting them near the Pacific Street wharf, she returned Elijah’s smile. “Thank you very much! I’m glad to meet you, too, Elijah.”

For his part, Jack ignored the other man’s keen, amused glance. “I appreciate your meeting us, and hope you didn’t have to wait long. How is everything at home?”

“Just fine, sir. Your grandfather and brother were happy to receive your telegram and are looking forward to your arrival, but they failed to mention Mrs. Wyatt to me....”

“That’s because they don’t know,” Jack replied laconically. “You may take a more scenic route to Rincon Hill, so that my wife can have a look at Sail Francisco before the light goes completely.”

As the carriage set off toward the hills of downtown, now plum-tinted in the twilight, Katie turned to Jack and murmured politely, “I didn’t know that you had a grandfather and brother at home.”

“Yes, you did. I told you last July, when I first suggested that you come to San Francisco with me.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

Katie’s voice rose. “Ate you referring to a conversation that took place between us on the night that my father died? How could you possibly expect me to remember information imparted to me at such a time?”

“Kathleen,” he warned, inclining his head toward Elijah, “I would prefer to have this discussion later, when we are alone.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Fine.” Why, she wanted to ask, had he not prepared her more fully for the circumstances of this new life? Why had he not told her all about his house, his business, and the family members who shared his home? Katie felt powerless and frustrated. She wanted to be happy and excited about the future that stretched before her, but Jack’s attitude thwarted that.

It was hard not to be stirred by her first sights of San Francisco, however. The busy streets were crowded with people, wagons, and carriages of every description. Store owners were bringing in their merchandise off the sidewalks as Elijah drove the carriage up Clay Street, and men were crowding into the doors of saloons. When Katie remarked on the number of buildings under construction, Jack explained:

“San Francisco is being rebuilt with Nevada silver. This is a boom that rivals the gold rush. The silver mines have yielded more than fifteen million dollars so far this year, and I’d estimate that more than a thousand new buildings have gone up here as a result of the fortunes made in Nevada. We’re beginning to have a city of quality.”

“I have always heard that it is quite fabulous.”

Jack arched an eyebrow. “Fabulous, perhaps, but not always in the best of taste.”

Katie opened her mouth to reply, then closed it, dumbfounded. Was this the down-to-earth, unpretentious man she had known in Columbia?

Sandy hills rose up around Stockton Street, imposing a western barricade. Elijah turned south, and before long they emerged into virtual countryside. Katie stared out the window with interest, while Poppy scrambled onto Jack’s lap. When he began to stroke her, gently rubbing her neck with his strong fingers, the noise of the kitten’s purring filled the carriage.

Rincon Hill curved around the foot of the bay, much of which had been filled in in recent years to create a straighter waterfront for the city. Rincon Hill rose above the fog, majestic and imposing with its elegant brick homes—particularly those of South Park, which was built along the western slope. South Park consisted of mews patterned after those in London; residential blocks were centered on a floral park, and the whole area was enclosed by a locked iron fence. Katie stared in astonishment when Elijah pulled up at the gate and got out to unlock it.

“You don’t live here, do you?” she exclaimed.

“Any complaints?” Jack countered mildly, his large hand stroking Poppy’s tiny body.

“Why didn’t you tell me? All you said was that you had ‘a house.’ I expected something considerably more modest!” She fell silent when Elijah climbed back up onto his seat.

“Kathleen, are you familiar with the expression ‘pleasant surprise’? Usually it evokes elation, smiles... that sort of thing.”

He looked so calm, even amused, as he reclined against the upholstered seat, watching her with hooded green eyes and petting the besotted Poppy. Her husband made her furious. And how could her kitten turn traitor this way? Poppy appeared to be enamored of Jack to the point of forgetting her mistress completely.

The carriage drew up before a handsome brick house embellished with Palladian windows, pillars, and porches. The house was flanked by cypress trees and surrounded by a graceful iron fence. Elijah got down to open the door for them, and Katie turned to Jack, intent on speaking her mind.

“I assume that your reference to the ‘pleasant surprise’ was meant to infer that I am reacting inappropriately. I do not appreciate your attempt to turn this around so that I appear to be at fault.” Her eyes blazed at him. “When I accepted your proposal of marriage, I asked you to promise not to try to rule me, and you agreed. May I suggest, sir, that your purposeful withholding of information is nothing more than a means to exercise power over me. I do not even know what your occupation is. You hold all the cards and make all the rules, but I am raising an objection. Perhaps you imagine that you have married the sort of woman who will meekly acquiesce, settling for a pat on the head and a crumb of information. If so, pray allow me to dispel that misconception. If you are unable to accord me the respect I deserve as your wife and partner, then perhaps you ought to send me back to Columbia right now!”

Jack coolly returned her glare. “That’s a tempting suggestion. I’ll think about it. In the meantime, why don’t we go inside and have supper.”

Elijah, waiting outside the carriage for the storm to pass, now opened the door and helped Katie down. As Jack passed him, he carefully avoided his employer’s eyes, but the merest suggestion of a smile tugged at his mouth. Until now, working for Jonathan Wyatt had been an ordered affair, so much so that it threatened to become tedious at times. It was also financially secure, which Elijah appreciated, but he had always hoped to see the day when someone or something would shake up the Wyatt household. Obviously that day had come, courtesy of Kathleen MacKenzie Wyatt, and Elijah could not have been more delighted.

Ambrose Summers sat on a maroon wing chair in the parlor. The cavernous, mahogany-paneled room was dark except for the small lamp at his elbow and the fire blazing in the marble fireplace. A worn copy of David Copperfield lay open on the curve of his belly, below which curled the fat, furry body of Harriet the cat.

Half dozing, the old man raised his head and pushed back his spectacles when the sound of male and female voices reached him from the entry hall. So, his grandson had come home at last. Summers smiled, pleased. Perhaps now Jonathan would settle in and stay put. Ambrose wasn’t particularly fond of Genevieve Braithwaite, but one couldn’t be choosy in the West, and Genevieve was the most beautiful woman in San Francisco. She’d be a proper, elegant wife, and she’d give Jack beautiful babies. That’s what the boy needed: a family. Then he’d abandon these mad jaunts to the gold country and stay home where he belonged. He’d have to be a fool to leave if Genevieve was in his bed.

Ambrose turned dreamy at the thought of becoming a great-grandfather. It would be wonderful to dandle an infant on his knee for a few minutes, then turn it back over to its parents. All the benefits of parenthood with none of the responsibilities....

“Grandfather?”

Squinting at the shadowy figure in the doorway, Ambrose struggled to sit up, but Harriet’s weight proved too great a burden.”Jack? Welcome home! Come in here and give your grandfather a proper greeting. Was that Genevieve’s voice I heard?”

“No, Grandfather.” Wyatt reached back and drew into the doorway a figure wearing what appeared to be a dark, shapeless dress, but the light was too dim to make out the woman’s identity. “There is someone I’d like to introduce to you.”

As they crossed the shadowy room, Harriet began to dig her claws into Summers’s legs and emit a low growl. “Harriet, behave yourself! What’s gotten into you, you cantankerous old woman? Don’t you remember Jack? “

Jack himself had forgotten all about Poppy, who was curled into the crook of Katie’s arm, half-hidden in the folds of her blue-gray traveling cloak. Just as he was about to reach for her, the calico kitten sprang forward and landed on Harriet, who was several times larger. Horrified and furious, the old cat hissed menacingly, but Poppy batted at her bewhiskered face before springing down to the Persian carpet and running for shelter.

“God’s eyebrows!” Ambrose exclaimed, hoisting himself to a full sitting position. “How did that thing get into the house? Jack, find that little beast and get rid of it before it attacks Harriet again!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Grandfather,” Wyatt replied with a weary sigh.

“What the devil are you talking about?” he blustered. Leaning forward, Ambrose finally got a good look at the woman standing beside his grandson. “Jonathan, who—”

“The kitten belongs to my wife, I’m afraid. Grandfather, I’d like you to meet Kathleen MacKenzie Wyatt, your new granddaughter-in-law. Kathleen, this is my grandfather, Ambrose Summers.”

The old man peered over his spectacles at Katie. Through the shadows, he saw that the young woman’s body was swathed in a dark cloak that belled out over her gown and crinoline. She had glossy black hair smoothed back into a chignon and a delicate, pale face. What immediately struck him, however, were her eyes. Large, sapphire blue, and thickly fringed with long dark lashes, Kathleen’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of defiance, intelligence, and uncertainty. Ambrose was intrigued. Apparently his new granddaughter-in-law had character.

“So, you’re the girl from Columbia,” he muttered, thinking aloud.

Katie was startled. Could Jack have told his grandfather about her before returning to the foothills last month? “Yes, I’m from Columbia, Mr. Summers, and I’m glad to meet you.”

“Call me Ambrose—or even Grandfather. Whatever suits you.” His sweeping mustache curved upward as he chuckled absently. “I think I’m going to like you, Kathleen, even if you have brought another cat in to invade poor Harriet’s territory. Just between us, I suspect that it will be good for all of us to have our routines upset a bit. I’m glad you decided to leave Columbia after all, and I’m glad you did Jack the favor of becoming his wife!”

Katie’s heart felt immeasurably lighter. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that, Mr.—Ambrose. Your kindness is deeply appreciated at this moment.” She shook the hand he held up to her. “Everyone calls me Katie except for Jack, so you also may choose the name you prefer.”

Summers turned to his grandson, who was observing this exchange with mixed emotions. “I’m pleased to see that you did the right thing, my boy!”

Jack didn’t particularly care to have this conversation in front of Katie. “Well, I’m pleased that you’re pleased.” He turned to his bride. “Mrs. Gosling is waiting to take you upstairs to freshen up and Elijah has already brought up your trunk. Wouldn’t you like a bath before dinner?”

“That would be nice,” she said politely. “Will you excuse me, Ambrose?”

The old man’s round cheeks turned pink as he beamed at Katie. “Of course, my dear. Enjoy your bath. I hope you’ll pardon me for not standing. It’s not for lack of manners, I assure you. My legs simply aren’t what they used to be.”

She grinned. “To tell you the truth, sir, neither are mine!”

Katie left the two men then and returned to the entry hall to join the waiting Mrs. Gosling. The housekeeper was more than a little unnerved at this unexpected turn of events. What would her life be like now that she was no longer the only woman of influence in the Wyatt house? When Katie appeared before her, however, Mrs. Gosling’s heart softened. The girl was young, and she looked rather lost. The older woman smiled at her warmly and was encouraged by the sweetness of the new Mrs. Wyatt’s answering smile. They had just started up the stairs when Ambrose Summers’s voice carried out from the parlor:

“Tell me now, Jack, what the devil do you intend to do with Genevieve Braithwaite? She dropped by the other day and was prattling on about the new draperies she has in mind for the parlor and dining room! You’re going to have a mess on your hands when she and her mama hear that you’ve gone and married someone else!”

Katie stood in the middle of the stunning Turkey carpet, cleverly woven in shades of indigo, cream, and blood red, that dominated Jack’s spacious bedroom. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined that he might live like this. She felt out of place, not only because of the grandeur of her surroundings, but also because the room was unequivocally masculine, from its color scheme to its handsome Hepplewhite furnishings. It was impossible not to wonder if she might always feel like a guest in her husband’s bed.

Elijah had started a fire in the walnut-framed fireplace, which added an element of cheery warmth. The bathroom echoed with the sound of running water, and a moment later Mrs. Gosling emerged.

“I’ve started your bath, Mrs. Wyatt, and you’ll find towels on Mr. Wyatt’s dressing table. I’ve brought in some more feminine soap from the guest bathroom.”

Katie smiled wanly. “Thank you, Mrs. Gosling. I truly appreciate your help.” Her knuckles were white as she clutched her folded cloak in front of her, looking for all the world as if she were interviewing for the position of housemaid.

“How remiss of me not to take your wrap when you came in!” the older woman exclaimed. “I suppose my only excuse is that I was too surprised by Mr. Wyatt’s news.” She took matters in hand then, draping the cloak over her own arm, unfastening Katie’s dress and unlacing her corset, and finally leading her into the bathroom. “Now you just get undressed and have a good long soak. It’ll do you a world of good. I’m going to go next door and prepare your own rooms for you.”

Alone again, Katie obeyed mechanically. She was sitting in the beautiful porcelain bathtub, steaming water gushing out of the nickel-plated faucet in front of her, when Mrs. Gosling’s words sank in. Her own rooms? Did that mean that she would not sleep with Jack? Before she could assimilate this latest turn of events, Jack’s voice drifted to her from the other side of the wall, where, apparently, her own bedroom was located. Quickly she turned off the taps and strained to hear what he was saying. Most of it was muffled, but she did manage to make out a few phrases:

“...because I’d like these rooms ready before we retire tonight. Mrs. Wyatt will doubtless be exhausted from her travels, and I would hate to wake her in the morning.”

Waves of confusion washed over Katie, but she managed to compose herself when she heard Jack enter the bedroom through the connecting door.

“How are you doing?” he called, peeking around the entrance to the tiled bathroom. “Is the water hot enough?”

Katie crossed her arms in front of her breasts. “It’s fine,” she answered politely. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Jack had removed his coat and cravat and looked engagingly relaxed as he leaned against the door frame.

“What sort of wife do you intend that I shall be? Will we lead separate lives and only meet for distant conversation over the dinner table? Will you come and go as you please from your rooms, carrying on your life as you did before I came here, deigning to share my bed only when the spirit moves you?” She was shivering in the hot water, her face strained and pale.

“Kathleen—” Straightening, Jack sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I think that you are overreacting. You’re tired. Why don’t you relax and enjoy your bath, and we’ll talk about this when you have dressed.”

“No!” she cried, on the verge of tears. “I want to know now!”

They were interrupted by a series of loud knocks on the door to Jack’s bedroom. He excused himself and left the bathroom. Crossing the carpet, he opened the door to discover an incredulous-looking Conrad, skin white against his flaming red hair and wild blue eyes.

“Jack!” cried the younger man. “Is it true? I can’t believe it! Has Grandfather finally gone soft in the head during his waning years, or have you actually gotten married to a stranger?”

“Frankly, I tend to think you have all gone a little soft in the head around here,” Jack replied sarcastically. “But to answer your question more directly—yes, I have gotten married, and yes, she is a stranger to you, though obviously not to me.” He took his brother’s elbow. “Why don’t we go downstairs and continue this conversation?”

Conrad froze in the doorway as Jack tried to steer him into the hall. “But what about Genevieve?” he burst out in near hysteria. “All hell is going to break loose when she hears about this!”

“Will you move!?” Wyatt barked, at the end of his patience. “And keep your voice down, you dolt!”

Katie heard the door close behind them. Blindly, she reached for the bar of lilac-scented soap and began to rub it into a furious lather.

The water was cooling rapidly, she was cold, and she felt utterly naked in every sense of the word. As she washed, tears slipped down her cheeks, tears she was determined that Jack would never see.

Chapter 24

November 3, 1864

It was good to be home. Walking lightly down the stairs, Jack stopped for a moment in the entry hall, which was awash with hazy morning sunlight. He took his watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time: seven-thirty, exactly. The chaos of last night was behind him, he mused, smiling. Somehow, they’d all gotten through dinner, during which Katie appeared to win the hearts of both Conrad and their grandfather, and she’d been too tired at bedtime to resume the argument begun during her bath. He’d made an effort to be pleasant, tucking her into bed in her lovely room decorated in rosewood and carnation-pink silk. Katie had been exhausted and accepted his explanation that he had work to catch up on in his study before he could go to bed himself. They’d shared an affectionate kiss, and then she’d gone to sleep.

Now life was assuming its former structure, and Jack was relieved to be able to let his guard down. This morning he had risen at the usual time, had his bath and dressed in peaceful solitude, and now, after the usual ritual of tea and fruit over the newspaper, he could leave for work just as he always had. He and Katie would chat when he returned in the evening, and perhaps he’d even visit her bed. However, there would not be a repeat performance of their wedding night, at least not for a while. Jack felt uneasy whenever he recalled the force of his own passion—a passion unknown to him before Katie, and one that was entwined with emotions that threatened to consume him. The next time they made love, he was determined to keep it uncomplicated.

Feeling that he had regained a measure of control over his own life, Jack smiled to himself as he opened the paneled door to his study. As usual, on the Chippendale desk across the room, tea and a plate of sliced fruit awaited him next to the folded newspaper. The house was agreeably quiet, and Jack welcomed this interlude to organize his thoughts and prepare for the day ahead. He had just started across the carpet when a voice startled him.

“Good morning, Jack! Did you sleep well?”

Stunned, he stood frozen for a moment, then turned slowly. There, perched high on the ladder that could be pushed on rollers around the walls of books that lined the study, was Katie. Stockinged feet peeped out of a flurry of soft petticoats covered by a simple periwinkle-blue gown that buttoned most of the way up her throat. She had resumed wearing her hair in a single braid again, but soft black tendrils curled about her face. Jack thought that his wife was looking especially appealing this morning, her cheeks stained pink and her eyes sparkling; but he resisted his attraction to her.

“Hello, Kathleen,” he said in what he hoped was a calm, friendly voice. “I’m surprised to find you here—I thought you were still sleeping.”

“Heavens, no!” She laughed. “Had you forgotten that I am an incurably early riser? Why, when you were staying with Papa and me, I used to leave the house most mornings before you were even awake!”

“You’re right, I had forgotten.” Jack smiled and nodded, struggling to suppress his growing irritation. Why did she always have to do something other than what he wanted her to do? Just once, why couldn’t she have stayed in bed, out of his way and out of trouble? No one ever entered this study without an invitation from him, especially during this sacred half hour before he left the house. He was beginning to think that Katie was somehow able to divine precisely what would bother him the most, and then set out to do it. Still, he kept his tone even as he inquired, “What made you decide to come in here?”

Katie laughed, nearly losing her balance. “Must you speak to me as if I were a particularly annoying little child? Is this not my house now as well as yours, or are there rules concerning where I may and may not go?” She sounded amused, but there was a spark of defiance in her eyes. “I came to the study to see your books, of course! When I peeked in earlier, the first glimpse I had of this wonderful library made me happier than I’ve felt in a very long time.”

Jack was trying to decide how to react as Katie turned around and climbed down the ladder. She was so damned stubborn and independent! Trying to gain a measure of control in this relationship was like wrestling with a ghost; each time he thought he had a grip on the situation, Katie slipped through his fingers. Even more frustrating was the pang of admiration and attraction he felt as he watched her descend the ladder. Her waist looked tiny enough to encircle with his hands, and the curves of her hips stirred up memories of the sheer perfection and responsiveness of her body. He fought the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her. One inner voice argued that there must be some redeeming feature to marriage, while another warned him not to yield to temptation or he’d end up falling in love with her. And falling in love with Katie seemed tantamount to falling into an abyss....

“Good morning, Mr. Wyatt!” Mrs. Gosling exclaimed as she entered the study carrying a tray of apple muffins. Her eyes touched on Jack, then warmed at the sight of Katie. “Mrs. Wyatt, these turned out beautifully. You have a magic touch! Did you tell Mr. Wyatt that you have already been at work in the kitchen? He’d doubtless scold me for letting you toil at dawn on your honeymoon, but when he tastes the results, he’ll sing a different tune.” Setting the tray on the desk, she turned to beam at Jack. “I was telling your bride about the day you came home last summer and asked for muffins. Why, I never thought you liked muffins! I didn’t understand then, but now I do, and I think that it’s terribly romantic. You were missing her, weren’t you, sir?”

Jack thought he must be losing his mind. “Isn’t it possible that I simply had a craving for muffins?”

Katie wrapped her arms around him from behind and smiled when she felt him flinch. “My husband is shy about expressing his feelings,” she told Mrs. Gosling as if Jack were not present, “but I don’t mind because we know the truth, don’t we, darling?”

“Ah, young love!” said Mrs. Gosling, sighing. “It does my old heart good to see it, and to see you looking so happy, Mr. Wyatt. I thought the day would never come.”

“So did I,” muttered Jack. He was burningly aware of Katie’s breasts pressed against his wide back.

“Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone before Mr. Wyatt has to leave for the office. Do let me know if there is anything else I can get you.”

When the elderly housekeeper had closed the door on her way out, Jack reached down to pry Katie’s hands loose. “You are a little devil, do you know that?”

She held on stubbornly. “Don’t you want to take advantage of our time alone?” she teased.

Jack turned in her arms and stared down at her, their faces only a few inches apart. Katie smelled faintly of apples and cinnamon, and her lips looked delicious. “Damn you,” he said hoarsely before covering her mouth with his own. It was a scorching kiss, and his arms seemed to have a will of their own as they encircled her slim back and pressed her firmly against his body. Katie warmed and softened in his embrace, molding herself to him. It occurred to Jack that he could lock the door and take her right there on the rug, but a moment before he lost all sense of reason, he pulled himself back from the precipice.

“What are you up to?” he inquired, his voice husky with desire and a telltale trace of affection.

She was all innocence. “I don’t know what you mean. Is it wrong for a wife to flirt with her husband?”

“Well, I suppose not,” Jack muttered, clearing his throat, “but this is hardly the time.” He walked around the desk and poured himself a cup of tea. “You have to understand, Kathleen, that I have a fairly rigid schedule here. My life is very different from the one I led in Columbia. I have a business to run, and I never allow myself more than a half hour to bathe and dress, then another half hour for tea here in my study. This is a very important interlude for me. It gives me a chance to organize my thoughts for the day ahead, to relax in solitude before I begin what amounts to a day-long marathon.”

Katie liked to look at Jack. When she was able to remain objective, she felt a little surge of pride at the realization that he was her husband. His hair gleamed in the morning sunlight that poured through the window behind the desk, his face was golden brown against the white of his shirt, and he wore his expensive, tasteful clothes with the grace of a lion that seemed to be tamed.

“I think that the routine you have described is fairly typical of bachelors,” she said. “When one operates independently, it’s quite easy to make an art out of organizing one’s life. However, when one marries, the art becomes that of learning to compromise.”

He glanced up from the newspaper, his eyes sharp. “I think that if one is earning the family living, one can have the last word.”

Katie narrowed her eyes and smiled at the same time. “That doesn’t sound very fair to me,” she said sweetly.

Jack merely shrugged, sat down, and tried to concentrate on the morning’s headlines. He hoped that Katie would take the rather heavy hint and leave. Instead, she pulled a chair up to the desk and inquired:

“What exactly do you do to earn the family living?”

“I am the publisher and editor-in-chief of the Morning Star,” he replied casually.

Katie sank back against the tufted velvet upholstery, unable to conceal her shock. It was almost impossible to reconcile this disclosure with what she’d believed about the man she had known in Columbia. Memories crowded her mind: Jack’s interference with her work at the Gazette, the platen he had acquired from some “anonymous donor” and then insisted on testing, and his insufferable penchant for giving her advice about newspaper writing. A flush spread over her cheeks as she recalled her superior attitude toward him when they were in the Gazette office, and suddenly she heard his angry voice again, shouting, “You have no idea what I do and do not know!”

“The Morning Star is one of the finest newspapers in the West,” Katie murmured at length. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Jack looked up, one eyebrow arched.”I wasn’t there as Jonathan Wyatt, I was there as Jack Adams.”

“But, I don’t understand. Why were you—”

“Kathleen, I can’t go into all that now. In fact, it’s a subject that I consider closed. My reasons for needing to get away from San Francisco and live more simply were personal, and a part of the past. I think that we have enough to deal with in the present, many adjustments to make, and I just don’t see the point in wasting valuable time talking about something that is no longer relevant.” With that, he consulted his watch, snapped the newspaper closed, and stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Wait!” Katie stood up, too, prepared to block the doorway if necessary. She wanted to protest that Jack didn’t want to talk about anything personal, including the marriage that they had just embarked upon, but she sensed that one more outburst from her would only cause him to retreat further. “What am I supposed to do all day?”

“What do wives usually do?” he replied absently.

“I have always worked, and I want to continue to work. You know that I have skills as a newspaper reporter. Why can’t I come to work at the Star?”

Jack stared, then gave a short laugh. “Ridiculous! Absolutely not.”

“That’s not an answer! You have to give me a reason.” Spots of color stained her cheeks.

“You are the wife of a wealthy man, Kathleen, and you do not have to work,” he said coolly, gathering up his business papers. “There is a great deal to occupy you in this house. Have Mrs. Gosling hire a maid for you. Go out and purchase some new gowns. God knows you need a proper wardrobe! Have you no feminine instincts? Act like a wife! You’ll have to learn that you aren’t in the foothills anymore.”

“Don’t you dare speak to me that way!” Katie followed him across the study, longing to wrestle him to the carpet and sit on him until he heard her out. “You knew what I was like when you married me. If you wanted a San Francisco society belle, you should have married Genevieve, the way everyone apparently expected you to!”

Her risk paid off, if only for an instant. Jack paled, then turned back to grip her arm. “You’re going to make me wish I had, you little vixen,” he said in a dangerously low voice. His eyes were like green ice, and a vein throbbed in his forehead. “I’m going to work now, and I trust that when I return tonight you will have settled on a more pleasing topic of conversation!”

Katie had no choice but to watch him walk away. When she heard the heavy front door slam with a thud, she nearly vented her frustrations in a long, loud scream, but then she remembered that the house was full of people. All of them were still virtual strangers, and she didn’t want them to think that Jack had married a madwoman....

“Well, if it isn’t my new granddaughter!” Ambrose looked up from his place at the end of the empty dining room table and gave Katie a welcoming smile. “What do you have there, sweetheart?”

She stood in the doorway holding the plate of muffins.”I thought you might like one of these. I baked them earlier for Jack’s breakfast, but... he wasn’t very hungry.”

“Come on in and sit down. I won’t bite, and neither will Harriet. Where’s that little tiger of yours, by the way?”

“Up on my bed. She’s getting used to the house one room at a time, I guess.” Katie walked the length of the long table and took the chair at Ambrose’s left. It warmed her heart to see the old man snatch a muffin immediately and eat it in three large bites.

“Jack doesn’t care for muffins,” he confided, swallowing the last of it and reaching for another.

“I don’t think Jack cares for much of anything,” she said.

“You know, my dear, I was about to tell you how pretty you look this morning, but I can’t do that until you give me a smile!” He chuckled at her attempt to oblige. “Well, that’s a little better. Now, tell your old grandfather what’s bothering you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I am used to having a great deal of freedom. I grew up in a town where I didn’t have to follow all the usual rules for feminine etiquette. I worked alongside my father in our saloon, and I ran it myself after he died a few months ago. I also wrote articles for the Columbia Gazette. Jack knew me quite well there. He’s certainly aware that I am not some simpering female who delights in taking tea and embroidering all day long. And yet—” Her voice caught.

“Yes?” Summers prodded gently.

“And yet he seems to expect me to become that sort of woman, that sort of wife, now. He doesn’t want me in his way, he doesn’t want to hear my opinions, and he certainly doesn’t want me to work!” Katie laughed shakily.

Ambrose patted her hand. “I’d urge you not to let him bully you, sweetheart, but clearly there’s no danger of that! Now then, without betraying Jack’s confidence, I will tell you that there are reasons for his need for discipline. There was a time when he didn’t impose any restraints on himself, and he nearly lost everything. He had the good sense, however, to stop before it was too late. While rebuilding his life, Jack may have overcompensated in the area of discipline. There’s more to it than that, and I don’t doubt that the day will come when he will discuss this with you in depth, but for now I can only urge you to be patient with him.” Ambrose took another bite of muffin. “Mm! Delicious! As I was saying, I happen to believe that Jack has slowly been outgrowing the structure he imposed on himself. He tested his wings during the weeks he spent as Jack Adams—”

“Do you know all about that? He’s so secretive that I wasn’t certain how much the family knew.”

“I’m the only one he confided in. Conrad knows very little, so it’s best for you to restrict your conversation to the here and now when we’re all together. I’m not even sure it’s a good idea for me to be discussing this with you, except that you deserve at least a semblance of an explanation for Jack’s behavior.”

“But you think that he is changing?” Katie’s eyes were wide with hope.

“You, my dear, are the surest sign of that. The fact that he married at all is a tremendous leap, and the type of woman he chose seems a clear indication of the new direction in his life. I think that, gradually, Jack will discover that he can bend without breaking, that he can feel passion again without losing control of his life....”

Katie considered this, her brow furrowed and her chin propped on her palm. “I hope you are right, Ambrose,” she murmured at length.

“Trust me, my dear.” His eyes twinkled behind the spectacles he wore. “Are you in love with my grandson?”

She blushed. “Well, I...”

“You owe me a secret!”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose that I am, but he must not know it. Not yet.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say a word. It would spoil all the fun! I plan to enjoy watching this drama unfold.”

“But what shall I do in the meantime? Just be patient with him?”

Ambrose laughed heartily. “On the contrary! Don’t give him an inch—continue to challenge and confront him at every turn. Make him feel again!”

“But how?” Katie asked plaintively. “I don’t think he wants me to do anything. When I asked how I should spend my days if he won’t let me work, he barked that I should be a wife, whatever that means.” She made a face.

“You are enchanting, Katie!” Leaning forward, Ambrose patted her cheek. “If I were a few decades younger, I’d give my grandson a run for his money. As it is, I’ll have my fun helping you torment him.”

Katie felt a little thrill of excitement at his words. “Just tell me how and I’ll do it,” she exclaimed.

“Take him at his word. Be a wife until he cries for mercy. First of all, you must go shopping for a new wardrobe. I have a friend who will be delighted to take you, and I’ll send for her immediately. Leave no stone unturned. Jack is quite wealthy, and he can afford whatever you buy.”

“He suggested some new gowns himself, but somehow the project sounds much more appealing the way you describe it!” Katie laughed.

“Next, turn your attention to this house.”

“But it’s beautiful,” she protested.

Ambrose gave a derisive snort. “For a family of men, it’s fine, but there’s a woman here now. Change things—it will drive Jack insane! Add a feminine touch.”

“I’m not certain I know how....”

“Believe me, my dear, once you begin touring the finest shops and stores San Francisco has to offer, you’ll have ideas galore. And then, once your wardrobe and the house are complete, you must announce to Jack that you want to have a huge party so that you can meet his friends. Christmas is coming soon, and that sounds like the perfect time, don’t you think?”

Katie sat back, her mind spinning, and giggled. “You’re a naughty man, Grandfather.”

“All for a good cause, darling Katie!”

Chapter 25

November 3, 1864

“I hope that I am not taking you away from some other obligation, Mrs. Menloe,” Katie said to the charming older woman who perched on the Empire side chair in the corner of the dressing room. Nelle Braust’s fancy dress shop on Kearny Street was all the rage among San Francisco’s elite, having sprung up in the past year to provide a fresh outlet for the money that was burning holes in the pockets of the silver barons.

“Nonsense, my dear,” Hope Menloe replied, waving her slender hand. As she spoke, she kept a close eye on the work of the dressmaker’s assistant who was pinning a gown on Katie. “I couldn’t be happier to help you in this matter. I must tell you that Ambrose is very dear to me. He was a great friend of my husband’s, and since Theodore died last spring, Ambrose has been extraordinarily kind to me. This morning, when he sent word of Jonathan’s marriage and explained your predicament, I was overjoyed to be of service. I know how it feels to come to a new city, knowing no one except your husband. Theodore and I sailed here from Boston thirteen years ago, and for months I was positively bereft. I hated San Francisco, and was certain I would never be happy here. Everything seemed so different!” She rose and came over to feel the pale Russian gray silk of the visiting dress in progress. “I couldn’t have been more mistaken. This is a very exciting place in which to live, and I have scores of intimate friends. I simply had to cultivate an open mind.”

“Well, Jack was right: San Francisco is nothing like Columbia, but I am determined to like it, and I appreciate your encouragement, Mrs. Menloe. So far, everyone has been extremely kind to me.”

“And there is nothing like a new wardrobe to cheer one up!” Mrs. Menloe proclaimed. “This color is divine with your eyes and hair, my dear, and the gown is in perfect taste, as are all that you chose today. Jonathan will be prouder than ever to introduce you as his wife.”

“I’ve never been very interested in clothes,” Katie admitted, “so I am counting on you to be painfully honest. I welcome your advice, and hope that you will speak up if I err.” Her eyes swept enviously over the older woman. Hope Menloe appeared to be in her fifties and she was still a beauty. Tall and elegant, she had wavy titian hair laced with silver that was cunningly styled in a coil at the base of her neck. Her keen gray eyes were set off by arching brows, and high cheekbones lent her a timeless dignity. Every detail of her appearance was perfect. Small deep purple bows of moire d’ antique marched down the bodice of her silk gown, which was black because she was still in mourning for her husband, and there were graceful gathers at her hem. Tasteful pearl-and-diamond earrings added the perfect finishing touch. When they had arrived at Madame Braust’s shop, Katie had honestly admitted her ignorance, and Hope had tactfully helped to choose styles and fabrics that showed Katie’s figure and coloring to exquisite advantage.

“You are a rare beauty,” Mrs. Menloe said now, “and it is exciting to witness this transformation.”

“I have to admit that I am quite excited myself!”

“Next we will go to the milliner’s, and tomorrow I will take you to be fitted for shoes. You must have Jonathan show you his mother’s jewelry collection, so that you will know what you lack. I know the very best place to go....”

They were finished for the morning, and Katie put on one of the gowns Madame Braust had in stock that fit her already: a lovely confection of sea-green silk with cream lace at the neck and sleeves, and a wide skirt that belled out over a hooped petticoat. The color was perfect with her ebony hair and somehow made her eyes look even more blue than usual. When Hope turned Katie to face the mirror and described the ideal bonnet and jewelry for the gown, the younger woman nodded happily.

“I have always been too busy working and using my mind to bother with such things, but now I am determined to enjoy my femininity!” Katie laughed. The thought of Jack’s reaction to her enhanced beauty intensified her self-satisfaction.

“Your husband will fall in love with you all over again,” Mrs. Menloe assured her, as if reading Katie’s mind. “And that reminds me, we must purchase a large assortment of lacy undergarments for you. I know of some that are imported from France. They are very expensive, but they are made of pure silk.”

They walked together into the shop’s main salon, where Hope looked for Madame Braust so that she could confirm the details of Katie’s order. As they talked, Katie stood off to one side and observed the other women who had entered the shop. All seemed to have achieved a level of sophistication that she feared she could never match. But perhaps she didn’t have to. Katie felt an instinctive twinge of resentment at the notion that she might be pressured to change in order to fit in with San Francisco society. She decided then that she wouldn’t try. Either she would win the acceptance of Jack’s friends on her own merits or not at all. Katie couldn’t change to win Jack’s love, either. The gowns, bonnets, and jewelry were only useful to enhance her physical beauty; she must not allow them to alter her character.

A stunning, slim young woman with pale blond hair had come into the shop and now stood near Katie talking to a companion who appeared to be her mother. Even from a few feet away, Katie could smell her light, lavender-scented perfume. The young woman wore a unique gown of soft pink cambric, stamped with a design that resembled black braiding, and her face shone as she whispered excitedly:

“Oh, Mother, wasn’t it fortunate that we encountered Marabelle on the street just now? If we had arrived here a few minutes later, she would have already been gone and I still would not know that Jonathan is home!”

Katie froze, wondering if it were possible that this could be the woman whose name she had heard so frequently since arriving in San Francisco.

“Marabelle said that she saw him in his carriage, Genevieve,” replied Elizabeth Braithwaite. “She may have been mistaken.”

“Mother, she saw Elijah, too, and the carriage was in front of the newspaper offices. I hardly think it could have been a mistake.” Genevieve’s voice rose impatiently. “Oh, how I have missed him! We must hurry with our errands so that I will be at home if he should send word, or even come himself. What shall I wear tonight?”

“Perhaps Madame Braust will tell us that the pearl silk gown is ready,” Mrs. Braithwaite suggested. “I must admit, I hope you are right, and I hope that Mr. Wyatt will stay put and declare himself at last.”

“I’m certain that he shall!” Genevieve fairly sang. “A Christmas wedding—isn’t that a sumptuous prospect?” Sensing that someone was staring at her, she turned and met the wide eyes of a complete stranger. The young woman looked somewhat uneasy in what was obviously a new gown. Although pretty enough, she seemed out of place, and Genevieve guessed that she had probably just arrived from some tawdry provincial outpost like Sacramento or San Jose. And of course she stared because she hadn’t the manners to know any better. Deciding that she was to be pitied, Genevieve gave her a condescending smile and turned back to her mother. “I do wish that Mrs. Menloe wouldn’t monopolize Madame Braust. Doesn’t she realize that there are other patrons in the shop?”

Moments later, Hope Menloe bade the dressmaker good day. Turning, she saw Mrs. Braithwaite and her daughter, smiled and nodded at them, and then took Katie’s arm as they exited the shop.

Genevieve was curious now, for Hope was a pillar of San Francisco society. “Madame Braust,” she said sweetly, approaching the statuesque German woman, “who was that young woman with Hope Menloe? I don’t think I know her. Is she some relation from the foothills that Hope has taken under her wing?”

A slow, vaguely malicious smile spread over Madame Braust’s powdered face. She had never cared for Miss Braithwaite’s incorrigibly superior airs, and now she relished the opportunity to deflate them. “My dear Miss Braithwaite, hadn’t you heard? That was Jonathan Wyatt’s new bride. They just arrived in San Francisco last night, and Mrs. Menloe was arranging for an exquisite new wardrobe for Mrs. Wyatt—at Mr. Wyatt’s request, of course. He insists that no expense be spared.”

The blood drained from Genevieve’s face as she managed a hollow reply: “How... lovely.”

Outside on Kearny Street, Hope Menloe was all business as she steered Katie through the crowds toward a charming millinery shop on the corner.

“That young woman we just saw,” Katie began tentatively. “I heard her talking about Jack, and I heard her mother call her ‘Genevieve.’ People have been mentioning that name to Jack ever since we arrived last night, and I am not a fool. Mrs. Menloe, won’t you tell me what existed between them?”

Hope put an arm around her and squeezed reassuringly. “My dear, I think that is a question for your husband.” Then, seeing Katie’s crestfallen expression, she relented. “I know very little. Yes, it is true that their names have been linked for some months, but marriage was never proposed, at least as far as anyone knows. I saw them together on many occasions, and I did not perceive that Jonathan was in love with Miss Braithwaite. If he were, would he have married you?”

Katie tried to smile. “No, I don’t suppose that he would have,” she murmured, wishing that she could believe it herself.

Jack’s office at the Star was in a state of comfortable disarray. Papers were scattered over his desk, his coat was draped over the back of his chair, and he’d left the remains of his lunch on a plate that he had deposited atop a stack of books. Jack himself leaned back in his leather chair, sleeves rolled up and collar loosened, proofreading an editorial that he had just completed about the possible outcome and ramifications of General Sherman’s march in progress through Georgia.

He was just reaching for his pen to make a correction when the door to his office flew open and his secretary appeared.

“Excuse me, sir!” cried an agitated Bradley Hughes. “I told Miss Braithwaite that you asked not to be disturbed, but she insisted—”

Genevieve pushed past the young man. “This is crucially important, Jonathan! Surely you won’t deny me a few minutes of your precious time?” Her beautiful face was pale with rage. “I think that you owe me that much, at least.”

“You may leave us, Bradley.” Jack got to his feet. “And close the door behind you.”

Genevieve was momentarily at a loss as she faced Jack across the office. She hadn’t expected this to be so simple.

“Won’t you sit down?” Jack asked calmly.

She marched over to the chair he indicated, then paced back and forth in front of it. “I don’t know if I’m able to sit still! I can’t recall ever feeling more agitated than I do at this very moment!”

“Genevieve—”

“Have you any idea how I feel? How humiliated and insulted and foolish I feel?”

“I was going to tell you about the marriage myself,” he said, reaching up to massage the sudden tightness in his neck. “I realize that you are probably shocked, and that’s understandable—”

“Shocked?!” Her voice rose to a near shriek. “I had to hear it from Madame Braust! I had to come face to face with that little peahen who calls herself your wife—”

“Leave Kathleen out of this,” he said coldly. “She is completely innocent.”

“Oh, certainly she is. Where did you find her, in those Nevada silver mines you haven’t been able to stay away from? It’s horrible enough that you led me on, allowing me to believe that I would one day become your wife. But did you have to marry someone so utterly lacking in style and social graces? Why, I’ll wager that she can’t even read or write. Is that why you married her, because she hasn’t a thought of her own?”

He almost laughed at that. “No, Kathleen has plenty of thoughts, and they’re all her own. Don’t underestimate her, Genevieve. She’s a match for any woman in San Francisco when it comes to intelligence and character. In fact, she’s more than a match... and perhaps that’s why I married her. I may have believed that I wanted a proper, obedient wife, but when it came down to it, I chose Kathleen.”

“Oh, spare me a speech about the limitless virtues of that little trollop.” Her voice shook with anger. “That’s what she really is, isn’t it? Have you gotten her with child? Was that the reason for this sudden marriage?”

“No.” There was a warning glint in his eyes, but Genevieve was too upset to notice it.

“Do you know why I really think you did this? Can you bear to hear the truth?”

“I assure you, anything you can bear to say, I can bear to hear,” he replied caustically, losing patience.

“I think you were afraid. Afraid to love me, afraid to marry a real woman who would make you a real wife. So instead you went out and picked a drab little miner’s daughter and put a ring on her before you came home, because you knew that if you saw me first, you’d lose your nerve!”

“Genevieve, there is no point in this conversation. You don’t want to hear the truth, and I have better things to do than waste my time listening to your fairy stories.” He came around the desk to face her. “I am sorry if you’ve been hurt, but the fact is, I never asked you to marry me. If you’ll think back to the months I was here before leaving town in October, you’ll remember that I was far from an amorous suitor. You simply chose to ignore the truth.” Jack’s voice softened. “I didn’t plan it this way, Genevieve. If I’d known all along that I was going to marry Kathleen, I would have had a talk with you before I left San Francisco the last time. But fate sped matters along. I know it doesn’t seem possible now, but someday you’ll realize that this is for the best. We weren’t right for each other. Before long, you’ll meet the right man and thank God you didn’t marry me!”

Stepping up to him, Genevieve rested her face against Jack’s shoulder, dropping her eyes so that he couldn’t see the fury that still burned in their depths. “I suppose you’re right, and I should accept the inevitable with good grace. I wish you all the best, Jonathan, and I’m sorry I behaved so rudely.”

“I’m relieved to hear you say that, and of course, I feel the same way. I have only fond memories of the times we shared.” He put an arm around her shoulders and escorted her to the door. “Take care of yourself, and give my regards to your family. I trust they’ll understand.”

“I’ll see to it that Papa doesn’t come looking for you with a gun,” she replied archly.

Jack suppressed a sigh of relief as he watched her go. Genevieve turned at the end of the hallway and gave him a brave smile, but inside she was still seething. When she rejoined her mother in their carriage on California Street, her face was contorted with rage.

“If he thinks I am going to give up so easily, he has gravely underestimated me. It isn’t too late to get rid of that mousy little slut! Jonathan Wyatt belongs to me, and I intend to have him!”

Clad in a new, lace-edged nightdress, Katie sat at her rosewood dressing table, brushing her hair by firelight. It was pleasant to sit alone and reflect on the day. Ambrose had reminded her not to expect miracles instantly and it was reassuring advice. Katie was doing what she could to effect change without demanding it from Jack, and that felt good.

There had been no opportunity to ask Ambrose or Conrad about Genevieve, and Katie wasn’t entirely certain that she wanted to. If they answered her questions honestly, it would only make Genevieve—and her relationship with Jack—more real, and therefore more threatening. For the moment she could only trust that it was over—a part of Jack’s past. Besides, she had enough to contend with without manufacturing problems that might not even exist.

The evening had been quite enjoyable, all in all. They had all eaten dinner together, while Jack explained to Conrad that he had spent some time in Columbia during his travels to and from Nevada. That, he said, was where he’d met Katie. She added little, letting him take the lead. Then, when Samuel Clemens was mentioned, both Jack’s brother and his grandfather reacted with surprised delight. Katie was happy to join Jack in relating stories of Sam’s attempts at pocket mining in Jackass Gulch.

After dinner, Katie had played a spirited game of piquet with Conrad, while Ambrose read and dozed and Jack finished proofreading his editorial. When she paused to reflect on the sense of contentment she felt, Katie realized that she already felt part of the family. She was the first to say good night, coming upstairs to indulge in a luxurious bath. Now, as she brushed her damp, silky hair, Katie was proud that she hadn’t lingered downstairs waiting for Jack. If he wanted to be alone with her, it was better that he make the choice of his own free will.

“Can I do that for you?”

Startled, Katie looked around, remembering that the connecting door between their rooms was open. Jack stood in a pool of lamplight that spilled over from his bedroom. He wore a dressing gown of slate-gray silk that exposed a portion of his chest, and his hair was appealingly tousled.

Silently, Katie held out the silver-backed brush. Crossing the room, Jack took it from her and slowly ran it down the length of her hair. From time to time his fingers brushed Katie’s neck as he lifted her hair, and shivers raced down her spine.

For long minutes they said nothing, Jack stroking her hair and Katie reveling in the sensuousness of his touch. Finally the silence became too fraught with intimacy for Jack to bear. His purpose in visiting his wife’s bedroom had been to establish a sense of normalcy in their marriage. He wanted Katie to know that she had a husband, but that did not mean he was willing to open his heart and make a gift of it to her. Jack understood little enough of its workings himself.

What he had in mind for tonight was something much more conventional... and controlled.

“Did you enjoy yourself today? The shopping excursion, I mean?” he asked, his tone pleasantly conversational.

His voice startled Katie, breaking the spell. For a moment she was unable to respond. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“I meant to tell you how lovely you looked tonight in your new gown, Kathleen. You must feel free to choose as many as you wish, to purchase anything that you like that will make you happy.”

Katie squirmed a little. “That’s very kind of you.” She suppressed the urge to tell him that it would take more than material possessions to make her happy. Instead she said, “I was also grateful today for the opportunity to see more of San Francisco, and I enjoyed Mrs. Menloe’s company. She’s a very impressive woman.”

“I am not surprised that you would think so,” he replied wryly. “Hope is certainly strong, intelligent, and independent, which are qualities that not everyone admires in a woman....”

She dropped her head back to look at him, brow furrowed. “That’s an odd remark. Are you trying to lure me into an argument?”

“No! At least, that was not my intention when I came in here.” Jack laughed softly, shaking his head. “Perhaps it would be better if we didn’t talk for a while. Are you ready to get in bed?”

Suddenly shy, Katie nodded and stood up. Jack took her hand, led her over to the Empire-style bed, and drew back the covers. In spite of her rebelliousness at his attempts to control her behavior outside the bedroom, Katie thrilled as a woman when Jack took charge during these amorous adventures. Now, she could hardly wait to unleash her passion, to have an excuse to open the floodgates of her love.

The fire was nearly out, and it was hard for her to see him. When he slipped off his dressing gown, she felt cheated because she could make out only dimly the chiseled lines of his body. She hadn’t realized how important the element of sight had become in their lovemaking. True, the first time they had been together it had been dark, but that darkness, combined with her sleep state, had dissolved her inhibitions. Now, being deprived of the sight of each other seemed to detract from the intimacy between them.

Jack eased Katie onto the bed and lay down facing her. Without removing her nightdress, he slipped his arms around her and kissed her gently. His hands moved over her body, and his lips were skilled, but there was a deliberation about his lovemaking that made Katie feel awkward. Occasionally, as he nibbled at her neck and cupped her breast through the thin lawn fabric of her nightdress, a spark would flare, but it never ignited into the exquisite rapture she had come to expect.

Pushing up the hem of her nightdress, Jack caressed Katie’s thighs and the curves of her derriere. When he softly probed between her legs, Katie was encouraged to feel herself moisten with a tentative surge of desire. She sighed, expecting him to remove the garment that separated them, but instead Jack pressed her back into the pillows and shifted so that he was above her. Katie was shocked to feel him enter her. Was this all? She wondered. Tears stung her eyes as she tried to meet Jack’s thrusts, unable to get the rhythm just right. She put her arms around him, but his body felt like that of a stranger. After what seemed an eternity, Jack groaned, pushing into her to the hilt, then let his arms bend so that he was lying fully on top of her.

She felt the thud of his heartbeat and tried not to weep. Then, turning her face against his neck, Katie caught the faint scent of lavender on his skin. Genevieve! It was as if a knife had been plunged into her heart, and she held her breath, waiting for the pain to subside.

Jack raised his head and kissed her lightly. “Mmm, that was nice.” He rolled off her then and patted her bare thigh. “At this rate, it shouldn’t take long to enlarge our family. I must admit, I’m looking forward to becoming a father....” He sat up and offered her a benevolent smile. “Well, my dear, I’ll leave you to freshen up,” he said. “We’re both tired, and will undoubtedly sleep better in our own beds.”

“Good night, Jack,” Katie managed to whisper. When he was gone, she lay still, letting the waves of indignation wash over her, her hands balled into fists at her sides. Did he think that she was some sort of brood mare who would docilely live by his rules while he cavorted as he pleased away from home? If so, Jack Wyatt was sadly mistaken! Until he was prepared to make this a real marriage, bound together with love, laughter, honesty, and loyalty, Katie vowed not to submit to his will. This was one filly he would find impossible to tame unless he was willing to domesticate himself first.

Part Four

Chapter 26

November 10 - 28, 1864

“Are you certain that Jack won’t object to this?” Conrad asked worriedly as he helped Katie rearrange the parlor. They had just finished grouping comfortable new chairs and a sofa, upholstered in moss-green velvet, around the fireplace.

“Frankly, I don’t mind if he does object!” Laughing, Katie stood back, hands on hips, to survey their work. “Well, I like it! What do you think, Conrad?”

“It’s a big change,” he said slowly, gazing around the parlor. In truth, it didn’t even look like the same room. Jack was due back momentarily from a three-day trip to Sacramento. He had gone to try to lure one of the Union’s best reporters over to the Star. No sooner had he bade them good-bye than a wagon had arrived to cart away all the old parlor furniture, and that had been just the beginning. The walls had been painted eggshell white, and new draperies of cream silk had been hung to replace the dark blue velvet curtains Jack had purchased. A magnificent Aubusson rug of green, ivory, and deep rose covered the floor, and now all the furniture was coordinated in those colors. The room seemed much brighter. A cozy carved tete-a-tete, where two people could sit facing each other on opposite sides, was bathed in sunlight from the front windows. Nearby reposed an etagere with marble shelves which Katie intended to line with china figurines and knickknacks belonging to Jack and Conrad’s mother. Already she had set bowls of bright chrysanthemums around the parlor.

“Is that all you can say?” Katie asked, disappointed.

“No, I can truthfully say that I love it,” he replied, turning to grin at her. “It’s light and warm and in the best of taste. I don’t see how Jack can object.”

“Neither can I. After all, he told me to be a wife, insisting that I occupy myself with the house.He also told me to purchase anything that would make me happy. In a way, this was his idea!”

Conrad thought that Katie sounded almost rebellious, as if she had redecorated the parlor to irritate rather than please her husband. He never knew what to expect from his sister-in-law, and now he watched fondly as she moved a candy dish and fussed with an arrangement of miniature mauve-and-white chrysanthemums. She had undergone quite a transformation herself in the past few days. Clad in a stylish morning dress of white French muslin with a bright blue vest, Katie looked fetching and elegant at the same time. Her glossy black hair was caught up in back in a cache-peinge of net and ribbons, while soft curls escaped to frame her face. Although she was more beautiful than ever, and certainly more self-assured, Conrad thought that he detected an undercurrent of sadness in Katie’s eyes. It wouldn’t have been noticeable if there weren’t moments when it lifted, moments when Jack was near and looked at or touched his wife with unguarded affection. Then Katie’s face would radiate joy until Jack remembered himself and drew away from her.

Conrad was more than a little puzzled by his brother’s marriage. He had expected Jack to make a marriage of convenience, most predictably with Genevieve Braithwaite. She was beautiful and poised, would make an efficient wife, mother, and hostess, and she was already established in San Francisco society. Physically, Genevieve was desirable, and Conrad suspected that Jack also liked the fact that she was not warm and loving and thus would make few emotional demands on him.

Then, out of the blue, Katie had appeared, with her winsome looks, warm, carefree charm, and expressive, intelligent eyes. It had been logical to conclude that Jack had slipped and fallen helplessly in love. Yet the outward signs of that love, if it existed, were few and far between. Jack was friendly toward his bride, but little more. Conrad knew that they slept in separate beds, and Katie had taken to reading next to Ambrose in the parlor after Jack went to bed at night. It was all very curious.

“Katie, can I ask you a question?” he said suddenly.

“Of course, Con! Let’s rest for a moment, shall we?” Smiling, she sat down on the new sofa and patted the spot next to her. “What would you like to know?”

“More about you, actually. I’ve never really heard about your life before you married Jack. I think you mentioned the foothills once, but then Jack changed the subject.”

Poppy, who was venturing out of the bedroom now if Katie was close by for protection, jumped onto the sofa and snuggled between them, purring. Katie began to stroke the kitten. “Well, my parents came west when I was four years old, and I was raised in the town of Columbia, up in Tuolumne County—”

“I’ve been to Columbia!” Conrad cried in surprise.

“Have you?” Her eyes twinkled. “Did you go there thinking to strike it rich?”

“Well, yes, and I did, in a manner of speaking,” he said with a frown. “But that’s another story. You tell me yours first.”

“My mother was a lady of culture, and I loved her very much, but she died when I was ten. After that, my father raised me, which meant that I was pretty much able to do as I pleased. What few girls there were in Columbia had mothers who taught them the rules of proper feminine etiquette, but Papa hadn’t the vaguest notion about such things. I guess he thought I would just become ladylike through instinct.” Katie paused, smiling as she thought of her father. “Of course it didn’t work that way. I wore breeches a great deal until I was sixteen, and although I went to school, I often stole away to my favorite spot above the Stanislaus River and read the classics instead. My mother had a beautiful library of books.”

“It sounds idyllic,” Conrad murmured.

“I suppose it was, in a way... but not exactly the proper training for the wife of the wealthy, influential owner and editor of the San Francisco Morning Star, do you think?” She laughed. “I grew up working alongside my father in the saloon he owned—”

“A saloon? A real saloon?” Conrad echoed in amazement.

“Yes, except that we didn’t have dance hall girls. And I began writing articles for the Columbia Gazette a while back. So, you see, although there weren’t many rules in my life, I did have to work very hard. Much harder than most boys at the same age.” She rubbed behind Poppy’s ears. “I also kept house for my father, and I set high standards for myself there. I was always looking up to Mama’s example....”

“How did you meet Jack?”

Katie chose her words carefully, aware that Conrad didn’t know about Jack’s other life in the foothills but thought that his brother had been in Nevada during his absences from San Francisco. “Jack used to pass through Columbia on his travels, and he got to know my father. I met him in the saloon on my twentieth birthday.”

“When was that?”

“On the twenty-first of June.”

Conrad smoothed back his red hair, pondering this information. “So, Jack knew you when he came home in July....” He grinned. “That’s very interesting!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he seemed different, somehow. More restless and moody. And—” He broke off, blushing.

“And?” Katie pressed.

“Well, there was a woman Jack had been seeing...”

“Genevieve Braithwaite,” she supplied.

Conrad was shocked. “You know about her?”

“Not from Jack, but from everyone else. In fact, I overheard you carrying on about her the night I arrived. Since then, I saw her in the dress shop the morning after we arrived here, and Hope Menloe confirmed her identity.” Katie smiled wryly. “I had the impression that Miss Braithwaite thought her relationship with Jack was still in full flower, so I don’t imagine that she was very happy when she learned of my existence.”

“No, she’s not,” Conrad replied hesitantly. “I work in her father’s bank, and she’s had words with me about it. She’s not the sort of woman who gives up easily. But what I was going to say before was that Jack changed toward Genevieve after he came home in July. He was definitely cooler.”

Katie sat back against the green velvet upholstery and stroked Poppy’s back thoughtfully. “Life is interesting, isn’t it? I’ve come to believe in fate. There is a reason I met Jack and a reason for our marriage. So many twists of fate came into play... for instance, if my father hadn’t died, it probably would have taken a great deal more to convince me to leave Columbia.”

“How did your father die?” Conrad asked softly.

Before Katie could reply, the front door opened and Jack’s step sounded in the entry hall.

They both jumped up, suddenly remembering that the parlor had changed completely in his absence. Katie was surprised to discover that she could scarcely wait to see him. For three days she had kept busy with her projects, trying to pretend that she didn’t miss Jack, but now the promise of his physical presence filled her with elation.

At last Jack appeared, framed in the arched entrance to the parlor. His hair seemed dusted with sunlight after two long days on the Senator, and his face was more deeply tanned than ever. He wore an impeccably tailored morning coat and trousers of lightweight, charcoal-gray wool, a double-breasted waistcoat, a starched white shirt, and a simple wrapped cravat.

He froze in the act of drawing off his dove-gray gloves and stared. “Am I in the right house?”

Katie went to him and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Welcome home, Jack. Do you like it?”

Conrad watched them both with a rather anxious expression on his face. “In my opinion, Katie’s done a wonderful job,” he offered helpfully.

“Leave us alone, would you, Con?” Jack’s tone made it an order rather than a request. When his brother had gone, he turned to Katie, his cat’s eyes dazzling with anger. “How dare you do”—he gestured at the parlor—“this without consulting me?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“That’s not the point! I chose the things that were in this room after I purchased the house. They belonged to me, and you had no right to dispose of them and put something else in their place!”

“That’s not fair!” Katie retaliated. “First of all, you aremarriednow, so it’s wrong for you to keep saying ‘I’ and ‘me’ that way. There are two of us now. Secondly, you told me to busy myself with the house, that there was more than enough for me to do here, and when I asked you what those things might be, you had no answer. So I had to look around and see what I could do to make this male house into a home. Thirdly—”

“For God’s sake, Katie, how long is this tirade going to last?”

“Don’t you dare act bored and cut me off,” she told him in menacing tones. “Thirdly, you insisted that I buy anything that would make me happy. I happen to find that a pitifully condescending thing to say to anyone, and the sort of sentiment that is peculiar to your sex, but I decided to take you at your word. Fourthly—”

“I’m not sure that’s a word.” Jack was beginning to enjoy her performance. There was something especially stimulating about Katie when she was furious.

“I beg your pardon?” She paused impatiently for breath.

“I don’t think that ‘fourthly’ is a word,” he explained, leaning against the wall.

“Kindly refrain from patronizing me! Fourthly, I objected to the former style of this room. I’m not criticizing your taste, I’m talking about the taste of this entire period. I find most of the supposedly fashionable homes I have seen in San Francisco too dark, too cluttered, and the furniture too overbearing. I think that our parlor, now, is much more aesthetically pleasing, and if you will look at it with an unbiased eye, I don’t see how you can disagree.”

Jack gave Katie a smile that made her heart skip a beat. “You’re right.”

She paused in mid-breath and frowned. “What?”

“I can’t disagree. You are absolutely right.”

“Do you mean—”

“I mean that I like the parlor. It will take some getting used to—”

“That was going to be ‘fifthly.’ I think that you simply resist change, even change for the better—”

“Kathleen, be quiet.” His eyes crinkled gently at the corners.

“How dare you talk—”

“No more.” Jack drew her firmly into his arms. “Kiss your husband; welcome me home properly.”

“But Jack—” Katie felt that somehow he had defused the argument before she was finished.

He reached up with one hand to hold her face still, then covered her mouth with his own. He kissed her hungrily, drinking in the lithe, female warmth of her body pressed full length against his. Katie was intoxicated by the taste of him, the smell of his clothes and his skin, the forcefulness of his embrace. As long as Jack seemed to have lost control, perhaps it would be all right for her to lose control, too. Just this once....

“Grandfather, you really don’t have to do this. We have gardeners, you know.” Jack crossed the lawn through the cool morning mist to join Ambrose, who was cutting back the rosebushes that grew along the tall iron fence.

The old man scowled at him. “Why do you say that to me, Jack? You know that I want to do this, so leave me alone!”

“My apologies.” Jack smiled, fiddling with a cuff link. “Perhaps I said it so I would have an excuse to come over here and talk to you.”

“Then just say what’s on your mind, boy!”

“It’s Kathleen.”

“Katie? What about her?” Ambrose clipped the last ivory rosebud of the season and tucked it in his grandson’s lapel.

“I—I guess I feel that she isn’t putting enough effort into our marriage. She’s been so busy with the house, her new wardrobe...”

“Hmm.” The old man continued to prune, not looking up. “Go on, I’m listening.”

“I didn’t mind when she ordered the first batch of new gowns, or even when she redecorated the parlor, but then came elaborate preparations for Thanksgiving, and now she’s changing the dining room, and she’s being fitted for a riding habit this morning, and—”

“Seems to me that you told her to occupy herself with this sort of thing,” Ambrose remarked reasonably. “Or am I wrong?”

“Well, I didn’t expect it to occupy her every waking hour!” Jack loosened his cravat and hunkered down next to his grandfather. “Night before last, when I went to bed, she and Hope Menloe were looking at sketches for her new cloak and riding habit. Then, last night, I went to Kathleen’s room and discovered that she had installed a new desk for herself. She was working at it busily—”

“Oh, yes, I heard about that desk.” Ambrose smiled, scratching his bald head. “I think Katie’s planning to turn the morning room into a little study for herself, with her new desk, and a chaise, and bookshelves for her books. She wants to send to Columbia for the books that belonged to her mother, but was worried about the expense. I told her to go ahead. The study is a spectacular idea, and just what she deserves.”

“Are you two in league to drive me insane?” Jack felt a pang of jealousy that Katie was sharing dreams with his grandfather that were unknown to him.

The old man chuckled. “Don’t mind me. Go on with your story.”

“Well, when I went to her room, I thought that we might spend a little time alone, if you take my meaning.” He flushed, slightly embarrassed to be confiding such things to his grandfather. “I’ve barely kissed her since the night I returned from Sacramento over a fortnight ago! But she announced that she couldn’t join me until she finished her lists, and that might take another hour.” Jack’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Lists. Have you heard about those?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What a surprise! You seem to know everything else!” He drew a long breath to calm himself. “Kathleen is planning a huge Christmas party. An ‘affair of significance,’ she called it. If I hadn’t seen the lists with my own eyes, I’d think she was in jest! There are moments when I can’t believe this is the same girl I knew in Columbia....”

“Isn’t this what you wanted in a wife? Didn’t you encourage her to be a lady?” Ambrose asked simply. “And perhaps she’s just trying to redirect her life now that she’s accepted reality. Perhaps she’s trying to fill the space that she hoped you would occupy.”

Jack stared, jaw tensed, mouth grim. Then he looked away. “What do you mean by that? I went to her room to be with her, didn’t I?”

“Jack, you must know Katie better than to think that she could be content with the mere trappings of a marriage. I suspect that going through the motions hurts her more than not being with you at all. And the decision rests with you: either simply share space with your wife or make a real marriage. My guess is, with Katie, there can be no in between.”

Jack’s knuckles were white as he gripped the iron fence for support. “Oh, God.”

“Would you like to hear what I think?” Summers asked gently.

“Do I have a choice?”

“I believe that you hold Katie away from yourself because of your guilt about her father. Perhaps one day you can tell her, and she’ll understand, but in the meantime the best thing you can do for Brian MacKenzie’s daughter is to be a flesh-and-blood husband to her. Let yourself love her.”

“That isn’t as easy as it sounds,” Jack said, his voice husky.

“Perhaps it’s too easy. You think too much, my boy. You’ve gotten so used to thinking rather than feeling these past few years that your heart is out of practice. Listen to it for a change.” He pulled away a thorny branch and cast it to the side.

Sighing deeply, Jack uncoiled his strong body and stood up. “I’ll think about it.”

“There you go again.” Ambrose chuckled. “Will you accept a piece of advice from an old man who’s learned a few things the hard way? Miracles don’t happen overnight, even to you, Jack. Real change comes slowly, and you’ll have to learn patience. Trust yourself. You’re an extraordinary man... and Katie knows that.”

Chapter 27

December 10 - 18, 1864

December brought a state of chaos to the Wyatt household. New servants were hired, including a ladies’ maid for Katie named Judith, but most of the preparations for Christmas and the party that was planned were made by Katie herself. She was in the kitchen at dawn with a ruffled white apron over her dress, working alongside the cook and her staff to make fruitcakes and plum puddings. Some were for the family, but most would be given as gifts and distributed to the poor. Fragrant, fresh green garlands trimmed with red velvet bows were strung over every wall downstairs and also festooned the mantels, doorways, banisters, and chandeliers. Katie made the wreath for the front door herself. It was huge, consisting of pine boughs, sprigs of red-berried holly, tiny pine cones, and a big bow of red-and-green plaid silk. A single candle burned in every window, and the house was redolent with the scents of spices and evergreen.

Midway through the second week of the month, Hope Menloe came over to help Katie plan the food for the party. Invitations had gone out for the eighteenth, and already more than two dozen acceptances had been received. The two women were seated in the breakfast room, heads bent over cookery books and lists, when Jack and Conrad stopped in to say good-bye.

“I’m going to take Con to the bank on my way to the office,” Jack said.

Katie looked up distractedly. “That’s nice. I hope your day goes well, Jack.” She smiled at her brother-in-law. “And yours, Conrad.”

Jack started to go over and give her a kiss, but when Katie turned back to Hope to point out another recipe, he thought better of it. Sighing, he drew on his gloves as they went out the door.

“Is something wrong?” Conrad asked, summoning up his courage.

Jack arched an eyebrow and shrugged. “No, not really. We always long for the thing that eludes us, don’t we? I’m no different.”

“What is it you long for?”

Jack almost rebuked him for being too inquisitive, but a sudden impulse made him reply instead, “The company of my wife.”

“Do you really! That’s the first time I’ve heard you admit that you care for Katie.”

“Well, I wouldn’t attach too much importance to it, Con.” His tone was light now as they climbed into the carriage. “All I meant was that a house full of Christmas cheer isn’t much use if there’s no one to share it with.”

“Well, perhaps it’s not an issue of crucial importance to you, but I know that if I were married to Katie, I’d hoard her like a miser. I think she’s nothing short of magic. Not only is she simply enchanting to behold, but the air around her is filled with a kind of vibrant goodness—”

“Conrad,” Jack interrupted in mock consternation, “your enthusiasm borders on delirium. Are you harboring a secret passion for my wife?”

“I wish I’d met her first, I’ll say that much!” The young man blushed a little. “No, I’m not in love with her, any more than I was in love with Genevieve, even though I lusted after her mightily.”

“Lusted?” Jack blinked, amused. “Good God!”

“I’m a man, too, and I’m only human,” Conrad countered, lifting his chin. “As for Katie, it would mean living in fantasy if I were to let myself fall in love her. The reality is that she’s in love with you, and she’s your wife.” He gathered his hat and papers as the carriage approached the First Western Bank, which was owned by Gerald Braithwaite. “My own reality is less exciting, but comforting nonetheless. I think I’ll propose to Emma on Christmas Eve. It’s time, I suppose, for the plunge into manhood.”

With that, Conrad stepped down from the carriage, waved to his brother, and dodged other vehicles and pedestrians as he hurried toward the bank. Jack leaned back against the upholstery and smiled to himself. How typical of a young pup like his brother to lust after an empty shell of a glamorous woman like Genevieve while worshiping Katie as if she were a goddess. The truth was that Katie, with her warmth and goodness, was far more desirable than Genevieve, because of her own capacity for desire, which was as great as it was for all other human emotions. Arousal fueled arousal, and love fueled love. These past weeks, during which Katie had steadily blocked him from enjoying her spiritual and physical passions, Jack had slowly begun to understand and then to accept the meaning behind her actions. Now, he had to show his wife that he was willing to change—not just his own life, but the life he shared with her.

Conrad’s office was a small, dimly lit, airless room dominated by a scarred desk. As a clerk, he worked hard, poring methodically over columns of figures in search of errors, not because he enjoyed it, but because Mr. Braithwaite held out the promise of a promotion “one of these days.” The accounts manager was getting older and was frequently ill. It was this job, which involved interaction with real human beings, that Conrad craved.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Conrad.”

Startled, he pivoted on his chair and saw Genevieve Braithwaite peeking around the door to his office. “My gosh! I mean—no, of course not! Can I do something for you?”

She closed the door and stood there for a moment, smiling, so he could fully appreciate the beautiful picture she made. Her dress was powder-blue silk with a daringly low neckline that left little to the imagination. The bodice fit tightly, hugging every curve and accentuating her perfect eighteen-inch waist, then the skirt flared out over her crinoline. Genevieve had removed her bonnet to show off her silky blond curls which were caught up in a profusion of ringlets next to one ear. Her provocative mouth was rosy and moist as she said, “I was just visiting Daddy, and I thought about you, Conrad. I’ve missed you.” She glided the few steps to his desk and stopped in front of him. “Have you missed me?”

Mesmerized, he stared at her breasts, which were level with his eyes, noticing the way they swelled with each breath she took. “Missed you? Well, yes, of course.”

She perched on the edge of his desk, slightly higher than Conrad and just inches away. “How have you been? And how is dear Mr. Summers?”

“I’ve been—about the same, I guess. Nothing new. Grandfather is... fine, too. The same.”

“But things are not the same at your house, are they? You’ve avoided talking to me about this before, Conrad, but is it really fair of you? Can you not understand how I feel? Not knowing what is happening or who this woman is who took my place only makes me feel more confused!” Looking as if she might weep, Genevieve leaned forward until one breast lightly grazed the side of his face. “Won’t you help me?”

Conrad thanked God that he was sitting down. “Well, wh-what can I do to help you?” he heard himself say hoarsely. She was so close that he could smell her perfume, and her skin looked incredibly soft. Dizzily, he imagined what her breasts would look like if she were to open her gown.

“Tell me about her. Maybe if I understand, if I can think of her as a person, I can wish them well....” Her voice was low, hypnotic.

Conrad cleared his throat and tried to respond rationally. His loins ached so that he could scarcely think, let alone speak. “Well, Katie’s actually a very nice person. She’s friendly, and—”

“Are they happy?” Genevieve broke in.

He squirmed. “I—I imagine so. They have a few problems, but I believe they’ll work them out.”

Stroking his red hair and side-whiskers, she purred, “Do you know, you’re a good-looking man, Conrad. Your features are more classical than Jonathan’s. Tell me some more about Katie. Where is she from? How did she meet your brother?”

“She’s from Columbia.” He heard his own voice from a distance. “They met at her saloon....”

“Indeed? How quaint.” Genevieve tried not to betray her glee. Standing, she reached over to pat Conrad’s cheek and said, “Well, I must be going, Conrad. I have a luncheon engagement. But it’s been lovely seeing you again. Do give my regards to your family.”

Conrad panicked, not only because of what he had said about Katie, but also because he didn’t want Genevieve to leave. “No, wait I ought to explain about the saloon. It wasn’t the way it sounds—”

“It probably wasn’t like other saloons simply because your sister-in-law was in it, hmm?” she replied sweetly. “I understand. Now, you take good care of yourself, and tell Papa I said he mustn’t work you too hard!”

With a rustle of crinoline and an intoxicating swirl of lavender scent, Genevieve sailed out of the office. Alone again, Conrad sat at his desk in a daze. It seemed that he could almost feel the blood slowly leaving his groin and returning to his brain. How could he have been so stupid? Not only had he completely forgotten his commitment to Emma, but he had also discussed Katie with Genevieve in spite of his resolve not to. Still, what harm could she do? Jack and Katie were married, and Genevieve had no choice but to accept the fact that she had lost... didn’t she?

“Judith, could you come in here for a moment?” Jack called from his bedroom.

The young, sweet-faced ladies’ maid, whom Katie had hired for her disposition rather than her experience, hurried in from her mistress’s dressing room. At the doorway she stopped, paralyzed by the sight of Jonathan Wyatt.

He wore a dashingly cut black tailcoat, black trousers, and a white silk waistcoat, all of which fit to perfection on his tall, strong body. Jack’s white tie and shirt, with its starched turnover collar, contrasted strikingly with his tanned, roguishly handsome face. His hair was the color of melted caramel, and his eyes were a shade of green Judith had never seen before.

“There’s nothing wrong, I hope?” he asked, trying not to betray his amusement.

“Yes—I mean, no, sir! It’s just that... well, I hope you won’t think I’m speaking out of turn, but I’ve never seen a finer-looking man than you, Mr. Wyatt.”

“That’s very loyal of you, Judith,” Jack said, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “and I appreciate it. In fact, I appreciate it so much that I’m sending you downstairs for a hot buttered rum.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll bring it right back to you!”

He held out his hand, laughing. “No, no, I want you to drink it! If you don’t care for spirits, have a cup of tea. Just sit down, put your feet up, and sip it slowly. I’ll help Mrs. Wyatt finish dressing.”

Judith’s dark eyes were like saucers. “Oh, no, sir, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I insist.”

Looking confused, the little maid did as she was told, while Jack walked through the connecting door and turned into Katie’s dressing room. She was standing before a bureau, examining a collection of jewelry, the back of her silk ball gown open to the waist.

“What did Mr. Wyatt want, Judith?” she asked without looking up.

Jack came up behind her and slipped his hand into her open gown, curving it around her midriff to draw her against him. “He wanted to be alone with Mrs. Wyatt.”

Katie gasped at his touch, then leaned back and laughed nervously. “It’s very bad of you to startle me that way, Jack, and very bad of you to spoil my surprise. I didn’t want you to see me until I was completely dressed.”

“I like you better this way.” He lowered his mouth to the place where her neck curved into her shoulder. “God, but you smell good... and your skin is like satin.”

“My, aren’t we frisky tonight,” Katie teased, trying to ignore her own response.

“I’m more than frisky,” Jack said in a husky voice. He wanted to tell her that he’d missed her, that he hoped they could make a fresh start tonight, but Katie was drawing away from him.

“Well, you’ll have to hold yourself in check for a bit, because it’s getting late and the guests will be arriving soon. Fasten my gown, won’t you, please?” She stood motionless while he complied, the touch of his fingers sending little shivers down her spine. Then she turned slowly to face him. “I confess that I’m a little nervous about this dress. What do you think?”

“I think... that I can hardly believe you are the same girl I knew in Columbia.” It was the same sentiment he had expressed to his grandfather, but this time his tone was warm with approval and admiration.

Katie wore a stunning gown fashioned of Chinese-red silk. The deeply scooped bodice revealed her creamy shoulders, then wrapped over her breasts. Her tiny waist was accentuated by a red sash that tied in a bow in back. Dark-green silk holly leaves adorned the ends of the sash and marched around the hem. “It’s so different from anything I’ve seen,” Katie said, surveying herself a trifle nervously. “The color, the holly—”

“It’s inspired,” Jack assured her, “and you look spectacular. That red is beautiful with your hair and eyes. You ought to wear it more often.”

“Oh, I don’t think so!” She laughed, unused to such lavish compliments. “My only hope is that people will indulge me because it is Christmas. I had it designed for the holiday.” She pointed to the cluster of holly she wore in her hair, which was caught up on one side in a mass of long curls. “You see? I’m striving for a festive effect.”

“You don’t need an excuse to stand out in a crowd, Kathleen. You’re an extraordinarily beautiful woman; you deserve to be stared at.”

She colored slightly, her sparkling eyes smiling at him. “You look quite extraordinary yourself, Mr. Wyatt.” His gaze held hers so intimately that she turned back to her jewelry. “I thought I might wear the ruby-and-pearl necklace and earrings that belonged to your mother.”

“Perfect.” Jack fastened the necklace for her, then kissed the feather-soft curls that brushed the nape of her neck. Slowly, then, he turned her in his arms and they embraced. Currents of emotion passed between their bodies, warming each of them with hope, until a knock sounded at the door to Jack’s bedroom.

“Mrs. Gosling wants to know if Katie’s going to check the table,” Conrad called. “All the food has been set out.”

Jack released Katie, and she quickly fastened her earrings, each of which consisted of one simple, square-cut ruby crowned by a lustrous pearl. Then she picked up a little spray of holly. “Stand still,” she told Jack, and pinned the holly to his lapel.

Walking down the hall, she took Jack’s arm, and he smiled to himself.

“Did I tell you that I sought out Lim Sung’s parents in the Chinese quarter the other day?” she asked.

“You know that you didn’t tell me, Kathleen!” he replied instantly exasperated. “I never would have allowed you to go there without me.”

“Elijah took me, so I was perfectly safe. And fortunately I found them quite easily. It was wonderful to see Yong and Choy Sung again, and they agreed, after much persuasion, to come to our party tonight. Lim will be so pleased when he hears.”

Jack looked bemused. “I’m glad you invited them, Kathleen, but don’t be surprised if some of the other guests have a different reaction.”

“Then they needn’t stay,” she said briskly.

As they descended the wide staircase, he remarked, “I learned today that Grant Phillips will also be attending tonight—the reporter who has just arrived from Sacramento to work for me. Perhaps he’ll make a new friend or two.”

“That’s nice. You must make a point of introducing us.” With studied nonchalance, Katie added, “Oh, by the way, Mr. and Mrs. Braithwaite sent their regrets.”

Jack glanced down at her. They were approaching the dining room as he said, “That’s just as well, for the time being. Kathleen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about them... well, about their daughter, to be more specific....”

The embers of hope burned brighter in Katie’s heart. Could Jack actually intend to begin revealing more of himself to her? Mrs. Gosling, clad in a black taffeta gown and crisp white apron, was hurrying toward them as she replied, “Unfortunately, it will have to wait. I seem to have other obligations....”

Everything looked magnificent. The carved pocket doors between the drawing and dining rooms had been opened to form one huge room that seemed to exude Christmas cheer. A long buffet table stretched across one wall, covered with a snowy white cloth and studded with artful centerpieces of evergreen, candles, and fruit. Around them was arranged food of every description. There were dishes with various pates, scalloped oysters, lobster patties, sausage rolls, salads, iced prawns, and galantines of duck and tongue. A huge roast goose with chestnut stuffing had been artfully arranged beside a garnished, glazed pink ham, and both were surrounded by raised chicken pies, woodcocks, plovers, and cracked crabs. There were plates of fresh biscuits, bowls of pumpkins squash and green beans with almonds, compotes of fruit, tartlets of jam, bonbons, sweetmeats, tiny cheesecakes, plum puddings, dates, and nuts. The piece de resistance had been baked by Katie—a magnificent Christmas cake covered with snowy white frosting and decorated with sprigs of holly.

There were several small Christmas trees on tabletops throughout the house, glowing with the light of miniature candles. Each was gaily decorated with strings of glass beads and cranberries and hung with tiny brightly wrapped packages, colorful blown-glass balls, crystal snowflakes, and little birds with real feathers.

The magical effect was made complete by the hundreds of candles that illumined the entire downstairs of the house. A fire danced in every fireplace, and on the parlor mantel Katie had arranged an exquisite hand-carved crèche she’d discovered in a box in the attic.

Now she paused in front of it, remembering what her mother had told her each Christmas. As Jack came up to give her a cup of hot mulled cider, Katie murmured, “This is the essence of Christmas for me. Mama used to say that the celebration of the Christ child’s birth should be a time of rebirth for all of us, that winter could bring more new growth than spring... new growth in our hearts. That’s the gift I want most for Christmas. I want to be cleansed, to replace my fears and pain with courage and serenity as I enter the new year.” Her eyes glistened. “I believe it’s possible, with God’s grace.”

Jack felt a tightening in his chest and a surge of tenderness toward his wife. He wanted to tell her that his dream for 1865 was the same as hers, but before he could speak, there was a resounding knock at the front door and guests began to arrive.

A stringed quartet began to play in a corner of the drawing room while the house slowly filled with the richly garbed cream of San Francisco society, as well as many of Jack’s less wealthy but more colorful friends. Ambrose Summers and Conrad, both clad in white tie and tailcoats, were there to help assume some of the hosting duties, but everyone wanted to meet the new Mrs. Wyatt. All were gracious when presented to her, though Katie was well aware of the curious stares and whispers from across the room and the occasional eyebrow that arched at her red gown. But she didn’t care. Tonight she could feel headstrong Katie MacKenzie from Columbia merging with the more womanly Kathleen Wyatt, and she knew a sense of peace that she had never experienced before.

Polished servants, under the watchful eye of Mrs. Gosling, moved discreetly through the crowd with bottles of French champagne, while others served hot buttered rum, mulled cider, eggnog, and wassail from huge silver bowls. Guests milled around the buffet table, filling their plates, and a few couples began to dance in the drawing room.

Bret Harte and Edwin Murray, the Morning Star’s city editor, approached Jack. Between sips of champagne, the dandified Harte clapped Wyatt on the back and remarked, “We were just saying how very beautiful your bride is, old boy. I cannot remember ever being in the company of a more fresh and radiant woman.”

“I’ll second that.” Edwin nodded, hiccupping. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you made the right choice. Mrs. Wyatt is a stunner.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, grinning. “For once I agree with both of you at the same time.” He indulged himself in a long look across the room at Katie, who was hugging the newly arrived Hope Menloe. She was surrounded by several admirers, many of whom were neighbors or members of their church whom Katie hadn’t met until now. Even from a distance, Jack could see and feel the radiance Bret Harte had spoken of. It shone from inside Katie and was reflected in her eyes, her glowing skin, her smile, even the bounce of her glossy black curls.

“Well, well, look who’s just arrived.” Harte cocked an eyebrow as he stared toward the entry hall. “It’s the overrated star reporter from the Sacramento Union. Oh, sorry, I’ve put my foot in it again. Phillips works for you now, doesn’t he?”

Jack was glad of an excuse to leave Harte and Murray, both of whom had obviously sampled a bit too much champagne. Weaving through the crowd, he kept Grant Phillips’s blond head in sight. Katie was moving toward him, too, and Jack was just a few steps behind when she reached the new guest.

“I’m so pleased that you could come,” Katie said, reaching for his hand with both of hers. “I’m Kathleen Wyatt.”

“I’m Grant Phillips.” Hazel eyes smiled at her from behind steel spectacles. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wyatt. As you may have heard, I am newly arrived in San Francisco, so I’m grateful to you and your husband for inviting me to your home.”

“Of course!” Katie’s face brightened with recognition. “You’re from Sacramento, aren’t you? I’ve only been here a few weeks myself, so we have something in common.”

Jack came up behind his wife and shook Grant’s hand. “I’m glad you could make it. Did you take my advice and search out a young lady to escort?”

Grant smiled. “I did indeed—the prettiest girl I’ve seen in San Francisco, present company excepted, of course. She is just handing over her cloak to your maid....” He turned toward the entry hall, and his smile widened. “Here she is! Mr. and Mrs. Wyatt, are you acquainted with Miss Genevieve Braithwaite?”

Katie paled, and she felt Jack’s arm tense around her back. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” she murmured.

Taking her place at Grant’s side, Genevieve smiled coolly and announced, “Jack and I are old and intimate friends, aren’t we, Jack? And this must be your bride. I would have known you anywhere, Mrs. Wyatt, by your scarlet dress. Isn’t that color de rigueur for saloon girls?”

Chapter 28

December 18 - 19, 1864

A hush fell over the crowd of guests, while others across the long room whispered, “What did she say?”

Jack gave Genevieve a murderous look. “Miss Braithwaite, I think you owe my wife an apology.”

“Do I?” Her shrill voice carried easily. “Oh, my, I didn’t realize it was a secret that she was working in a saloon when you met. If I’ve spoken out of turn, I do apologize. I don’t suppose I can blame you for being embarrassed by your past, Miss—I mean, Mrs. Wyatt.”

“My wife owned the MacKenzie Saloon,” Jack said, his voice carrying. “She wasnot a ‘saloon girl.’”

Katie felt faint. She was trying to find her voice when she glimpsed Yong and Choy Sung peeking into the dining room. Yong wore an ill-fitting brown suit, and his hair was slicked back into a long queue, while Choy was clad in the traditional Chinese costume of a long, embroidered tunic with a high collar fastened to one side, over loose silk pants. Their faces shone with loving smiles when they saw Katie.

The assembled guests, already staring attentively at the scene between the Wyatts and Genevieve Braithwaite, now wore expressions of undisguised shock. It seemed that everyone began to whisper at once. When Katie moved forward to embrace the new arrivals, a few of the women gasped aloud. San Francisco’s upper class was noticeably more tolerant of the Chinese than other Californians, and appreciative of their contribution to the city, but socializing with them was unthinkable. Although Katie could feel the tension in the air around her, she proceeded to introduce the Sungs to other guests, who had no choice but to smile, nod, and mouth polite amenities.

Jack was torn between two crises. He felt bound to give Katie support with the Sungs and so helped her make introductions all the way over to the buffet table. She was explaining the various dishes to Yong and Choy when Conrad came up behind Jack.

“You’d better do something about Genevieve,” he murmured. “She’s telling everyone who’ll listen about Katie’s life as a saloon girl, and adding spiteful comments about her choice of friends”—he nodded at the Sungs—“for good measure.”

Conrad’s face was even whiter than usual in contrast with his bright red hair and side-whiskers. He was in an agony of guilt over his own part in the havoc Genevieve was wreaking on Katie’s lovingly planned party, and he was also more than a little worried that she might decide to tell Emma Pierce about the cozy scene between them in his office.

Leaning toward Katie, Jack whispered, “I’ll be right back.” Her only response was a nod; she didn’t look up.

As he strode across the room, he could clearly hear Genevieve saying to Charles Henry Webb, founder of the literary weekly, the Californian, “I hardly think that it can come as a surprise, that woman bringing Chinese into Jonathan’s house as guests! How could she possible know better? I mean, just look at that gaudy dress she’s wearing. The poor thing was raised in the mountains, and she worked in a saloon until Jonathan took pity and married her. I shudder to think whom she’ll invite next to this beautiful home. Can you imagine the sorts of friends she must have?” She widened her beautiful eyes to suggest various unmentionable possibilities.

People around Genevieve pretended to sip their drinks and chat, while listening with one ear to everything that she was saying. Jack was rigid with fury. Coming up behind her, he gripped her elbow and said softly, “Come with me.”

“Of course, Jonathan darling.” She looked around until she spotted Grant Phillips and then called, “Now, don’t you worry about me, Grant—I’m just going to have a moment alone with Jonathan. Old times, you know!”

Jack could hear the buzzing that began as soon as they reached the entry hall, but he didn’t care, nor did he care if he bruised Genevieve’s arm as he dragged her into his study and slammed the door.

“You bitch! I could kill you for this!”

Genevieve reclined gracefully against the overstuffed armchair Jack all but tossed her onto and smiled up at him, one eyebrow arched. “I can’t imagine what you mean, darling. All I did was tell the truth. If the truth is unpalatable, perhaps you had better make some changes.” The challenge in her eyes was unmistakable. “It’s not too late to admit that you’ve made a mistake, you know.”

Jack stared, incredulous. “You must be out of your mind!”

“On the contrary, I am saner than you. My mother always told me that an inability to admit mistakes was a flaw inherent in men, but somehow I hoped that you were better than that, Jonathan.”

“I don’t know what the devil you’re babbling about, and furthermore, I don’t care—”

“I’m talking about that woman you’re trying to pass off as your wife. You must see by now that she can never do justice to your fine family name. Jonathan, you can tell me how you really feel; I of all people will understand. And I’ll wait for you while you disentangle yourself from this disastrous marriage.”

Jack longed to smash something, but instead he clenched his jaw and drew up a straight-backed chair next to Genevieve. Slowly he said, “Obviously this is not an argument worthy of my time. You are a spoiled, self-centered girl who is so used to having her own way that you distort other people’s lives until they suit your purposes. I thank God for bringing Kathleen to me, thereby delivering me from doing something insane in a weak moment—like marrying you!”

Genevieve’s expression was uncomprehending. “But Jonathan—”

“Be quiet for a change! Kathleen is nothing like the person you imagine her to be. She is the finest thing that ever happened to me.” He paused. “Now listen carefully, Genevieve: I love Kathleen with all my heart and I intend to do everything in my power to make her happy.” Jack took a deep breath. “If you say one more word against my wife, or do anything to harm her or her reputation, I won’t be responsible for my actions. Is that clear?”

“Mm.” Sulking, she twisted her hands together in her lap, staring down at them.

Jack stood up. “Look at me! Is that clear?”

Genevieve returned his stare defiantly. “Yes! Yes, it’s clear. But don’t come to me later, when you’ve seen that I’m right, and beg for another chance!”

Walking toward the door, he said over his shoulder in icy tones, “I’ll have Elijah drive you home. Do not rejoin the party.”

When the last guest had departed, Ambrose discovered his grandson in the parlor, gazing pensively into the dying fire.

“I’d say that the party was a success, in spite of everything,” the old man murmured. “After you sent Miss Braithwaite home, I thought you and Katie did an excellent job of repairing the damage she tried to do.”

Jack smiled bleakly. “People seemed to understand that Genevieve was acting out of jealousy, and Kathleen is so obviously genuine that our guests couldn’t help being charmed by her. She went right on with the party as if Genevieve didn’t matter. Kathleen won them over simply by being herself.”

“Your support counted for a great deal, my boy,” Ambrose assured him. “And now that they’ve all gone home, Katie might welcome some personal attention. She’s organizing the cleanup with Mrs. Gosling. Why don’t you lend her a hand?”

Jack’s white tie was already loosened, and now he unfastened his starched collar and sighed. “I already tried. Kathleen doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me. To be honest, Grandfather, I’m afraid I waited too long to tell her how I feel, to show her how much I love her. She’s been drawing away from me for a long time, and that scene with Genevieve tonight may have killed whatever feelings she had left for me....”

Ambrose frowned. “Nonsense.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the way she looked at me.” He stripped off his tailcoat, slung it over the back of one of the new velvet chairs, and walked to the sideboard. Pulling the stopper from a decanter of brandy, he sloshed some of the liquor into a glass.

“What are you doing?”

“Having a drink.” He returned to the fire and stared into the glass.

“Don’t be a fool, boy. That brandy’s not going to help you! Only you can fix this problem, and you need to start this very moment. Go to her and tell her how you feel! Do you expect her to be able to read your mind? Hasn’t it occurred to you that she might be as confused as you are? For God’s sake—”

Jack threw the glass into the fireplace, splashing brandy and shattering the crystal over the flames. Bracing himself against the mantel, he let his eyes rest upon the crèche, and Katie’s words came back to him. Fears replaced by courage, she had said.... “All right,” he whispered. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Come over here for a moment,” Ambrose ordered gruffly. He embraced Jack with all his might and muttered, “I’m proud of you, and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Grandfather. Wish me luck.”

Crossing the hall, Jack found that there were only two kitchen maids removing the last of the food. They told him that Mrs. Wyatt had just retired for the night. He ran lightly up the stairs, then turned the corners of the hallway until he saw Katie passing the door to his bedroom. Carrying her shoes in one hand and holding her skirts with the other, she looked so small and vulnerable.

“Kathleen.”

She stopped but did not look back.

Jack came up behind her. “I’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m very tired.” Katie lifted eyes clouded with pain to meet his.

“Please, just give me a few minutes. It’s important.” He opened the door to his room and gestured for her to precede him. She bit her lip doubtfully but entered. Elijah had lighted a fire and turned back the covers on the bed to reveal two plump, inviting pillows. Turning her back on the bed, Katie stood stiffly in the middle of the magnificent Turkey carpet, waiting. Jack approached but stopped a few feet away, and when she looked at his face, she found it different somehow. His eyes and mouth looked more boyish, unguarded, and hopeful than Katie had ever seen them before.

“I’m sorry about the way the party turned out,” Jack said.

She blinked back tears. “So am I.”

“I know how much it meant to you—”

“Well, I think that the guests certainly had a good time, and that was most important.” Her chin trembled. “I’m so very tired. Was that what you wanted to say to me?”

“Please... won’t you sit down with me?” Jack led Katie over to the bed and perched next to her on the edge, holding her cold hands. “I have to tell you that... I love you, Kathleen. I love you and I need you. It’s taken me a long time to realize just how strong my feelings are, but that’s my fault, not yours. If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll try to be a husband to you in every sense of the word, in every way that you long for.” Bending his head, he kissed her fingers. “Tell me that I haven’t waited too long.”

Katie began to weep. “Oh, Jack, I just think that Genevieve Braithwaite may be right after all. I don’t think I can ever be the wife that you deserve, and I can’t change the person that I am. It would have been better if you’d married someone who was born to this life. I’ll always be doing things like inviting the wrong people and speaking my mind at the wrong time and—”

“But that’s what Iwant!” he said hoarsely. “I want you, just the way you are—”

“You wanted to get away from me tonight, after she told everyone about my past, and then Yong and Choy came. Weren’t you embarrassed? Isn’t that why you left? Everyone was whispering during the time you and Miss Braithwaite were off alone together, whispering that you and she—”

Jack took a snowy linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently dried her tears. “Kathleen, my love, nothing could be more ludicrous, and I think you know that. I feel nothing but contempt for Genevieve, and I made that clear to her tonight. The only reason I took her to the study was to make certain she understood that her little scheme wouldn’t work. I told her that I love you and would not tolerate another word spoken against you. Then I sent her home.” Tenderly he kissed Katie’s brow and stroked her hair. “I could never be embarrassed by anything you say or do. On the other hand, I was embarrassed tonight to think that my name had ever been linked with Genevieve Braithwaite’s.”

“But you must have loved her once,” she said brokenly.

Jack smiled. “No. I didn’t know the meaning of the word until I met you, and after that, I realized just how shallow my relationship with her was.” He felt Katie soften against him, and his heart swelled with hope. “Can we forget about Genevieve now and talk about you... and me?”

“Yes.” Her eyes searched his face. “Are you certain we’re awake, that this isn’t a dream?”

“If it is, we’re having the same one. Kathleen, do you believe that I love you, that the future can be different for us?”

Katie saw the truth in his eyes, heard it in his tone more than his words, and felt it in the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart. She nodded. “I love you, Jack.” What a relief it was to say the words aloud to him! Another tear spilled onto her cheek. “I’m so afraid to hope for fear I’ll be disappointed. More than anything, I yearn to have a real marriage with you....”

“My darling, I give you my word that from now on I intend to share myself with you, and I hope that you’ll want to do the same. I’ll be your best friend, if you’ll let me. You can tell me your dreams and your frustrations, and I’ll never tire of listening. I want to make love to you, and then hold you in my arms and keep you warm all night long—”

Katie stared in amazement. “What happened to the man who said that we’d sleep better apart?”

“That’s right, make me cringe by reminding me of every stupid thing I’ve said since our wedding day!” He laughed. “Only a very frightened man could have spoken words as ridiculous as those, especially considering the fact that his wife was incredibly desirable.” Jack paused. “Do you want to know a secret of mine?”

A tingling warmth was spreading over Katie’s body. “I want to know everything about you. You can trust me with all your secrets.”

“Our wedding night scared the life out of me. Somehow, when we made love before, in Columbia, the loss of control seemed excusable because there was no commitment, and it was—”

“Unplanned,” she finished excitedly. “I know, I felt the same way! Jack, I was as afraid to let myself love you as you were to love me! I couldn’t face it, either!”

“And that night in Sacramento, I felt—exposed. I knew that if we kept on that way, I wouldn’t be able to stop the momentum, and so I tried to go backward.”

Katie stroked his cheek with loving tenderness. “Why did you stop being afraid?”

“I think I finally found the holding back more painful than letting go. And... Grandfather’s been urging me on. I didn’t want to lose you, Kathleen. I want to spend the rest of my life discovering you.” Jack lowered his head and kissed the tears from her cheeks before covering her mouth with his own. They kissed wonderingly for long minutes before drawing back to stare into each other’s eyes.

Without speaking they stood, and Jack undressed Katie before stripping off his own clothes. Then, in one fluid movement, they embraced. Their bodies were warm and clean, and it felt as if they were touching for the first time. Katie stood on tiptoe, her arms around Jack’s shoulders, pressing herself against him, while he embraced her with his entire being, his face buried in the fragrant tumble of her hair. Time seemed suspended as they remained thus, hearts beating in unison.

Sometime later Jack slipped an arm under Katie’s knees, lifted her up, and carried her to the bed. He ached with love as he kissed her mouth, her eyes, her temples, the hollows of her throat. Both felt keenly sensitized; every touch and kiss was almost unbearably acute. Katie lay back, smiling dreamily, as Jack explored her body with his mouth and fingertips. The sensations he evoked were exquisite and mingled with the joy that surged through her veins to bring her nearer to paradise than she had ever imagined possible.

When Jack’s face appeared again above her, Katie lovingly drew him down to meet her hungry mouth. Their lips brushed, tasting... Then, in a surge of passion, Jack deepened his kiss. Katie’s hips arched involuntarily as she welcomed the slow, sensuous dance of his tongue, engaging in a duel of intense erode pleasure that left her weak and breathless.

Jack stared down at her, his heart revealed in his eyes. “Dear God, how I love you,” he murmured.

A tear trickled down Katie’s cheek. “And I you.”

He entered her with excruciating slowness until their bodies were one; then, together, they began to move—still slowly, reveling in each sweet sensation. When Jack took Katie’s arms and turned her so that she lay on top of him, she beamed. It was a joy to behold him lying there in the firelight, so appealingly strong and handsome against the white pillows. Still joined to him, she caressed his glossy hair and proud face. She ran her fingertips over his corded neck, broad shoulders, and powerful arms, while Jack reached up to fondle her breasts. Katie arched forward slightly so that he could take a nipple into his mouth. Currents of sharp pleasure radiated out from her breast, intensifying the arousal between her legs.

Katie tightened around Jack’s hardness and bent to rub her brow over his chest; she loved the warmth and the smell of him. Jack’s hips moved slowly, and tentatively Katie found an answering rhythm, dropping her head back as the sensations built. Her hands braced against his chest, she rode harder, her ebony hair swirling about her shoulders. Jack was enthralled by his wife’s wild beauty. He held himself back, waiting, waiting, until at last Katie drew in a shallow, gasping breath, then let it out in a series of shuddering, whimpering cries. Her back arched, and as Jack felt her spasm, he found his own convulsive release.

Afterward Katie lay full length on top of him, Jack pulsing inside her. Neither spoke for many minutes, yet their silence was more moving than words. Jack stroked her gleaming hair, and he could feel her smiling against his shoulder.

“Ohhh...” Katie moaned at last.

He chuckled. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, my love.”

She flopped over onto her back next to him, took his hand, and pressed the palm between her breasts so that he could feel her heart pounding. “I didn’t know it could be done... like that,” she said in a small, delighted voice. “I liked it.”

“I liked it, too.” He traced the fullness of her breasts with a fingertip. “I’m very happy, Kathleen.”

She giggled. “So am I!”

“And, I’m very hungry. Let’s go downstairs and have a private feast. I don’t think I ate a bite all evening.”

Jack went into his dressing room and came back wearing his gray silk dressing gown. He carried one of Prussian-blue silk for Katie and helped her into it, tying the sash around her slender waist. Like high-spirited children, they crept barefoot down the corridors to the staircase. The house below them was dark except for the faint orange glow cast by the fireplace embers in each room. Jack held Katie’s hand as they made their way into the kitchen, where he turned on a gaslight.

The iceboxes and sideboards were filled with covered dishes. They loaded their plates with sliced ham, oysters, biscuits and honey, cold chicken pie, jam tarts, plum pudding, and sweetmeats. Jack hooked one finger around a jug of cider, and they returned to his room. There they lit candles and made a picnic on the bed.

Katie sat cross-legged in Jack’s voluminous dressing gown, exposing her bare limbs unselfconsciously. As she devoured a tart, she gazed around and her smile broadened. “When I was a little girl, Mrs. Barnstaple ordered a testered bed like this from New York, and I’d never seen anything like it. Sometimes she let me play on it when we visited. It was pine, and not as magnificent as this one, but it had a wonderful muslin canopy and curtains. I used to pretend that the bed was a ship, the hangings were sails, and the blue braided rug underneath was the ocean....”

“You must have been an enchanting child,” Jack said fondly. He leaned back against the pillows and poured cider into cups. As he handed Katie hers, he looked into her eyes. “Do you have any idea why I don’t drink spirits?”

She shook her head. “I just assumed that you liked to keep your wits about you.”

“It’s a little more involved than that.” Jack took a deep breath. “I was raised in Philadelphia, and my father died when I was a boy. Mother took us to live with Grandfather, then I came west at eighteen. Up until I was twenty-five or so, I drank brandy—or whiskey, or champagne. Lots of it. I was what you would probably call a libertine. I made a lot of easy money during the gold rush, and this was an exciting place to be young.”

“I imagine so,” Katie agreed.

“I broke a few hearts and I broke my word in some business dealings and I lost money gambling, but the brandy took the edge off my conscience. It wasn’t until my mother died and Grandfather brought Conrad here from Philadelphia to live with me that I began to take a look at my life. Conrad was thirteen, and extremely impressionable. Since he’d lost his father when he was a baby, he decided that I would be his role model.” Jack smiled bitterly. “One morning, after I hadn’t come home for two days, Con came looking for me. He found me passed out in the bed of a less-than-reputable lady above my favorite saloon. I thank God that at least she was not there by then. Anyway, I didn’t drink liquor after that.”

Katie squeezed Jack’s hand. “It couldn’t have been easy,” she murmured.

“Giving up liquor was the least of it. When my brain cleared and I took a good look at the damage I’d caused, I set about repairing it with a vengeance. I was determined that, from then on, I would keep my life in order. I never broke my word, I was never late, and I adhered to a schedule at home, too.” Jack felt a pervasive sense of peace stealing over him as he shared this part of his past with Katie. “However, I began to feel things again, and those feelings made me uncomfortable. The sterile routine I made for myself helped, because it kept me out of volatile situations. Of course, it was only a matter of time before the human being in me wanted to live again. I found an excuse to go to the foothills, and you know the rest. I’ve been torn between the two worlds, and my two selves, ever since.”

“But now you’ve resolved the conflict?”

Jack smiled at her over the rim of his cup. “With your help, Kathleen. I’ve finally come to realize that the key to making it all work is balance. Sam Clemens used to talk to me about his need for passion in his life, and it scared the hell out of me because I realized that I needed it, too. I’ve finally discovered that opening up and letting myself feel again doesn’t mean my life is going to careen off a cliff. I can lose control in some areas... like right here in this bed with you”—his eyes twinkled at the sight of her blush—“and still retain discipline in other areas, like my business dealings. Over all, however, I’ve decided to loosen the reins on my life. If I don’t eat the same thing for breakfast every day, or if I take the afternoon off to go riding with my wife, the world won’t come to an end, and I’ll doubtless be happier for it....”

Katie grinned. “Balance. I like that.”

“Good. Why don’t you snuggle up to me and balance your plate next to mine?”

Chapter 29

January 24 - 25, 1864

“Can’t you do something about that kitten?” Ambrose Summers demanded, looming in the doorway to the morning room. “Poor Harriet was just attacked! She was lying on my lap, licking the last of the egg yolk, when that young marauder leaped onto the dining room table and pounced on her from above. Then, adding insult to injury, she put her face up to my plate and began nosing around. Harriet was so outraged that she has taken refuge under the sideboard!”

“Where’s Poppy now?” asked Katie, who sat curled in an arm chair, a notebook in her lap.

“Mrs. Gosling came running in response to my cry, and her idea of saving the situation was to take your kitten to the kitchen and feed her! Now she’ll think that there’s a reward in store if she abuses Harriet!”

Jack looked at Katie from across his desk and bit his lip to keep from laughing. “What do you suggest we do, Grandfather? Turn Poppy out of the house?”

“Well, no, I don’t suppose that’s the solution... though the idea has merit.” His eyes twinkled slightly as he glanced at Katie. She gave him a look of mock horror in reply. “I just wanted you to be aware of this... misbehavior. Take it under advisement.” Ambrose cleared his throat. “Say there, young lady, why aren’t you working at your own desk in the morning room? What’s the point of having an office if you’re going to fritter away the daylight hours in here with this character?”

“Grandfather, it’s only eight o’clock!” she protested, laughing. “Besides, I’m looking over my notes for an article I’m going to start today.”

“Well... good.” He brushed a muffin crumb from his drooping mustache. “I’ll leave you two to your own devices, then. I think I may take a stroll. Hope wants me to have a look at the calla lilies she’s started in her new greenhouse.”

When the sound of his footsteps had grown faint, Katie exclaimed softly, “Isn’t it exciting? I think Grandfather is forming an attachment to Hope.”

“Kathleen, you’ve become a hopeless romantic. They were dear friends long before you came here.”

“But this is different. I just know it. Women can sense these things.”

Jack arched a brow suggestively. “If I weren’t already late, I’d tell you to come over here and sense something else.”

“And I would have to refuse you, sir.” She lifted her dainty nose. “I have work to do.”

“I notice that, as usual, you are going ahead with this article without clearing it first with your editor—”

“Edwin knows about it,” Katie declared.

“Yes, and Edwin is a notoriously soft touch where you are concerned. What are you writing about?” He came around the desk to glance down at her notebook, but Katie’s scribblings were illegible to all but their author.

“Chinese prostitution,” she replied casually.

“What?” Jack looked heavenward as if for guidance. “Kathleen, I don’t really think that—”

“This is a very serious problem, Jack. If you won’t print a story about it, I’m sure I can find a newspaper that will.” She met his gaze with calm defiance.

“I won’t be blackmailed with that threat forever, you know! You and I are both aware that other papers would love to print a sensational article under the byline of the wife of the Star’s editor, but those are not fair tactics on your part. You cannot coerce—”

“Jack, I believe that this is a story that needs to be in print, and when you read it, you’ll agree. Listen to me a moment.” She waited. “Are you listening?”

He perched on the edge of the desk and replied with exaggerated patience, “Yes.”

“It’s really hideous, Jack. Most of the girls who come over from China have no choice about doing this, and when they arrive here they’re assigned to tongs, those secret Chinese societies that make them sign seven-year indenture contracts. Can you imagine? Their living standards are deplorable, and they routinely contract venereal diseases and receive no medical treatment. Is it any wonder that they turn to opium to—”

“Have you been spending time in the Chinese quarter again, Kathleen?” he interrupted in ominous tones.

Before she could reply, Mrs. Gosling appeared in the doorway. “Sir, there is a Mr. Clemens here to see you. I thought that perhaps you had already left—”

Katie and Jack both stood up immediately. “Show him in, Mrs. Gosling,” said Jack.

Sam entered to an enthusiastic chorus of greetings and hugs.

“This is an unexpected surprise,” Jack said as they settled down around the fire. “You look as if you just stepped off the steamboat!”

Clemens smiled sheepishly. He was, if possible, even more disheveled than usual. His tousled hair and mustache were in need of a trim, he hadn’t shaved, and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. “That was tactfully put, my friend. I apologize for not preparing myself properly for this event, but I fear that an eagerness to reunite with the two of you overcame me.” Sam’s eyes danced. “I just arrived last night, went straight to the Occidental Hotel and slept for fourteen hours, and now I am here. Do you mind?”

“We are simply delighted!” Katie exclaimed as Mrs. Gosling placed a tray of coffee and pastries on the marble-topped table before them. “Do you want a proper breakfast? The cook would be glad to prepare one for you.”

“Maybe later.” Smiling, Sam gazed upon them with affectionate eyes. “Katie, you look spectacular, and it’s not just the dress and the hair. Stand up and let me feast my eyes on you for a moment.”

She complied, pirouetting in her laurel blossom-pink gown with its fashionable Zouave jacket. Her black curls were caught in a thick cluster at the nape of her neck, and her lovely face shone with happiness and fulfillment.

“Good God, the headstrong little sprite I knew just three months ago has been transformed into a radiant woman!” Clemens exclaimed, then added warmly, “I’m glad to see that the two of you are so happy. It renews my faith in the dream of romantic love and the institution of marriage.”

“Kathleen may be a radiant woman, but the headstrong sprite hasn’t departed,” Jack told him as they ate cranberry muffins. “She’s led me on a merry chase all this past month.”

“I wanted to work,” she protested. “Once everyone found out about my lurid past in the saloon and branded me a wild woman, I decided that it was no use keeping up pretenses any longer. When I told Jack of my intention to write for a newspaper, he refused to give me a job at the Morning Star. So, I went to the Morning Call—”

“Oh, no!” Sam laughed. “If you had written me for advice, I could have told you to avoid that paper at all costs!”

“Well, it was all a ruse, anyway,” Jack interjected. “Katie didn’t really mean to write for the Call, she just wanted to scare me into giving her a place at the Star.”

“And it worked,” she confirmed, beaming. “I am now a reporter for the Star—and a good one. Isn’t that so, Jack?”

“You may be competent, but you’re incorrigible. If you continue to write such controversial articles, you’re going to make enemies, and you’re going to get into trouble.” He turned to his friend. “She won’t listen to me, Sam. Every time I threaten not to publish what she writes, she starts talking about looking for work elsewhere.” He narrowed his eyes at Katie, but there was an undeniable note of affectionate respect in his voice.

“Sounds to me like you two have a rollicking good marriage, and I’m not fool enough to take sides,” Sam declared. “Besides, if Katie gets into trouble here, she can always run away like I did. She has a ready-made refuge in Columbia!”

“Oh, God,” Jack said, giving him a dark look. “You’re a great help.”

“Enough about us,” Katie declared, offering Sam another muffin. “What’s been happening in Columbia? Did you ever find your pocket of gold in Jackass Gulch? How are Lim, and Gideon and Abby? Has the Griffin returned?”

“Whoa!” Clemens held up his hands. “One thing at a time. I know you will both be shocked to hear it, but I never did strike it rich pocket mining. Matter of fact, I didn’t strike much of anything at all.” His eyes twinkled under bushy brows as he took a sip of his coffee. “Finally, I decided that I’d rather be poor and ragged in San Francisco than in Jackass Gulch, especially during the winter. Oh—I almost forgot. I do have one accomplishment to report. I have an idea for a story that I started writing last week. It sounds crazy—it’s about a jumping frog contest in Angel’s Camp—but I think it will work. As for Columbia, little has changed. Gideon and Abby are very happy. I saw them at Christmastime; they invited me to the saloon for roast turkey, and it was the best meal I’d had in weeks. Lim Sung, as I recall, is planning to come to San Francisco. In fact, he may have left already.”

“His mother told me that she had found a lovely girl for him,” Katie said, nodding. “I think he’s too young to marry, but it’s none of my business, and of course, I’d be delighted if he were in San Francisco. Yong Sung has two laundries and a herb shop here now, so Lim is needed.” She paused. “Is there any news regarding Aaron Rush—or the Griffin?”

Sam glanced at Jack. “Well, Rush continues to be a rather ominous presence in Columbia, although he hasn’t done anything too dastardly of late. His main weapon is fear.”

“And the Griffin?” Katie persisted. “Has he returned?”

Jack almost spilled his coffee when he heard Sam reply, “As a matter of fact, he has. It would appear that this has been a lean winter for the Griffin, because he can no longer afford to play Robin Hood. Word has it that he’s held up two stages this past month and robbed everyone on board, and none of the passengers had any connection to Aaron Rush. In fact, both stages were carrying shipments from the only two independent gold strikes made in the Columbia area this winter.” Stroking his mustache, Clemens observed, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that the Griffin was in league with Aaron Rush.”

As Jack stared in consternation, Katie leaped to her feet and cried, “I knew it! That highwayman is as low a villain as Aaron Rush himself!”

“What the devil possessed you to spin that preposterous tale about the Griffin?” Jack demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”

Jack had brought Sam to the Bank Exchange Saloon on Montgomery Street because it was one of the few places he could be certain that Katie wouldn’t suddenly appear to interrupt or overhear their conversation. Jack drank water while Clemens sipped Pisco punch, a Peruvian brandy concoction invented by Duncan Nichols, the colorful man who presided over the saloon.

“As a matter of fact, I thought that it was quite ingenious of me to tell Katie that the Griffin had returned. Don’t you see? Now there is absolutely no possibility that she will ever suspect you. You need worry no longer on that score.” Sam gazed around the marble-floored saloon as he spoke, drinking in the sight of valuable oil paintings hanging on the walls and fabulous crystal chandeliers dangling from the high ceilings. “Good Lord, it’s good to be back in civilization again! The foothills hold many charms, but I’ve missed this bawdy city.”

“Would you mind returning to the subject of the Griffin for a moment?” Jack asked through clenched teeth.

“Of course not. As a matter of fact, that’s the main reason I came back. You see, I wasn’t actually spinning tales when I said that the Griffin had reappeared in the Columbia area and was robbing stages. Someone is impersonating you, Jack.”

Wyatt’s face darkened. “Aaron Rush?”

“Or one of his henchmen,” Sam agreed. “That does seem to be the likely answer, doesn’t it? He’s doing what he and Van Hosten liked to do best—take gold from the few men who are still lucky enough to find it on their own, only this time pinning the blame on the Griffin. You must have really made him angry when you went to see him that night. He couldn’t take revenge through Katie, and the Griffin disappeared as well, so he’s found more devious means.”

“Christ!” Jack shook his head in disbelief. “It begins to seem that there’s only one way to put an end to this madness once and for all.”

“I’m sorry to have brought you this news. It would appear that you and Katie have found happiness together; that you have filled the emptiness in your life...”

“And now I’ll have to go back to Columbia.”

“Well, perhaps it would be best to put an end to this business once and for all. I certainly wish you luck.” Pensively, he drained his Pisco punch. “I wish there were something I could do....”

Jack grinned at him, one brow arched. “Oh, but there is. You’re going with me, Sam.”

Clemens responded with a sickly smile. “I was afraid of that.” He sighed, “No, strike that. Actually, I was resigned to it before I left Jackass Gulch. I had hoped to indulge in a bit of female company first, however. How soon do you want to leave?”

“Tomorrow.”

Sam groaned. “You’re a cruel man. I doubt that even my considerable charms will win me the... affections of a desirable woman in one night!” Jack’s only response was unsympathetic laughter, so he sighed in resignation. “All right. Tomorrow, then. What about Katie? What will you tell her?”

“I sure as hell can’t let her know where I’m going, because she’d want to come, too. The truth will have to wait again, but it will be told. Even before you arrived today, I had made up my mind to tell Kathleen the truth about her father’s death. I hate having secrets of any kind from her; it goes against all the principles upon which our marriage is based. But first I had to win her trust. When I return from Columbia, and this mess is cleared up once and for all, I’ll tell her that I was the Griffin.” A tiny muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I’ll tell her the truth and take my chances....”

“But not now,” Sam clarified.

“No.” Jack sighed harshly. “Not now.”

Hazy moonlight, filtered by fog, drifted softly over the large testered bed. Katie liked to awaken to light in the morning, so Jack no longer slept with the drapes closed. It was one of the many compromises and alterations he had made in his life-style over the past weeks, and he found that they were surprisingly painless. Jack had learned, as Ambrose had predicted, that he could bend without breaking, and that the process itself was oddly satisfying.

Now, in the timeless hours between midnight and dawn, Jack and Katie lay together, her slim body snuggled into the curve of his. Jack’s arm was around her, his hand cupping her breast. He had swept her long hair up over the top of the pillow so that he could smell the sweetness of her neck, kissing her there from time to time. Katie imagined that she had never in her life felt as secure, serene, and protected as she did during these exquisite nights in Jack’s arms.

On this particular night, however, her sleep was troubled. Finally, turning onto her back, she awoke with a start to find Jack staring down at her.

“Are you all right?” His face, strong and tender, was poignantly dear to her. She hadn’t grown complacent about waking up next to Jack. It was as if each morning were both Christmas and her birthday. “Oh, Jack,” she whispered brokenly, “must you go away?”

He cradled her against his chest. “I’ve told you that I must, sweetheart, and that I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He took a deep breath, grateful for the darkness as he lied, “Sam is certain that this newspaper in Carson City is the perfect one for me to buy, and you know how much I’ve been longing to make that sort of investment. We’ll ride straight through, spend as little time as possible doing business, and come back. I’ll be home before you have time to miss me.”

Katie tried to swallow her tears. “But I miss you already.”

Taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger, he turned her face up so that he could gaze into her glistening eyes. “I love you with all my heart, Kathleen. Do you believe me?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“I swear before God that it’s the truth, and I want you to hold my love close to you while we’re apart.” He kissed her gently. “Promise?”

Katie tasted him on her lips and smiled. “Yes.” She snuggled nearer, closing her eyes. “I promise.”

“What am I going to do all day today with Emma ill?” Conrad mourned, staring out the window at the unseasonably sunny Saturday morning.

Katie, who was pacing restlessly across the parlor, whirled on him. “I would appreciate it if you would keep your petty troubles to yourself! You are looking at a woman who is in the first hour of a separation from her beloved husband, a separation that is bound to last at least a fortnight! Although I didn’t say as much to Jack, I am well aware of the risks and inevitable delays that one faces when crossing the Sierras during the winter. And business meetings always take longer than anyone thinks they will. St. Valentine’s Day will probably be here by the time he returns....”

Conrad put an arm around her shoulder sympathetically. “At least Sam went with him. You don’t have to worry about him getting into trouble alone.”

“Sometimes I think that Sam takes trouble with him,” Katie said. “Like a carpetbag.”

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” He steered her over to a sofa.

“Conrad, I hardly think that you can distract me for two weeks!” Reluctantly, Katie sat down beside him and accepted a cookie from the plate he picked up from the side table.

Conrad smiled. “What news did Sam bring from the foothills?”

Briefly, she told him about the Griffin’s latest attacks on stagecoaches. When Aaron Rush’s name came up, her brother-in-law colored angrily.

“I hate that man!”

Katie stared. “How do you know Aaron Rush?”

“Do you remember me telling you that I once spent some time in Columbia? Actually, I was nearer Murphy’s, but I did go to Columbia from time to time. We may even have seen each other. It was two years ago, at a time when I was feeling a need to make my own mark on the world rather than trade on my brother’s reputation. I decided that I would go to the foothills to make my fortune, unaware that most of the surface gold was already gone. To make a long story short, I did happen to find three reasonably large nuggets. Fool that I was, I went to the saloon in Murphy’s and was showing them off. Harold Van Hosten was there. He told me that he could get me a better price than they were paying in Columbia, and he seemed so respectable that I believed him.”

Katie cringed. “Oh, no, Conrad!” It was almost painful for her to imagine her brother-in-law as a prospector in the clutches of Rush and Van Hosten.

“Oh, yes, it’s true. I was an idiot!” His voice rose. “I gave him the gold... and that was the last I ever saw of it. When I tried to stake a claim, Van Hosten had beaten me to it, and when I confronted him and his partner at their office, he denied ever seeing me before.” Conrad became increasingly agitated as he told his story and got up to pace across the parlor. “No one would listen to me or do anything about it. I thought I’d go mad! In the end, I came back home with nothing. To be perfectly honest, I was overjoyed last summer when I heard that Van Hosten had been killed by the Griffin. Sometimes, when I heard and read the tales about that highwayman, it seemed that he was avenging me. It’s disillusioning to learn that he’s no different from the rest of them....” He sank down on the sofa and stared into the cold fireplace.

“Conrad, that’s a terrible story! Why didn’t you tell me before?” Katie exclaimed, putting a hand on his arm.

“Well, I meant to, but to tell the truth, I try not to think about it very much.”

“I know how you feel about the Griffin. I used to revere him, too, until he killed my father.” Her pretty mouth hardened.

“What?!”

She leaned back beside him. “It’s true. My father was on the same stagecoach as Harold Van Hosten, the one the Griffin attacked in June. There’s some confusion about exactly what happened, but as I understand it, the Griffin had them both get out of the coach and took them behind it to search Van Hosten.” Katie’s voice was choked with tears. “A struggle ensued, and at the end of it, Papa and Harold Van Hosten were dead... and the Griffin escaped with his life.”

“But perhaps Van Hosten had a gun. Do you know for certain that it was the Griffin who shot your father?”

“No, but I do know that if he hadn’t attacked that stage, Papa would be alive. No explanation can change that.”

“Well, I can certainly understand how you feel,” Conrad said hastily, taken aback by her icy demeanor. They sat in silence for several minutes, each lost in thought. Conrad ate two cookies before Katie spoke again.

“Con, I was just thinking... there is something very productive that we both could do during Jack’s absence.”

There was a strange gleam in Katie’s eyes. Unnerved, Conrad replied carefully, “What’s that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to feel that you had taken some action to right the wrong perpetrated against you by Rush and Van Hosten? Wouldn’t you feel better if you knew that you had pursued justice?”

“Well, yes, certainly...”He straightened his shoulders.

“I feel the same way about the Griffin—and I also have a few grudges of my own against Aaron Rush. I could help you confront Rush if you would help me trap the Griffin—”

“Katie,” he exclaimed, “that’s insane! Are you suggesting that we run off to Columbia and do this while Jack is away?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

“But what would Jack say?”

“Stop worrying about Jack! We’re adults, aren’t we?” Her face was animated. “We have just as much right to leave San Francisco as Jack does. More, maybe, because we have just causes. And you certainly don’t need your brother’s permission. Besides, I miss my friends in Columbia, and this would be a perfect opportunity for me to see them again. Please, Conrad! When was the last time that you had a real adventure?”

He looked uncertain. “Well, it’s been a while....”

“Say you’ll go with me, please? We can go to Columbia via Stockton—we’ll be there in no time! And we’ll make a pact to stay no longer than four days. If we’ve accomplished nothing by that time, at least we’ll know we tried, and we can return home with that knowledge. What do you say?”

Conrad sat up straight and expanded his chest. “I say—yes! I’m older now. This time I’m going to confront Aaron Rush like a man and demand justice. I want to be paid for that gold, and any more that they took from what should have been my claim!”

“And I’ll help you!” Katie cried, filled with the spirit of adventure and justice. “We’ll show Aaron Rush and the Griffin that they can’t toy with Kathleen and Conrad Wyatt and get away with it!”

Jumping awkwardly to his feet, Conrad thrust his fist into the air and shouted, “Hear, hear!”

Chapter 30

January 28 - 30, 1864

A full moon was the white and luminous centerpiece in the star-strewn midnight sky. Jack stood for a moment outside the Rush Mine office, staring down at the lot which had been raped by hydraulic mining. Bathed in a hazy silver glow, the huge, oblong boulders of granite, limestone, and marble looked eerie, as if part of some other, uninhabitable world.

Jack shrugged off the chill that crept over him and walked soundlessly around to the back of the mine offices. Without rushing, he picked the lock on the back door and stepped inside, thankful for the moonlight that streamed in to aid his progress. The doors off the narrow hallways were unlocked. He started in Rush’s office, searching through the cabinets, then crossed to what had been Van Hosten’s room. Stripped now of its paintings and handsome cherry desk, it was filled with several tables and chairs and apparently served as an office for Rush’s assistants.

Jack had no luck there, either, and was losing hope as he stepped back into the central corridor. Then, spying the outline of a narrow door off to one side, he remembered the small storage room and flashed a grin in the darkness. The latch was difficult, but Van Hosten had taught him the trick. Inside, his eyes wandered over the shadowy shapes of trunks and crates containing books and papers until he spied the cupboards built into the far wall. Sensing somehow that success was at hand, he crossed the room and opened them. The deep shelves inside were stacked with a wide variety of miscellaneous office items—books, folded curtains, objects from Van Hosten’s office, rolled scatter rugs, bottles of brandy, and odd pieces of crockery. Jack yearned for light. Carefully he withdrew the curtains from the lowest shelf, bent down, and reached behind them. His hand made contact with a long object wrapped in cloth.

Heart pounding, he drew it out into the dim light. He carefully unfolded the garment on the floor and saw what he’d known he would find: a handsome double-barreled shotgun identical to the one he himself had wielded as the Griffin. It had been wrapped in a long, tan linen duster. A hood, with holes cut out for eyes, lay next to the shotgun.

“Ah, Mr. Rush,” he said softly, “I have you now.”

“And you just put it all back?” Sam exclaimed. Rubbing his eyes, he staggered from his bed and poked at the fire. Across the cabin, Jim and Steve Gillis snored blissfully.

Jack dropped onto his own cot and pulled off his boots. “He’ll never know. Everything is just as I found it. Not even a lock was disturbed.” He yawned. “God, I’m tired.”

“Well, it’s your own fault for going over there the same night we arrived.” Sam was wide awake now. Pouring himself a finger of whiskey, he returned to bed, ready to hear every detail of Jack’s midnight adventure. “These have been the most exhausting three days of my life.”

“Well, get a good night’s sleep, because you go on stage tomorrow, and I don’t want you to forget your part.”

“How can you be certain Aaron Rush will be there?”

“Obviously we can’t be certain, but you yourself told me that his wife had grown bored with life in the foothills and had returned to New York. Didn’t Lim say that ever since she left, Rush has been plaguing the saloon with his company at lunchtime? Didn’t you tell me those things?”

Sam scowled. “Aren’t you even going with me? You wouldn’t have to come into the saloon.”

“You know I can’t, Sam! I can’t take even a small risk that I’ll be seen by Aaron Rush. If there’s any chance at all that he suspects I might be the Griffin, he mustn’t know I’m in the area.” Stretching out in his dusty buckskins and gray woolen shirt, Jack closed his eyes. “Everything has to go perfectly; there is no room for error... and no time. I want to go home to Kathleen.”

Columbia was indeed having a lean winter, Samuel Clemens thought to himself as he tied his horse to the hitching post in front of the MacKenzie Saloon. A cold wind blew through the leafless trees of heaven, and Main Street was nearly deserted except for a weary old prospector asleep on a bench in front of the bank. The old man’s dog, a mangy mutt with protruding ribs, lifted his head with an effort and gave Sam a sorrowful look.

Clemens rubbed a hand over his reddish curls, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the saloon. The immediate sight of familiar faces calmed him somewhat. Lim Sung was behind the bar, polishing the jars of brandied fruit that marched under the mirror. He looked preoccupied, as did Abby, who was sweeping the floor. At the sound of Sam’s step, however, she looked up and broke into a wide smile.

“Why, Samuel Clemens! I thought you left for San Francisco a week ago!”

“Well, no.” Sam blushed. “I wasn’t in the mood after all.”

“Have you been working on that story about the jumping frog all this time?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s it.” He took a stool at the bar and greeted Lim, bursting to tell them about Katie. How happy they would be to learn that she had found her niche in San Francisco, that she looked more beautiful than ever, and that she and Jack were in love. Instead he said, “What’s for lunch, Abby?”

“Chicken pie.” She rolled her eyes. “Aaron Rush gave me his wife’s recipe and asked that I make it today. Can you imagine? He even brought me the chickens.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sam chatted idly with Lim about the young man’s plans to leave Columbia. When his chicken pie arrived, he picked at it.

“Is something wrong?” Abby asked. “Is it too salty?”

Clemens grinned. “No, it’s fine. I’m just taking my time. Lunch with the two of you is the high point of my week!” He was fascinated by Abby, for in just a few short months she had changed dramatically. Her coquettish appearance and behavior had ripened into the rounder, contented look of a wife. When Sam inquired after Gideon, Abby’s doe eyes softened.

“He couldn’t be better. He’s working hard at the Gazette, putting it out all by himself with a little help from Owly Shaw, even though there’s hardly anyone to buy it. Have you seen him since Christmas? I’d wager that he’s put on another five pounds.” Her smile widened, and she patted her own belly. “And so have I. We’re going to have a baby late this summer.”

“Abby, that’s wonderful news! Please convey my congratulations to the proud father.” Sam took a bite of potato. “Won’t Katie and Jack be pleased!”

“Oh, Sam, just the sound of their names brings tears to my eyes.... I pray every day that Katie will find happiness with Jack. The last letter we received, around Christmas, was full of news, but it didn’t really say one way or the other how she felt. That’s not like Katie, and I just had a notion that something might be wrong underneath all her talk about new gowns and parties and how grand San Francisco is.”

“Jack had better be good to her,” Lim put in. “If Katie isn’t happy when I get there, he’ll have me to deal with!”

“Well, of course, I don’t know any more than you do,” Sam said, “but I just have a feeling that it’s all right. All the ingredients were there for a very loving marriage.”

Abby looked reassured. “Yes, you’re right, of course. That makes me feel a little better. Lim, pour Samuel a beer. On the house!”

“Ah!” boomed a voice from the doorway. “Is that chicken pie I smell?”

Sam looked around to see Aaron Rush lumbering across the saloon. His cheeks were pinker than usual from the cold, and he wore a topcoat with a fur collar over his brown suit and waistcoat.

As Abby scurried off to fill a plate and Lim poured the drinks, Rush heaved himself onto the stool next to Sam’s. Suddenly Sam’s palms felt damp.

“Hello, Mr. Rush,” he said.

The older man appeared to be in a jovial mood. “Hello, Clemens! Ah, I’ve been looking forward to this chicken pie all morning. As you can see, I’ve been wasting away since my dear wife journeyed to New York. I need to put on a bit of fat to keep my bones warm!” Rush opened his coat to reveal a considerably thinner body and shook his head ruefully. As Abby set the plate before him, he looked at her. “Not too much salt, I hope? You know I don’t care for salty food.”

Abby’s eyes widened apprehensively. “No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.”

Rush took up a healthy forkful and tasted it. “Well, it’s not quite up to Ellen’s standard, but it will suffice,” he pronounced a moment later. “Next time, Abby, you must cut the carrots and potatoes into bigger pieces, and add a bit more pepper. All right?”

“Yes, Mr. Rush.” Nodding to Sam, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Sam could think of nothing that appealed to him less than a conversation with Aaron Rush, but he had his orders, and Jack had been very specific. First, he mentioned casually that he had seen one of the drivers of the stage to Stockton during a layover in Angel’s Camp a few days earlier. Rush’s ears pricked up.

“Charlie gave me a few newspapers,” Sam said, beginning to warm to his role, “and from the looks of things, the war will be over before long. General Sherman’s on his way to connect with Grant, and instead of going by sea, he’s raiding his way through the Carolinas. The Confederacy’s barely breathing, it seems to me.”

“You’re forgetting General Lee’s army,” Rush said between bites of chicken pie and swigs of whiskey-laced tea. “That’s one very important arm of the Confederacy that’s still alive. The war can’t be won until Lee is beaten. But let me ask you—”

Knowing that Rush was eager to learn more about his supposed conversation with the stage driver, Sam interrupted with another argument about the war. He had to admire Jack’s thinking. There was no possibility that Aaron Rush would suspect he was being set up for a trap. Finally, as they started on pieces of pumpkin pie, Sam let the older man get a word in.

Rush was the essence of nonchalance as he remarked, “Sounds as if you and Charlie had quite a lengthy conversation. Did he have anything else worthwhile to say?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, he did mention that he was going to pick up two wealthy businessmen when he returned to Stockton. They’re coming up here with a fortune in gold, thinking to take over the mi—” He looked shocked at his own slip. “I mean, the bank, as I recall.”

Rush’s face reddened with concern. “Are you sure that was what you were going to say?”

“I just stumbled over my own tongue,” Sam assured him unconvincingly. “Too much beer, I reckon. Well...” He got to his feet. “I’d better be on my way. I have to get back to the cabin and wash out my socks. Nice seeing you, Mr. Rush. Good luck!” With that, Clemens bade Lim and Abby farewell, put three times more than he owed on the bar, and sauntered out into the afternoon sunshine.

As the stagecoach climbed the oak-and-pine-studded hills east of Angel’s Camp, Katie perused her new copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book. Her mind, however, was not on the embroidery pattern detailed on the page before her.

Conrad squirmed restlessly on the seat opposite her. The other passengers had disembarked at Angel’s Camp except for one fat young man whose head kept bouncing backward as he snorted and moaned in his sleep. The closer they got to Columbia, the more nervous Conrad felt.

“I wish you’d let me have that... that thing,” he hissed at his sister-in-law.

Katie smiled. “Are you referringto—this?” she inquired sweetly, patting the neat little derringer hidden inside her cloak. “No, thank you, Conrad. I’ll keep it with me for the time being.”

“I’m beginning to understand why Jack loses patience with you upon occasion!” he whispered agitatedly. “You are—”

“Stubborn? Headstrong?” She grinned. “Incorrigible, perhaps?”

“Yes!”

“You sound just like your brother.” Katie was enjoying herself immensely. As they drew nearer and nearer to real adventure, her pain over the separation from Jack lessened. She only wished that Conrad were a bit more like his sibling, because it was clear to her that he would never be dashing or courageous enough to carry off the kind of confrontation she anticipated. Sitting across from her now, in a loud rust-and-brown-checked waistcoat that he insisted was the very height of fashion, Conrad looked like a frightened boy. If she were to turn over their weapon to him, he would probably shoot himself by accident. “Don’t be so fretful, Con,” Katie soothed. “Nothing is going to happen yet.”

“Then why won’t you give that thing to me?”

“Because if anything does happen... and you know what I mean”—she glanced at their snoring companion—“I must be the one to act. That person who shall remain nameless is my enemy, not yours.”

“Oh, God, I wish we’d never come! I must have been mad to ever consider this escapade! Jack would murder me if he knew what we were doing! I should have insisted that we remain in San Francisco—”

“In that instance I probably would have come alone, so you can absolve yourself of blame.”

He sighed in exasperation and looked out the window. They were ascending a particularly steep hill overlooking the Stanislaus River, and he began to feel queasy. The stagecoach was traveling perilously close to the edge of a cliff that plummeted hundreds of feet to the water below. If a wheel were to come loose...

“Oh, my, isn’t it beautiful?” Katie exclaimed, leaning out the window for a better view. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed this country.”

“I think a more appropriate adjective would be ‘terrifying,’” Conrad replied in a tight voice.

Katie glanced at him. “You know, I think you’re getting old before your time. Where is your spirit of adventure?”

They were slowing down for a blind curve, and as they rounded it, a man’s voice rang out.

“Halt, sir!”

Katie and Conrad scrambled to look out the other window. There, standing in front of a grove of scrub oak trees, was a man wearing a long linen duster and a hood with holes cut out for his eyes... and carrying a double-barreled shotgun. “Kindly throw down your box!” the man cried. “And I’ll have a look at those passengers, too. I hear there is a pair on board from Stockton.”

Katie knew a pang of disappointment. The Griffin was neither as tall nor as well built as she had imagined, and his voice was not as thrilling as people had said. Obviously he had been romanticized like so many other folk heroes. She reached inside her cloak for her derringer, while Conrad looked on in horror.

Suddenly another figure jumped down from a clump of bushes on a ledge above. The Griffin started to turn, but it was too late. A shotgun barrel was shoved into his back.

“I don’t appreciate being impersonated by such a pale imitation,” the other man said in a deep voice. “Remove your hood, sir.”

Katie and Conrad watched, their mouths open. The man who claimed to be the real Griffin was dressed in an identical duster and hood, and he was tall and strong-looking, like the Griffin of legend.

Aaron Rush knew that if he unmasked, his life would be over, one way or another. Seeing no choice, he whirled around and grabbed for the other man’s shotgun, but his reflexes were far too slow. The gun went off in the ensuing struggle, and he sagged to the ground with a hole in his belly.

The stage driver was fumbling for his own rifle, but the other man was quicker. He leveled his shotgun at the driver and said, “There’s no need, sir. I mean you no harm, any more than I intended for this man to die. You see, I am the real Griffin, and I had a score to settle. This impersonator has been sullying my reputation by robbing virtuous townsfolk, and I had to put a stop to that.”

Katie’s heart was pounding madly. This was her chance to avenge her father’s death! Here was his killer, standing before her. Without stopping to think further, she drew out her derringer and threw open the stage door. “And I have a score to settle with you, sir! Throw down your gun!”

The Griffin froze at the sound of her voice, then turned to look at her through the holes cut in his hood. He sighed audibly. “Don’t shoot, Mrs. Wyatt.” His hoarse voice sent chills down Katie’s back. Dropping the shotgun on the ground next to Rush’s body, he slowly drew the hood from his head. “I am your husband.”

Chapter 31

January 31, 1864

“But it can’t be true!” Abby gasped. “If Jack is the Griffin, that means that he... he killed—”

“Papa,” Katie supplied tonelessly.

The two women were gathered with Lim, Gideon, and Conrad in the tiny, makeshift kitchen of the saloon. Katie, who was trembling with shock, sipped tea as she sat on a stool near the cast-iron stove. Her friends were gathered around her, but Conrad paced restlessly. Outside the window, clouds were gathering in the waning light of late afternoon.

“There has to be another explanation,” he cried. “It just doesn’t make sense!”

“It certainly doesn’t,” Abby agreed. “Jack was very fond of Mr. MacKenzie. Theywere friends!”

“Now let’s calm down and look at the facts,” Gideon said. “Right from the beginning, on the very day that Brian was shot, there was confusion about the circumstances. No one actually saw the Griffin shoot Brian. Van Hosten may have had a gun, or a struggle may have ensued. Whatever the case, I have always believed that Brian’s death was accidental. It went against everything that the Griffin had stood for up to that moment. He had always striven for justice and he’d never fired a shot. I’m sure it was no coincidence that the first blood was shed when Harold Van Hosten was present. It’s always been my belief that he was the cause not only of Brian’s death, but of his own.”

“But if Jack hadn’t attacked the stage...” Katie heard her own voice from a distance. So much had happened in such a short space of time, she was barely able to take it all in. Her husband, whom she loved deeply, was in jail. And not only was he responsible for the death of her adored father, but he had lied to her. He had married her knowing that he was also the man she despised more than anyone else in the world. “He should have told me,” Katie whispered now. “He married me with blood on his hands.”

Conrad spoke up as if he hadn’t heard her. “Everything makes sense now! Jack became the Griffin to avenge me! He wasn’t going to Nevada at all. He was coming up here in search of justice—”

“And he found a new life,” Gideon said.

Lim pulled a chair up next to Katie and patted her hand. “How did you feel about Jack before today?”

Something broke inside of her. “I—I loved him. We had become so happy together—not just husband and wife, but also the best of friends. This past month has been so wonderful, it was almost like a dream. But perhaps that is just what it was. An illusion, with lies at its core....”

“Perhaps he was afraid to tell you the truth,” Lim suggested gently. “If, as you say, he had fallen in love with you, he had much to lose.”

“I feel as if I’ve been tricked. Tricked into marrying Jack, and then tricked into loving him.” Katie began to weep, silently. “I’m so confused! It’s as if I don’t know him anymore.”

“I feel certain that his conscience must have been bothering him, Katie,” Gideon said, frowning. “He probably has longed to tell you, and I’m sure Lim is right. He must have been afraid to, knowing how you feel about the Griffin—that even if he didn’t directly cause Brian’s death, he was still responsible.”

“Jack’s a very honest person,” Conrad exclaimed. “He would never have misled you without good reason.”

A voice spoke from the doorway. “Perhaps I can help to clear up some of this mystery.”

Katie looked up to see Sam Clemens, his hair in wild disarray above his pale face. “Sam! You’re here!” Her elation drained away as she remembered. “But of course you’d have come with him. I shouldn’t be surprised. You and Jack have been in league to deceive me for some time, haven’t you? You lied to me very glibly in San Francisco. There is no newspaper for sale in Carson City, is there? And your tale about the Griffin robbing stages again was for my benefit, wasn’t it? How could I ever imagine that my own husband was the Griffin, if he was in San Francisco and the Griffin had been sighted again in the foothills? After all, Jack couldn’t possibly be in two places at once, could he?”

“My dear Katie, your hostility is sadly misplaced. Do you love Jack so little that you are able to condemn him without hearing his story?” Sam’s eyes were filled with sadness as he crossed to perch on the worktable in front of her. “Have you never made a mistake, that you are so inflexible when it comes to the humanity of your husband?”

Suddenly Katie felt guiltily disloyal. “All I can sort out right now is what I know to be the truth,” she said. “I hurt too much to go beyond that.”

“Do you want some help?” he asked in a kinder tone.

Katie nodded, fresh tears welling in her eyes.

“Perhaps we should leave the two of you alone,” Gideon said.

Conrad opened his mouth to protest, but Sam saved him the trouble by replying, “No, I think you all should hear what I have to say. You’re Jack’s friends, and he very well may need your help.”

“Oh, God,” moaned Conrad. “I knew we shouldn’t have left San Francisco! If not for us, Jack would have had his confrontation with that imposter and gotten clean away. Katie, he might hang because of our interference!”

By now Katie was beginning to feel that perhaps she, not Jack, was to blame for the mess spread out around her. “Conrad,” she countered stubbornly, “I don’t think that’s fair! If Jack—”

“Let’s not waste precious time pointing fingers,” Sam interrupted. “I’ve just seen Jack and I think we’d all be better served by some explanations, don’t you? I’ll try to be brief.”

Katie and Conrad closed their mouths and waited. Abby brought Sam a beer and then went to stand in the shelter of Gideon’s protective arm. Lim still sat close to Katie, a comforting source of silent support.

“I’m going to go back a bit, back to a time before I came to Jackass Gulch. Jack told me everything, and I think that I’m the only person who knows the whole story besides Mr. Summers, his grandfather.”

Katie gasped. “Ambrose—knew?”

Clemens continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Conrad, you were quite right; Jack started this masquerade because of what Rush and Van Hosten did to you. It took on a life of its own after he became aware that other human beings were suffering as a result of the unfair practices at the mine. He continued to play the Griffin long after Conrad’s injustice had been corrected because of all those other miners... and because, I believe, Jack’s new life here was a blessed relief from his structured existence in San Francisco.”

“Yes!” cried Conrad. “It makes perfect sense!”

“Then the situation became more complicated after he became friends with Katie and her father. He grew very fond of Mr. MacKenzie.” Sam focused on Katie. “Katie, Jack told me how your father died. The truth is that Van Hosten had a gun. He tried to shoot Jack, and your father grabbed for the gun. Jack told him that he should let go and leave Van Hosten to him, but then the gun went off, and Brian MacKenzie fell.”

“Oh, Papa,” Katie breathed, closing her eyes.

“Van Hosten then fired at Jack, and he fired back, killing him. Jack went to your father and held him in his arms, but he had already died. He was in agony, Katie, that’s why he returned to Columbia to be with you when you heard the news, and that’s why he wanted to take you with him to San Francisco. He felt that he owed it to your father to do everything in his power to make certain you had a safe and secure future.” Sam smiled slightly. “Also, I suspect Jack was already falling in love with you, and in light of what had happened, and your animosity toward the Griffin, it seemed an impossible situation.”

“Poor Jack,” Abby said softly.

“Well, at that point, he thought that he was finished with the whole business of the Griffin. Van Hosten was dead, and Rush, who had seldom been in town, seemed harmless enough. Then, back in San Francisco, I innocently told him about the attack on Gideon and the Gazette’s printing press. I think you all know the rest. After Jack came back up here, he did what he could to subdue Aaron Rush, including stealing back Tsing Tsing Yee’s valuable egg.”

Katie’s eyes were wide. “That’s why he was in the woods near that cabin when I needed rescuing!”

“Yes. The bad blood between you and Rush was a constant worry for him. Finally, when he felt he couldn’t stay here any longer, he went to confront Rush in the Griffin’s guise and, among other things, warned him to leave you alone. Rush looked delighted, as if he’d found the Griffin’s weakness, and so Jack felt that he couldn’t leave Columbia unless you came with him.”

“So he married me because he felt obligated?” she asked in a small voice.

“Well,” Sam replied dryly, “I that may have been the excuse, but you know better than anyone that both of you were a long way from acknowledging your feelings when you got married. The fact is that, by the time I returned to San Francisco the other day, you and Jack had a real marriage. He loves you with all his heart, Katie, and the last thing he wanted to do was come back here and become the Griffin again.”

“Then why did he?” Lim asked.

“Yes, what about all those recent stage robberies? The Griffin had gone from hero to villain,” Gideon said. “Even I had to admit that Katie had been right all along. I wrote editorials condemning him....”

“That’s why Jack returned—just two days ago. When I told him what had been happening up here, we realized that it must be Aaron Rush impersonating the Griffin, serving his own needs while blackening the Griffin’s name. Jack decided to deal with him once and for all, by exposing him.”

“So that’s what that scene on the road today was all about!” Conrad exclaimed.

“I was so confused,” Katie said. “When the stage driver climbed down to take Jack prisoner, and then pulled the hood off Aaron Rush, I felt that it was all some sort of bizarre nightmare.”

“Of course Jack never meant for Rush to die,” Sam said. “He just wanted him unmasked and brought to trial. If you hadn’t been on that stage, brandishing your derringer, he would have made a clean escape and the two of us would be on our way back to San Francisco right now.”

“And I never would have known the truth,” Katie murmured, a note of bitterness in her voice.

Sam drained his beer. “No, my dear, that’s where you’re wrong. Jack intended to tell you everything when this situation was settled here. He told me that he couldn’t lie to you anymore.”

It was hard for Katie to breathe. “What’s going to happen now?” She paused, her heart aching. “How is Jack?”

“He’s in jail in Angel’s Camp, and more than anything else, he’s concerned about you. He knows the pain you must be in, and he blames himself for it.” Clemens sighed. “The judge is in town, and one of Rush’s henchmen, a big fellow named Potter, is pushing for an immediate trial. So the jury is being assembled, and I’d imagine that the trial will be tomorrow or the next day. Potter is telling everyone in town that he intends to see Jack hang for the murders of Aaron Rush, Harold Van Hosten, and Brian MacKenzie.”

“But that’s not fair,” cried Conrad. “It was Rush’s own fault that he was shot. It was an accident! And Jack didn’t even shoot Mr. MacKenzie!”

Sam shrugged. “This is the West, Con, where life isn’t always fair. People have little tolerance for highwaymen; they want to see them punished as a warning to others with similar ambitions. It would be one thing if we could prove that Jack was innocent in those deaths, but I don’t see how that’s possible....”

The little white frame house on the corner of Jackson Street looked forlorn to Katie as she came through the gate. The morning glory vines atop the porch roof were brown and withered and a few weeds straggled along the picket fence. As she opened the front door, Katie felt as if she were stepping into the past. Only three months had passed since she had last been here, yet it seemed an eternity. The air smelled faintly musty, and a thin layer of dust covered the tables. Abby and Lim had been taking care of the house and yard, but what was the point of regular cleaning when no one lived here?

As she gazed around the parlor and the kitchen, memories crowded her mind and an odd, bittersweet feeling crept over her. The winter of Katie’s eighth year had been unusually rainy and snowy, and each afternoon Mary MacKenzie had curled up with her daughter on the settee to read from Tales of the Arabian Nights. What magical hours those had been! That winter their parlor had been steeped in the wonder of genies, talking birds, cities of brass, pirates, turbans and silks, colossal jewels, and unforgettable characters like Ali Baba, Sinbad, and Aladdin. And, for Katie, that enchantment would always be laced with the warm sound of her mother’s voice. Looking now at the settee, she could almost see Mary MacKenzie sitting there, the big book open on her lap and her blue eyes brimming with pleasure.

Katie walked slowly into the kitchen, almost expecting Brian to be pulling a chair up to the table, his suspenders dangling and his woolen shirt open at the neck. They’d been so happy in each other’s company, taking care of one another, sitting down together for the evening meal and sharing stories of the day. Katie always knew that Brian had never stopped grieving for his wife, but he hadn’t let that cloud his life with Katie. It had been awkward for him at times, trying to be a mother as well as a father to a growing girl, yet Katie had never doubted his devotion to her. Tears stung her eyes now as she felt his big-hearted hug and heard the love in his voice as he murmured “Katie darling.” It still seemed impossible that she would never see her father again.

Her own bedroom was untouched, the narrow bed neatly made. Jane Eyre lay on the dresser, apparently overlooked by Lim when he’d packed her books and shipped them to San Francisco. Katie picked it up, thinking that her birthday seemed part of a distant past. That June morning when Brian had given her this book, she had been a girl, innocently living in a fantasy world. And then Jack had come into the saloon, and her life hadn’t been the same since. She was a woman now, and there was no going back....

Katie stepped out the back door and looked at the little yard with its lovingly tended flower and vegetable gardens. They had been a source of great pride and pleasure, particularly in the spring when the new seedlings sprouted and then thrived under her careful ministrations. She had always loved to sink her hands into the soil, loved the challenge of coaxing plants to grow. Lim had kept up the gardens, planting winter vegetables and pruning back the rosebushes. Katie paused at the gate for a last look, then wandered out of the yard.

Her thoughts were far away as she strolled west on Jackson Street toward St. Andrew’s Church. Memories of her childhood flooded back, and Katie could almost see herself running along as a little girl, chasing Lim. Her eyes misted again, and she wondered at the emotions that seemed so near the surface these days. Ever since she and Jack had opened their hearts to each other, Katie had found that she felt both joy and pain more keenly.

Passing the Barnstaple house, she saw Victoria peeking out the window, staring as if she’d seen a ghost. When Katie waved, the older woman threw open the window and leaned out.

“Katie!” she cried. “You’re here! Is it true what I’ve heard about your husband?”

“Mrs. Barnstaple, there is something I have to do now, but I would like to come by in a little while and talk to you. Would that be all right?”

“Of course, darling!”

Katie waved then and continued on her way. The sun was setting slowly, a blazing sphere of apricot and plum behind the blue spruce trees that ringed the church. Although she wore a plaid wool cloak, the chill wind nipped at her cheeks and nose, and she rubbed her gloved hands together to warm them. After a bit she quickened her pace, lifting her petticoats as she strode up the hill to the church.

Stopping inside, she knelt and said a silent prayer, and felt better immediately. As she rose, a sense of peace stole over her.

Back outside, Katie walked behind the church to the small fenced cemetery. Her parents’ graves were marked with wooden crosses engraved with their names. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she sensed their nearness.

“Mama and Papa, I want to tell you thank you for all the love you gave to me. I miss you both....” Pausing, she swallowed, then whispered, “I miss you, but I’m going to be all right. I promise.”

Chapter 32

February 2, 1864

“It would seem that my husband’s defense has had little opportunity to prepare a case,” Katie remarked to the sheriff as she waited to see Jack. Since San Andreas was the Calaveras County seat, Jack had been brought there to await his trial, which was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock, less than an hour away. Outside, in front of the courthouse, a crowd was forming in spite of the snow that had begun to fall.

“Well, ma’am, what’s there to prepare? Wyatt himself has admitted that he was the Griffin. The Griffin killed Aaron Rush, Harold Van Hosten, and your own father. Seems pretty simple to me.” Sheriff Jones leaned back in his chair, one cheek bulging with tobacco, and appraised the lady who stood near his desk.

Katie looked elegant, wealthy, and gloriously beautiful; the violet of her ruched silk gown set off the deep blue of her eyes, while the indigo shimmer of her matching silk jacket instantly drew the eye to her glossy black tresses, which had been caught back in a full chignon. An amethyst-and-pearl brooch was pinned at her collar, and more amethysts gleamed in her ears. At the moment, it was hard to tell whether the color in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes was a result of the weather or her own emotions.

“You sure you’re from these parts?” Sheriff Jones asked with a trace of sarcasm.

“I may look a bit different now that I live in San Francisco, but I can assure you that my roots and my loyalties will always lie in the foothills, sir,” Katie replied coolly. “It may be that my husband is a rich man, but that has only affected my outward appearance.”

“Of course the Griffin’s rich!” Jones guffawed. “He’s been robbing stages of all the gold from the Rush Mine!”

“He owns a newspaper, Sheriff. He was wealthy long before he became the Griffin.”

“And you’ll be a rich widow, I reckon, hmm?” He eyed her shrewdly, then aimed a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of a tarnished brass spittoon. “Well, that’s justice, isn’t it. After all, Wyatt did kill your father.”

“That’s crudely put, Sheriff, but I suppose that the truth speaks for itself....”

The deputy came out then to say that the prisoner was now washed and dressed, and his wife might see him.

“Five minutes,” Sheriff Jones warned. “And my deputy will have to watch. We can’t afford to take chances with this prisoner.”

Katie’s face betrayed no emotion as she nodded and then followed the young deputy down a short stone corridor to the two tiny cells in back. One was empty, and the other held Jack, who stood next to a low iron bunk. A tiny slit in the wall provided the only light, but in spite of the dingy surroundings, Katie was rendered breathless by the sight of her husband. If not for the deputy lurking in the background, she might have wept.

Jack was tanned a warm shade of dark gold, and his hair was appealingly in need of a trim. He wore neat charcoal-gray trousers and a clean white shirt, and when Katie appeared in the doorway of his cell, he looked at her with his heart in his eyes.

“Kathleen,” he said softly.

Disarmed by his engaging smile, she forced herself to remember that they were being watched. “I thought I ought to see you, Jack. Under the circumstances, I don’t think I could stand to attend the trial.”

He had started toward her, but now he froze. “Oh, God. My darling, will you ever be able to forgive me? I wanted to tell you—”

“Never mind.” Katie’s tone was cold, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “Your friend Sam has already pleaded your case to me, but that won’t bring Papa back, will it?” Seeing the pain on his face, she rushed on. “I might be able to forgive you for Papa if our marriage had turned out differently, if I could believe that you were a good man with a heart capable of love. As it is, I don’t see how I can forgive you for Papa when I haven’t forgiven you for... that night.”

“What night?” Jack demanded, frowning.

“The night of our Christmas party.”

He hesitated, his eyes intent now on hers. “What do you mean?”

“You and Miss Braithwaite... in your study... for what seemed like an eternity.”

Slowly he nodded, then backed away a step. “Well, I guess you’re right. I’m a cad, and I deserve whatever I get today, hmm?”

Katie sighed. “I couldn’t agree more.” She put out her hand, and when he came forward and took it, the warm familiar strength of his touch sent a shiver of longing over her. “Well, I suppose everything has turned out the way it was meant to. I’ll say a prayer for a fair outcome of your trial, Jack.”

“Kathleen.” Once again his sage-green eyes held hers. “I’m not sorry I married you. We had our moments....”

“A few.” Katie forced herself to step back and disengage her hand. Glancing over at the waistcoat and jacket on the bunk, she added, “I see that you have some suitable clothing to wear in court.”

“Sam brought those. He’s been a faithful friend.” When Jack saw that she was about to step out of the cell, he couldn’t resist the urge to look upon her face one more time. “Wait... How is Conrad?”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s distraught, as you might imagine, but he won’t let anyone speak ill of you. He’s very loyal.”

“Give him my love.”

“You will probably see him before I do. I’m quite certain he means to be at the trial.” Katie nodded to the deputy. “I have to go now. The sheriff said just five minutes.”

“Good-bye, Kathleen,” Jack said huskily.

“Good-bye, Jack.” She glanced at him once more, then followed the deputy down the dank corridor, her throat aching with tears.

Back in the sheriff’s office, Katie recognized the man sitting with Sheriff Jones as the ruffian who had threatened her in Columbia. She took a chance. “Good morning, Mr. Potter.”

He gave her a curt nod. When Katie had left the office, Potter listened as the deputy related the details of the meeting between the Wyatts. When the young man had finished, Jones and Potter exchanged satisfied smiles.

“Don’t sound to me like you have anything to worry about,” the sheriff remarked. “If Wyatt’s own wife won’t do anything to help him, it’ll be a short trial.”

Potter lit a fat cigar. “Wouldn’t matter much if she did care. We made sure that there was barely time for Wyatt to find a lawyer, let alone anyone to testify for him. It’d take a miracle to save him now.”

Across the street from the courthouse and jail, Katie seated herself in the lobby of the hotel and waited.

Jack’s lawyer, Abraham Humphrey, was a grizzled old man whom Sam had persuaded to travel down from Jackson to take the case for a sizable fee. Now, sitting next to him in court, Jack prayed that his attorney would at least be able to argue effectively before the jury, because he certainly seemed to have no other strategies for exonerating his client. The prosecution—aided by such witnesses as Benjamin Potter, who testified that his employer, Aaron Rush, had been threatened by the Griffin just a few weeks ago—had presented a strong case. Most of the testimony consisted of hearsay, but people had come forward all the same, all seemingly intent on seeing the Griffin hang. Jack felt certain they’d been paid off. The morticians who had prepared Brian MacKenzie, Harold Van Hosten, and Aaron Rush for burial spoke in gruesome detail of their mortal wounds. And the driver of the stagecoach on which Katie and Conrad had been passengers had been questioned so skillfully that he’d said little more than, “It was the Griffin who fired the shot that killed Aaron Rush. And when he removed his hood, he turned out to be that man—” pointing theatrically toward Jack. When cross-examining, Humphrey did little to erase that image from the jury’s mind. Potter had done his work well over the past two days, raising a hue and cry against highwaymen. Jack could tell from looking at the jury that they had forgotten how beloved the Griffin had been just a few months earlier. Aaron Rush’s recent exploits had blackened the Griffin’s name beyond repair.

Jack wouldn’t let himself think ahead to the probable outcome of his trial. The possibility that he would hang, that his life with Katie was over, was very real, but it would do no good to dwell on that now. He felt slightly ill whenever he thought of his meeting with Katie earlier that morning. More than anything else he had wanted to hold her in his arms, to kiss her lips, to reaffirm the precious bond between them. But obviously she had had other ideas. That might have been their last chance to speak privately and touch each other! He had managed to translate the cryptic things Katie had said—he understood that she forgave him for his part in Brian’s death and that Sam had told her all about the tragic accident—but still he longed to talk with her openly. He simply couldn’t imagine what she thought to accomplish by pretending to hate him and staying away from the trial.

Now, as he walked forward to take the witness stand on his own behalf, a murmur swept over the courtroom. Jack swore on a Bible to tell the truth, then sat down and looked out over the sea of unfriendly faces. The only person there to give him support was Conrad, looking more frightened than Jack had ever seen him.

“Now, then, Mr. Wyatt,” Abraham Humphrey began soberly, “I am going to ask you tell us your story in your own words. Who are you in reality, and why did you become the Griffin?”

Jack was glad of the opportunity to explain. As sincerely and concisely as he was able, he told the jury about Conrad’s misfortune with his gold and how he, as the older brother, had decided to correct the injustice. Then he explained that the corruption he found at the Rush Mine went much deeper than he had expected, and that he had become concerned for all the miners. Insisting that he had never intended to hurt anyone, Jack further swore that he had not kept any of the confiscated gold for himself but had made anonymous gifts to the poverty-stricken miners and their families.

Humphrey then brought up the day MacKenzie and Van Hosten had been shot. When Jack told his side of that story, the whispers of disbelief in the courtroom grew louder. The general sentiment seemed to be that Jack was a rich man from San Francisco playing games with the lives of people in the foothills. After Jack had finished telling the story of Rush’s death and his own capture, Charles Milton, the lawyer for the prosecution, stood up to cross-examine.

“My, my, Mr. Wyatt—or should I call you Mr. Griffin? You certainly do have a knack for accidentally killing your enemies!” Milton paused, smiling as a wave of taunting laughter rippled through the courtroom. After a moment he continued, caustically picking apart Jack’s story point by point, ending with, “Well, sir, I must say that it does seem odd that there is no one here to support your claims, while there are plenty of witnesses for the prosecution. If I were on the jury—”

“Objection, Your Honor!” Humphrey cried, heaving himself to his feet.

“Sustained,” muttered Judge Kincaid.

“Well, I think I’ve made my points,” Milton said with a snide smile. “I have no more ques—”

“Wait!” cried a female voice from the back of the courtroom.

Jack gazed out over the crowd to see Katie entering through the double doors. Next to her were Sam, Victoria Barnstaple, and a heavy-set young man whom Jack vaguely recognized. Could it be...?

“What is the meaning of this outburst?” the judge demanded.

“I am Mrs. Jonathan Wyatt, and my friend, Samuel Clemens, has brought two very important witnesses to testify on my husband’s behalf. They were delayed by the snowstorm, and have only just arrived in San Andreas. Please, Your Honor, give them a chance to speak!”

The judge was silent a moment, then nodded. “Well, as there have been no witnesses for the defense except the defendant himself, I suppose it would be only fair to hear these two out.”

Seated in the courtroom, Potter glared at Sheriff Jones and hissed, “I thought you said Mrs. Wyatt was no threat! I’d’ve seen to it that she was out of the way today if I’d known she’d try to interfere!”

Katie hurried toward the defense table and whispered to Humphrey. Places were made for her, Sam, and the unidentified man to sit on the bench behind the table, and Victoria was sworn in. When Jack returned to his chair, Katie leaned forward to clasp his hand. Beaming, she whispered, “I love you.” Jack’s heart swelled with relief and hope.

“So, Mrs. Barnstaple, I understand that you were a passenger on the stagecoach the day Harold Van Hosten and Brian MacKenzie were shot,” Humphrey began. “Why didn’t you come forward sooner if you saw what happened?”

“Well, the Griffin wasn’t caught, and I suppose I was afraid to get involved. It was a very shocking experience. I didn’t want to think about it afterward.” She trembled like a frightened sparrow at the memory. “Also, I was a close friend of Brian MacKenzie’s, and I was very upset by his death. I was angry at the Griffin for attacking the stagecoach! But if he might be hanged for this, it’s only right that I come forward and tell the truth.”

“And what is that?” prompted Humphrey.

“I saw it all. Harold Van Hosten had a gun, and Brian tried to get it away from him. The Griffin told Brian not to interfere, but he was too good and brave....” Victoria began to weep. “Such a good man! Mr. Van Hosten’s gun went off, and that was how Brian died. Then, Mr. Van Hosten tried to shoot the Griffin, who fired in self-defense. In fact, I am certain that the stage driver also fired, and he may have been the one who killed Mr. Van Hosten.”

Charles Milton gruffly declined to cross-examine.

Next, the fat young man took the stand, identifying himself as Lawrence Learoyd of Sonora. He testified that he had been on the stagecoach with Katie and Conrad when it was stopped by the Griffin.

“I had been sleeping, and at first I thought I was having a hideous nightmare!” he cried dramatically. “The man demanded our money, and then another man, also dressed in a long duster and hood, jumped down from a ledge on the cliff above. He told the first man to throw down his shotgun, but he—the first man, that is—tried to fight instead, and the gun went off. Soon after that, he—the first man, that is, the one who was killed—was unmasked, and I recognized him as Aaron Rush, the mine owner. He was an acquaintance of my uncle’s. What I want to say is that the killing was accidental. I believe in doing what’s right, and that’s why when Mrs. Wyatt and Mr. Clemens sought me out yesterday, I agreed to come here and testify. I don’t know any of these people. I just want to do what’s right.” Learoyd extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his moist, moon-shaped face.

“Will you cross-examine, Mr. Milton?” the judge asked.

“No,” he muttered sourly.

“Thank you, Mr. Learoyd,” said Humphrey, smiling. “You may step down. Your Honor, lastly I would like to call Mrs. Jonathan Wyatt to the stand.”

Katie strode regally to the front of the courtroom, her violet silk dress rustling softly. When she began to testify, her voice was clear and calm.

“I would like first of all to verify what Mr. Learoyd has said. I was also a passenger on that stage, but since I am Jack’s wife, I knew that my testimony would not be sufficient to convince the jury. I didn’t know then that my husband was the Griffin. The truth is, I hated the Griffin because I believed that he was responsible for my father’s death. I understand now that it was an accident, and I know that Jonathan Wyatt would have died himself before knowingly allowing any harm to come to my father. They were very fond of each other. Papa would not have wanted Jack to be blamed in any way for his death. The truth is that Harold Van Hosten caused not only Papa’s death, but his own, just as Aaron Rush chose his own fate rather than be exposed for the truly evil man he was.” Katie paused to take a deep breath, then continued, “I didn’t know Jonathan Wyatt very well when I married him but I learned to trust him as I discovered what a truly fine man he is. I love him, but I also respect him. As the Griffin, he only tried to see that justice was done. Aaron Rush impersonated him and sullied his reputation, but I can testify that it absolutely could not have been Jack acting as the Griffin during the past three months, because he was in San Francisco with me.” One crystal tear spilled onto her cheek. “I realize that the jury may think I am biased, but I am also honest. Jonathan Wyatt is the best man I know, and he deserves to be free.”

At four o’clock, barely an hour after the jury had retired to deliberate the case, they sent word that they had reached a verdict. Jack was returned from his jail cell, and Sam and Katie both stood up as he approached the defense table. Sam gave his friend a hug, and Katie wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“I love you, sweetheart,” Jack said hoarsely. “And, no man could ask for a better friend, Sam.... Thank you.”

He was told to stand as the jury filed in and the foreman stood to read the verdict. Jack said a silent prayer, while Katie began to tremble as she clutched Sam’s hand. Her heart threatened to burst, it was beating so hard.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” Judge Kincaid intoned.

“We have, Your Honor,” replied the foreman. “We the jury find Jonathan Wyatt innocent in the deaths of Harold Van Hosten, Brian MacKenzie, and Aaron Rush.”

The judge looked at Jack. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Wyatt. I suggest that you take your wife home to San Francisco and forget about this Griffin business once and for all.”

Jack flashed a grin. “With pleasure, Your Honor.”

Epilogue

San Francisco, California
June 21, 1865

“Happy birthday, Katie!” the guests chorused as Mrs. Gosling set the beautifully decorated cake on the marble table in the parlor.

“Do you have a birthday wish?” asked Hope Menloe.

Katie turned to Jack, who smiled at her with sleepy green eyes, thinking that his wife had never looked more beautiful. Clad in a gown of pale yellow muslin that flowed gracefully over her swollen belly, she was a vision of summer radiance, her black curls swept back in a simple yellow ribbon.

“I couldn’t wish for anything more than I have right now, unless it might be an extra prayer for a healthy baby.”

“The baby is coming in August, isn’t it?” asked Hope. Smiling at Ambrose she added, “Goodness! You’ll be a great-grandfather!”

Katie nodded. “We can hardly wait. You’ll help me decorate the nursery and pick out baby clothes, won’t you?”

“I’ve already begun embroidering little dresses!” Hope laughed.

“I still can’t believe that you were... with child when we traveled to Columbia in January, Katie,” Conrad complained for the dozenth time in four months. “Why, all sorts of things could have gone amiss—”

“But they didn’t did they?” she replied sweetly. “Don’t fret so, Conrad. You’re too young to have those little wrinkles between your eyebrows. Besides, everything turned out just as it should have—even Jack’s trial.” She laughed. “Thank goodness for that, otherwise Sam and I would have been forced to put our alternate plan into action.”

“Do I want to know about this?” Jack asked, pretending to cringe.

“I don’t know why not. We were simply going to break you out of jail if they’d sentenced you to hang,” she replied offhandedly.

“Of course,” he murmured. “I should have guessed.”

Katie began to cut the cake, all the while surveying her guests. “I am so very happy!” she announced. “It’s staggering to think how much my life has changed since my last birthday. Then, I never would have imagined that I would fall in love, let alone get married... or leave Columbia. I miss Papa at times like this, yet I have to remember that other people have entered my life who love me. I have a tremendous amount to be grateful for.”

“Well, we’re grateful, too, sweetheart,” said Ambrose. “You’re a ray of sunshine in this house.”

Katie grinned at him. “I love you, too, Grandfather!” Then, handing a cake-laden plate to Lim Sung, she inquired, “Lim, how have you been? I don’t think you’ve come to see me all this month.”

“I’m happy, Katie. I like San Francisco, and I’m glad to be with my family again.” He lowered his voice, blushing slightly. “You haven’t seen me very much because I’ve been courting Li Wong, the girl my parents introduced me to. I like her very much....”

“Well, you are nineteen now,” Katie said doubtfully. “You’ll have to bring Li to dinner soon. We’d like to meet her.” She glanced over at Conrad and Emma. Sunlight glinted off the new diamond ring Emma wore on her left hand. “Love certainly seems to be in the air.”

Ambrose cleared his throat suddenly, and Hope turned pink. Katie, in the process of passing out the last pieces of cake, gave Jack a mischievous look.

Then they all took seats and chatted amiably over coffee and birthday cake. Katie shared the news from Abby’s latest letter. The Hendersons had purchased the saloon but kept the name unchanged in honor of Brian, and they had moved into Katie’s house in March. “It was silly for them to live with Gideon’s mother while my house stood empty,” Katie explained. “I wanted it to be lived in, and with a baby coming, they can certainly use the extra space. They both sound very happy, and apparently the town is, too. Finally, after I don’t know how many years of doing without, Columbia has found a sheriff. Jack’s old friend Missouri Dan has taken the job!”

“Just the man to breathe some new life into that town,” Jack said, chuckling.

Hope spoke up. “I have a bit of news, too. I saw Elizabeth Braithwaite at Madame Braust’s yesterday, and she said that Genevieve is engaged to marry a wealthy banker from New York. They’ll make their home there, and apparently will be sailing next week.”

“How lovely,” Katie remarked. “I can’t think of a better place for Miss Braithwaite than New York.” While her guests laughed, she gazed pensively out the window.

“What’s wrong, darling?” Jack smoothed back one of the loose curls that had fallen over her brow.

Katie sighed and turned to him with a wistful smile.

“I miss Sam. How I wish he could be here today! It seems like an eternity since he left for the Sandwich Islands. I keep thinking about the fate that befell Captain Cook, and I can’t help worrying about Sam.”

Jack laughed. “Allow me to set your mind at ease, my sweet.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a letter. “This arrived two days ago, but Sam asked that I save it for your birthday.”

“He remembered?” Katie exclaimed, delighted.

“Kathleen, no one forgets about you!” Eyes twinkling, he opened the letter and read aloud:

“Birthday Greetings, dear Katie! When I return, we’ll celebrate again. The schooner leaves within the hour, so I must be brief, but I wanted to assure you and Jack that I am well. I have been hard at work on my articles for the Union about the sugar interest, and recently managed to carry off an exclusive story that you may have heard about. While in Honolulu, I met with the survivors of the clipper Hornet, which had burned on the line. They were mere skin-and-bone relics, having spent forty-three days in an open boat on ten days’ provisions. I wrote an article about the matter and flung it aboard a schooner bound for California. It should be the only full account in print. Aren’t you sorry now that you didn’t fund my journey to the Sandwich Islands, Jack? Perhaps when I return to San Francisco, I’ll break into the lecture field.... In the meantime, Katie, you have my permission to steal any or all of what I wrote in the Union for an article of your own. I’m glad to hear that your ‘condition’ hasn’t put a stop to your journalistic pursuits.

“I miss you both, and often reminisce mistily of our adventures in the foothills. I hope to be on hand when your baby is born, trusting that he will be named Samuel—or, Mark, perhaps? Either one will do. Until then, I remain, your faithful comrade, Sam.”

“Oh, how good to hear from him,” Katie said happily.

“You know,” mused Jack, “I predict that Sam won’t linger long in San Francisco once he returns from the Sandwich Islands. His reputation is growing even in his absence, and intuition tells me that he’ll soon travel east in pursuit of real fame and fortune.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Katie agreed, “but in the meantime, we can enjoy him for as long as he does remain with us.”

Before long, the guests began to depart, and Katie thanked each of them for their gifts and their friendship. Conrad and Ambrose left to escort their ladies home, and then Lim, who was the last to leave, said good-bye as well. As Katie closed the front door behind him, Jack gathered her into his strong embrace, and she contentedly pressed her face against his chest.

“I love the way you smell,” she murmured.

“I’m glad.” Jack laughed, caressing the curve of her belly.” How are you feeling?”

“Wonderful. Happier than I’ve ever been in my entire life.” Katie turned her face up to him, and it shone with love and serenity. “I can’t wait to have our baby.”

“Are you ready to open your gift from me?”

“You shouldn’t buy me things! All I ever want or need is your love.”

“Indulge me, Kathleen.”

“Well, all right,” she teased. “Just this once.”

They went up the wide stairway to their sun-washed bedroom, and Katie obediently sat down on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. Jack disappeared into his dressing room, then returned with a small velvet box which he placed in her hands. When he pushed a tiny button, the lid sprang open.

“You can look now.”

Slowly, Katie opened her eyes and beheld an exquisite locket on a thin golden chain. The locket was oval, also made of gold, and edged with tiny diamonds. In the middle were the linked initials KMW.

“Oh, Jack,” Katie whispered.

“Turn it over, darling.”

She did so and found the inscription: “I love you—Jack. June 21, 1865.”

“It’s so beautiful. I adore it.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

“There’s room inside for two pictures. I thought you might want to save a place for the baby.”

Katie reached out to touch his face and shining hair, and then she kissed his mouth. The feel and taste of him were as familiar to her as her own body, yet she never tired of him. Each embrace seemed sweeter than the last. Gazing down, Katie gently ran her thumb over the surface of the locket, glimpsing a reflection of herself.

“It’s a perfect present, because it’s a symbol,” she declared as Jack fastened the chain around her neck. “Gold may be more precious to some people than anything else in life, but we have something that’s much brighter than gold.” She held the locket against her heart. “It’s in here.”

Jack pressed the middle of his own chest. “And here. I love you, Kathleen.”

“I love you, Jack.”

He kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears, and felt the baby move against him. “Happy birthday.”

The End

Author's Note

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed Katie and Jack’s story in Brighter Than Gold! This is one of the favorites of all the novels I’ve written.

When I was a little girl living in southern California, my father loved to take us on trips to the “goldrush towns” of the Sierra foothills, and Columbia was always my favorite stop. The town had become a state park in 1945 and was perfectly preserved. Walking down the streets was (and still is!) a time-travel experience. I never forgot the brick Wells Fargo building with its 1850’s interior and brass scales or the charming little frame houses. It was wonderful to go back years later to research Brighter Than Gold. If you are ever near Sacramento, a side trip southwest to Columbia is well worth your time!

I also wanted to mention that Samuel Clemens, like all the historical characters who appear in my novels, really was in the locations (on the same dates) where I placed him in Brighter Than Gold. At that time, he divided his time between working as a reporter in San Francisco and adventuring and prospecting in Calaveras County. His famous story about the Jumping Frog was published late in 1865 and the next year he embarked on a lecture tour.

I was living in Sacramento when I wrote Brighter Than Gold, so the opportunity to write about the early history of that city was a treat for me. I also was fascinated by the history of the Chinese in the gold towns. I found many obscure books on that subject and tried to impart a bit of their bittersweet story through the Chinese characters in Brighter Than Gold.

Thanks, always, for reading my books. I appreciate every one of you!

Warm regards,

Cynthia Wright

ABOUT CYNTHIA WRIGHT

My career as a novelist began when I was twenty-three, with a phone call from New York announcing that Carolinewould be published by Ballantine Books. Can you imagine my excitement? I went on to write 12 more bestselling historical romances set in Colonial America, Regency England & America, Medieval England & France, and the American West.

My novels have won many awards over the years, but what means most are readers' messages like this one: "When I read your books, I can't wait to turn the page, but never want the story to end." It's been a thrill to have all my novels published as e-books (newly edited, with gorgeous new covers!). The icing on the cake is my all-new Raveneau novel, Tempest, which came out in late 2012! Now I'm working on the first volume of a trilogy set in Cornwall around 1800.

Today I live in northern California with my husband, Alvaro, in a 1930's Spanish cottage. When we aren't riding our tandem road bike or traveling in our vintage airstream, I love spending time with family, especially my two young grandsons. I also recently received a degree as a Physical Therapist Assistant and feel blessed to have two rewarding careers!

I'd love to have you join me at my website at cynthiawrightauthor.com, on Facebook at facebook.com/cynthiawrightauthor, and on Pinterest at pinterest.com/cynthiawright77.

P.S. Many of you have asked, "In what order should I read the Beauvisage & Raveneau books?" Although the titles stand alone, these two series intertwine with some characters crossing over, and many readers enjoy them in chronological order:

1781 - SILVER STORM

1783 - CAROLINE

1789 - TOUCH THE SUN

1793 - SPRING FIRES (A Beauvisage/Raveneau Novel)

1814 - SURRENDER THE STARS

1814 - NATALYA

1818 - SILVER SEA (A Raveneau/Beauvisage Novel)

1903 - TEMPEST

BOOKS BY CYNTHIA WRIGHT

The Raveneau Novels
Silver Storm
Surrender the Stars
Silver Sea
Tempest

The Beauvisage Novels
Caroline
Touch the Sun
Spring Fires
Natalya

The St. Briac Novels
You and No Other
Of One Heart

The Western Novels
Brighter Than Gold
Fireblossom
Wildblossom

Boxed Sets
The Raveneau Novels
The Beauvisage Novels
The St. Briac Novels
The Western Novels

CONTACT INFORMATION

Email: Cynthia@cynthiawrightauthor.com

Website: http://www.cynthiawrightauthor.com

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AMBER
from The Jewel Trilogy

Lauren Royal

For my children
Brent, Blake, and Devonie,
who have eaten too many frozen pizzas
so that Mom could write

With love and thanks
for enabling me to see the world
again through a child's eyes,
and for always being there
to remind me what's really important

CHAPTER ONE

Sussex, England
June 1668

Kendra Chase adored her brothers, except when she wanted to kill them.

"Jason is right," Ford told her as they rattled down the road in a shabby public coach. "You're twenty-three years old, and it's high time you take a husband."

Kendra slanted a glance at the plainly dressed stranger sharing the coach with them. "Not the Duke of Lechmere," she said with an exasperated glare at her twin. "I won't be 'your graced' for the rest of my life."

Kendra's oldest brother, Jason, tried unsuccessfully to stretch his long legs. "And what, pray tell," he drawled in an annoyed tone, "would be wrong with that? I've never understood what you have against dukes." Crammed onto the bench seat between Kendra and his wife, Caithren, he sighed. "I only wish to see you live a life of comfort. Would you prefer to travel this way all the time?"

As if to drive home her brother's point, the springless vehicle lurched in and out of a rut, rattling Kendra's teeth. She gritted them. Though Jason was careful with money, he was, after all, the Marquess of Cainewood, and they did own a rather luxurious carriage. But one of its wheels had broken on their way out of London, and they'd been forced to take public transport—or else risk missing an urgent appointment back home at Cainewood Castle.

An appointment to introduce Kendra to the latest "suitable" man her brothers planned to foist upon her.

"My comfort isn't the issue here—"

"This is your last chance to make your own choice," Jason interrupted her, gathering the cards from the hand of piquet they'd just played. "If you won't marry Lechmere, you'll have to select one of the other men who have offered for you. Or I will do the selecting."

"The other men." Kendra tossed her head of dark red curls, not believing her brother's ultimatum for a moment. The wretched day had put him in a bad mood, but he was generally the most reasonable man she knew. "Old but well-off, or widowed and settled with children, or young but just plain boring. Stable, wealthy men in the good graces of King Charles, every last one of them."

Her brother's green eyes flashed. "Yes, perfectly acceptable, every last one of them."

"As it should be," Ford put in.

Mournfully shaking her head, Kendra sent Caithren an imploring glance. "They'll never understand."

Cait's eyes filled with sympathy and a bit of shared exasperation. She laid a hand on her husband's arm. "I've told you before, Kendra wishes to marry for love, not—"

"Stand and deliver!" a deep voice interrupted from outside.

With an unnerving suddenness, the coach ground to a halt. Stopped in mid-sentence, Cait's mouth gaped, and Kendra's stomach clenched in fear.

Ford leaned forward and pushed open the door. A man on horseback—a highwayman!—poked his head inside.

The most compelling head Kendra had ever seen.

"You?" Jason and Ford said together.

They knew this man?

Since Kendra hadn't heard that either of her brothers had been hurt—or even robbed, come to think of it—most of her fear dissipated, and her heart lifted with excitement instead.

Nothing like this had ever happened to her!

Looking slightly disconcerted, the highwayman dismounted. "Aye, it's me," he said slowly. Beneath the mask that concealed the upper half of his face, a grin emerged. An engaging slash of perfect white.

Well, not precisely perfect. One of his front teeth had a small chip, but she found that tiny imperfection endearing. And he was dashing, not to mention forbidden. If any of her hopeful suitors had been like this man, she'd have married him in a trice.

She wanted to say something to make him notice her. But for the first time in her memory, her mouth refused to work.

His gaze swept the coach's dim interior as though she weren't even there. "You," he said succinctly, motioning to the whey-faced businessman seated beside Ford. "Get out."

"There be five of us in here, three of them men, likely with pistols," the man said stiffly. From his haircut, plain clothes, and the short, boxy jacket beneath his cloak, Kendra knew he was a Puritan. "Perhaps thee had better think again."

"Oh, it's violence you threaten, aye?" The highwayman's voice was deep and a little husky, with, curiously, the barest hint of an accent. "Perhaps you had better think again. My friends," he drawled, gesturing toward the hill behind him, "would make certain you cease to exist within the minute. Get out. Now."

Kendra looked out the door and up. Sure enough, there were a dozen or so men at the top of the hill, their guns trained on the coach.

The Puritan must have recognized the threat, for he reluctantly climbed down. Kendra shifted within the coach, the better to see out.

The victim was a good foot shorter than the robber, who looked impossibly tall and elegant in a jet-black velvet surcoat. Close-faced and resigned, the Puritan emptied his pockets and handed over his money, then turned to reenter the coach.

The highwayman reached to grab the victim's sleeve. "Not so fast."

Visibly shaken, the smaller man stilled but said nothing.

The highwayman shook him a little. "Surely a...man of business, such as yourself, will be carrying more gold on his person than this. Where is it? Sewn into your cloak? Hidden in your luggage?"

Though Kendra could see the rise and fall of his agitated breathing, the Puritan turned back boldly. "Surely thee has no need of gold," he spat out, tugging his sleeve from the bigger man's grasp while eyeing his groomed appearance and expensive, tailored suit. "A...gentleman such as thyself."

The highwayman's eyes were amber, edged in a deeper hue—bronze, Kendra decided—that now spread in toward the center as his expression hardened. "Your luggage and your cloak, then—seeing as you won't cooperate."

He swung his pistol in the coachman's direction. The driver scrambled down and fumbled with the ropes securing the passengers' belongings. A shove sent the Puritan's trunk to the rutted road with a decisive thunk.

"Your cloak." The highwayman held out his free hand, almost as though he were bored, while his victim struggled out of his plain mantle.

"What about them?" he sputtered, handing it over. His gaze swung toward the Chases.

The highwayman glanced inside and flashed Kendra's brothers a conspiratorial smile before answering. "They're friends. Good day."

"Good day? Good day?" The poor man was as red as a squalling newborn, and Kendra almost felt sorry for him—until she reminded herself that it was his ilk who had killed her parents during the Civil War.

Her brothers indeed carried pistols—and swords and knives and God knew what else—and had the man not been a Puritan, she was sure one or both of them would have jumped to his defense. But because of men like this one, Jason had been left to raise his orphaned siblings, all of them forced to spend the Commonwealth years in poverty and exile.

She turned to watch the amber man remount and make his way down the road and up the hill toward his cohorts. He'd been superb. Magnificent.

Romantic, she thought on a sigh.

Amber. His clean-shaven, suntanned complexion. His eyes, a deep gold the color of the finest liquor. The black plume on his cavalier's hat fluttered as he rode, and beneath it he wore a long, crimped brown periwig that rather reminded her of her twin Ford's hair. But she was certain the highwayman's real hair wasn't brown. Though many men had shaven heads under their periwigs, he wouldn't. His own hair would be cut short, but not off, certainly—she shuddered at the thought—and it would be golden. Amber.

"Are thee going to let him get away with this?" the Puritan demanded, clambering up and glaring at her brothers with their rapiers at their sides.

One of Jason's black brows rose, and he spoke for them both. "I expect so."

The coach lurched and they continued on, but the atmosphere was decidedly strained, and the Puritan got off at the next stop.

Kendra moved to sit in the now-vacant spot beside Ford. "A highwayman," she breathed as soon as the carriage resumed moving.

"Why didn't he rob us?" Caithren asked. "How is it you know him? He called you a friend."

"He uses the term lightly." Jason's smile was enigmatic. "We've run into him before. But he's never robbed us."

"He didn't look like he needed to rob anybody," Kendra pointed out. "His suit was nicer than yours."

He'd looked nicer than Jason all around, she mused. Not that Jason wasn't handsome, but he had the general look of her family, a look she was inured to, to say the least. This man, on the other hand, had looked...exotic. All golden and dressed in black—black suit, black shirt, black boots, black mask—not the look of your typical scruffy felon, that was for sure.

Jason shrugged, absently running a hand through his wife's straight, dark-blond hair. "Almost anyone can afford one nice suit of clothes, if he makes it his priority. You cannot judge a man by his looks, Kendra."

But of course she had. Judged him, and liked what she saw.

Jason raised Cait's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, earning a soft smile in return. "Perhaps we should turn him in," he suggested playfully. "This is getting to be somewhat of a nuisance."

"You wouldn't dare!" Kendra burst out. "He's...well...he'd fit in at court. And he robbed only the Puritan. I'd wager he's a Royalist."

"There could be a reward for him. And Lakefield House is in sad shape," Viscount Lakefield, otherwise known as Ford, lamented half-seriously. "I cannot live with Jason forever."

"Oh, yes, you can," Kendra said heatedly.

Jason turned to her. "Is it that important to you, then? I didn't realize your Royalist loyalty ran so deep."

"Well...it does," she declared, thinking about the highwayman's broad shoulders.

"Well, then." Ford's deep-blue eyes gleamed with mischief. "I suppose we'll have to leave him be. At least it provides him with a stake for the card games."

Jason glared at their brother.

"What?" Kendra asked. "What card games?"

"All highwaymen play cards," Jason said firmly. He picked up their own deck and shuffled it expertly, then dealt out new hands.

Kendra arranged her cards slowly, her mind not on the game.

She remembered the highwayman's voice. He'd spoken cautiously, as though he were considering each word. Not like her family. The Chases, as a rule, blurted everything that came into their heads, generally at the tops of their lungs.

"What was his accent?" she asked. "Did you hear it?"

"Scots, aye?" Cait said, exaggerating the burr she was born to. "Though I'd guess he hasn't been home for many a year. I'm surprised you even noticed."

When Jason looked up sharply, Kendra pretended to study her fan of cards. He frowned back down at his own hand. "Why do you want to know?"

Why? She could scarcely comprehend such a stupid question. She wanted to know everything about the mysterious highwayman.

"Just curious," she said lightly, leading with a jack of hearts. "Your turn."

CHAPTER TWO

The Duke of Lechmere turned out to be everything Kendra had feared and then some. He was the epitome of what she did not want in a husband.

His skin appeared to have never seen the sun. Only God knew what color his hair was, since it was hidden beneath a periwig dusted with enough powder to choke a horse. She suspected he was bald underneath, anyway. His eyes were a pale, lifeless gray.

Not that looks were paramount, but his suit was peacock satin, adorned with so much dangling ribbon and lace that it seemed to quiver when he breathed. No matter the current fashion, Kendra wasn't drawn to men who wore prettier clothes than she did. A simple, dark velvet suit—like those her brothers favored—was far more to her taste. Not to mention the expense of Lechmere's apparel could probably fund an orphanage for a month.

Having been orphaned herself at the age of seven, she would much rather have seen the money spent there.

And he was a duke.

"Kendra plays the harpsichord like an angel," Jason said, sending her into a coughing fit. While it was true she was a competent musician, she couldn't remember ever hearing her name and the word angel in the same sentence. At least not from her oldest brother, who had seen her through more than a few rebellious stages.

"An admirable accomplishment." The duke waved a hand bedecked with gaudy rings. "I should like to hear her play later."

"And she's a brilliant conversationalist," Ford added, focusing on the drawing room's carved wooden ceiling.

Interesting description, brilliant conversationalist, given that her brothers spent much of their time telling her to hush up. She would have to call Ford on that later.

After she figured out how to get rid of this mullipuff.

"Though she seems rather tongue-tied now," Jason put in dryly. "First time in my memory."

Sitting beside Jason in a salmon velvet armchair, Kendra could barely resist kicking him. Maybe she should. Perhaps bad manners would send the duke running.

But no, she needed something more drastic. Failproof.

"In circumstances such as this, a bout of speechlessness is only to be expected," Lechmere quipped in a haughty tone. "Though I assure you, my dear, I'm not looking for conversation." His cold gray gaze seemed to heat as it swept her from head to toe. "I admire a quiet, biddable woman."

Dear God. She'd better think of something quick. When Jason asked her to pour the wine, she rose quickly, deliberately tripping on the edge of the patterned black-and-salmon carpet.

"Watch yourself," Jason warned under his breath. He smiled at the duke, who held out his goblet in one limp-wristed hand.

"Oh, I'm so clumsy," she lied. At her brother's glare, she only giggled, prompting a frown.

Kendra never giggled.

With exaggerated force, she pulled the stopper from the decanter, then giggled again when it went flying across the room and hit a portrait of one of her solemn ancestors square on his painted forehead.

Her great-great grandfather. She looked to his image for help, but no advice was forthcoming.

"Quite all right, my dear." Lechmere raised his chin. "It's natural to be nervous when meeting a man of my stature. When you're a duchess—"

"When I'm a duchess, I shall open lots of orphanages," she babbled. "There are so many disadvantaged children who would blossom with a proper education in a caring environment. And speaking of blossoms, have you extensive gardens, your grace? Because I've theories on crossbreeding flowers—"

"I told you she's a good conversationalist," Ford interrupted.

"Here, your grace, let me just take this goblet." She grabbed it from his hand, cringing when her fingers met his cold, clammy ones. "My, what a lovely ruby." Unbelievably, the ring she was speaking of was lodged on his thumb. Evidently his fingers weren't numerous enough to properly display his wealth. "Amy would adore seeing it, I'm sure."

"Amy?"

"My sister-in-law. My brother Colin's wife. She's a jeweler." Kendra set the goblet on the table with a bang that made everyone jump.

"Your brother's wife is a jeweler?"

The duke looked positively scandalized. Since Kendra could hardly control a grin, she giggled again to cover it. "Oh, yes. Colin found her on the streets of London." Which was true, in a sense—since he'd rescued her from the Great Fire two years earlier—but more than a tad misleading. Though her family had been commoners, Amy was educated and wealthy in her own right. "Of course, she's a countess now as well, but a jeweler all the same."

"Hmmph," the duke sniffed.

"Yes, your grace. It's an admirable thing for a woman to be more than just a lady, don't you think? Well, let me just pour, then."

And she did—right into his lap.

He jumped up, watching in horror as a red stain spread on the turquoise satin in a very embarrassing place. "I think I've had enough, my lady, of both the wine and yourself. If you'll excuse me." With his pointy nose in the air, he strode awkwardly from the room.

"Crossbreeding flowers?" When her twin's eyes met her own, they both burst out laughing.

But Jason wasn't amused. "Very charming, Kendra." Deliberately he placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, then steepled his fingers, pinning her with exasperated green eyes. "That's one prospect off your list. Need I remind you who is left? I'll expect a decision after the weekend, and you'll be wed by the end of the summer."

CHAPTER THREE

Kendra awoke the next morning with a massive headache.

Jason couldn't be serious.

He and Ford and Colin were off to a monthly house party they attended—no females allowed—and, as usual, she and Caithren would be joined by their sister-in-law, Amy, and her baby daughter, Jewel, for the weekend. Usually they had something of a house party of their own, playing with the babe and gossiping until the men returned.

But when the men returned this time, they'd be expecting to hear whom she'd decided to marry.

She stared up at the underside of the mint-green canopy she'd begged for in her youth. Although their parents had depleted the family fortune financing the king in the Civil War, Jason had always seen to it that she'd never wanted for anything. To the best of his abilities, he'd indulged her every whim. He wouldn't force her to marry now.

Would he?

With a huff, she rose and pulled on her new hunter-green riding habit. She ran a comb through her hair, not bothering to call her maid in to curl and pin it. Amy would be here within the hour, but she needed to think. Alone.

In no time at all, she was mounted on Pandora, her mare, galloping across the Sussex Downs. Her brothers would be mightily vexed if they knew she was riding unescorted, but the three of them could go hang for all she cared right now.

Besides, they were away all weekend and would never know.

The fresh country air eased her aching head, but just thinking about that weasel Lechmere made her shiver. And the rest of her prospects weren't much better.

The Earl of Shrewsbury came complete with a meddling mother—the "shrew" in her title was all too fitting. The Marquess of Rochford was a widower and kind enough, but his hair was completely gray—doubtless from dealing with his seven unruly children. Viscount Davenport didn't talk, he whined. The Duke of Lancashire lived in, well, Lancashire—which was entirely too far from her family. The Earl of Morely was wealthy and wise, but nearing fifty. Lord Rosslyn was young, handsome, and fun loving, but lacking somewhat in brains. She wondered if he could read.

Jason couldn't be serious.

Coming out of her thoughts, she slowed to a stop. She hadn't realized how far she'd ridden. In fact, she noticed with a start, she was at the same spot where they'd seen the highwayman yesterday.

His friends had been atop that hill, lying on their stomachs, their hats pulled down to conceal their faces, training an impressive assortment of pistols on the hapless Puritan.

This morning, the hill was deserted and the highwayman nowhere in sight. In an attempt to judge the time, Kendra glanced at the sky, but it was all clouded over. The day was turning beastly. Not cold, but muggy, with a definite threat of rain. With no sun to confirm it, she guessed the time to be about ten o'clock. Perhaps highwaymen slept in.

Plainly, highway robbery wasn't a full-time occupation. Not that she had any idea of what she'd have done if the highwayman had been here. Run for her life, in all probability. But she drifted into a vague fantasy of herself riding down the road at breakneck speed, her long, dark red hair floating on the breeze, impressing the hell out of him with her horsemanship and her grace. In her fantasy he stared after her, openmouthed with surprise and appreciation, struck temporarily dumb by a bolt of...love at first sight.

Well, second sight, actually—but he hadn't paid any attention to her the first time, so surely that didn't count.

Then she would turn around, ride back, stop in the middle of the road, right in front of him, and slide off Pandora slowly...so slowly. Still gazing at her, he'd come forward, reaching her in two or three of his long strides, his large, strong hands spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground. And then...

She had no idea. Inexperience didn't make for detailed fantasies. And she certainly wouldn't have anything to do with a highwayman, anyway. Her fantasy wasn't only boring, it was absurd.

But instead of turning back, she rode along the crest of the hill a spell, then turned away from the lane. And there, perhaps a hundred feet distant, was a very mysterious mound.

It wasn't sculpted by nature, Kendra realized immediately. Its shape was angular, its surface dirt, not grass.

A grave. A fresh grave.

Her hands tightened on the reins as she approached the tomb. Who could be buried there? The highwayman? A victim of his? Either one was unthinkable. She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth.

A single raindrop fell on one of her clenched fists, and a gust of wind whooshed as she reached the mound. From her perch atop Pandora, she saw the loose dirt blow across it, revealing a sheet of canvas underneath. Her heart hammered at the sight. Was the man not buried properly, then—just covered with a spot of fabric?

She slid off Pandora and led her forward to investigate. Leaning down, she took a corner of the canvas, just a corner, in two shaking fingers and lifted it...

If her brothers had been here, they'd have told her, as usual, not to jump to conclusions. And this time, they'd have been right. Her shout of laughter rang across the Downs as she threw back the canvas.

Twelve blocks of wood. Twelve narrow pipes of various gauges. Twelve hats with different colored plumes and a variety of hatbands.

She tethered Pandora to a tree. Atop a nearby hill, she set a hat on a block of wood with a pipe sticking out from under it. When she ran back down and glanced up, it looked for all the world like a man lying on his stomach, pointing a gun at her.

He was clever, this man. Very clever.

"What do you think you're doing?"

She froze. She hadn't heard anyone approach, and for the barest second she thought the voice was in her head. But he was standing behind her. She could feel his presence, maybe three feet away.

"I'm..." Words failed her. "I'm..."

"You're letting my hat get wet."

"Oh." Kendra put a hand to her head, feeling the mass of her hair curling with dampness. She hadn't noticed the increasing drizzle. "It's raining."

"Very observant of you."

She turned then and gazed up at him, and he looked exactly the way she'd known he would. His hair was golden—thick, silky, and straight. It was cut short, not chin-length like a Puritan's, nor cropped like a wig-wearing Royalist's, but somewhere in between, and the front was hanging in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and sweep it off his forehead, but she seemed rooted in place, and she wouldn't have dared to touch him, anyway.

His snug black breeches were wool, not velvet, and his shirt was white, not black. He wasn't here for business, then.

"I've come to save my props from the rain. Will you help me, seeing as you're here?"

Help him? She ought to be bolting for Pandora at this very moment. "Of course."

Had she said that? She knew she shouldn't have. He ran up the hill and snatched up the three props, then turned and strode back to the rest of them. Windblown, his golden hair bounced in time with his steps as she followed.

She concentrated on his broad back, watching the play of muscles beneath his thin shirt as he flipped over the canvas and piled the hats on top, bundling them up and tying the four corners in a neat knot to make a parcel. He hefted it, testing its weight, then turned to her. "You can carry this, aye? Before you, on your horse?"

He didn't sound angry at her, more like he was simply resolved to complete his task in the most efficient manner possible. Kendra was somewhat relieved, but she moved in a haze of unreality.

She managed to find her voice, however. "If you'll hand it up to me, yes, I'm sure I can carry it. Where are we taking it?"

"A cottage over the next hill, not too far." He gathered the pipes under one arm and lifted the bundle by its knot. "Let's be off, before it starts raining in earnest."

His horse was tied by hers—amber, of course, his glossy coat a tawny tan color. Pandora's hide was a deep brown, and Kendra thought they made a handsome pair.

It was difficult to see over the bundle in front of her, but it was a short ride.

The cottage was unlocked, and the highwayman made short work of tethering their horses before depositing the pipes inside and returning for the bundle. After handing it to him, Kendra slid off Pandora slowly...so slowly...and a second later he was back, and his large, strong hands were spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground.

His fingers rested on her waist a little longer than necessary, and she felt their warmth through her habit. She looked up at him. He had a wide mouth, the full lower lip perfectly straight across the center bottom edge. She wanted to touch him, just there.

Her eyes locked on his, and her breath caught in her throat.

A crash of thunder rent the air, and big raindrops began pelting to the earth. He jumped back, motioning her to follow him inside.

She should leave. Now. But it was pouring...

The cottage looked more like a well-appointed hunting lodge, warm and cozy and very masculine. He shut the door behind them and wandered to a leather-upholstered couch, throwing his long form onto it with a surprising grace. "Close, aye? Five more minutes, and my hats would have been ruined. I thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," Kendra said from just inside the door where she still stood in a daze. She couldn't believe she was in a hunting lodge with this dangerous man. It was incredible—and, all of a sudden, incredibly scary. She couldn't remember ever having been alone with a man, save her brothers. And she didn't know the first thing about this one—except that he was an outlaw.

The fear must have shown on her face, because he sat straight and patted the cushion beside him. "Come here—I don't bite. You'll stay till it stops raining, aye?"

"Aye—I mean, yes." Outlaw or not, she loved the way he talked, the words slow and melodic. Though her heart was pounding, she screwed up her courage and moved to sit gingerly beside him. "I'm Kendra. Kendra Chase."

"Trick Caldwell."

"Trick?" she echoed, startled. She turned to him, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be frightening. "What kind of a name is Trick?"

"Ah, and that's a story." He smiled at her, a wide white smile that lit up the cottage and belied the dreary day. Leaning forward, he reached out a hand and placed it on her wrist, just lightly, but a tingle raced up her arm and throughout her body, warming her in the strangest way. Something snapped inside her, and the sense of unreality was gone.

She was here, really here, with the amber highwayman—no, Trick, she corrected herself—alone, and he wasn't scary at all.

Well, not very.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Are you hungry?" Trick asked suddenly.

She shook her head, wondering if he actually had food here. Surely he didn't own this cottage. Well, maybe he knew where the owner kept stores, and she shouldn't be surprised he would use them.

He was a thief, after all.

"Thirsty, then? Aye, I'm guessing a spot of wine would do you. You look tense."

Tense didn't begin to describe how Kendra felt. She glanced down at his long fingers ringed lightly around her wrist. "A...spot of wine would be nice, if you have it. Thank you."

Releasing her, he rose with a leonine grace and sauntered over to a cabinet without hesitation, as though he knew every nook and cranny of the place. Crystal goblets and a matching decanter were hidden behind the doors. He filled two glasses, and she took one, hoping he didn't see her hand shake.

"I'll just settle the horses and return, aye?"

"Where...?"

"There's a small stable in the back." He set his goblet on the mantel. Taking a heavy cloak that dangled from a peg on the wall, he shrugged into it and was out the door with a whoosh of wind.

She sat on the couch, listening to the rain on the roof and sipping the sweetish Madeira. Though she wasn't cold, she shivered. Looking around, she wondered how he could describe this as a cottage.

The cottages in the village of Cainewood were generally tiny and dark, single-room buildings with rough plastered walls and trodden earth floors. This cottage was impeccably clean and boasted large glass windows. The wooden walls and floors were polished to a gleam, and her feet rested on a lovely Oriental carpet. Besides the couch, there were two chairs and several small tables, two marquetry cabinets, and a desk in one corner.

She walked over to it and ran a hand along the smooth, rich wood. Everything on top was neatly arranged. Setting down her goblet, she slid open the top drawer to find a stack of paper and bottles of ink. Her hand went to the bottom drawer and tugged, but it was stuck closed or locked. She frowned at it, then turned to survey the rest of the enormous room.

A beautiful carved dining table and chairs sat on another patterned carpet, obviously imported from lands far away. A peek through an archway revealed a spotless, quite modern kitchen, the shelves heavily stocked with victuals. Another archway opened onto a corridor, which apparently led to several more rooms.

Some cottage, Kendra thought. All furnished, food and drink...Trick seemed quite at home. Maybe he lived here, after all. She'd never thought much about where a highwayman might live, but she hadn't expected it would be a hunting lodge, or a cottage, or whatever he wanted to call it. She'd assumed they slept in inns or the like.

When the door opened and Trick walked in and swept off his cloak, she rushed back to the desk and reclaimed her goblet.

"It's not letting up," he announced, stomping the rain off his boots.

She was relieved that he didn't seem to care she'd been nosing around. "Is this...yours?" she blurted, making her way to sit on the couch. "I mean, do you live here?"

"Um...close enough."

Kendra felt her face heat. She really shouldn't be so curious. It was none of her business whom the cottage belonged to, and now she'd put Trick on the spot.

Of course he didn't own it. Many highwaymen had a reputation for being gentlemanly, but that didn't mean they were actual gentlemen. Men of property didn't turn to the roads for sustenance.

Thankfully, he looked amused rather than annoyed or embarrassed. He swiped his wine off the mantel and sat beside her.

The room was quiet except for the soft pit-pat of rain. She sipped from her own goblet, peeking at him over the rim. He gazed at her through the ends of his damp golden hair, and she saw his eyes darken. But surely he had no reason to be angry.

No, it was something else.

Her heart sped up, and of its own accord her hand rose to sweep clear his forehead. Horrified at herself, she snatched it back just in time.

With a sudden grin, he gave a toss of his head that flung the hair from his eyes. "We were speaking of my name," he reminded her—or himself.

She gulped more wine. "What did your parents name you, really?"

"Patrick Iain Caldwell." He settled back slowly. "But my father was away when I was born—Father was always away—so my mother named me. Scots–Irish, she was. In any case, he was appalled when he finally ventured home to meet me. Said she'd tricked him good, giving his English son two barbarian names."

Kendra grinned. "Trick...since she'd tricked him?"

"And short for Patrick, though he'd never admit it. They hated each other, they did. It was an arranged marriage."

"That sounds rather old-fashioned. Why?"

"Damned if I know." He drained his goblet and stared at it pensively, twirling it by its stubby stem. "Neither of them would talk of the other long enough for me to find out."

"How sad," she murmured, the sincere tone of her voice drawing his gaze.

CHAPTER FIVE

Trick looked up to see Kendra shaking her beautiful head. Sweet Mary, she was lovely. And regardless of the dreary, rainy day, she smelled of sunshine and lavender. It was all he could do to keep from leaning close and burying his nose in her burgundy curls.

Damn. Why couldn't she be a bloody serving maid? It had been a long time since he'd bedded a woman—a long time since he'd felt attracted to one—but Cainewood's sister was not the female on whom to slake his pent-up lust.

He shouldn't have asked her to the cottage, shouldn't have encouraged her to stay. Jason Chase would have his head if he knew she was here, unescorted. But with the rain and all, it had seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. And he hadn't seemed able to help himself.

Still, the last thing he needed was her sympathy regarding the childhood he'd just as soon forget.

"Not so sad," he said, tearing his gaze from her face only to have it land on her chest. Pert breasts were molded within her riding habit's collarless jacket, in perfect proportion to her small stature. His eyes moved down to her waist, and his palms itched as he remembered his hands spanning it. He forced himself to look out the window. A raindrop trailed in a slow, crooked line. "Arranged marriages are common enough."

"For some, perhaps. The peerage is often compelled to wed for alliance."

God's blood, she thought he was a commoner. She really had no idea who he was. Trick smiled to himself, then sobered. Considering yesterday's encounter, if she knew nothing of him, her brothers were even more protective than he'd thought.

He rose to set his empty goblet on the mantel, then turned and leaned back against it, crossing his arms and ankles. "Your folks were different, then?"

"Oh, yes. They had a perfect, romantic marriage and loved each other very much. Too much, according to one of my brothers. He says they loved each other and the monarchy, and there was nothing left for us."

"But you don't agree."

A statement, not a question. He watched her eyes as she considered it, noting the bright intelligence. "No," she said at last. "I never knew them well, as they left to fight in the war when I was yet a babe. But I always felt they loved me."

"Love." Once he would have said the word with derision, but now, twenty-eight years old and wiser, he managed to say it with only dispassion.

Still, she caught his ambivalence. "You don't believe in love?"

"No."

"You don't love anyone? No one loves you?" Her light green eyes looked incredulous. "Not anyone, in any form?" She colored suddenly and stood up. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm...we don't know each other. I shouldn't ask such questions."

He watched her amble to the window, her steps sure, not the mincing progress that passed for walking among the tittering ladies at court. He couldn't picture her whispering behind a fan, though he was sure she attended balls and the like, and probably had a wonderful time.

Not a social animal himself, he shuddered at the thought, his gaze following her graceful hand as she traced the path of a raindrop with one finger.

"Ask away," he assured her. "I've nothing to hide." It wasn't the truth—it wasn't even close to the truth—but it sounded nice. "No, I don't love anyone."

He saw her watching his reflection in the windowpane. "Your parents...?"

"Made my life miserable."

She turned to face him. "Brothers or sisters?"

"Ha! Not a chance. I reckon my folks came together once, and once only—and lived to regret it, I'm sure."

At his frank words, a becoming pink bathed her skin. He wanted to make her flush even more, with the pink glow of passion. But Cainewood's stern face hovered in his mind, along with those of the man's formidable brothers, and Trick knew it would never be.

She didn't deserve to be used, and he had no wish to bear the consequences.

"You love someone, then?" he asked.

"Oh, yes." The sunshiny smile was back. "My brothers, all three of them. And my new sisters—my sisters-in-law, actually—and my niece. When I first held her tiny body in my arms and she looked into my eyes...it was love at first sight." Her gaze focused on him and darkened. "I guess you don't believe in love at first sight, either?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't believe in love at all. Maybe I did once...but not anymore. Love's only an illusion."

Her mouth dropped open, then closed. It looked soft. "It's no illusion," she stated in a tone that brooked no argument.

He grinned, enjoying her naïve confidence. "Love for a babe in arms, well, perhaps. Love between rational adults...not bloody likely."

"You've no plans to marry, then? Not ever?"

"Of course I do." Lifting his goblet, he crossed to the cabinet to pour himself more wine. "Perhaps a decade from now. But love won't have anything to do with it."

"Someday," she said, "someone will change your mind. Someday you'll fall in love."

"You make it sound like a promise," he said, amused.

"Then you can take it that way. And a Chase promise is never given lightly."

He seemed to remember hearing one of her brothers use those words. "Hell, lassie, I hope you're right. But I'm not going to lay money on it. Would you care for more wine?"

With a glance out the window at the pounding rain, she nodded and came forward to hand him her goblet. He poured, then handed it back. Their fingers met, his warm, hers cool.

Between them the goblet slipped to the floor.

She gasped, staring as a dark stain spread on the cream background color of the patterned carpet, then dropped to her knees to collect the broken crystal and dab at the blot with the hem of her riding habit.

Trick stared down at her bright head. "Stop," he pleaded, hard put to keep from laughing at her panic. "You'll ruin your skirt."

"I'll ruin my skirt?" Worried green eyes glanced up at him. "Then will the stain not come out of the carpet, either?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," he mused. Surely one of the servants would know how to remove it. If not, he could always bring another rug from his London warehouse.

"But...I'm not usually clumsy." She gazed at the stain, then sat back and wrapped her arms around her bent knees. "And I've gotten you in trouble, then."

"In trouble?" he repeated stupidly.

"The crystal and the carpet..." She bit her lip, then her eyes cleared. "Tell the owner I'll pay for it all. Or rather, my brother will. It won't be a problem."

Tell the owner. Oh, she was a precious one. She thought he was a criminal, yet she worried about his carpet and angering his supposed landlord.

She'd be more on target worrying about her maidenhead, he thought wryly, reaching down a hand to help her rise.

At her full height, the top of her head came just to his chin. She tilted her face and fastened her gaze on his. Their hands seemed fused together, and he could hear her slightly uneven breathing over the patter of rain on the roof.

Slowly, her free hand came up to sweep the hair from his eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, then she touched a fingertip to his lower lip, exactly in the center, so lightly he wondered if he imagined it.

Real or imagined, his body quickened. He stared at her soft mouth. "Don't you worry," he said low.

She blinked and pulled her hand from his.

He almost made a grab for her, but reminded himself who she was.

Damn, it had better stop raining soon.

"Come, there's water in the bedchamber." He swiveled and headed for the corridor, knowing she would follow. "We'll rinse the stain on your skirt before it can set."

Composing himself, he poured water into the washbowl and set it on the low table by the bed, then turned to beckon her near and hand her a towel.

She wetted it and leaned down to dab daintily at her hem. Frowning, she dipped again and dabbed harder. Finally, she sat on the bed, rucking her skirts up about her knees so she could plunge the offending stain into the bowl. She stared into space, holding the fabric in place with one hand.

Thinking she had very shapely calves, Trick sat beside her and grinned. "You're going to sit there till it comes out?"

She turned to look at him. "It won't take long this way."

He watched the water soaking her skirt. A dark circle grew to encompass much more than the stain, but she didn't seem to notice. Her gaze was riveted on his eyes.

She swallowed and licked her lips.

Despite his best intentions, he moved closer, then closer still when he caught a whiff of her sun-fresh skin and flowery hair.

From the main part of the cottage, he heard the door fly open and bang against the wall. He thought it must be the wind. Though he knew he should get up and close it, his arms stole around Kendra's waist, and he bent his head to hers, toward that soft, tempting mouth.

She swayed closer and raised her face. Her breath came sweet and warm from between her parted lips.

"Hey, are you here? We need your help to find our..."

Jason Chase arrived in the doorway, his brothers Colin and Ford close on his heels.

"...sister," he finished weakly.

Kendra and Trick jumped up and apart, taking the porcelain bowl with them. It fell to the polished floor with a loud crash.

"Not again," Kendra groaned. "I never drop things."

"This isn't what it looks like," Trick hurried to say.

"No?" A muscle in Jason's jaw twitched. "You mean to say I didn't see you on a bed with your arms around my sister and her skirts pulled up around her waist?"

"My knees," Kendra corrected.

Jason just glared at her.

"What were you doing, then?" Colin asked.

Trick wondered why he felt so uneasy. "Rinsing a stain from her skirt."

Ford rolled his blue eyes. "You expect us to believe that?" He turned on Kendra. "What the devil are you doing here?"

"I was...riding. And it started raining, and Trick came along—"

"Trick, is it?" Colin's eyes bore into hers, and Trick saw her flinch. "Exactly how well do you know this man?"

"For God's sake, Colin—we just met."

"And you let him put his hands beneath your gown."

Trick leapt to her defense. "Hell, no, Greystone—I told you, we were rinsing out a stain."

"A bloodstain, would that be?"

Kendra's eyes narrowed with puzzlement. "No," she said. "Why would you ask—"

"How can you think such a thing?" Trick interrupted.

"How could we not?"

"I'm disappointed," Jason said, stepping closer to Trick. "Very disappointed. Kendra has never acted particularly wisely, but she's been very sheltered and you ought to know better." He gazed at Trick with doleful eyes. "At least tell me you didn't know who she was."

"Of course I knew who she was!" Trick exploded. "I saw her with you in that bloody coach."

Beside him, Kendra gave a surprised gasp.

"Ah, yes," Jason responded, looking resigned. "That will have to stop, you know."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The highway robbery. You don't need the money, and Kendra doesn't need to see her husband strung up at Tyburn."

"Her husband?" Trick's heart pounded. Her brothers didn't know the truth. Or rather, they knew he wasn't posing as a highwayman for the money, but they weren't likely to learn the real reason anytime soon.

He'd given his word to King Charles.

And now they thought... "You think I bedded your sister? You must be mad!"

"They are mad!" Kendra railed. She turned to Jason. "You have to listen." And to Colin. "It was only a stain. A wine stain." And to Ford. "You're always telling me I jump to conclusions—"

Ford's hand shot out to grasp his twin's upper arm. "Come along, Kendra." With a murderous look at Trick, he pulled her from the room.

"We'll call on you when the banns have been posted," Jason ground out.

"No," Colin said. "It will have to be by special license."

"Bloody hell, you're right." Jason rubbed the back of his neck. "She could be with child."

With child? Trick couldn't believe what he was hearing. One minute he was washing out a wine stain, the next he was accused of fathering a babe. With a woman he'd never even kissed.

Never mind that he wanted to.

CHAPTER SIX

Kendra was soaked to the skin. Water streamed from her hair into her tear-blurred eyes. She was shivering. But she'd rip her own tongue out before asking her infuriating brothers for one of their cloaks.

Riding behind them, she heard the murmurs of a deeply involved conversation. She took slow, fortifying breaths, wishing she could make out their words. She couldn't let them make her go through with this. But they wouldn't, would they? Surely they didn't intend for her to actually wed a highwayman. A highwayman she hadn't so much as kissed!

Which was a pity. Because she'd wanted to kiss Trick more than she'd wanted to do most anything else, ever.

She knew full well he'd been about to kiss her, and she'd been ready—no, not just ready, thrilled—to cooperate. But the kiss hadn't happened. Not to mention a mere kiss didn't warrant a forced marriage.

But, dear God, he'd turned out to be everything she'd fantasized and more. She'd melted just looking at him, and when he'd wrapped his arms around her, her whole body had felt on fire. She'd been dying for that kiss.

It would have been the first time she'd kissed anyone.

Oh, she'd been kissed, of course—she was twenty-three, after all, and not unattractive—but she'd never kissed anyone back. She blamed those brothers of hers. Every time a gentleman managed to pull her into an alcove or onto a balcony and press his lips to hers, one of her brothers would materialize, staring daggers into the unfortunate swain's eyes. And until now, she hadn't been enamored enough of any man to make an issue of it.

Why did her brothers always have to show up and ruin it all?

At long last, Jason sent the others ahead, then halted until she caught up. "I cannot believe you did that," he said.

"It was raining." She was seething inside, but somehow she managed to sound calm. "All I did was come in from the rain."

"That's not the way it looked," he said as though that were the end of the discussion.

She stared at his determined profile. A highwayman...her brother was letting—no, making—her wed a highwayman. Regardless of whether Jason thought she'd lost her virtue to the man, the fact that he'd as good as pledged her to a robber was beyond belief.

Her stare turned to a glare that drew his gaze. He blinked. "What were you thinking, riding out alone?"

Ignoring that, she drew breath. "I cannot believe you expect me to marry a highwayman. You, who wouldn't let Lord Harrison near me because he was only a baron!"

For a moment, Jason just looked at her. Then his lips quirked into a smile, and he threw back his head and laughed.

Incredulous, Kendra watched, wishing the rain pouring into his mouth would drown him.

"You—you—you don't know who he is, do you?" he choked out.

"Trick Caldwell. Patrick Iain Caldwell," Kendra returned through clenched teeth. "Do you think you would have found me in a man's bedchamber—never mind that nothing happened there—if I didn't so much as know his name?"

Jason only laughed harder. "Patrick Iain Caldwell What?"

"What? What do you mean, what? That's not his name?" Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "I should have guessed he'd lie to me," she muttered, more to herself than her brother. "He's a bloody highwayman, after all."

"You don't know who he is." Apparently failing to notice her unladylike language, Jason actually snorted. "You really don't know who he is." With another shout of laughter, he dug in his heels and raced up to meet their brothers.

Kendra could hear their loud guffaws through the distance and the driving rain.

She rode behind them for another few minutes, listening to their whoops of laughter, hoping they'd expire from lack of air. A buzzard circled lazily overhead. Not exactly Ares's bird, the vulture, but close enough. A fury was rising in her that would do Ares, the God of War, proud.

At last she couldn't stand it. She raced up to meet her brothers, nosing Pandora between Jason's and Ford's mounts.

"He's titled, isn't he?" she demanded. "Or you wouldn't even be jesting about this marriage. Who is he?"

Ford looked at her, his blue eyes all innocence. "Who?"

"That man you just betrothed me to! What's his name, damn it?"

"Oh, you mean Trick? Trick Caldwell?"

"All right. Enough is enough." She glared at them one by one. "I did nothing wrong. No matter what you think it looked like, we were washing a wine stain from my skirt. There's no reason for me to marry him."

Her brothers stared at her and then at one another over her head. Individually they nodded.

Then Jason spoke for them all. "Did you choose another of your suitors to marry, then?"

"That again? I don't believe this. None of my suitors are at all suitable, and I won't marry any of them. You're finished ordering me around."

"You're right about that," he said. "I'm finished. It's long past time you wed, and Trick's as good a man as any."

"But he's a highwayman," she wailed.

"Not anymore," Jason snapped. The men closed ranks, and nothing else was said for the rest of the ride home.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Trick paced around the cottage for a good fifteen minutes, huffing in disbelief, wondering how a simple jaunt to save his props from the rain had ended in such disaster.

When pacing failed to resolve anything, he rode home to Amberley House to dismiss the rest of his houseguests.

Compton, his butler, met him at the door. "Good afternoon, your grace."

"Is it?" Trick handed him his drenched cloak. "What happened while I was gone?"

Compton frowned, one of his habitual expressions. "Lords Cainewood, Greystone, and Lakefield have taken their leave. A messenger arrived with word that their sister had disappeared. They went off to find you, to enlist your help—"

"They succeeded."

And turned his life upside down in the process.

Leaving the butler mid-sentence, Trick stalked into his card room. "My apologies, gentlemen, but the party's over."

Peeved, he waved a hand in a hopeless attempt to clear the smoky air. The four remaining guests, all aristocrats from neighboring estates, had apparently passed the time by smoking up Trick's small hoard of expensive Virginia cheroots, literally worth their weight in silver.

He coughed and waved some more. "It seems I'm soon to be wed, and I'm in no mood for cards. Besides which, the Chase brothers won't be returning, so we haven't enough for two tables—"

"Wed? As in married?" David Fielding interrupted in a puff of tobacco, blinking his brown eyes, which always looked a little crossed. "You cannot be serious."

"Aye, as in married." Trick smiled grimly. "And I assure you, I've never been more serious in my life."

The only one without a cheroot between his teeth, John Garrick heaved his paunchy form from his chair. "Amberley, I...I don't know what to say."

Garrick, speechless. Imagine that. In general, the man never shut up, lecturing his hapless companions on the folly of their swearing, drinking, whoring, or any other of a number of activities he considered morally reprehensible, an annoying superior smile on his flabby lips.

He flapped those lips now, rather ineffectively, Trick thought. "I...I just don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Trick suggested.

Striding across the room, he plucked a half-smoked cheroot from Fielding's lips, then did the same with Robert Faraday and Thomas Milner. They sat there, their mouths in little Os where the brown cheroots used to be, while he stubbed out the burning tobacco in one of the crystal dishes he kept on the card tables for that purpose.

"I'll send servants to help you pack," he informed them. "And someone else will have to host next month, as a female will be living here."

"But...Amberley." Robert Faraday finally found his voice. He skimmed the long brown hair from his face and rubbed his stubbled chin. "No surcoats, no shaving, no periwigs, no women. You laid down the rules when you set up the card club. And you said then that you'd marry the day the devil settled in heaven."

"He's arrived, gentlemen."

At Trick's sardonic pronouncement, Garrick narrowed his eyes. The other men rose, and they all drifted toward the door, presumably to collect their things.

"Who will host?" Trick pressed. "I've no intention of spending all my weekends at home. Faraday, Milner? Damn, you both have wives. Garrick?"

"I'm...remodeling. No space at present."

Trick frowned; the man lived in a fifty-room manor house. Old, yes, and in dire need of renovations, but surely there was an area they could use to play cards and enough bedrooms in sufficient shape to accommodate seven guests.

"We'll ask Cainewood," Milner suggested. "Lady Cainewood can go stay with his brother's wife. I'll drop by there later this—"

"Cainewood has that sister," Fielding interrupted. "Er...Lady Kendra, that's it."

"Oh, damn. You're right. He'd have to send her to Greystone, too."

"Nay, gentlemen. Lady Kendra will be here. Though you'll address her as Her Grace the Duchess of Amberley." When the men's mouths dropped open again, Trick shot them a wry smile. "Aye, the Chases will host—it's the least they can do. Till next month, then?"

Before they could ask any questions he'd rather not answer, Trick grabbed a fresh cheroot and left to closet himself in his study, where he went straight to the carved walnut cabinet and poured himself a shot of strong Scotch whisky.

Kendra. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to kiss her or throttle her brothers. Perhaps both, although it probably wouldn't be wise to threaten the Chases. Greystone, especially. From what he'd heard, Colin was deadly with a sword.

Trick sighed and dropped into his favorite worn leather chair. In the six months since King Charles had insisted he take up residence in his father's ridiculously overblown house, this was the only room he'd redecorated to his own taste—classic, familiar, and comfortable. Lifting a heavy silver candlestick, he lit the cheroot and stuck it between his teeth, then sat back, rolling the glass between his palms and watching the candlelight glint off the faceted crystal.

What was he going to do? What could he do? What did he want to do?

The answer came to him, as clear as the flawless crystal cupped between his hands.

He wanted to marry Kendra.

He'd wanted to bed her the moment he'd glimpsed her in the shadows of that carriage. Then he'd thought it impossible—Cainewood's sister, of all people. Cainewood, the last bastion of respectability in a society where morals were meaningless.

No one at King Charles II's court was virtuous; no one, that was, except Kendra. The Chase men had sheltered her for all of her twenty-three years. Even Trick knew that, although he made it a point to keep as far from court as humanly possible.

Having her had been unimaginable, but now it was imminent. Of course, he would have to marry her in order to bed her, but his wedding day might as well come now as later—he had to sire an heir. And Lady Kendra Chase would make as fine a wife as any. She was of suitable aristocratic birth, and Lord knew she set his blood on fire. While it was likely she had no dowry to speak of—Cainewood was as cash-strapped as most of the Royalist nobility—the fact was, Trick didn't need anyone else's money. He had more of his own than he knew what to do with.

He blew out a perfect smoke ring and watched it rise to the Amberley crests carved into the oak ceiling. His vision blurred until he could almost see Kendra's expressive face. Hers was a refreshing, wholesome beauty, and though of course he didn't love her, he did want her. He supposed he was lucky to find that in a wife.

Aye, he would marry her. Smiling at the thought, he stubbed out the cheroot, threw back his head, and downed the whisky. The warmth of the liquor curled in his stomach. Down lower, his body stirred as he imagined Kendra in his bed. The more he thought about that, the more pleased he became.

But that didn't mean he wasn't angry as hell at the situation.

"Pardon the interruption, your grace."

Trick jerked around, still uneasy with the formal address—never mind that he'd held the title for three years. God knew he'd never wanted it; he'd never wanted anything that came from his father. But the damnable cur had died, and now people—most especially his father's old retainers, like stuffy Compton—insisted on addressing Trick formally.

Trick gazed at the middle-aged man, wondering if he'd been born with a pike for a spine. Compton's receding gray hair was combed straight back from his forehead, and his jowls shook when he spoke, making Trick want to laugh.

"Aye, Compton?"

"The Earl of Greystone is here to see you, your grace."

Already? Could this family not leave him in peace for one evening? Trick sighed expansively, causing Compton's nostrils to flare in disapproval of such a show of emotion.

"Bring him in," Trick muttered, rising to pour himself another shot.

"Congratulations, Amberley," Colin Chase said from behind him. "Shall we drink to your wedding tomorrow afternoon?"

Trick paused, then silently set about filling a second glass. "Tomorrow, is it?" He turned to hand the man his drink, meeting his eyes, deeper green than Kendra's but just as lively and intelligent. "Bloody hell, can you not give a man time to get used to the idea?"

Colin sipped before answering, regarding Trick over the rim. "Jason can pull strings if he wants to. And time is of the essence...your heir may be on his way already."

"I didn't bed your—"

"I'm not judging you, Amberley." Colin flashed him a crooked grin. "My own daughter arrived a month early."

Trick's gaze went to the hilt of Colin's ever-present sword. His reply was slow and measured. "I told you, I didn't bed your sister."

"You know, Kendra kept claiming much the same thing on the way home. Did her fighting best to convince us of it, too."

He'd bet she had. "You didn't believe her?"

"Jason doesn't know what to believe. Frankly, I don't think he cares. Kendra's been a noose around his neck for years. She's absolutely refused to consider anyone suitable, so as far as he's concerned, this circumstance is a dream come true. God knows she would never have looked at you twice if she'd known you're a duke. A stubborn one, Kendra is."

"And now that she knows?"

"She doesn't." Colin laughed. "Thinks you're an impoverished minor aristocrat forced to highway robbery, and she's mad as hell at us for condoning the match. To our faces, that is. I suspect that, privately, she's walking on air. The lady's in love."

"Love?" Trick rolled his eyes. He'd forgotten about her naïve ideas on love. "Don't tell me you're another believer in love at first sight?"

"It seems to be the Chase way," Colin mused. "My wife, Amethyst, captured my heart with a single glance across a jewelry counter."

"It's insane," Trick declared, throwing back the rest of his whisky. "You're all insane. This is utterly outrageous."

"You're angry, then?"

Trick considered that for a moment. "Not exactly," he said slowly. "I think your strong-arm tactics are abhorrent, but as to the outcome...I suppose I must wed, and your sister's as good a choice as any."

Before long, he hoped, he'd be back at the London docks, where he could better oversee his burgeoning shipping empire. Just as soon as he'd satisfied the king's demand. Having Kendra here in the countryside, raising his children and awaiting his attentions, was not an unpleasing thought.

"I haven't the stomach for courtship," he added, "so a business arrangement suits my purposes just fine."

"Business arrangement? I know what a man looks like when he wants a woman, and I saw that look in your eyes. You'd better not hurt my sister."

"Hurt her? I'm not the one forcing her into this marriage."

Colin looked astonished at that accusation. "There's no way she'd be forced into any marriage—this one included—if we weren't one hundred percent certain this is right for her. If her happiness weren't our primary concern, she'd have been off our hands years ago—you'd need only see her list of rejected suitors to be convinced of that." He met Trick's gaze. "She wants this."

Trick had to consciously close his gaping mouth. "How do you know?"

The other man sighed. "Pride will keep her from admitting it. But you're the first suitor she hasn't outright refused, whether she realizes it or not. And maybe not all that much happened today, but there's something between you two, Amberley—you cannot deny it."

While Trick reeled under that onslaught, Colin drew breath and smiled. "I'm sure it will work out all around." He raised his glass. "To the groom."

Trick looked at his own empty glass, then shrugged and went to refill it. He might as well get foxed on his last night as a free man. "To the groom," he echoed wryly before tossing the liquor down in one gulp.

Colin drained his own drink and set it on a table. "Well, I'd best get home. Big day tomorrow for all of us, eh?"

Trick nodded.

Nodding in return, Colin stuck out his hand. "Till tomorrow, then. Let me just send the messenger back to Cainewood. Jason will be relieved to hear you've agreed."

"Agreed?" Incredulous, Trick pulled his hand from Colin's grasp. "I thought I had no choice."

"Of course you had a choice. What kind of people do you take us for?"

"But—"

"Did you think I came here to run you through if you failed to cooperate?"

"The thought crossed my mind," Trick said dryly.

"You said yourself it was a sound decision. Coercion was the last thing in our heads. We're not looking to gain an enemy for an in-law. We want Kendra to be happy." He pivoted on a heel, heading for the door. "And you, of course."

"But you made it sound—"

"Good evening, Trick. Sleep well," he said and left.

For the second time that day, Trick found himself wondering what had happened. He was embarking on a new life, his ship about to sail for ports unknown.

For a man accustomed to being in charge, this was not an auspicious start.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Thank you, Jane." Kendra smiled at her kindly, plain-faced maid and put a hand to her carefully coiffed hair. "You did a lovely job."

Even if it was for nothing, she added silently.

As Jane left, she crossed her bedchamber with a sigh. Pushing the drapes aside, she gazed out the diamond-paned window. In Cainewood's quadrangle below, her "betrothed" chatted with her three brothers and a clergyman—or someone dressed like one, anyway.

"No, poppet." Amy Chase disentangled her eleven-month-old's hands from her ebony tresses and set the baby on her unsteady feet. Jewel had just started walking last week. "Kendra. They're waiting."

"I can see that." Letting the curtain drop, she focused on her sister-in-law. "But what they're waiting for, I can only imagine. To laugh their heads off at me, I'm thinking."

"Laugh?" In a rustle of dusky rose satin, Caithren came close and tweaked one of Kendra's long curls into place. "Why would they laugh?"

"This has to be a jest. Very well done, I must admit, but there isn't a chance they'll make me go through with it."

"No, Jewel, don't eat that." Amy took an ivory comb from her daughter's mouth and set it back on the dressing table. "I'm not too sure they'd joke about this."

Kendra brushed at the silver tissue underskirt that gleamed from beneath the split front of the blue silk gown she had dressed in for her "wedding." "It's so like them to make me get all ready, isn't it? Their idea of justice, having found me in a seemingly compromising position. But they won't actually make me wed a highwayman."

"I don't think he's just a highwayman, Kendra." Cait's hazel eyes looked concerned. "He must be suitable. Jason seemed dead serious to me."

"He's serious about scaring me, making me come to a decision. This will be called off at the last minute, at which point Jason will expect me to happily choose one of the other men who has offered. As for Trick being just a highwayman, I couldn't say. I don't know the first thing about him."

"But you like him, aye?"

"He's...interesting." A vast understatement. Kendra only hoped her sisters-in-law wouldn't ask for elaboration.

"I like the way you say interesting." Amy's grin was too knowing for Kendra's comfort. "Sometimes we find love in unexpected places." Her fine features softened as she doubtless considered her own unconventional marriage, that of a shopgirl and a nobleman.

"Aye, she's right." Cait nodded her agreement. "If you'd told me I'd ever be in love with a man and living in England"—despite her love for both Jason and their home, she pronounced the word with a mild distaste—"I'd have said you were sodie-heid for certain." Her gaze narrowed at the puzzled look on Amy's face. "Featherbrained," she added in translation.

Inwardly, Kendra sighed. While it was true she yearned for the kind of happiness both her sisters-in-law had found, she didn't think she would find it in a sham marriage to a highwayman. No matter how much she burned for his kiss or fancied herself in love.

"Up," Jewel demanded, providing a welcome distraction as she toddled over to her mother.

Amy perched her on one violet-taffeta-clad hip. "Did you know Colin called on Trick last night? He offered him a chance to back out of this arrangement, but he turned it down."

"Or so Colin told you." Could the amber highwayman actually want her? She didn't think so, and she knew for sure that the little leap of excitement she felt was all wrong. "If Colin did call on him, I'm sure it was to plot this absurd, elaborate ruse. Colin is nothing if not the ultimate prankster."

"Maybe you're right, and this wedding is naught but a jest. But just in case"—Cait held out a silver coin—"you'll want to put this in your shoe."

"There she goes with her superstitions." An indulgent smile curving her lips, Kendra took the coin and tucked it into one high-heeled satin slipper. "What other old wives' tales might you be worrying about?"

"I've never said I believe it, mind you, but you know what they say. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue..."

"This gown fills three of those requirements. Old, borrowed, and blue." There'd been no time to have a wedding dress made, so Kendra was wearing Cait's. She brushed again at the shimmering silk skirts. "I always wanted to wear green for my wedding."

"I've told you, you wouldn't want to do that," Cait admonished. "Green is the choice of the fairies."

As though that explained anything.

"And as for something new..." Amy moved closer, trying to maneuver an object out of her pocket.

"I'll take her," Caithren offered, reaching for Jewel. Kendra thought she cuddled her niece rather wistfully. Cait and Jason had been married for nearly a year, yet there was still no sign of a babe.

Amy finally extricated a bracelet from her pocket—smooth-polished ovals of amber set in heavy gold links. Studded with sparkling diamonds, the circlet glittered in her hand. "A wedding gift," she said, "from your future husband. Colin asked me to pass it on to you."

"This isn't a real wedding. And as for new, it doesn't look it."

"It isn't," Amy said in the confident tones of a skilled jeweler. "The cut of the diamonds tells me it's actually very old. But new to you. And it cannot hurt to wear it." The golden stones seemed to glow from within, secrets of past centuries locked inside their translucent depths. "When Colin gave it to me, he said it would be quite fitting."

Amy looked curious, but Kendra wasn't about to admit she thought of Trick as the amber highwayman. How had Colin known? Had she said something inadvertently? She was usually careful about such things.

"I cannot believe the lengths your husband will go to in planning his practical jokes." She reluctantly held out her arm. "It is beautiful."

After Amy fastened the clasp, Kendra turned her wrist, watching the diamonds catch the light. Surely the bracelet wasn't really Trick's, which meant she could make her brothers let her keep it after this farce of a wedding was called off. For putting her through this, they owed her that much.

It would remind her of the amber man, of the passion she'd felt ever so briefly in his arms. It would remind her not to settle for less—not to let her brothers pressure her into a loveless marriage, no matter how hard they tried.

She touched the amber pensively—warm, it somehow seemed—and drifted over to her dressing table. Watching herself in the mirror, she settled a gossamer lace veil over her hair and drew it down, tucking the ends into the sides of her neckline to secure it.

Her brothers wanted her to play the part of a blushing bride, and a blushing bride they'd get. She leaned closer. Pale, too. Which was ridiculous—this was but a game.

"No, poppet," Amy said, reattaching one of the tabs on Caithren's stomacher where Jewel's pudgy fingers had managed to unfasten it.

Kendra turned to the door. "Shall we get this little drama over with?"

CHAPTER NINE

"Nervous, man?"

"Hell, no." Trick shot Ford a smile—a confident one, he hoped. The shakiness in his legs must be a symptom of last night's overindulgence. He clenched his fists to keep his hands from giving him away, then shoved them into the pockets of his midnight blue velvet surcoat.

More fitted than the current style, he'd last worn the suit a few years ago in Paris, for one of those blasted social occasions his father insisted he attend to further the "business." A time in his life that Trick would rather not remember, but he had only one other formal suit at his home in the countryside, and he'd be damned if he'd wed in his highwayman clothes.

His gaze swept over the groomed lawn of Cainewood Castle's quadrangle, then darted away when he spotted the parson, hands clasped behind his back. He seemed a kind enough sort, but the sight of him made Trick's stomach lurch. He looked back to Ford...but, nay, he'd as soon not look at Ford, either. Kendra's twin and most certainly the man who knew her best.

Instead he focused on the ancient keep, the worn stone a comforting reminder of the strength of Kendra's line. Four hundred years the Chases had lived here, save during the Commonwealth. Unlike himself, Kendra knew who she was and what she had come from.

Aye, their children would surely benefit from that sort of security. Lord knew he had nothing of the kind to offer. He'd always thought of himself as a mongrel.

A mangy one.

Distracted by the bang of a thick oak door, he turned to see Kendra descending Cainewood's front steps.

A vision in a sky-blue gown, she glided his way. The shimmering silk overskirt opened down the front to reveal an underskirt of costly silver tissue—he knew the expense, having bolts of the very fabric stacked in his London warehouse. The sleeves were double-puffed with a spill of silver lace at the wrists, which had made its way from Italy, if he didn't miss his guess.

Swathed within the lace, her hands looked small. In fact, everything about her looked small. He hadn't noticed that before.

He hadn't had time to notice much of anything, he told himself, watching the blush creep up from her low, scooped neckline. He met her eyes. A pretty shade of light green, they looked nervous and wary, but as they locked with his, a hint of interest—and maybe desire?—seemed to kindle in their depths.

Answering warmth stole up his neck, and he knew he was turning a dusky red. Deliberately looking away, Kendra walked toward the family's small private chapel, Jason and Colin at her sides. Their wives trailed behind, a tiny, pink-dressed girl holding their hands, tripping along and giggling between them.

In no time at all, Trick found himself mounting the chapel's stone steps. Inside, sunshine streamed through brilliant-colored windows to cast the sanctuary in rainbow hues. Squaring his shoulders, he went to face the parson. Jason and Colin kissed their sister before Ford walked her to join Trick at the altar, delivering her into his care with a kiss and a hug and something whispered into her ear that Trick wished he could hear.

Kendra shook her head and rolled her eyes as she pulled away.

Every inch of Trick was aware of her proximity. Just standing beside her, his body heated. Her fiery hair was covered by a fine lace veil that framed her face, the ends tucked into her neckline. Trick reached for her hand, feeling it cold and clammy in his.

"Wait," he said, and pulled her to the side of the sanctuary, ignoring the questioning looks on her siblings' faces.

"You don't have to go through with this," he told her in a whisper.

She looked even more at a loss than before. "I...I don't think—"

"I'll be asked to take my vows first. When the time comes, if you wish to call this off, just shake your head no and I won't say 'I will.'"

Lifting her hand, he ran his fingers over the bracelet's amber stones, feeling slightly disoriented at the sight of the family heirloom on her wrist. It made this all seem so real, yet unreal at the same time.

He looked up. "I don't expect they can actually force us to marry," he added, thinking of Colin's sword and hoping he was right.

She peeked around at her brothers, then lifted her chin. "If you're willing, then I am, too."

He had his reasons to be willing...he just wondered what hers were. What was wrong with her, then, that she thought she couldn't do better than a robber for a husband? He wasn't really one, of course, but he was aware she didn't know that—doubly aware, since her brothers had made a point of keeping his identity from her, to the extent of asking this afternoon if it would be acceptable for his title to be left out of the proceedings.

She had a problem with dukes, they'd said, and since he didn't care for the title either, he hardly thought it mattered. Married was married.

"Very well, then." He nodded, and they returned to the altar.

The clergyman began the ceremony, and Kendra kept looking around, as though she expected something unforeseen to happen. Not that Trick could blame her. He found this more than a little disconcerting himself.

The preliminaries went entirely too quickly. Nobody showed just cause why they could not be lawfully joined together, and before Trick knew it, the parson was reciting the vows.

"Patrick Iain Caldwell, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

Trick slanted Kendra a glance, but she didn't shake her head. "I will," he said, and his heart flip-flopped with the enormity of the step he was taking, but also with a sudden realization.

His arms itched to hold her; his mouth ached to take hers. And thanks to her scheming brothers, she had no idea he was a duke.

Whatever her reasons, she wasn't marrying him for his title or his money. She didn't know he had either. She wasn't marrying the Duke of Amberley—she was marrying Trick Caldwell.

Despite the bizarre circumstances, the thought lit a hidden place in his heart.

A few more words, a simple gold band slid onto Kendra's finger, and Trick's arms slipped around her waist, just as they had yesterday. He bent his head toward hers, toward those soft lips that had been tempting him since he'd first laid eyes on her.

As his mouth met hers, she melted against him, her lavender scent surrounding him like a cloud. Every bit as responsive as he'd hoped, she kissed him back, untutored but amazingly eager. And so far as she knew, she was kissing plain Trick Caldwell.

When her brothers cleared their throats, he reluctantly pulled away. He couldn't wait to see what pleasures lay in store when he brought her to the cottage tonight.

She wouldn't discover until tomorrow that she was a duchess.

CHAPTER TEN

An impromptu wedding feast was set out on the mahogany table in Cainewood's dining room. Kendra sat beside her new husband, her head still spinning with disbelief.

She'd been shocked speechless when the priest concluded the ceremony, shook hands all around, and walked through the front door of the chapel, all without her brothers bursting into laughter. Just yesterday she'd been an innocent girl, fantasizing about a man she barely knew, and now it looked like tonight she'd be his woman, body and soul.

But this couldn't be what it looked like.

Apparently the script called for the farce to go on a little longer. Yet she was willing to wager that before night fell, her brothers would be sending her up to her old bedchamber, congratulating themselves on the success of their practical joke.

"Aren't you going to cut the cake, Kendra?"

Startled, she looked to Amy. Her sister-in-law was grinning widely and holding out a knife. Dominating the center of the table, the bride cake was double frosted, sugar over almond icing. Despite her churning stomach, Kendra's mouth watered; she loved sweets.

Very well, then. If her brothers wished to continue the charade, she'd play her part.

Rising and taking the knife, she reached to cut the confection and felt Trick's hand envelop hers. She turned her head, raising astonished eyes to find him leaning over her, bracing himself with one hand on the table. "We've yet to feast, leannan." He nodded toward the servants still carrying in platters.

"Ah, Trick," Jason said, a trace of laughter in his voice. "It's obvious you don't know your wife. She always eats dessert first."

Colin nodded. "And she's taught Amy her unfortunate habit."

"Cake!" baby Jewel crowed gleefully, banging her spoon on the table.

"Second word she learned," Colin informed them dryly. "Right after Mama and before Papa."

"We've other nasty habits, I'm afraid," Ford added with a snort. "Perhaps you moved too quickly in aligning yourself with the Chases, my friend."

Beneath his tousled hair, Trick's eyes narrowed. "I moved too quickly?"

His hand was still on Kendra's, and she stiffened at his words. He seemed to be taking this seriously. Could it be he wasn't in on the joke? Or...

Could it be this was no joke?

Suddenly unsure, she looked around the table at her brothers' faces. Their expressions told her nothing.

When she saw Colin with Amy and Jewel, and Jason together with Cait, she couldn't help but wish for a family of her own like those her brothers were creating. A whole family, like the one she'd been cheated of growing up parentless during the Civil War and Commonwealth years. But a romantic marriage with any of the suitors her brothers had presented would be as likely as Zeus descending from the sky.

This was her life they were toying with. She bit the inside of her cheek. Caithren caught her gaze and returned it with heart-wrenching sympathy.

When Trick moved to pull back the knife, she held steady. He laughed suddenly, then shot her a broad, rakish smile. Noticing the tiny chip on his front tooth, she licked her lips, wishing her tongue were tasting that beautiful mouth instead. And she stopped breathing, shocked at her thoughts.

She'd never put her tongue in a man's mouth—never even thought of such a thing. Wherever had that idea come from? Besides, he'd probably bite it off. If this was no joke, he was due a pound of Chase flesh, and she knew it.

But instead of turning the knife on her, he slipped her a wink. "Come, we'll cut it together."

The man was an enigma, to be sure. Kendra drew a calming breath as they sliced the cake, his hand warm over hers. She placed a piece on Amy's plate, then one on her own.

All the while, Trick remained standing beside her. She could feel his gaze, feel him shifting, but before she had time to react, he'd reached and plucked the veil from her head.

"What!" She turned and snatched it from his hands.

"I wanted to see your...hair," he finished lamely, blinking at her in seeming bemusement. "What the hell did you do to it?"

"Do to it?"

"The..." He waved a finger, drawing spirals in the air. "The..."

"Curls?" Kendra supplied helpfully. She couldn't help but grin at his expression. "Jane worked on it for an hour. Do you like it?"

"No," he said flatly. "I liked it before." He leaned close, whispering to her alone. "Wild, streaming down your back."

"Oh." She felt a blush heat her face. "After this, I'll take it down."

"After this, I'll take it down."

The wispy lace fluttered from her fingers to the soft blue Oriental carpet. Feeling more confused by the moment, she plopped back onto her chair.

"Mmm...porcupine," Trick said, reseating himself with a satisfied smile. "At least I've married into a family that appreciates good food."

The "porcupine" was actually a stuffed breast of veal, larded all over and studded with small strips of ham, bacon, and pickled cucumber. Trick smacked his lips and added a healthy portion to his already-loaded plate.

"Leave room—we've surprise as well," Colin warned. Spearing a bite of cake, Kendra looked up as a servant set the dish called surprise on the table. A stuffed calf's head served up in its original shape, it had bunches of myrtle stuck into its eyes and looked very surprised indeed.

The steam rose off it in tantalizing swirls...and it bellowed.

Kendra screamed. A piece of cake went flying off Amy's fork, splattering on one of the diamond-paned leaded windows. Ford jumped up, his lattice-backed chair clunking to the floor behind him. Trick and Jason froze.

When the calf bellowed again, Kendra rushed from her chair to take shelter in the door frame with Cait, both poised for flight. Stopping only to snatch up baby Jewel, Amy joined them. The women all clung together, staring. Squished between their bodies, Jewel let out a wail.

The calf's head bellowed once more...

No, it croaked.

With a half-amused, half-disgusted groan, Trick dropped his fork, reached to pry the calf's mouth open wider, and lifted its heavy pink tongue. A toad hopped out and looked around, blinking its bulbous eyes, before it leapt off the table and headed toward the door.

The women broke apart to let it pass between them. Amongst gales of laughter from the men, Kendra thwacked Colin on the head as she returned to her seat. "For the love of God! Have you no sense of propriety?"

"A question of propriety from your lips, little sister?" Colin rubbed his head good-naturedly. "Was it not just yesterday we found you—"

"Hush, Colin." Amy dumped their sobbing daughter on her husband's lap. "Here. You made her cry, she's yours." She seated herself and raised her fork, but not before sending him a tolerant smile.

Jewel quieted when Colin bounced her on his knee. "Well, you've seen us at our worst now," he said to Trick around a mouthful of dressed artichoke bottoms. "Welcome to the family."

Trick shrugged noncommittally. Watching him scan the group around the table, Kendra tried to imagine what he was thinking.

It couldn't be good.

It was time to bring this charade to an end. She turned to Jason. "How will you get along without me here to direct the household?"

"We'll manage," her brother said blithely, wrapping an arm around his competent wife. His fingertips played idly in her dark-blond hair. "I set Jane to packing your things."

Trick touched Kendra's hand. "Jane is your maid, I presume? She can follow tomorrow. You'll send her along, Cainewood?"

"Certainly."

"But—" Kendra started.

"Tomorrow," Trick repeated, cutting her off. "You won't be needing her tonight."

At the look in his eyes—the keen hunger—Kendra's spoon clattered to her plate. He was acting as though they were really married, talking of maids and spending the night together.

Did highwaymen even have servants? She certainly hadn't seen any at the cottage. Was she really married to this man? Fingering the bracelet around her wrist, she recalled what little she knew of him.

It wasn't much, and it wasn't good.

"But you're—" Something in his warm eyes made her falter. "—a highwayman," she finished weakly.

Jason reached for the bread. "Yes, we need to talk about that."

Trick tore his gaze from Kendra. "Aye?"

"It has got to stop."

Trick chewed thoughtfully, then sipped some wine. The silence stretched between him and Jason, almost as though it were a palpable barrier.

"I mean it, Trick. You don't need the money."

"Aye? You think not?" A corner of Trick's wide mouth turned up, and Kendra would swear he was about to start laughing.

Did he really not need the money? Had he enough put aside, then? Could highway robbery be that lucrative?

There was something missing here. But she couldn't seem to think straight in his presence; it had been that way since she'd first laid eyes on him. She felt all hot and bothered, and her brain refused to work.

"Why do you do it?" Ford asked.

With a shake of his head, Trick tossed the hair from his eyes and looked straight at her twin. "Maybe it's a pleasant amusement."

"You're finished, Trick." Jason's voice brooked no nonsense. He set down his fork. "Find your pleasure somewhere else."

The golden gaze settled on Kendra again and burned into hers. "Aye," Trick said slowly, softly. "That I will."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The sun was setting, painting the sky in muted tones as they made their way to Trick's home in the impressive two-seater caleche he'd driven to Cainewood. Borrowed, most likely, Kendra thought, along with the matched bay horses...at least she fervently hoped he hadn't stolen them.

A furtive glance to the rear convinced her they weren't being followed—she wasn't being rescued—by any of her brothers. "I cannot believe it," she said.

Trick gave her a long, considered look before responding in that characteristic unhurried way of his. "You cannot believe what?"

"I cannot believe I'm married. It happened so fast."

He raked a hand through his shining hair. "Why did you go through with it?"

"I never thought it was real. Even now, I'm half-expecting one of my brothers to ride up laughing at their masterful joke."

"They're not coming," Trick said.

"I know." And she knew as well that some tiny part of her had wondered if the wedding might be real all along, and even—maybe—hoped that it was. Trick was the only man with whom she'd ever felt a sort of magic.

But that didn't stop her from wanting to sink her claws into her too-clever brothers.

How dare they scheme like this, marrying her to a known outlaw? He could be a murderer, for all she knew! The hard length of his rapier rode in the sword belt on his right. Her brothers carried weapons as well, of course, but they didn't draw and use them on a daily basis.

Her teeth ached from clenching them. Consciously relaxing her jaw, she took a deep breath. "I know they're not coming. I'm so furious with them, I swear I won't speak to them for weeks. But I still cannot believe it. All along, I was certain this was a prank." That desperate conviction had helped her cope all the day, and it was frightening to let go of it. "I thought they were trying to teach me a lesson."

Trick turned to her, a hint of a smile on his wide mouth. "Are you due to be taught a lesson?"

"No!" Why did his tone make her so flustered? "They refused to tell me whether you're titled. Are you? Who are you?"

"I'm your husband," he said carefully. "And I agree with your brothers that that's all you need to know for now."

She glared at him through the growing dark. He was as obstinate as her brothers. Whatever had made her believe, even for a fleeting second, that the magic she'd felt in his arms could be enough to sustain a relationship? "I can vow not to talk to you as well, you know."

"What makes you think I'm interested in talking tonight?"

The question was uttered in a voice so silky smooth, it robbed her of breath. "They manipulated you, too," she said, hugging herself to hide the attack of nerves. "Aren't you angry?"

"Aye, a bit perhaps." He guided the caleche off the main road, onto a less-traveled path. "But not overmuch. And not at you. I know this isn't your fault." When she offered him a tremulous smile, his gaze softened, and his words took on the lilt of his homeland. "It's not such a bad bargain I've made, aye?"

Kendra blushed wildly, thankful for the cover of darkness. A fair bargain, was she? She couldn't think of anything to say in return to such a statement, so she remained silent, tightening her arms about her middle.

Perhaps thinking she was cold, Trick wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She should be terrified, she thought vaguely. She knew nothing of men in an intimate way, and he was a virtual stranger.

But his warmth was oddly comforting. She scooted closer, and when his long fingers rubbed up and down her arm, she melted against him, thinking about when she first saw him and how she'd wanted him to notice her. Remembering yesterday in the cottage, and how much she'd craved his kiss.

And then today, their first kiss in the chapel. Spellbinding it had been, his mouth gentle and demanding at the same time. That single indelible kiss had been everything she'd imagined and more. It had ignited a fire in her blood, making her wonder what might come next.

She'd barely become accustomed to his nearness when the caleche bumped off the path and over a grassy knoll, following a faint trail that led to the cottage. Windows glowed in the distance, the lamps inside already lit.

The cottage looked warm and welcoming, but as they rolled to a stop, she tensed. Too soon he would expect her to become his wife in more than just name, and, despite her curiosity, she wasn't sure she could go through with it.

He helped her down and guided her inside with a hand at the small of her back, touching her where she wasn't used to being touched. Shutting the door behind them, he eased her back against it.

Close. Entirely too close. His gaze locked on hers, his warmth penetrating the small space between them. She could smell the soap-fresh masculine scent of him—sandalwood, if she wasn't mistaken. She wouldn't expect a highwayman to use imported soap, but then, little about any of this had matched her expectations.

Just when she thought she might panic, he turned away. "I'm going to settle the horses, aye?"

The last time he'd said those words they hadn't been man and wife, but now the expression in his whisky-gold eyes left Kendra in no doubt as to his plans for the evening. Before she could react, the door shut behind him.

How could this be happening to her?

Her fashionable high Louis-heeled shoes made a loud, unnerving sound as she walked around the main room, picking things up and putting them down at random. She tried the bottom drawer of the desk again, but it was still stuck tight.

What had she expected? She'd first tried it only yesterday.

This was incredible.

Too soon, Trick blew through the doorway with a smile of anticipation that made her breath catch in her throat. He strolled straight to the cabinet and poured them each a goblet of wine. Yesterday's cups were gone, the broken shards of glass picked up, the stain nonexistent, as though the spill had never happened.

But it had happened, and because of it, she was married to Trick Caldwell.

"Here," he said, handing her a goblet. He tapped his against it, the tinkle of expensive crystal sounding pure and loud in the silence that stretched between them. "Slàinte mhór."

Kendra watched his throat muscles work as he drank deeply. Perhaps he wasn't as cavalier about this as he made himself out to be. Her head spinning even without the wine, she took a cautious sip. "Sl...what?"

With a gentle smile, he set down his glass and moved to her, slipping his arms about her waist. "Good health—a toast," he translated quietly. "And don't be too impressed. It's all the Gaelic I can remember."

"I...I'm..." Feeling dizzy, her heart pounding, Kendra placed one hand on his broad chest and leaned into him, knowing she was giving him the wrong idea but unable to help herself. She felt abandoned and confused, and he was her only anchor. "I'm not impressed."

"Oh, aren't you now?" he drawled, taking the goblet from her other hand. He bent to set it beside his on the table, and when he came back up, his mouth descended on hers.

Hot. Hot and soft. That was all Kendra could think. Then hard and urgent. His lips opened, coaxing hers to do the same. Then his tongue was in her mouth, slick and tender.

Though the mere thought of such a thing had been foreign until this evening, she wasn't surprised to find that her instincts had been right. Tentatively she touched her own tongue to that tiny chip on his front tooth, just the way she had imagined.

It was a catalyst. Her body responded with a tingling flush of pleasure, and her arms clenched around him, lest she drop to her knees.

She felt a low, pleased chuckle rumble from his chest into hers—from his mouth into hers, too—vibrating within her. His hands moved to her waist, to keep her from falling. When he broke the kiss, she fought to catch her breath.

"Still not impressed, lassie?"

Her answer was a low moan as she reached to pull his head back down to hers, twining her fingers in his silky hair. She was trembling again, but not with fear; instead with a need she found thrilling. Their tongues fenced, and Kendra tasted wine and Trick, sweet and tart and so exciting, she thought she might die from the pleasure.

Not one to do anything halfway, she reached inside his blue velvet surcoat to pull at his shirt. It seemed impossibly long—to his knees, she'd swear—but it finally came loose, and she slipped her hands up under it, to feel the warm contours of his torso.

He jumped and pulled back, almost as though he hadn't been aware of what she'd been doing. Kendra's chest heaved as his eyes, darkened to bronze, burned into her own.

"Sweet Mary. You're so..." He gave a shaky laugh. "I almost dragged you to the floor."

Kendra blushed to realize she would have gone right down on the floor with him, no doubt about it. Maybe this wedding night would be easier than she'd thought.

He drew a steadying breath and ran a hand back through his hair, and she watched, transfixed, as the front flopped back down into place. "Why don't you cut it?" she asked.

"Hmm?" His darkened gaze still held hers.

"Your hair, where it hangs down in your eyes."

"Maybe I'm just lazy," he suggested.

"You're hiding," she countered.

"Not tonight." He moved close again and ran his warm hands lightly over her back. "Shall we repair to the bedchamber?"

Kendra didn't think her face could get any hotter, but it did as he took her by the hand and led her down the corridor. The bedchamber had been cleaned up, too; no trace remained of the broken washbowl or its spilled contents. A new one stood in its place.

And, of course, there was the bed. Her gaze locked on it, anticipation and apprehension warring somewhere in her stomach.

"Are you all right?" Trick asked.

She nodded, swallowing hard.

"Sit," he said, dropping onto the room's only chair.

There was no other place to sit but the bed. A big bed, very big for a "cottage," and especially big for this small chamber. Somehow yesterday that had failed to register. It was a plush feather bed, too, not straw or wool. The bed-hangings, of palest ice-blue silk, were free of fussy frills and looked very costly and eminently tasteful.

The counterpane had already been folded back. She gingerly pushed aside an embroidered coverlet and lowered herself to sit on smooth, luxurious sheets.

"Second thoughts?" Trick watched her avidly, a pained half-smile on his face. "I offered you a way out of the wedding," he said on a sigh. "I can also offer you a way out of the wedding night."

Sincere though it might be, she couldn't help but notice the "offer" was uttered in a voice laced with frustration.

"I hope to sire an heir," he added, "but it doesn't have to be tonight. I know this has happened quickly."

A tempting offer, indeed. But his eyes seemed to plead with her. And her own body was pleading as well, her heart still racing in response to his enthralling kisses.

She remained caught in that imploring gaze while he came forward and went down on a knee before her. Silently lifting her hand, he started working the clasp on the amber bracelet.

"It's lovely." She sighed, feeling tingles as his fingers brushed her wrist. "Was it really from you, then?"

"Aye." Slowly he drew it off, hefting the weight in one hand. "It belonged to my grandmother, and her mother before her."

"Then why doesn't your mother have it now?"

"My father never considered her worthy."

Worthy. Trick barely knew her, yet he considered her worthy. She tried to wrap her mind around the significance of that, but found herself distracted when he raised her now-bare wrist and placed a warm kiss to the inside, where her blood ran near the surface.

The gesture seemed more intimate than a kiss on the mouth.

She shivered as he moved to set the amber bracelet on the night table. The little metallic click made her jump.

"Relax," he said, returning to the chair.

But watching him remove his cravat and loosen the laces on his shirt, she felt anything but relaxed.

He removed his boots and stockings. "So...do you want out?"

She shook her head infinitesimally.

"I'll play your maid, since she's not here," he said, moving to her with an easy smile. He knelt at her feet and pulled off her shoes. "Jane, right?"

"Yes, Jane."

He reached beneath her skirts, feeling for the ribbons that tied her garters. No man had ever touched her legs. "Trick, I—"

She broke off, because she didn't know what to say. She had no cause to protest—he was her husband. And he'd offered her an out.

Twice.

"Does your maid not do this?"

"Well, yes." She felt a garter come loose, and his fingers traced down her legs, rolling the stocking off in a way that made little darts of pleasure shimmer through her. "But...with Jane it doesn't feel like this," she managed.

"I would hope not." He raised a brow, making short work of the second garter, then held it up, all lace and satin ribbon. "A lovely little French confection, aye?"

"Madame Beaumont imports them. How did you know?"

He shrugged. "Lucky guess."

She wondered how many other French garters he'd removed over the years. He certainly seemed rather good at it.

Her second stocking came off in a whisper of silk, and he stood, bringing her up with him. He pressed his warm lips to her forehead, and she melted a little inside.

He gathered her close, resting his chin on her crown. "Your hair smells like lavender fields, leannan."

His low, throaty voice went right through her. She'd wondered what being with a man was all about, and now she had a husband of her own.

Determined to calm her quivering nerves, to project an inner confidence she didn't feel, she slipped her arms beneath his coat and leaned back to look up at him. "I thought that toast was the only Gaelic you knew."

"Pardon?"

"What does that mean, leannan?"

"I...I'm not sure." His brow creased. "It just slipped out. My mother used to call me that, I think."

"Maybe it means 'misbehaving young man.'"

His laughter filled the small chamber. "I think not." Still smiling, he moved to detach her stomacher. "Does your maid do this?" He set it on a chest at the foot of the bed. "And this?" His long fingers loosened her laces.

"Yes," she whispered, watching as he worked the gown over her shoulders and down to pool in a shimmer at her feet. The silver underskirt glistened in the firelight.

When...how had it been lit? Kendra wondered vaguely. But Trick's hot mouth was on her neck, doing strange things to the pit of her stomach, and she couldn't seem to think straight.

He lifted his head and gazed down at her. From her vantage point below him, she saw his eyes darken beneath the golden fringe. Then he stepped back, and his gaze traveled the length of her chemise-clad form.

In return, she boldly perused him. Or at least she tried. Unfortunately, the shirt, which did reach his knees, hung from beneath his velvet surcoat, quite effectively concealing him from her view.

She stepped from the folds of her gown to come forward and tug off his coat. The shirt went next, over his head to join the clothes on the floor. At the sight of his bare torso, her knees went weak.

A light sprinkling of blond hair glimmered in the firelight. She reached to touch him, her palms flat against his chest, caressing, learning the indentations, the sleekness of his skin over the tautness underneath, the springiness of the crisp golden curls. Her breath hitched when his muscles twitched beneath her questing fingers.

"Jesus," Trick breathed. "You're no simpering miss now, are you? Are you sure you've never—"

"I'm sure." Kendra's cheeks heated. "It's just...you feel..." She hid her flaming face against his chest, certain he would think her wanton.

But those thoughts didn't stop her hands from continuing their exploration, moving around him to feel the hard, smooth planes of his back. His chest hair tickled her nose, and without thinking, her tongue flicked out to taste his skin, warm and just the tiniest bit salty. She licked again and inhaled his scent, sandalwood and Trick, musky and exciting.

"Goodness, I want to eat you up," she whispered under her breath.

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Be my guest." His voice came rough as his hands moved to pull the pins from her hair. "This marriage seems more suitable by the minute. I never dreamed—what is this?" He jerked back, holding up a long red curl, his face registering utter disbelief.

"It's a false curl. To make my hair plumper."

"Plumper? Who the hell needs plump hair?"

He raked his fingers through her tresses, coming out with two more curls and...

"Wires? Why wires?"

"To make the curls stand out." Kendra shifted on her feet, suddenly feeling like Medusa. She tugged her own hands through her hair, plucking out several more wires and three additional curls. "That's six? I think that's all."

"Where do you get these? Wait—I'd rather not know." He tossed the curls away in disgust and combed the tangles from her hair with his fingers. "Have you any more surprises for me, then? Is your pretty nose your own? Maybe some false hips are hiding beneath that lovely chemise?"

"No." Her hands went to her hips. "These are mine. You don't...they're too wide, you think?"

"Nothing about you is wide." He settled her hair over her shoulders, a curtain down her back. "Except perhaps your smile, and that hair, but we won't be seeing that again now, will we? Or should I have thrown those curls into the fireplace?" He laughed as his hands covered hers, his thumbs tracing her hipbones. "Ah, the better to bear my children, aye?"

"Trick, the things you say..."

"Ah..." He leaned over her. "The things I say are nothing compared to the things I'll do." His hands moved to cup her face, and he bent her back for a long, deep kiss.

Her knees buckled. Trick caught her, laughing low, and swung her into his arms to deposit her on the bed. She felt dwarfed in its middle, the bedposts and ice-blue damask towering around her, but when Trick came down next to her, the bed was the last thing on her mind.

"Does your maid do this?" he asked, working the gossamer chemise up her legs.

"N-no. At least, not like that," she breathed, feeling his fingers skim the sensitive insides of her thighs. "No one has ever done—" She gasped.

"It's glad I am to hear it." Refocusing his attentions, he moved up to tease her breasts, and she watched her nipples pucker beneath the filmy fabric. It was scandalous, but wonderful all the same. He drew the garment off her shoulders, then bent his head and fastened his lips on one rosy peak.

Kendra shuddered. Hot and wet, his mouth elicited a melting sweetness within her. She arched with pleasure, tangling her fingers into his hair. A low hum of satisfaction vibrated from his throat into her body, and she arched again when he licked his way to her other breast and lavished it with little kisses and gentle bites whose mild sting he suckled away.

Her senses spun, and an ache started building deep inside her.

Just when she thought she couldn't take any more, he sat up and helped her out of her chemise. Sucking in a breath, he stared down at her, then broke into a grin that had her heart lurching.

Far beyond embarrassment, she only reached for him, desperate to feel him again. With a strangled laugh, he dodged her grasp and hurried out of his breeches.

She stilled at the sight. Dear God, he was beautiful.

But there was no way he could fit.

"Leannan." Clearly unaware of her distress, he lowered himself to the bed and molded his body to hers, drawing up the coverlet to lock in their warmth.

"Trick—"

A smile curved his lips before his mouth descended to meet hers. And then he was kissing her, skimming her body with worshipful fingers, driving every coherent thought—and worry—from her brain.

Almost. She froze again when he reached to part her legs. "You're wet," he whispered.

She was. And his touch felt exquisite. For long minutes he skillfully teased her to pleasure, until she writhed against him with a strange, marvelous feeling so urgent she wondered how she could bear it.

Her hands dug into his shoulders, her nails raked his back, her fingers clawed at his hair. And all the while he kissed her, his mouth fused to hers, hot and tasting of the forbidden.

She felt melted inside, too weak to protest when he shifted over her. "Leannan," he breathed, pushing into her, slowly at first. Then harder when he seemed to hit a barrier—a quick thrust that seemed to tear her apart.

The melting feeling died instantly, and she stiffened, every nerve in her body screaming with fiery pain.

"Oh, my God! Get off of me, Trick!" She'd known he wouldn't fit. "Stop it! Now!"

"Just wait, lea—"

"No!" She pushed at his chest, biting her lip to stop the tears that flooded her eyes.

"Hearts wounds, Kendra. Just wait—it'll get better—"

"No," she sobbed out. "Please, just get out of me." She twisted under him. "Please!"

He shifted off her body. "Hell, I don't believe this." He lay there, breathing heavily for a minute, then rolled to the edge of the bed and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. "I just do not believe this."

She didn't believe it, either.

He dropped his hands and turned to her, reaching for her face. "Sweet Jesus, I'm sorry," he murmured, caressing one tear-stained cheek. "I should have been slower, more gentle. I thought you were ready. You were so passionate. So wet..."

"You won't fit."

"What?" His fingertips stilled on her chin.

"You don't fit. We shouldn't have been married." Sniffling, she pushed his hand away and swiped the wetness from her cheeks. "Just leave me alone."

"Kendra—"

"Leave me alone."

She lay rigid as a sugar stick while he rose and drew a dressing gown from the wardrobe, tying it at his waist with a jerky motion borne of frustration. Without saying another word, he left the room.

Still shaking, she sat up and threw off the coverlet, staring between her spread legs. Dear God, she was bleeding.

Did any women actually like to do this?

No wonder her brothers had married her off without telling her what would happen. She'd have run in the other direction as fast as her legs would carry her—and well they knew it.

Trembling, she made her way to the washbasin and cleaned up, then climbed back into the bed and lay waiting. There was nothing else she could do. For better or worse, she was wed to Trick Caldwell.

It certainly couldn't get worse.

It wasn't long before he came back into the room and stood over her. His golden hair gleamed in the firelight. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw.

Her own jaw set in response. "I told you to leave me alone."

"You're my wife."

She flinched under his steadfast gaze; then her spine stiffened. "I'm bleeding, Trick. You hurt me. For God's sake, you cannot expect me to do that again."

He stared at her, incredulous. "Hurt you?" he repeated slowly. "I know some women feel pain the first time, but—"

He broke off, looking to the ceiling—for patience, she supposed.

"Sweet Mary, I've never seen a woman so responsive, until—"

"That's because I didn't know what it was leading to," she muttered miserably. "Didn't you hear what I told you? I'm bleeding."

He dropped onto the mattress. "Did you come to this marriage a complete innocent? Did your brothers not tell you anything? Anything at all?"

"My brothers always stuttered when I brought up anything of the sort. I believe they each think one of the others took care of this matter."

He shook his head, clearly sympathizing with her brothers' predicament. But his voice gentled. "Do you know nothing of mating, then, my virgin bride?"

"Of course I know something! I've lived in the countryside most of my life. I've seen animals in the fields—" Quite suddenly, she sat up. "Why didn't you go from behind? The animals never seem to feel pain—"

"From behind?" In a complete reversal of mood, Trick collapsed into a heap on the bed and laughed until tears leaked from his eyes. "It's possible, and I suppose we'll get around to trying it eventually, but I don't think—" Pushing himself up, he put a hand on her arm. "Look, it's sorry I am that you weren't prepared, and even more sorry I didn't take our...courtship...more slowly. I knew I should have, or I would never have offered to wait, never mind that I didn't really want to. But it won't hurt the next time, I promise."

She jerked her arm away, trembling all over again. "You're right. Because there won't be a next time."

He raked a hand through his hair. "You think not?"

As she watched it flop back into place, she licked her lips. "I know not, Trick. I mean it. I won't let you."

He stared at her for a good long while; she was sure he could hear her heart pounding in the stillness. Then his gaze lit with determination.

He took a deep breath and blew it out before leaning close.

"You'll let me, lass." One of his fingers trailed, achingly slow, from her forehead along the bridge of her nose, past her lips, her chin, her neck, and all the way between her breasts, dragging the covers down as he went. He tossed the hair from his eyes and captured her gaze with his, his finger trailing lower, dipping into her navel and stopping there, pressing lightly.

"You won't only let me," he said, his voice low, his accent so thick she had to strain to catch the words, "you'll beg me."

He paused for so long, so still, that Kendra wondered if he'd ceased breathing. Then he drew away and turned over, leaving her staring at his back and quivering from head to toe.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The next morning, Kendra was more than relieved when Trick awakened her with a breakfast tray and told her he had "things to take care of" and would return late in the afternoon. She guessed he'd gone out to play the highwayman again and didn't quite know how she felt about that.

Or him.

Never mind that he knew how to make a decent cup of chocolate with plenty of sugar to satisfy her sweet tooth, she hadn't any idea what to say to the man.

It felt a mite ridiculous to put on the wedding dress again, but she had nothing else to wear until her maid arrived with her luggage. She washed up and used Trick's comb to neaten her hair, then clasped on the amber bracelet, pausing for a moment to appreciate how the diamonds caught the light. Though she had little doubt Trick no longer considered her "worthy," the bracelet was beautiful, and she intended to enjoy it.

She munched on bread spread with orange butter as she wandered about the cottage. There were three more rooms off the corridor, but Trick had apparently found no use for them. The few pieces of furniture were covered in sheets, the floors and walls clean but unadorned.

Her work was cut out for her, but at least it would give her something to occupy her time. She was used to caring for an entire estate and found it hard to imagine what she would do with herself here. Looking forward to Jane showing up with her things, she anticipated the two of them spending a pleasant couple of days rearranging furniture and unpacking before she went stark raving mad with inactivity.

She chose a room for Jane and another she thought would suffice for herself, since she didn't plan to share with Trick anymore. The fourth and last room would make a nice nursery, except she had no intention of doing what it would take to fill it.

No wonder Caithren had yet to conceive.

Finished with her survey in a depressingly short time, she briefly considered going home to yell at her brothers, but remembered she wasn't speaking to them. She wandered to the bookshelves that lined the corridor. Noticing an abundance of poetry, she chose a book of Shakespeare's sonnets and the first two volumes of Milton's Paradise Lost, then sat herself in the main room to await her maid's arrival.

She was bored silly by the time Trick showed up, instead.

He'd said he wanted to give her a "tour of the countryside," as though she hadn't lived in the countryside half her life. He'd brought an elaborate supper for them to share in the caleche on the way, though she couldn't imagine where he'd obtained it.

They'd driven through miles of rich farmland and a country village called Amberley that bustled with prosperity. All the while, he'd kept up an entertaining travelogue but raised no personal subjects. Nor had he responded to her discreet probing, skillfully turning the topic back to the scenery instead.

Three hours later she knew nothing more about him than she had when she said her vows. And after all his threats last night—"you'll beg me" echoed in her head—he hadn't even touched her.

Not that she wasn't relieved, but nothing about this man added up, and that in itself was disquieting.

The sun was low in the sky when she dropped her napkin into the picnic basket and licked roast chicken off her fingers. "What if Jane and my trunks arrive and we're not home to meet her?"

"Relax, leannan. Don't worry yourself. We'll be there soon." He put his hand on her knee, then looked down and snatched it back, flexing it before gripping the caleche's reins.

Her knee tingled where his fingers had lain. "But—"

"Don't worry," he repeated. "We're almost home now."

"No, we're not." She had an excellent sense of direction. Though their meandering journey had brought them back near the cottage, he was now driving the opposite way. "It's—"

"There." He inclined his head as he guided the caleche off the road and onto a well-groomed drive. A very long drive. Tall trees lined the way, and an enormous mansion stood at the end.

Built of russet brick with more windows and chimneys than she could count, the mansion had to be at least the size of Cainewood Castle. Except Cainewood was mostly ancient, damaged, and closed-up, while this home sparkled with newness.

"There?" She frowned at an ostentatious clock tower atop the building. Eight o'clock. Little more than a day since she'd been wed, and she'd never felt so lost in her life. "Whatever do you mean? What is this?"

"Your new home." His wide mouth quirked in a half-smile. "Do you like it?"

"L-like it?" she sputtered. "I don't understand." Her hands twisted together in her lap, her fingers finding the amber bracelet and worrying the smooth, polished stones. "Do you work here?"

He blinked, then smiled wider. "Why, yes, I do."

"What of the cottage?"

"No, I don't work there. Not usually, in any case. It's more a place to escape, get off by myself for a while—ah, here we are."

Puzzled, Kendra turned from Trick to the house, where the double doors were flung open and a steady stream of crimson-liveried servants poured out and down the wide marble steps.

"Welcome home, your grace."

"Our congratulations!"

"Such a lovely bride!"

"Your grace." A straight-backed, gray-haired man extended one white-gloved hand to Kendra, presumably to help her down.

She paused before putting her fingers in his, looking about in utter confusion. "Your grace?" she repeated under her breath.

"Your grace," Trick confirmed, helping her to the gravel. Two grooms appeared from nowhere and took the caleche while more servants scurried to join the double line that flanked the tall, carved front doors.

Trick grasped Kendra by the elbow and guided her toward the steps. "May I present my wife, the Duchess of Amberley. I trust you will all do your best to see she's happy here."

Happy? She nodded and smiled stiffly, all the while planning Trick's murder.

Which would come right after her brothers'.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"You're a duke! The Duke of Amberley, no less!" It was unbelievable. No wonder Colin had said the amber bracelet was fitting. She hooked two fingers through it, barely resisting an urge to rip it off.

"Such venom. God's blood, you say it as though a duke is the worst sort of knave."

"In this case, he is." Kendra paced the red-velvet-hung bedchamber. "How dare you keep such a secret from me!"

"I don't hold with lying, Kendra. But your brothers asked me not to tell you, and I reckoned it was harmless enough, in the scheme of things."

"Harmless? You tricked me! I would never have married you had I known—"

"Rubbish. You were in love with me."

Kendra wanted to slap the smug look off his handsome face. "Love, hah! Why, I don't even know you. Wherever did you get such an absurd idea?"

"Your brothers told me."

"They knew nothing about it." Feeling color creep into her cheeks, she hastened to add, "It wouldn't matter, anyway. Whatever I may or may not have felt for you was destroyed by your lie, not to mention last night."

"Hearts wounds, not that again." Trick sighed and dropped onto a tufted brocade chair. "I told you, it was only the first time. It won't hurt from now on."

She only looked at him, her jaw set.

"And what, pray tell, is so bad about being a duchess? Most women would be thrilled beyond words."

"I am never beyond words."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Trick returned dryly. He crossed his long legs at the ankles. "I really don't understand this, Kendra. How can marrying a duke be such a disastrous occurrence?"

"It's too hard to explain."

"Try." He crossed his arms. "I'm listening."

With a huff of impatience, she sat on the red velvet bed. She parked her hands behind her and looked up, trying to think. Above her loomed the underside of a gathered silk canopy fit for a king.

Or a duke, ranked above everyone but royalty.

"Your grace, it isn't the title itself that sets my teeth on edge, but what it symbolizes. To me. To the world in general. All the good people who weren't lucky enough to..."

This wasn't working. Feeling beyond words after all, she sat straight. But the dazed look in Trick's eyes only frustrated her further.

"Just look at this!" She leapt up and gestured wildly at the room: the padded, satin-lined walls, the carved and gilded ceiling, the four-poster bed crowned with garish poufs of red-dyed ostrich feathers. "See what I mean? Who wants to live in a place like this? I swear, it puts Whitehall to shame!"

He gave a short bark of a laugh at what she knew must be a look of utter disgust on her face. "I know women who would kill for—"

"Kill for this? That's the first thing you've said all day that makes any sense."

"I don't care for this decor, either," he said evenly. "But why do you hate it so much? I want to understand."

"Oh, I knew this would be impossible to explain! It's long, and it's convoluted, and it doesn't seem to make sense to anyone but me. It's certainly never made sense to any of my brothers."

"I'm not your brothers. Tell me, however long it takes."

With a sigh, she sat back down and thought for a long minute, then clasped her hands in her lap before beginning.

"I won't pretend I don't enjoy balls and pretty clothes and the other things money can buy as much as the next woman. But I think I know what's important beneath all the trappings. I told my brothers again and again that I don't care about titles. I wanted to marry a man I was wildly in love with, but even more, a man I could admire. For who he was inside, not a false honor that society had settled upon him."

"I didn't ask to be a duke—" Trick began.

Waving him off, she jumped up again, not at all ready to listen yet. "During the Commonwealth," she said as she resumed pacing, "my family's title was a liability, not an asset. We hadn't the choice to stay home and go about our business like normal people. Instead we were exiled paupers, dragged from Paris, to Cologne, to Brussels, Bruges, Antwerp—wherever King Charles and his court wandered. It was then I learned it's what's inside a person that counts. Some people were kind to us, and some were not. And their rank had nothing to do with it." Her voice dropping, she stopped and turned to him. "And..."

"And what?" he asked softly.

She knew this would sound ridiculous, but she couldn't help it—it was how she felt. "As a little girl, I decided the dukes were the worst. The most pompous, the least caring, the most annoyed with orphaned children underfoot. Because of that, to me, they represent the worst of humanity. The worst of everything."

He swept the hair from his face, his expression clearing. "That's why your brothers asked me to marry you under my given name only," he murmured. "Because you would have refused."

"Probably," she conceded. "And now I'm stuck in this gaudy museum."

He looked heavenward—or rather, gilded-ceilingward. "Come now, it's not that bad."

"I would rather live in the cottage."

"Come to think of it, so would I." Evidently it was his turn to pace now, because he rose and did so before the carved stone mantel. "My father built this bloody palace, not I," he said contemplatively. "Let's move to the cottage. I'll alert Cavanaugh to pack my things, and Jane needn't even unpack yours. We'll make haste for the cottage immediately."

She swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"

He turned to her and raised a brow. "Are you sure?"

A long silence stretched between them before Kendra sighed. "No," she said, unsure of anything at the moment. "I don't want to live in that little cottage. Well, actually, it's a big cottage, but you know what I mean."

She dropped to sit on the bed. "I'm accustomed to directing a large household, and I'll do you proud. It's only...when I think of all the money it takes to run a place like this—all the servants and goods—for just the two of us...can't we close up some of it? Close up most of it? Most of Cainewood is closed up. We could take the money and put it to good use, maybe help some orphans or something."

Trick sat beside her, smelling of sandalwood soap. He must have come here and bathed, the wretch, while she'd yawned her way through the day, reading poetry.

He took her hand. "If we close up most of the house, think of the people who will lose their jobs. My father hired them, not I, but I cannot find it in my heart to put them them out on the streets."

"Oh...I hadn't thought of that."

His smile, crooked but genuine, did much to thaw her icy anger. "And I've something to show you tomorrow. Something I think will please you."

"What?" She leaned closer to his enticing scent.

But then she caught herself and pulled her hand from his grasp. He'd still lied to her, tricked her, and that was hard to forgive. Especially now, with all the years that loomed ahead...years and years.

"What do you want to show me?" she asked.

"Patience, lass. Let's get you settled first. Tomorrow will be soon enough." His smile faded when she yawned. "Sleepy, are you?"

"Thanks to you." She glared at him, then fell back to the pillows. "I know it's early still, but I'd like to just call it a night."

"Excellent idea. Yesterday was a long and difficult day." Trick rose, shrugged out of his surcoat, and started unlacing his shirt. "I believe I'll join you."

She leapt from the bed. "Oh! I thought this was my chamber."

"It is." The shirt came off over his head, and her palms itched as she remembered how he'd felt against her hands last night. All warm and firm.

She swallowed hard. "Then where is your chamber?"

"It's mine, too." He sat to pull off his boots. "We're married. We're allowed to sleep together. I've a piece of paper to prove it."

"But..." She glanced around wildly. "This is a suite, isn't it? What's on the other side of that door?"

"A dressing chamber. Feel free to use it. Your clothes are inside." At her look of astonishment, he added, "Jane has been here all day, arranging your things. I gave her the evening off."

"I thought you said she hadn't unpacked yet. And she's my maid."

"I believe she's in my employ, now." His second boot hit the floor with a thud, and he began unlacing his breeches.

"You're a duke, for God's sake. Don't you have a valet?"

"Cavanaugh. But I prefer to undress myself, much to the poor man's constant chagrin." He looked up. "Actually, I'd prefer to have you undress me, but..." A wry grin revealed that rakish chipped tooth, and the twinkle in his eye was unsettling. "No, I thought not. But I can play your maid again tonight, if you wish."

"No, thank you." She stalked over to the dressing room and shut the door behind her, then had to duck back into the bedchamber for a candle. Gritting her teeth against his laugh, she closeted herself again and began hunting for a night rail.

Every bit as fancy as the bedchamber, the dressing room had a delicate wood table and two upholstered, fringed stools in the center. One wall was covered with an enormous gilt-framed mirror, another wall was lined with wardrobe cabinets, and there were two walls of those newfangled chests of drawers.

The first drawer she opened was filled with Trick's folded things, and she slammed it shut. She found her own clothes in the third chest she tried. Quickly she stripped out of the wedding dress, diving into the thickest, most voluminous night rail she owned. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of the amber bracelet, but she finally managed to remove it and set it on the little inlaid table.

The bracelet sat there, taunting her. Amber. The Duchess of Amberley...

Dear God, however had she ended up in this predicament? Exactly where she'd sworn she'd never be.

When she reopened the door, Trick was in the bed, and—from all she could tell—stark naked. She paced beside the carved gilt monstrosity, hoping he was already asleep.

His hand shot out to grab hers, stopping her in her tracks. "I won't ever take you against your will. You needn't worry."

She bit her lip, eyeing his bare arm and shoulders. "Is that so?"

"Aye. You're safe, I assure you."

"Can...can I not have another room?"

"Is something wrong with this one?"

"It's...too masculine."

"Too masculine?"

"Yes." She accompanied the word with a brazen stare, since nothing could be farther from the truth. The red chamber was satin and velvet, feathers and lace—altogether too fussy for her tastes. It looked like a brothel. Or what she imagined a brothel might look like, in any case. "This was your father's chamber, wasn't it? I believe I'd be more comfortable in your mother's chamber. Where is it?"

"In Scotland," he said shortly, patting the mattress beside him. "Come, Kendra, enough of this. I'm sleepy, and you look ready to drop."

With a sigh, she walked around the bed and gingerly lay on top of the covers.

Sounding exasperated, his voice drifted over his shoulder. "Get under the blanket. It's drafty in this gargantuan house."

Giving in, she scooted beneath the coverlet. The feather bed was soft and comfortable. Lying flat on her back, she could feel the rise and fall of Trick's breathing next to her, the warmth of his body even across the space that divided them.

When he rolled close and laid an arm loosely across her middle, she flinched.

"Shh, leannan. Rest." He raised himself to kiss the tip of her nose, his lips soft and temptingly damp. His amber eyes burned into hers, making her stomach flutter. Against her will, her arms ached to wrap around his neck and pull his mouth to meet hers.

But she knew what that would lead to.

"Aye, you're right." His whisper was husky with meaning.

Had he read her mind?

His mouth brushed hers; his tongue came out to trace her bottom lip. Despite her reservations, her body melted beneath his.

He chuckled low. "Aye, you'll be begging soon enough," he said, then turned away to blow out the candle.

Shaking, from vexation or unwelcome lust—for the life of her, she wasn't sure which—Kendra stared into the darkness and wondered if she'd ever get any sleep while she was married to Trick Caldwell.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Wake up, milady. I mean, your grace."

Kendra forced open her eyes to see Jane standing over her.

"I've brought you some breakfast, or should I say dinner?" The maid set a tray on the bed. "It's late, and his grace is waiting to take you somewhere. A surprise, he said."

"A surprise?" Struggling into a sitting position, Kendra reached for a cup of chocolate. "He said he had something to show me today, but—"

"A surprise, yes." Jane's tall, thin figure disappeared into the dressing room. "He suggested you wear your simplest gown."

The sound of wardrobes opening and closing came through the open door. "Why would that be?" Kendra asked.

"Well, if you're not knowing, then how could I?" The maid came in with a peach-velvet gown. Other than a narrow edging of lace around the neckline and some wider matching lace that spilled from the wrists, the dress was plain. No overskirt, no jewels or embroidery on the stomacher. "Do you suppose this will do?"

"I'm sure it's fine."

Kendra slapped a slab of cheese on a slice of bread while Jane ducked into the dressing room again. Her sweet voice drifted back out. "Brown shoes rather than gold, I'm thinking."

Kendra chewed and swallowed, not thinking at all. Her brain was now fuzzy from too much sleep.

"And a chemise, and...lud, would you look at this lovely bracelet? Where'd this come from, milady? I mean, your grace?"

"Milady will more than do," Kendra grumbled. "And leave the bracelet there."

Jane appeared in the open doorway, her plain face marred by a puzzled frown. Winking in the noon sun that streamed through the window, the amber bracelet dangled from her fingers. "Was this a gift from your husband?"

"A wedding gift, yes."

"Then for certain he'd want you to wear it."

Setting down the bread, Kendra caught a glimpse of the gold ringing her finger. Enough of a reminder that she was married to a lying duke. "I don't care for it, Jane."

Her maid's mouth hung open. "But it's so beautiful. And his grace is so handsome and kind—do you not want to please him?"

Of course Jane would think Trick was kind—he'd given her half a day off. And he hadn't lied to her, either. "I really don't care for it," Kendra repeated. "Put it away for me, will you? I expect his grace will forget all about it—you know how men are."

"Very well." A doubtful look in her gray eyes, Jane disappeared back into the dressing room. She came out carrying the shoes and chemise and set them on the foot of the bed. "Are you happy here, milady?"

"Of course I'm happy." Gesturing at the rich, garish chamber, Kendra forced a smile. "How could one not be happy here?"

"Mr. Caldwell!" A dozen children bounded down the steps of the sprawling Tudor manor house and clustered around Trick. Laughing, he reached to squeeze shoulders and pat heads, leaving no child untouched.

Kendra stared in utter disbelief. "Mr. Caldwell?"

"Part of your surprise." He shot her a sheepish grin before turning back to the young ones. They'd focused their attention on Kendra, gaping at her with frank curiosity. Trick waved a hand in her direction. "This is my new wife. Er...Mrs. Caldwell."

"Please, just call me Kendra," she rushed to say, smoothing the skirt of the peach gown. Goodness, a new name was a hard thing to get used to. It felt downright strange.

As a duchess, she had no proper surname anymore—she'd be signing letters with her husband's title, as Kendra Amberley. She didn't feel like a duchess, but neither did she feel like Mrs. Caldwell.

"I'm glad of your acquaintance, Mrs. Kendra." A tall, skinny lad held his hand out to her, looking toward Trick for approval. At her husband's nod, the boy reached to grasp Kendra's hand and kissed the back of it fervently.

"Ahem. Andrew." When the boy looked chagrined, Trick ruffled his dark, stick-straight hair. "Not to worry. A man cannot help but admire a pretty lady, aye?"

"Oh, yes," Andrew said reverently, and Kendra watched Trick bite his lip to keep from laughing.

"Mrs. Jackson, there you are." He waded through the sea of children, making his way toward a matronly woman with gray curls and a pleasant if nondescript face. He fished a black pouch from his surcoat pocket and handed it over. "Here you go. I apologize for being late. I've been...busy."

"I can see that." The woman smiled at Kendra.

"Mrs. Jackson, may I present my wife—"

"Mrs. Kendra," Andrew supplied in a worshipful tone.

Kendra didn't have the heart to correct him. "I'm glad of your acquaintance, Mrs. Jackson." She executed a tiny bow, for all the world as though they were at Whitehall Palace.

Mrs. Jackson's plump cheeks flushed with pleasure. "Likewise, your gr—Mrs. Kendra." Kendra heard the metallic clink of coins as the woman sifted through the pouch. "So generous, Mr. Caldwell! The children are grateful."

"The orphans of Sussex won't starve so long as it's within my power to help them."

"Starve?" Mrs. Jackson's belly jiggled beneath her apron as her laughter rang through the heavy summer air. "They're better fed than half the parish. Why, I daresay some villagers pray nightly to be orphaned and find themselves at Caldwell Manor."

Caldwell Manor? Did Trick finance this entire operation, then? Kendra looked toward her husband, his golden hair glinting in the late afternoon sun, and her heart melted a little.

He laughed. "Let's hope not. A hearty meal is a sad substitute for devoted parents. How is little Susanna?"

"Much better. Her fever is down and she's sitting and taking milk. I trust she'll be up and about in a day or two."

"I'm pleased to hear it. Maybe I should pay her a visit."

"By all means. She'll be cheered to see you."

"Kendra? If you'll excuse me?"

Without waiting for her agreement, Trick climbed the six front steps in three strides and disappeared into the house. Wearing only breeches and a shirt, no cravat and no coat, he looked decidedly unduke-ish. Through that battered oak door passed a man who had accomplished Kendra's own dream, opening an orphanage.

Stunned, she stared after him while the children scattered through the garden, picking up balls and hoops.

Two girls tugged shyly on her skirts. "Will you play with us, Mrs. Kendra?"

She smiled down at them. "What would you care to play?"

They settled on blindman's buff, and the game went on for a while, other children joining in the fun. When an impish lad named Thomas stole the blindfold and ran away laughing, the others raced after him. Kendra tried to follow but got halfway around the house and stopped. Thanks to her high Louis heels, the merry chase had far outstripped her ability to keep up.

Trick had been right to suggest a plain gown—next time she'd wear flat shoes, too. Wondering what was taking him so long, she made her way over to where Mrs. Jackson was hanging laundry.

"Have you an idea where my h-husband"—her tongue tripped over the word—"might have gotten himself off to?"

"Of course," the older woman said, tossing a nightshirt back into the basket. "I'll show you the way to the sickroom."

She led her around the corner of the house and up the front steps. "I bless your husband nightly for saving these children."

"Bless you for caring for them," Kendra returned, glancing around the entry. Though the house and its furnishings had clearly seen better days, it was clean and cheerful. "Are the children receiving an education?"

"Mercy, yes. His grace has seen to it that tutors attend to that. All but the youngest can figure and read and write—"

"Girls, too?"

"Yes, indeed. Your husband has some odd ideas."

They skirted a few wooden toys on the floor as Mrs. Jackson led her down a corridor. "Are they instructed in the classics? Latin and—"

"Nay, not as yet. I cannot imagine what children like this would be needing with Latin. But with the duke directing things, you never know what will happen next at Caldwell Manor." The woman's ample bosom quivered with a good-natured if slightly befuddled chuckle. "Here we are."

In the room Mrs. Jackson indicated, a young girl, perhaps five or so, sat propped among pillows in a four-poster bed that looked as though it had rested on the same spot for a century or more. Kendra paused in the doorway.

"They're busy," Mrs. Jackson whispered.

Trick sat in a straight-backed chair by the bed, an open book in his lap. The girl leaned forward, apparently engrossed in whatever he was reading. Feeling like an eavesdropper, Kendra listened as well.

"'Then have I gained a right good man this day,' quoth jolly Robin," came Trick's throaty voice. "'What name goest thou by, good fellow?'"

"And what did he say?" the child asked.

"The stranger answered, 'Men call me John Little whence I came.'"

The girl's blond curls bounced as she shook her head. "No, it's Little John!" she corrected, her brown eyes wide with delight.

Trick glanced up from the leather-bound book. "Aye, but that was Will Stutely's doing. He loved a good jest and said"—he looked back down at the book—"'Nay, fair little stranger. I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise. Little art thou, indeed, and small of bone and sinew; therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather.' Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry..."

Kendra could only gape. She felt like the one of the Graiae, three sisters who had but one eye between them. What was she seeing? A highwayman, telling a story to an ill orphan? Or a duke? Right now, he looked like neither.

She backed away from the doorway. She didn't know this man, not in the least.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Robin Hood," Kendra said on their way home, in that forthright way of hers that never failed to make Trick smile. "It's fitting, I'll credit you that."

"Oh?" The caleche's wheels crunched on the dusty road as he wound the horses through the gentle hills toward Amberley House. "Whatever makes you think so?"

"Don't jest with me. It's obvious!"

"Aye?" He looked over at her, but she was gazing straight ahead, her bright hair glistening in the slanting late-afternoon sunshine.

"I do believe I'm beginning to understand you."

"Pray, enlighten me," he said dryly. "I've been struggling to understand myself for years."

She snorted. "You are playing Robin Hood," she said with that same cocksure confidence that had drawn him to her the first time they'd spoken.

Sweet Mary, was that but three days ago?

"Only instead of stealing from the rich," she continued, "you're robbing the Roundheads, who are no doubt responsible for making most of those children orphans anyway." She sighed. "I do believe I could love you for this."

It was his turn to snort. "The man you think you see, sweetheart, isn't me at all. I wish I could be that man," he added under his breath.

"Balderdash. It's well done of you, Trick."

"Nonsense. My father wanted to build himself a bloody monument, so he spent every shilling he'd ever made on the mansion and abandoned that perfectly good manor house. I wanted to see it put to use. Filled with children, as it might have been had he ever made something of his marriage."

She turned to him, her heart in her eyes. "That's why you play the highwayman, then, isn't it? To pay for the children, since your father spent all his money on the mansion and left you without adequate funds."

"Not precisely." He was about to add that he'd turned his father's illicit enterprise into a prosperous legitimate shipping company, but thought better of it. Not that he wanted to hide things from her, but damn it, his hands were tied.

It was no fault of his he was stuck in this situation. He'd been wracking his brain for a believable excuse to continue playing the highwayman, and she'd just dropped one in his lap. Never mind that he could support Caldwell Manor ten times over. She didn't have to know that. Not right now.

"When I tell my brothers—"

"Don't. Don't tell them anything. I promised them I'd stop the highway robbery."

"No, you didn't. You ducked that issue cleverly." She was entirely too perceptive for his comfort. "If you stop, the children will suffer, and I couldn't bear to be responsible for that. I was an orphan, myself."

"Aye, well, any feeling human being would be sympathetic to their plight." Trick's mind raced, searching for a way to avoid these secrets and lies. But he saw no choice. He'd promised King Charles he wouldn't breathe a word of the real purpose behind the highwayman ruse.

He sneaked Kendra a guilty glance. She twisted her hands in her lap, and the imported lace fell back from her wrist, leaving it bare. "Why aren't you wearing the amber bracelet?"

"It doesn't go with this plain gown."

He wondered why he found her flip answer so disturbing. "Are you still mad at me for being a duke?"

"I'm not sure what I feel. I don't like being lied to." Though she directed those words to the sky, she soon looked back to him. "Did you feel abandoned as a child?"

"In a sense," he said slowly, wishing he could go back in time and start this marriage right. He didn't want it to end up like his own parents'. "My father took me from my mother when I was ten. I'd seen him but a few times over the years, and I'd never been more than a dozen miles from our home in Scotland." The caleche bumped over a particularly rocky stretch of the path, and he reached to steady Kendra. "He took me to France. A cold man, was my father. He wanted me only to further his business dealings."

"His business dealings?" She subtly shifted away from his touch. "He was a duke, was he not?"

"An impoverished one. He lost everything, including Amberley, helping finance the war. Upon the restoration, King Charles returned his title and land to him. But believe me, Father could never have abandoned the old manor house and built that mansion without the enterprise that sustained him through the Commonwealth years. He was ruthless, underhanded—not a man one would be happy to claim as a relation."

"What was this enterprise?"

"He traded in spirits, among other things. Madeira was his ticket to riches. Every bottle that graced the tables at the courts—French and English alike—passed through his hands." He hesitated, then decided to come clean with it. Enough secrets stood between the two of them already. "He was a smuggler."

She gasped. "A smuggler?"

"Aye. One doesn't amass a fortune paying import taxes—at least not on the scale that he managed. You can see now why I elected not to continue his enterprise, no matter that it was highly lucrative." And since that half-truth caused him no small discomfort, he added, "As I was only a pawn in his game, you can see as well why it is I felt orphaned as a child."

Some small measure of honesty, at least.

"But your mother—"

"She let me go," he said, the words calm and unemotional though he ached with an inner pain that would never ease. "Any warmth or love she showed me was naught but a facade. Elspeth Caldwell is a wicked woman. A Covenanter, plotting against king and country." Crickets chirped as they drove beneath a canopy of trees silhouetted against the cerulean sky. "And a loose woman, besides."

"How would you know all that? You were ten when you left."

"In eighteen years, she never once tried to reclaim me, or even make contact. In all that time, I haven't seen so much as one letter. Blackguard that my father was, I believe what he told me where she was concerned."

The details were hazy; no matter how much he'd pressed, his father had refused to discuss his marriage. But Trick had pieced enough of the man's rantings together to figure the gist was true.

Still, he'd never approved of the way his father hadn't tried to make something of the union. Even when Trick was young, his parents had lived completely separate lives. Sadly, he could now see all too easily how such a thing could happen.

"Tomorrow I need to go to London," he said.

Her eyes danced. "I love London. Have you a house in town?"

"Aye. And I'm sure you'll find it every bit as disgustingly opulent as Amberley House." He smiled on the outside, but cringed internally. "I'll be going alone this time, though."

"Oh." The light in her eyes died. "Why?"

He had to leave—he'd actually, before this whirlwind of a wedding had come up, been planning to leave today. His shipping company needed his attention. The shipping company that he'd decided to keep secret from her for the time being, lest she figure out he could well afford to support the orphanage without resorting to robbery.

"I had arranged it, he said dismissively, "before we met."

As he guided the caleche onto Amberley's long approach, he ran a hand through his hair and shot her an appraising glance. Her expression had turned contemplative. He could almost see the wheels turning in her pretty red head.

"Perhaps we can put aside some money and invest," she said. "In the future, with careful planning, playing the highwayman might become unnecessary. God willing, before you ever get caught and"—her voice dropped—"strung up at Tyburn." She turned on the bench seat to face him. "I'll help you."

"You will not. I won't have you endangering yourself—"

Her laughter rang through the deepening shadows. "I didn't mean with the robberies, but with the investing. I've quite a knack with finances—you can ask Jason."

"He lets you invest his money?"

She stiffened beside him. "Not independently, but I've helped him make decisions, yes."

"Whoa, there." He put a hand on her arm, pleased when she didn't pull away. The scent of lavender wafted on the breeze to his nose. "I wasn't disapproving, just asking."

"All right, then." Her expression softened. "It's only that I don't know you, and—"

"I don't know you, either."

"True enough." After a considered pause, an unmistakable glimmer lit her green eyes. "As for the highway robbery, I have a good aim—"

"You won't." Hearing his accent broadening, he winced. What was it about this woman that could drive him to such emotion? Pulling up before Amberley House, he tugged on the reins with more force than was necessary before taking her by the shoulders. He brought his eyes to within an inch of hers. "I mean it, Kendra."

"I was jesting," she whispered, her smile sweet. Something melted in his gut. It was such a small space to bring his lips to hers; he did it without thinking. Her mouth was soft and yielding, and he felt her breath quicken, her pulse race beneath his fingers on her neck. Their lips clung for a long, sweet minute; then he deliberately pulled away.

"Oh," she whispered. "I cannot keep my head when you do that."

"Aye?" He couldn't help but grin as he handed the reins to a groom and hopped down from the caleche.

Perhaps he would enjoy this marriage after all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Seated at Trick's desk, Kendra frowned at the ledger in front of her. "So you've been living here at Amberley for six months?"

"Aye. And I fired Rankill after two." Trick took a sip of bracing whisky, then set the glass on the table beside his favorite leather armchair.

He'd returned from seeing to his London interests to hear his wife had spent the past week examining his books and inspecting his property. After recovering from the shock, he'd decided he was pleased. With that part of their marriage, at least.

Now that he was back home, he'd work on the physical part. He'd made progress before he left—he was sure of it. Though he'd as soon strangle her brothers for being right, he had to admit he and Kendra were a damn good match...the rest would come in time.

"Were my suspicions about Rankill's dishonesty on target, then?" he asked her, feeling more than awkward requesting his wife's opinion of his own estate business. But between the king's mission and the demands of his shipping company, he had precious little time to see to Amberley. "Was I right to let him go?"

"You should have done it earlier." She glanced up. "Your father died three years ago. What brought you back now?"

He couldn't tell her he'd moved home at King Charles's request to track down a problem in the region. Or that he'd agreed to do so in exchange for a pardon from old smuggling charges. The threat of losing Amberley and the title had been veiled and, truth be told, unnecessary. Caring little for that legacy from his father, Trick would have agreed to the mission out of patriotism and friendship alone.

But, nay, he couldn't tell Kendra any of that.

"I decided Amberley was in need of my attention," he said instead.

"Well, you haven't paid it much," she countered with a dark glare.

Noticing she still wasn't wearing his bracelet, he sighed and sipped again, feigning nonchalance. "What evidence is there that Rankill embezzled?"

"Look here." She waved him over. "Amberley's northwest quarter is capable of producing many more bushels than are recorded. And in the east"—she startled when he leaned over her—"this land will support more sheep than are shown in the records." Slowly she shifted, turning to meet his eyes.

Enjoying her lavender scent, he braced himself with one hand on the desk and held her gaze with his. "Is that so?"

"Y-yes." She drew a deep breath and looked back down. "As a matter of fact, I counted fifty more head than are noted in the ledger. And you should purchase yet more. You're not maximizing your profits in this area."

"Our profits." They were in this together. He didn't think he'd quite realized that till now, or how much of a relief it was to find himself "saddled" with a wife who had turned out to be so competent.

If only he could persuade her to let him show her, physically, how grateful he was, life would be nearly perfect.

"Thank you." He leaned closer, pressing his lips to the top of her head.

She stilled, drawing air in a soft, swift gasp. "You're welcome. You can sit back down now."

Her apparent discomfort was heartening. He didn't sit back down. A long silence stretched between them before she continued.

"The point is, Amberley is quite a bit more profitable than Rankill led you to believe. Run properly, with no one siphoning income, it should be self-supporting and then some. I realize you have a standard of living to maintain—"

"We have a standard of living." With his free hand, he skimmed his knuckles along her cheek.

A pink flush rose where he'd touched. "Well, yes. But, thankfully, it shouldn't be long at all until this mess is resolved and Amberley can support both you—us—and the orphanage." She paused for a breath. "So you can stop the robberies now, except..."

"Aye?"

"There are some matters that need attending. Depending on whether you think they or the children should come first."

"What sort of matters?"

"Repairs and the like. Rankill took money regardless of whether you could afford it. Your people are working with broken equipment, one of the barns needs roofing—"

"You have a list?" He ran a finger down her nose and stopped with it on her lips.

"Y-yes," she whispered against it. She pulled back, her elbow knocking a quill to the carpet.

"I'll take care of it all." He leaned down to retrieve it and tickled the feather under her chin, grinning at her discomposure. "I think I can survive another few highwayman masquerades."

With any luck, that would be all it would take. He'd amassed much of the king's evidence already.

"Weighing your safety against the children's welfare—"

"I'll be fine."

"I hope so," she said.

She really hoped so.

In less than two weeks of being married to the Duke of Amberley, she'd been surprised to discover she liked her life here. Although she adored Jason's wife, she hadn't realized the tension she'd felt at Cainewood—how difficult it had been for her to cede responsibility when Caithren had arrived. Here, the responsibility was her own. The house, the land, the people. And like the extra layer of marzipan on her bride cake, she had her orphanage, too.

"Speaking of the children..." she began.

"Aye?" At last Trick dropped the quill on the desk and went back to sit down and reclaim his drink.

Watching him, she realized this was the one chamber in Amberley House where he truly seemed at ease. Comfortable rather than opulent, it was furnished with the same classic eye to design as the cottage. Polish glinted from the deep grooves in the serviceable walnut desk where she sat, and the shelves behind Trick were stocked with well-read tomes.

"What about the children?" he asked.

"You'll remember, before you left, that I said I wanted to teach them some classical myths." She fiddled with the quill in her hands. "They're excellent learners, all of them."

One sandy brow quirked. "Even Thomas?"

"Well, maybe not Thomas." She smiled, thinking of the mischievous towhead and all the other children, all the fun she'd been having with them. "In any case, we're almost finished with the Greek stories, and before we start in on the Romans, I was thinking I'd like to throw an Olympian party."

Trick looked completely nonplussed. "A what?"

"An Olympian party. I know money is tight, but I've been pondering this, and I really don't think it will be expensive. The children can all dress up as their favorite god or goddess—I came across plenty of unused dress lengths in storage that they can wrap toga style. And decorations needn't be too costly. Phillips has agreed to help me make columns—"

"You've talked to the servants about this?"

"They think it's a fine idea. We'll eat ambrosia and drink nectar, and the children can each retell their favorite myth...it would be such a treat for them, don't you think? And reinforce what they learned, so they'll be even more eager for the next—"

"It sounds brilliant."

"It won't cost much—"

"Kendra." He set down his glass. "Have your party with my blessings."

"Really?"

The Duke of Lechmere would never have allowed it. Neither would he have allowed her a hand in the finances, which Trick had accepted with an easy grace. Hang her brothers' method of pushing them together, but she had to admit that, other than the physical mismatch, she and Trick did suit.

If only he hadn't refused to tell her why he'd gone to London and declined to take her along. Well, not refused precisely, but dodged the question as skillfully as he did many of her others. Then again, she supposed she could hardly expect him to tell her the truth, since she'd decided he must be hiding a mistress in London.

A man has needs, she'd heard her brothers say, and she knew full well she wasn't fulfilling Trick's. So it was best all around if he filled those needs elsewhere, even if the thought did rankle. This way, she could have Amberley and her orphanage and Trick's companionship, without worrying about the other.

Marriage was better all around than she'd anticipated. She couldn't imagine why she'd fought it so long.

Life was nearly perfect.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A week later, Kendra waved to the children gathered on the steps of Caldwell Manor. "Good-bye! Take care, Mrs. Jackson!"

"Good-bye, Mrs. Kendra!" they called. "Good-bye, Mr. Caldwell!"

Yawning, she wheeled Pandora around to join Trick, mounted on his favorite horse, Chaucer. "They're excited about the party," Trick said as they started down the lane.

"Two days. I can hardly wait. But there's still much to arrange."

"You're very organized. With everything else you find to do, I cannot believe you threw this together so quickly."

She shrugged. Planning the party had been the easiest part of her week. It had been much harder to resist her husband.

His offhand touches and occasional fleeting kisses never failed to weaken her knees, igniting her curiosity and desire for more. Yet she know that more would only lead to disaster again, since they simply didn't fit properly.

She presumed he understood that too, as he never touched her in bed. Though he insisted on sharing, he left her alone, which, in its own way, she found every bit as frustrating. He was still sleeping naked, and though she refused to so much as take a peek, she was as aware of his body beside hers as she'd been from the first.

She hadn't found much sleep since he'd been home.

"I think we should check on the barn," he said. "See how the roof is coming along."

She yawned again, then shook herself awake. "I'll race you."

He was off without another word.

She kicked Pandora into a gallop after him. His tawny gelding had a head start, but she slowly gained on him until they were neck and neck. She took gulps of the rushing air, feeling it revive her, enjoying the pace, the wind in her hair, the thrill of competition. When Pandora passed the barn first, ahead of Chaucer by a nose, she laughed triumphantly.

"Good girl, Pandora," she cooed, patting the mare's deep-brown neck.

"You won," Trick conceded with a grin. He slid off his horse, coming close. "Why did you name her Pandora?"

"Simple." Craftily Kendra dismounted on the far side. "Like the Greek goddess opening her box of problems, she leads me into trouble."

She started toward the barn, but he rounded Pandora and easily caught up to her. "Leads you into trouble, does she?"

"All the time. She led me to you, didn't she?" With his hand on her arm, Kendra had little choice but to stop. She turned to meet his eyes. "Trouble."

"That was her fault, aye?"

"Yes, it must have been. I certainly didn't head for Amberley on purpose."

"And are you sorry?"

Trapped in his amber gaze, she shook her head. "No," she whispered.

"Neither am I."

Kendra's heart beat double-time when he took her face between his hands. His fingers were warm, and so was his breath as he leaned close, bringing his mouth down to hers.

"Amberley!"

Trick's hands dropped from her cheeks, and they both looked up to see a carriage approaching. A florid man stuck his head out the open window. "We've come to pay our respects," the man called. "To you and your lovely bride."

"Garrick," Trick muttered under his breath. "And Fielding, Faraday, and Milner, I'm guessing." The carriage rolled to a stop, and sure enough, four men climbed out.

Kendra recognized all of them—minor aristocrats who lived in the vicinity. Though they weren't important enough to have been on her brothers' list of potential husbands, country life was insular, and she'd met them at various entertainments over the years. Just last summer she'd danced with Fielding and Milner at Jason and Cait's wedding celebration ball. She'd found Fielding rather charming in a bumbling sort of way, but Milner's breath had smelled like overaged cheese.

"Good day, gentlemen," Trick said. "Welcome."

He didn't sound like he meant it.

Garrick walked over to pump Trick's hand. "Congratulations, congratulations."

He had a big round head and a belly to match. Apparently he needed to fill it, because when he took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, his flabby lips broke into a grin.

"We're just in time for supper, are we not?"

"Trick?" Kendra murmured, awakened by the soft sounds of her husband moving about the bedchamber. Her eyes fluttered open to glimpse his gold hair haloed by the morning sun that streamed through the window.

Turning, he smiled and came close, leaning down to brush a delicate kiss across her lips. "You fell asleep on me last night," he accused, straightening and disappearing into the dressing room.

"Did I?" She stretched beneath the covers. "I don't remember a thing past supper."

"You nodded into your chicken cullis." His voice sounded muffled, then stronger as he strode back into the room, carrying a pair of boots and a surcoat. "And I'd thought you were enjoying our impromptu party."

"And the cullis was so good," she recalled.

He grinned. "You only liked it so much because it was sweet."

"I don't expect I made a good impression. Are those men really your friends?"

"Aye, and your brothers' friends, too." He sat on a tufted velvet chair to pull on the boots. "We all play whist once a month."

"The mysterious weekend house parties." More secrets. This man was so evasive, she wondered if she'd ever truly come to know him. "Why do men have to be so secretive?" she said more darkly than she intended.

But he didn't seem to notice. "Harmless games," he answered with a shrug. "Did you not like the fellows?"

"Faraday is a terrible flirt, especially given he's married. Fielding is agreeable enough, but never quite seems to know what he's about. Garrick is rather strange, is he not? He couldn't seem to stay seated, always seemed to be poking around. I wonder what he could have been looking for? And Milner wears entirely too much scent. He should think about taking a bath instead."

His gaze on her, Trick rose. "You're very astute. I couldn't have summed them up so succinctly, and I've socialized with them for months. You were with them naught but a couple of hours."

"It was enough." She watched him shrug into the surcoat. "What do you see in those men?"

"Money. They always lose." He grinned as he slid his sword into his belt, then took a pistol from atop the dressing table, hefting it before arming himself with it as well. "I'll see you this afternoon." He came to her, bending for one more kiss, soft and lingering. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before he straightened once again. "Rest up, leannan."

With a muted click, the door closed behind him, and she listened to his footsteps retreat down the corridor. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when she replayed his words—and his kisses—in her mind, that she realized he'd been wearing all black.

He was getting close. With any luck, this would be the last time.

He'd pulled two robberies this week while Kendra was reading to the children at Caldwell Manor. He wished he'd escaped unseen today, but she'd lain abed late, and it had been necessary to leave.

He'd seen a pattern occurring, every third day mid-morning, and today was day number three. He could only hope his wife had been sleepy enough that she hadn't noticed what he'd been about.

She'd been losing sleep. Over him? The thought made him smile.

He was making subtle progress, in more areas than one.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Her pulse pounding, Kendra dismounted and tethered Pandora to a tree, then made her way on foot to the hill.

As she neared the crest, she dropped to her knees. One hand snaked out and snatched a hat, a handsome brown one with a bright yellow plume. She perched it on her head and slithered forward on her belly, tossing the wooden block behind her and lying low, hopefully at the same level as the other hats. Maneuvering a pipe before her, she propped her chin on it and focused on the road below.

Oh, God, Trick had someone already. Mounted on Chaucer, he aimed his pistol into the gaping blackness of an open coach door. Her heart thundered in her chest as a gray-garbed man emerged and climbed reluctantly to the road.

"Oh, aye?" Trick's drawl floated up to her. "You may want to reconsider. My friends would think it great sport to put a bullet through your chest. Or a dozen, maybe. Ah, a contest. Target practice on your sorry hide."

The man would have been quaking in his boots, except he was wearing ugly thick shoes with dull silver buckles. His eyes flicked nervously up toward Kendra, and she held her breath when Trick's gaze followed. It took every ounce of her will to keep from flinching or ducking as her husband squinted in her direction.

The victim's eyes narrowed. In seeming slow motion, Kendra watched as the man backed away, one hand deliberately rising. He stared at Trick with a tight expression that made a cold knot form in Kendra's stomach, especially because her husband's concentration remained fixed on the place where she hid.

Oh, God, why had she come? Recognition lit Trick's eyes along with clear displeasure, and she knew he would kill her—if he didn't die first. As the stranger's hand inched beneath his coat, her fingers clenched on the pipe, vainly searching for the fake gun's nonexistent trigger.

Why wasn't Trick taking heed?

And why wasn't the Puritan afraid of Trick's "friends"? In her peripheral vision, she could see the hats and pipes lined up in a soldierlike array. An explicit threat to anyone below. But the stranger's edginess was obvious, his gaze glued to Trick, who in turn was still focused on her.

The victim wasn't thinking clearly, Kendra realized—distracted as he was, he couldn't be counted on to act rationally. Which made him dangerous. As his hand delved even deeper, she found it increasingly hard to hold still, and Trick, damn him, wasn't paying attention.

Silver flashed—a pistol or a knife? It happened so quickly, Kendra couldn't be sure. Her heart seemed to stop, and her mouth opened to cry out a warning. But before it could pass her lips, her husband burst into action.

A blur of flying arms and legs, Trick leapt from his horse. He landed and twisted the Puritan's hand up behind him, all in one smooth motion. The next thing Kendra knew, a gun had thudded to the ground, and the man was facedown in the dirt with a knee in the small of his back.

Her heart stuttered and restarted. Where on earth had Trick learned to do that? Most of the men she knew trained with pistols and swords, and quite a few were proficient in boxing, besides. But those were gentlemen's sports—nothing like the skills Trick had demonstrated here. She'd never seen such lightning-fast reactions.

Evidently, neither had the Puritan. Fear was etched on his face, and she could see his legs shaking when Trick finally allowed him to rise, still holding one arm twisted back and high.

Relief singing through her veins, she collapsed flat on her belly. The hat fell off, rolling a foot before it slipped over the edge and tumbled to the road below with a muted plop that made her grimace.

But her husband didn't spare it—or her—a glance. At his bidding, the man managed to empty both pockets with his one free hand, defeat evident as he hurried to comply. When Trick demanded his coat as well, he relinquished it without argument.

After a short glimpse into the cabin and a circuit around the coach seemed to convince Trick no more booty was forthcoming, he released the stranger and shoved him inside. Motionless, he held Chaucer's reins while the coach rumbled off down the road.

Dust puffed in its wake, settling slowly to earth as the carriage disappeared into the distance. Nothing but the calls of blackbirds filled the air when Trick finally turned to the hill.

His voice wafted to Kendra, calm, yet dangerous. "What the hell do you think you're doing up there?"

He led Chaucer forward, stopping to retrieve the victim's gun and the fallen hat before walking around and up the hill. He removed his mask as he went, then stood gazing down at her.

She dropped her head to the grass. Though her face was mashed into the springy blades, she felt his eyes boring into her back.

"Well?"

"I was spying on you," she squeaked.

His breath huffed out. "Sit up, Kendra. I cannot talk to you like this."

She pushed up and sat, her gaze on her hands clenched in her lap. Her pale yellow gown was damp, the area around the knees stained bright grass-green.

"Look at me," he said, unmistakably exasperated. "It's not like you to hide. Not how I envision you at all." As she glanced up, he flicked the long, crimped brown periwig hair over his shoulders.

"I came because I was afraid you'd get hurt," she said.

"What made you think I'd get hurt?" His eyes narrowed, appearing naked without the mask and their usual veil of blond hair. "Do you...care?" he asked slowly.

"Of course I care!" She couldn't remember ever having been more frightened in her life. "I saw him pull the pistol. He could have had a knife, too."

"He did." He drew a long, lethal blade from the man's coat and dropped both to the grass, moving closer. "But I can handle myself, aye? So long as you don't show up and interfere."

"I didn't—"

"Your very presence broke my concentration. And had he seen you up here...do you imagine he'd be put off by a pack of women?"

"Were it women with guns, I'd hope so!" she shot back.

Blinking, he reached a hand to help her rise. She was surprised to find her knees trembling.

His gaze searched hers. "Do not ever, ever do that again," he said very quietly. He moved closer, so close his breath whispered over her face. "You could have gotten me killed."

Tears sprang to her eyes.

"Never." She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. "You understand, aye? Never."

"Oh, Trick." Her arms came up and wrapped around his neck, of their own volition, it seemed. She buried her face in his shoulder, chagrined at her tears. For what? A man she barely knew, never mind that they were married? A man who kept secrets and mistresses? A man who lied to her?

None of it made any sense.

"Shh, lassie." His own arms stole around her and held her tight. "It's all right. No harm done." He kissed her hair. "You care, aye?"

"I don't want you to do it again, Trick. But the children—the children will suffer..."

His grip tightened. "I've yet to be hurt—"

"You've been lucky. And luck can change."

"Not luck." He pulled back and fixed her with a calculated grin. "Talent."

Having seen that talent demonstrated, she had to offer him a shaky smile.

"Maybe just a few more times," he said, "and then—"

"There will be enough to invest. And you can stop?"

"Something like that," he murmured.

His eyes searched hers, their amber depths holding her hostage. Summer sun glinted off the roughness on his unshaven cheeks. Her breath caught as his mouth came down on hers.

Warm and tender, his kiss was both a silent apology for the harsh words and a promise for their future. His tongue traced her lips, then plunged inside. None too solid already, her knees turned to pudding as his mouth demanded a response she seemed helpless to deny him.

When he broke off, her breath came loud and ragged. "Yes," she whispered.

"Yes, what, leannan?" His smile caught her off guard.

"Yes, I mean, no, I...won't come here again."

"Thank you." He nodded solemnly and kissed her again, a light brush of the lips that left her wanting more.

She leaned closer.

"Hell, lassie, you tempt a man to go back on his word." He raised his brows suggestively. "Unless you've changed your mind?"

"N-no." She took a step back, nearly tumbling down the hill.

He caught her, laughing. "Let's get you out of here."

"Are you finished?"

"It would seem so," he said wryly, gathering the hats. He tossed them onto the canvas spread nearby. "Come to the cottage, and we'll see what we got."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

"Not very much." Kendra frowned at the few coins spread on the cottage's dining table.

Trick laughed. "A greedy thief, are you? It's mostly gold, not silver."

"True." She lifted one. "How about in his coat? Anything there?"

He dug into the pockets, felt the collar, the seams, the hem... "Ah."

"Was he hiding something?"

With a quick flick of his knife, he slit the stitches. One by one, more bright gold coins dropped to the table with satisfying little clunks.

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. Clink.

"I'll be damned." Trick scooped up the latest addition. He walked to the window, held it to the light, bit into it. "Eureka," he said softly, then rushed back to the table and opened the rest of the hem, flicking the coins to the surface.

Clunk. Clunk. Clink. Clunk. Clink.Clink.Clink.Clink. Clunk. Clink.

"They're larger denominations," Kendra pointed out.

"Aye."

Clink. Clunk. Clink.Clink. Clunk.

"Good?"

"Nay." He pulled the last one from the ragged hem, then sorted them swiftly on the tabletop. "They're counterfeit."

"Counterfeit?" she huffed. "Why, that's criminal!"

He pinned her with a pointed look.

"Oh..." Heat rushed to her cheeks.

He moved to her and took her chin. "You're not guilty," he said.

"You're not, either," she countered loyally. "They're Roundhead scum. They deserve it, and it's for a good cause."

"The end justifies the means?" Trick walked to the stone fireplace. "I think not, leannan." He reached up, sank his fingers into a crack in the mortar, and coaxed out a small key. "Now, can you tell me what the man looked like? Whatever you remember."

"What he looked like?" Kendra watched as he opened the desk's top drawer and slipped the key into a hidden lock. The bottom drawer—the one she'd been unable to open—sprang free. "He was shorter than you, by a good six inches, I'd say." She shut her eyes, trying to remember. "Thin, pale, pale eyes I think, too, although I was at a distance." She opened her eyes as Trick pulled a sheet of paper from the top drawer.

"Hair?" A bottle of ink and a quill came out next.

"His hat covered most of it, but his hair was brown, wasn't it? Gray-brown."

"Just as I remember." He scribbled it all down. "His clothing?"

"Gray, all gray. Plain—well, he was a Puritan. Nothing to distinguish him there. Oh, his shoes had very ugly dull buckles. Square. Pewter, I'm guessing." She frowned as he wrote. "What does this matter?"

"Wait." He held up a hand, still writing. "Any scars?"

"Too far to see."

"I think he had a healing cut on his chin. And a wart alongside his nose." The quill scratched some more. "There," he said, ending with a flourish. "Job well done. You really are quite observant." He shoved the page into the bottom drawer and slammed it closed.

"Trick?"

"Aye?" He returned to the mantel and reached to replace the key.

"Will you stop doing this? For me?"

He whirled to face her. "I cannot promise that, Kendra."

"We'll find another way to support the orphans. I'll ask my brothers—"

"I cannot stop." Coming closer, he put his hands on her shoulders. "Soon, but not yet."

"It frightens me." Her voice came out a whisper.

"You do have a way of melting a man's heart." He tilted her chin to meet her eyes. "I'll be careful," he said softly.

"Promise?"

"Cross my heart."

She smiled faintly and touched him lightly on the chest. "This one?"

"That one exactly." He placed his hand over hers and bent to take her lips in a slow kiss.

She leaned against him, sighing into his mouth.

When he finally pulled back, it was with a chuckle. Playfully he tugged on her hand, pulling her toward the corridor. "Shall we try the bed again, do you think?"

She stood her ground. "Not on your life. You think your kisses are good enough to tempt me to try that again?"

"I'm betting on it." He scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his surcoat pocket. "And I'm not a losing man."

They rode across the Downs, taking a leisurely route to enjoy the warm day. Trick felt better than he had in months. Odds were he had enough information now—he would send a message to the contact the king had provided, meet with the man, and hopefully be done.

Premature though it might be, relief flowed through him in heady waves.

His gaze drifted over to Kendra, her hair bright in the midday sun. A grass stain on her knee brought a smile to his lips. Though she was a challenge, he found it impossible to stay angry with her. She was the helpmate he'd never thought to have. As soon as word came that his mission was complete, they could start anew.

Their marriage was suspended on a fragile web, but without this secret between them, he could begin to spin it stronger.

"Trick?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you want a description of that man?"

He shrugged uncomfortably, suddenly questioning the wisdom of allowing her to have seen him do that. But he'd always made his notes immediately, while the vision was still fresh in his mind.

"To send to the authorities," he said in an offhand manner. "Anonymously, of course, so they can identify the blackguard without my being involved."

"Why do you suppose he's counterfeiting?"

"To get rich, I imagine."

"I imagine there's another reason. Something tied in with his being a Puritan." Her eyes unfocused, she stared right through him, clearly lost in contemplation. "I don't think he's acting alone," she said.

"What makes you say that?"

"He didn't seem bright enough."

Not as bright as she was, Trick thought, that was for sure.

"I'm thinking he's part of a bigger operation," she continued, "and if the members are Puritans, perhaps in league with some other Parliamentarians, they might be acting against the king's interests. Passing worthless currency in an attempt to undermine the economy and the people's confidence in the monarchy. A plot to regain the power they once had, the power that died along with Cromwell."

She stole his breath. Both the strength of her reasoning and the fact that she'd hit it on the mark—the very suspicions that Charles had put forth and Trick was attempting to prove. He'd never considered that his beautiful young wife might understand the intricate linkage of economics and political power.

But it was dangerous, this line of reasoning. Kendra might have a sharp head and atypical interests, but he couldn't allow her to go spreading this idea around, risking the chance the perpetrators might hear and discover someone was on to them.

"Maybe," he said lightly, keeping his face and tone nonchalant. "But I expect he's just trying to get rich."

She studied him, her hands tightening on Pandora's reins. "How easily you dismiss my ideas. Are you still angry that I followed you earlier?"

"Nay," he said, relieved to be on a different subject. "No harm was done." They turned up Amberley's drive, the trees on either side throwing cool shadows across the pathway. "I think you'll find me more forgiving than most. The only thing I won't stand for is infidelity, and I've nothing to worry about on that account, have I?"

Yet. Someday soon he would initiate her into the joys of physical love...and then maybe he'd have something to worry about.

"Infidelity?" A challenge in her voice, Kendra jostled Pandora closer to Chaucer's side. "Most men expect fidelity only from their mistresses."

Most men hadn't found their betrothed wife in bed with another man. "You will learn, leannan, that I am not like most men."

She shot him an arch look. "And what if I'm not like most women? What if I expect the same fidelity from you?"

"Turning the tables, are you?" He risked leaning from the saddle to chuck her under the chin. "You surely know how to try a man's patience."

Her green eyes flashed. "That was no sort of answer."

"I wouldn't ask something of you if I weren't willing to offer it myself."

Her expression said louder than words that she didn't believe him. But she dropped the topic, her gaze drifting to Amberley's impressive facade. "My brother Ford will want to go up the tower and see how the clock works."

"He already has."

Her pretty brow creased in a puzzled frown.

"The house parties, remember? He seems much taken with clocks. Stayed up there half an afternoon, while we twiddled our thumbs waiting to play cards. Here we are." Trick slid to the gravel and handed his reins to a groom. With a gentle hand at her back, he urged Kendra up the steps of Amberley House.

"Dinner," he said as Compton opened the door. "I'm fair starving. And then—"

"A letter, your grace." The butler proffered a silver tray. "It arrived while you were out."

Frowning, Trick snatched it up. Wrinkled and grubby, it looked as though it had traveled quite a distance. "Thank you, Compton. We'll just take it to the study. Let us know when dinner is ready."

"Certainly." Compton's jowls wobbled with the nod of his head. He took himself off to the kitchens, and Trick ushered Kendra into the study, tossing the letter on the marquetry table that sat between two leather chairs.

Kendra sat while Trick poured himself a shot of whisky. He dropped onto the other chair and threw back a gulp. Setting the glass on the table between them, he lifted the letter.

Kendra watched him worry the seal with his long fingers. "Open it," she suggested.

"Not just yet." He turned it over and stared at his name written on the back.

"What is it?" Wondering why he seemed so pensive, she hitched herself forward and frowned at the parchment. "Do you know who it's from?"

He looked up at her, his face set in unfamiliar lines. Not teasing, not angry, not thoughtful, not seductive—not any emotion she'd seen there before. Not even evasive—another all-too-common mood she was learning to distinguish.

"It's from my mother," he said softly. "After all these years, I still recognize her hand." He blinked, then suddenly thrust the letter at Kendra. "Here. You read it."

She almost dropped it, but caught it in time. "No," she protested. "It's addressed to you."

"I'll listen. Then I willnae hear her voice, but yours."

Her heart ached at the pain in his tone, at the telltale Scottish word that had slipped into his careful English speech.

"Read it, please." He slumped down in the chair and took a long sip of spirits, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

She smoothed the parchment against her skirt and slipped a fingernail under the seal. When it lifted off with a little snapping sound, Trick winced.

"Go ahead," he said huskily.

The paper crackled as she opened it and held it to catch the light from the window. "Her writing is beautiful," she said.

He said nothing.

She took a deep breath. "'My dear Patrick Iain,'" she read. "'My heart is heavy with sorrow for all the years we've been apart. Now I am dying, and it is my fondest wish to gaze upon your beloved face once more. Though I know you're a man grown, my bonnie lad you'll always be. Come to me, Patrick, come make an old woman smile as she greets the next world. With all the love in my heart, Mam.'"

Silence. Kendra took one long breath, two...three.

Trick opened his eyes and sipped slowly from his glass.

"Can I go with you?" she asked.

"Where?" He shifted to face her. "You don't think I'll go to her, do you?"

"You must!"

"She cannot ignore me for eighteen years and then expect me to jump to her command."

"She's dying, Trick."

He shrugged.

"You must make your peace. It's your only chance."

"I don't care to give her the satisfaction."

"It's your own satisfaction at stake here. If you fail to go now, you'll always wonder. Always. Go to her and find your answers, before it's too late. Close your heart if you must, but go. Say good-bye."

He drained the glass and rolled it between his palms. "You think yourself wise for your years."

"I didn't get to say good-bye." The letter crackled as she folded it and set it on the table. "In my dreams, awake and sleeping, I've accused my parents of leaving me and I've told them I loved them. I've been angry at them, and sad. But face-to-face, I never got to say anything."

He took a deep breath, and the crystal stilled between his hands.

"Go, Trick. Now. Tonight." She'd have to postpone the children's party, but so be it. "I'll come with you."

"No," he said slowly. "I'll go alone. Tomorrow."

CHAPTER TWENTY

After supper, Kendra found herself mounted on Pandora, heading toward the cottage for the second time that day.

She slanted a glance at Trick riding beside her. She'd tried halfheartedly to talk him into taking her along to Scotland, but he was absolutely against it.

Well, perhaps it would be a relief to be free from him for a while. Free from those disarming kisses that made her lose her head. Free to catch up on her sleep. Free to think about whether she wanted to try again, because the agony of that first night was becoming harder and harder to remember clearly.

Still, part of her was reluctant to see him go, so she'd clung to him like a sticky bun all the afternoon, while he completed the tasks that stood in the way of his leaving.

The full moon reflected off the cottage windows as they approached. "I had no idea of the extent of your responsibilities," she said through a yawn.

"I just want to drop off some papers."

Her eyes felt gritty. "And after that?"

Trick slid from Chaucer and reached to help her down. "I still have much to do before I can sleep."

She tethered Pandora and followed him inside. "You're pushing yourself." She closed the door and leaned against it, watching while he lit a single candle. "I know you must be worried for your mother—"

"I'm not particularly worried." Finished, he felt for the key above the fireplace.

"She's dying!"

He shot her a look as he unlocked the desk. "You said yourself her writing is beautiful. A woman on her deathbed would have a shaky hand, or dictate to someone else." He pulled a sheaf of papers from his surcoat and slid them into the bottom drawer.

"Perhaps she did dictate it."

"It was her own hand—I'd bet my life on that. Aye, she's up to something." He shut the drawer and relocked it. "I'll play along with her game, just in case I'm wrong, but she's a conniving—"

"You cannot know that, Trick. Not after all these years."

"Time will tell which of us is right. But I won't live in hope that she's changed." He shoved the key back between the stones and began to blow out the flame, then suddenly stopped. "Damn, the hats and pipes. I wonder what else I'm forgetting? Wait here—I'll be back." He set the candle on the mantel, and before she knew it, the door had slammed behind him.

She stood still for a moment in guilty indecision before walking slowly to the fireplace. Teetering on her toes, she reached for the key, finding Trick had placed it too high for her reach. She dragged the desk chair close, climbed atop it, and nudged the key from its hiding place.

Jumping down, she rushed to the window. Moonlight illuminated the grounds. Trick was nowhere in sight. Seconds later she had the bottom drawer open and was pawing through its contents.

On top were the notes he'd just dropped off and those he'd concealed there earlier today. Not to keep them from her, obviously—he'd made no secret of the drawer. Surely he wouldn't care if she looked.

Or so she told herself.

She swept the candle off the mantel to examine more pages of descriptions like the one she'd helped Trick make of the Puritan today. She smiled at his writing: very bold, the letters scrawled, clearly written in haste.

Carefully she set the candlestick on the desktop, then put the papers back in the drawer and peeked beneath them. An accounting of some sort. A record of his takings? Quite detailed, including descriptions of individual coins. Today hadn't been the first time he'd run across counterfeits. Underneath that...

She pulled out another stack of papers, some of them older and yellowed. Written by the same hand, but more carefully, the words painstakingly formed, neat and even. They reminded Kendra of the letters she used to send to her parents as a child, letters written and rewritten before a final, perfect draft was carefully copied.

Choosing one at random, she read.

Pain and sorrow forevermore dwell
Inside the deepest bowels of hell.
Betrayal has yet took from me
What love and trust had once set free.

Poetry. Kendra sat abruptly on the edge of the desk. Trick, a poet? She never would have thought it; in fact, had someone suggested such, she would have laughed herself silly.

She didn't know her husband at all.

He'd been hurt by someone, terribly. Her heart clenched as she suddenly understood his words: I don't believe in love at all. Maybe I did once...but not anymore. Love's only an illusion.

Who had done what to him to make him feel this way? Was he never happy? The paper seemed brittle when she set it down—as brittle as the words upon it. But the words on the sheet underneath did nothing to soothe her sympathetic ache.

Twixt fathers and tyrants
a difference is known:
Fathers seek their sons' good,
tyrants their own.

With a sinking heart, she riffled through the pages, pausing to read here and there. The touching verses hinted at events in Trick's life that had shaped him into the man she saw today. Pain, anger, disillusionment...ah, there it was. Love, happiness. His hand was lighter here; the words fairly leapt off the page in their exuberance.

Sweet day, happy, calm and bright
Love has brought me to this light
The sun that sits in yonder sky
Today can shine not more than I
And if tomorrow it should rain
Her smile will make sun shine again

She bit her lip. Was this written of the same love that had later turned to betrayal? Could this carefree Trick live somewhere beneath the cynical man who shared her home? If trust had been shattered by one woman, could another restore it?

Hoofbeats. Oh, God, he was on his way back. She stuffed the poems beneath the other papers and locked the drawer, then jumped to the chair to replace the key. She was just pushing the chair back to the desk when the door flew open and Trick sauntered inside with the bundle of hats under one arm, the pipes under the other.

He dropped it all in a corner. "Ready to go?"

His crooked grin made her heart leap; he was so unsuspecting. She flushed, unbearably guilty just looking at him after reading his private compositions.

"I suppose," she said. "Though I was hoping we could talk."

"Now? About what?"

"Life. Yours." She met his gaze, willing him to share some of his past. "And mine, of course. All the years that led to now. The people who loved us—"

"None."

"—and hurt us."

He only shrugged. "None worth talking about."

"And what we like...for instance, do you like to write? I keep a journal, and sometimes I've written poems."

"Poems?" His gaze flickered down to the drawer. "No, I don't like to write." He leaned past her to blow out the candle. "Come along, will you?" he said, going to the door. "I've much to do."

Crushed that he refused to even consider confiding in her, Kendra pushed by him and outside. Before she could mount Pandora, he caught her by the arm.

"I know you mean well," he said softly.

Silent, she searched his eyes, gray in the darkness.

They went darker still. "I'm sorry you're so unhappy," he said.

"I'm not unhappy. Just confused. I'm worried for your life, and I don't like keeping the truth from my brothers about what it is you're doing. There are parts of you I admire—your compassion for the children. And more parts I don't understand—parts I think you've locked away. And now you're leaving."

"I'll be back." The words were a low, husky promise. "Maybe you'll miss me while I'm gone." His hand slid down her arm until his fingers were laced with hers, and he leaned to press a soft kiss to her mouth.

When he pulled back, she stared at him helplessly. Her lips tingled. She heard his low chuckle before he turned away to lock the cottage, and it drove her to a decision.

Once, in jest, she had promised he'd find love, and a Chase promise was never given lightly. She would bring back to life what another woman had killed; she would make him believe in love once again.

Accomplishing that while avoiding his bed was not going to be easy.

But then, worthwhile things rarely were.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Trick eased through the bedchamber door and closed it quietly behind him. He carried the candle to the bedside and set it on the table by Kendra's head, where it would illuminate her face.

She looked angelic in sleep, her long, dark lashes feathery against her sun-pinked cheeks, her bright hair tumbled on the pillow, glistening in the candlelight. When he bent and kissed her on the forehead, a faint smile curved her lips, then faded away.

Something softened in his gut. She was more compassionate and forthright than he'd expected, this new wife of his. And distressed. Responsibility for that fell squarely on his shoulders, sparking his guilt along with tender feelings he'd long since learned to suppress. But he had much to hide, and good reasons for doing so. At least for now.

As soon as the job for King Charles was completed...

He felt so close to uncovering the truth. Were it not for this summons from his mother, he would soon have this behind him. Maybe, without secrets between them, he and Kendra could begin to establish some sort of trust.

But first things first. He undressed swiftly, checking off the list in his head to make sure he'd taken care of everything before he left for Scotland, a journey that might take a month or more, up and back with time spent there.

Letters of instruction to the various people who ran the estate—done.

A purse of gold for Compton to see delivered to Mrs. Jackson at Caldwell Manor—done.

A note to King Charles explaining the delay of his mission—done.

While his staff had been scurrying about, readying to leave—because a duke, no matter his personal preferences, didn't travel unattended—he'd checked a dozen tasks or more off his private list. Everything, in fact, but the one he'd have found most pleasant...teasing his bride into willing submission.

From all evidence, Kendra had been busy as well. Goods for tomorrow's party were stacked neatly against one wall. A pile of colorful folded fabrics would make unique togas and doubtless thrill the wee wearers. Small baskets overflowed with sweets and treats that would make the recipients think they had died and gone to heaven. Or Olympia, in this case.

How clever his new wife was.

He blew out the candle and crawled into bed, cuddling against her sleep-heavy form. Slipping an arm about her waist, he pulled her closer, inhaling the faint lavender scent of her freshly bathed skin. Flickering light from the fireplace danced over her face and brought out golden glints in her dark-red hair. Brushing soft curls from her face, he leaned up to kiss her cheek.

She shifted, emitting a tiny moan that brought a smile to his lips.

He kissed her ear.

She stretched beside him like a contented cat, with a low-pitched purr to match.

What time was it? Three in the morning? Four? No matter, he wouldn't waste these last hours with her by sleeping. He rolled her over and kissed her full on the lips.

"Mmm," she breathed into his mouth. Her arms entwined around his neck, and her lips opened beneath his. He swept his tongue inside. Lord, she tasted so sweet.

He nibbled her lower lip, feeling her truly awaken. Her breathing changed, and her mouth answered his, making his pulse speed, the blood rush faster through his veins. He'd never had a woman affect him so, not even...

Nay, he wouldn't think about her. After all these years, whatever had brought her to mind? She was long out of his life, and Kendra was here instead.

Sweet Kendra, writhing beneath him now. She was the only woman he wanted. He moved to caress her breast through the pristine white night rail she wore—then stopped cold.

He was man enough to be patient, and he'd been patient so far. He'd ruin everything by moving too soon.

Her eyes fluttered open, a question in their fathomless depths. She reached a hesitant finger to touch his bottom lip, the sensation as light as a whisper.

And he nearly exploded.

But he wouldn't go back on his word. Though the thought of weeks apart made him physically ache, he wouldn't risk what little trust he'd built between them. He had a lifetime ahead to touch her, to make love to her—when she was ready. And he had no doubt she'd be ready eventually, maybe even soon...

But bloody hell, it was so hard to wait.

For long minutes, he just kissed her. His own hands remained still while hers wandered his back, skimmed his sides, frantically tried to wedge themselves between their bodies. His nerves rippled in response, but still he only kissed her. Forever, it seemed, until he felt her straining toward him and a mewling sound of want escaped her lips.

"Trick?" she asked breathlessly, the name warm against his mouth.

"Hmm?"

"Can you not...touch me?"

He pulled back and gazed into glassy light-green eyes. "Nay, I cannot," he said, though he had to force the words past his lips. "Should I touch you, I may not be able to help doing more. And I promised I wouldn't seduce you in bed." He teased her lips with his. "But you like the kissing, aye?"

Her hands tightened in the hair at his nape. "Oh, heavens, yes. I like it. I just want—"

"Hmm?" His tongue traced her trembling mouth. Let her ask for it. "What do you want, leannan?"

"I...I don't know," she whispered, burying her face against his neck.

"You know," he said softly. "We both know. Say it, Kendra."

Instead of saying it, she took a ragged breath and released it with a shudder.

"It won't hurt, lass. It was just that first time, I promise. It won't ever hurt again."

Kendra felt the words, the promise, vibrate in his throat. She ached for him—truly she did. But what good were promises from a man she couldn't trust? And even if he were right—even if it wouldn't hurt—how could she share her body with a man who refused to share his life?

She was touching him now, but she wasn't really. Her hands were upon his body, but she had yet to reach him where it counted. A barrier stood between them, and she couldn't bring herself to risk the crossing.

He had built it. He would have to be the one to bring it down.

"What do you want?" he asked again.

"I want—" She turned her head away, staring up at the underside of Trick's red silk canopy. Not hers. No matter how many times he insisted that what was his was hers as well, she didn't feel that way in her heart. Not while he kept the most important thing of all from her.

Himself.

"I want to go to sleep," she whispered.

He trailed his fingers lightly across her cheek. "One more kiss?"

"I think...no," she said on a sigh. Another kiss would only make her more sad, and the lump in her throat was hard to bear already. She rolled away from him, turning her back. "Good night," she whispered.

The words seemed to hover in the heavy air of the still room.

After a moment he snuggled against her, and she could feel the hardness that said without words just how much he wanted her. "Do you think you might miss me, lassie?"

A groan rose from a place where she ached deep inside, and he went to sleep with a smile on his face.

She knew, because after his breathing evened out in the pattern of slumber, she turned and gazed upon him, filling herself with the sight of him to hold her through the weeks ahead.

It took her longer than ever to drift off that night, and when she awakened, he was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Mrs. Kendra?"

"Yes, Thomas?" Kneeling in the grass by little Susanna, Kendra squinted up at the impish towhead.

"We're athletes in the Olympic games, am I right?"

"That's the idea."

"Well, then..." A gleam came into his sparkling blue eyes as his hands went to the fabric draped over his shoulder. "Shouldn't we be naked?"

"Leave that on, you rapscallion!" She was hard put not to laugh at his pout. "I never said we were strictly authentic."

"Aw, all right." With a mischievous grin, he ran off.

"Stand still, Susanna." Kendra tucked the girl's "toga" more tightly, smiling to herself. Luckily her lessons hadn't covered fashion, so her students were ignorant of the fact that the Greeks had worn solid colors, not brightly flowered calico. "There you go."

"My thanks, Mrs. Kendra."

"You're very welcome." She patted Susanna's blond curls and stood, knowing as she sent her off that the girl would be back in a few minutes to be tucked in again.

She'd learned that togas weren't the ideal clothing for young children.

That was her only miscalculation, though—the rest of the party had gone brilliantly. The children's retelling of their favorite myths had been riotous. Now they were participating in Olympic "games," and the victory wreaths she had woven from laurel leaves might as well have been solid gold crowns considering how much they were cherished. Fortunately, she'd brought enough for everyone, and she was not above fixing the contests to see that each child came out a winner.

The party was a wild success, and they hadn't even feasted yet. Nor had she distributed the favors. Her baskets of goodies were still hiding beneath a blanket in the caleche, and she couldn't wait to see the children's faces when they received them.

Wrapped in stately blue stripes, young Andrew tugged on her toga. "Who are you, Mrs. Kendra?"

"Why, Hera, of course." She looked down into adoring dark eyes—his crush had not abated over the weeks. "Do you remember who she was?"

"Zeus's wife," he said proudly. "And the protector of marriage."

"Very good," she returned, although, for her, the job description seemed an ill fit at best.

Rather than protecting her marriage, she'd sent her husband off alone. She should have argued until he agreed to let her go with him. Surely if she'd put up a fight, he would have relented—her brothers almost always did. But she'd never really tried.

Andrew shifted on his feet, looking shy. "I memorized one of the poems about her."

"Did you?"

He nodded and began to quote.

"Golden-throned Hera, among immortals the queen,
Chief among them in beauty, the glorious lady
All the blessed in high Olympus revere,
Honor even as Zeus, the lord of the thunder."

He finished with an awkward bow that should have brought a smile to Kendra's lips. But in contrast to the Hera of the poem, she was feeling anything but glorious at the moment.

"Mrs. Kendra? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Andrew." Amazed at the young man's perception, she forced a smile. "Mrs. Jackson is organizing a chariot race," she said brightly, glancing over to where the buxom woman was lining up four wheelbarrows. "I imagine a tall, strong boy like you, with little Susanna in his chariot, could come out a winner. Run along now—I'm fine."

But despite how well the party was going, she wasn't fine at all.

Trick should have been here. He was supposed to have been Zeus.

He'd made this happen, repeatedly risking his life to feed and shelter these boys and girls. Her gaze followed Andrew as he joined the other laughing children. None of them, herself included, would be here today without Trick.

Hera had always been zealously covetous of Zeus, and God help her, she missed her man.

When Kendra arrived home, she stopped only long enough to switch her toga for a riding habit and grab a key from Trick's desk drawer. Then she ran to the stables, mounted Pandora, and fairly flew over the Downs to the cottage.

Once inside, she could almost smell him. Since this morning when she'd awakened in his home, something—his vibrancy—had been missing. Instead of feeling free, she'd felt bereft.

But here in the cottage, she could feel his presence. Unlike Amberley House, this clearly wasn't designed by his father. Trick's personal style was stamped on the walls, the floors, every piece of furniture.

It was astonishing the loss she felt, given she'd known him only a few weeks. Just when she was beginning to form a fragile bond with him, he'd left. She strode straight to unlock the drawer and dig to the bottom.

The poetry was gone.

She riffled through all the papers to make sure. Gone, all of it. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the floor, her heart sinking along with her. Not only was her one link to him missing, he was clearly intent on keeping her at arm's length.

Rushed to begin a long journey to a foreign land, he'd nonetheless taken the time to stop and remove the pages. Remove any possibility that by reading his words, she might discover who he was, deep inside.

She couldn't allow him to isolate himself like that. Not if they were to live a lifetime together.

She should have gone with him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"He left," Kendra told Caithren the next afternoon. "He had no choice."

"Of course he didn't." Cait stopped beneath one of Amberley's many arbors and played with the ends of her dark-blond hair. "But why didn't you go along?"

"He didn't want me." Kendra squinted at her sister-in-law in the shadows. "Isn't this the loveliest garden?" Her gesture encompassed more than the vine-covered walkway. "The head gardener told me it was designed by Salaman de Caux himself."

"Salaman who?"

"De Caux. The celebrated Frenchman. Have you not heard of him?"

"Nay. My garden at Leslie was filled with herbs and vegetables." Cait's lips turned up in a self-deprecating smile. "Nary a posy in sight."

Amberley House's gardens were the most extensive Kendra had ever seen. Geometric configurations of flower beds, knots, and borders surrounded a lake where fishes darted beneath the clear water. Avenues lined with painted and gilded stone lions flanked a massive bowling green. Walls of fruit trees divided the charming wilderness garden from those more formal, like the privy garden they were heading toward.

As they strolled from the arbor into the sunshine, her gaze trailed to the massive mansion that loomed over it all. "I'm afraid Trick's father depleted his entire fortune building this place."

"Has Trick said so?"

"Not in so many words," she said, hesitating to say more. Confiding Trick's financial instability might lead to speculation about his continuing highway robbery.

"Then I wouldn't assume so," Cait said. "The estate is very impressive, but then, Trick is a duke. And you're very good at changing the subject."

Kendra flashed her a wry smile. "I was hoping you wouldn't notice." She reached overhead to pluck off a fragrant flower, worrying its soft petals between her fingers. "Part of me still cannot believe I'm married. Do you know, even as we rode away that day, I was sure Colin would come riding after us to say it was all an elaborate joke. I'd convinced myself the parson was in on it—that somehow the ceremony wasn't valid."

"But it was."

"I was furious. I still am. I don't feel like talking to my brothers—any of them." Her voice dropped. "Then I found myself alone with Trick, and still I didn't quite believe it."

"How did it go? The first night, I mean."

"Not well." She looked away, studying the way the light filtered through the leafy canopy of a yew. "Did it hurt you very much that first time?"

"I suppose it did, but only that first time, of course. And I was in no state to take notice of it overmuch."

"Well, is Jason very...big?"

Caithren's eyes widened. "Crivvens, what a question! I've nothing to compare him to, aye? I can only say that to look at him, he seems too big, but he always seems to fit just fine." Her half-embarrassed laugh rang through the garden; then she focused on Kendra, shading her hazel eyes with a hand. "It went better for you the second time, I expect. Surely it didn't hurt."

Kendra bit her lip. "There hasn't been a second time."

"What?" If possible, Cait's eyes widened even more. "You've been married almost three weeks!"

"I won't let him. He...we don't fit. Not everyone does, I expect. In fact, I wonder now why it is that men insist on wedding virgins. You'd think they'd want to try the woman out first and make sure it will work."

"It will work, Kendra." Cait bit her own lip, but clearly not in consternation—rather to keep from laughing. "By all the saints, did your brothers not tell you anything? Jason will hear from me about this."

"Please, no." Kendra felt her face heat. "He'd make fun of me all my days. What is it he failed to tell me?"

"It hurts most women at first. But only the once, aye? Only that first time, when your maidenhead—"

"I may have heard that word." Kendra frowned. "But I never knew what it meant."

"It's a membrane, inside every woman. Every virgin, that is. You could say it guards your entrance. I read once that it's properly called a hymen."

"Hymen is the Greek god of the wedding feast."

"Really? How fitting." Caithren cleared her throat. "Now, the first time you make love it is torn, and you bleed—"

"I did," Kendra whispered.

"But you won't next time. And it won't hurt, either, because the maidenhead will be gone. And he'll fit, I promise."

Trick had been telling the truth, then. A wave of relief washed over Kendra, tempered by a stab of regret. She should have believed him.

And now she really wished she'd gone with him.

In obvious wonder, Cait shook her head. "Almost three weeks."

And another month, Kendra thought, until he'd be back. Remembering his kisses, the way he'd made her feel last night—the way she'd nearly given in—she could barely stifle a groan.

Cait knelt to inspect some bell-shaped flowers. "He must be the most patient man on earth," she murmured. "Even I could see how much he wanted you. However did you manage to keep him away?"

Kendra gave an evasive shrug. "We were strangers. We still are."

"You will come to know each other. Just give him another chance." She frowned down at the plant. "You have dwale growing here!"

"Dwale?"

"Black nightshade. Belladonna. Look." She waited until Kendra knelt beside her, then skimmed a fingertip over a dingy purplish flower with a berry in its base. "Do you see these dark green leaves? They're lethal. It's said that Macbeth poisoned a whole army of Danes by calling a false truce and then offering them liquor mixed with an infusion of dwale."

"Then why is it here in the garden?"

"Used properly, the root makes a good liniment. It's the leaves and berries that are poison." When Kendra reached out, Cait held back her hand. "Don't touch. It's possible to fall ill without even eating it."

"What sort of ill?"

"Shock, fever, slowed breathing, dilated eyes, stomach pain—"

"Enough." She shuddered. In the year since Caithren had arrived, she'd taught Kendra many uses for herbs and plants. But Kendra wouldn't take a chance on misusing this one. "I shall tell the gardener to remove it."

"Make sure he wears gloves." Cait stood and brushed her hands on her rose-colored skirts. "Now tell me about you and Trick. Besides the problem in the bedchamber."

Kendra met her sister-in-law's gaze. "He's just...well, I don't understand him, Cait. We didn't wed under the best of circumstances. For either of us."

"Nay, you didn't. But Jase is convinced you'll be happy. Or so he claims."

"Does he?" Even though she'd come to accept her life here at Amberley, the anger rushed back. "What possible excuse could he have for deceiving me the way he did? Not even telling me Trick was a duke, for God's sake!"

"I asked him the same thing myself after the whole story came out. He claims you would never have married Trick if you'd known he was a duke."

She gritted her teeth. "I hate it when he's right."

"He also said catching you two in a compromising position was a godsend, because Trick would never have consented to court you even if Jason had suggested it. He claimed not to want a wife."

"Not in the near future," Kendra admitted darkly.

"Jason told me his hand was forced, because he knew you two suited perfectly."

"Well, there's where he was wrong." Trick might be a good kisser and tolerant of her non-traditional interests, but a man who refused to share his true self would never suit her perfectly. Regardless of whether they might fit in bed.

For a long moment, Caithren was silent. "You must give Trick another chance in your bed," she finally said. "And I hope you'll forgive Jase. He loves you. He's been watching you. He'd never forgive himself if it turned out you were unhappy."

Kendra's jaw went slack. She didn't know whether to feel outraged or touched. "What do you mean, he's been watching me?"

"Nothing as sinister as you're imagining." Cait laid a hand on her arm. "He asked Jane to let him know if anything seems awry. And every day, he sends a messenger to check with her." She offered a tentative smile. "He cares, Kendra."

That explained why every day, sure as the sun rose and set, Jane had been asking if she was happy here at Amberley House. Kendra released a long, slow breath. "Were you sent here as a peacemaker?"

"Aye," Cait admitted, a faint pink coloring her cheeks. "More or less. But I wanted to see you, anyway. I have news, and no one else to share it with."

"News?" Kendra seated herself on a carved stone bench. "What sort of news?"

Cait sat beside her, lacing her fingers protectively over her middle. "I'm with child."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Kendra grabbed her hands and squeezed tightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." Caithren laughed. "Motherhood agrees with me."

"Jason must be thrilled."

"He doesn't know."

"He—what?" Kendra dropped Cait's hands. "You haven't told him?"

"Nay, and you mustn't, either. Not until we've gone and returned from Scotland. I don't want to miss my visit home, and I'm afraid Jase wouldn't want me to travel."

"You're right," Kendra said slowly, staring at Caithren's still-flat abdomen. "But won't he be furious when he finds out?"

"I'll tell him I just then discovered it. I've never been pregnant before, so how should I know the signs?" She flashed a conspiratorial smile. "You won't tell him, will you?"

"Of course not. I'm not speaking to him, remember?" Kendra returned Cait's grin. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow. That's another reason I wanted to visit. To say farewell for a while."

"For a month, do you think? Trick said he'd be gone a month, up and back and with time spent there."

Cait nodded. "Aye, for a month." She looked around the enormous, quiet estate. "Maybe you would like to go stay with Ford? Or with Colin and Amy?"

"I'm not speaking to Ford or Colin, either." Kendra's grin went flat. "Anyway, I've much to learn around here. By the time Trick returns, I expect to have this place running like clockwork. It's been missing a good financial manager, not to mention a woman's touch. Trick said his father built it, and so far as I can tell, there's never been a mistress here at all." She took Cait's hand and rose. "Come, let's have an early supper together. I've taught Mrs. Chauncey some new recipes, and you can help me see how she did with them."

Their footsteps crunched on the gravel as they crossed the privy garden. They went through the back entrance to the house.

"A letter, your grace." Just as he'd done for Trick yesterday, Compton held out a silver tray. "It just arrived for his grace, but since he is gone..."

"Thank you, Compton." She took the letter and turned it in her hands. Trick's name was written on the back, but not in his mother's beautiful writing, or anyone else's she recognized.

Well, of course it wouldn't be—she still didn't know the first thing about her husband or his acquaintances. Chiding herself, she hurried to the study with Caithren following behind.

"It's probably nothing," Cait said as they dropped onto two chairs. "Open it."

"It isn't addressed to me."

"You said yourself he won't be home for a month. It could be important business."

"I suppose you're right." Feeling more than a little uneasy, Kendra slid a fingernail beneath the black seal. "How odd," she said quietly.

"Aye?"

"It's addressed 'Dear Patrick Iain,' rather than by his title." She read further and released a little gasp.

"What does it say?"

"Listen." She drew a deep breath. "'I don't know if you'll remember me, since eighteen years have passed since I've set eyes on your face. But as a dear old friend of your mother's, I feel honor bound to warn you of possible danger. When Elspeth—'" Kendra paused. "That's Trick's mother," she clarified.

"Go on."

"'When Elspeth wrote the letter to summon you home, she was in perfect health. In the two days since, she has begun a rapid decline that I find inexplicable and alarming. I beg you, take heed. Yours in friendship, Hamish Munroe.'" She looked up. "What could he mean? Why would she write a letter saying she was dying, if she was in perfect health?"

"Maybe she wanted to reconcile, but didn't believe he'd come home for that alone."

"Possibly," Kendra conceded. But her heart was pounding unevenly. "Yet this Mr. Munroe clearly believes that something is afoot. Trick could be in danger."

"I imagine he can defend himself, seeing as he used to be a highwayman."

Although she was tempted to tell Cait that Trick still was a highwayman—and share her concerns about that—Kendra knew he wouldn't want it discussed. Surprised to find herself bound to him by some form of loyalty, she suppressed the urge to unburden herself.

"I think I should go to him," she said.

"Pardon?"

"I think I should go to Trick. He needs to see this letter."

"I don't think Jason—"

"A pox on Jason! He lost his right to tell me what to do when he married me off to Trick. Now I'm duty bound to warn my husband of possible danger."

And she could also give Trick that second chance. In truth, she burned for it, now that she knew it wouldn't hurt.

She rose and began to pace. "I must leave immediately." Her mind raced with possible plans.

"Is tomorrow soon enough?" Cait asked.

"Probably. He didn't seem in much of a hurry, so if I rush—" She turned and looked at Cait. "What are you thinking?"

"We're leaving for Scotland tomorrow. Jason and I. Maybe you can come along. But you'll have to talk to your brother," she added with a small smile. "You'll have to break this vow of silence."

"I suppose I will," Kendra said grimly. "And Mrs. Chauncey's supper will have to wait."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"How dare you marry me off to a duke!"

Seated at the desk in his study at Cainewood, Jason steepled his fingers atop a leather-bound ledger. "Ah, the return of the formidable Kendra. Leaving your husband already?"

"No, he left me."

Seeing his mouth drop open, Kendra felt a small nudge of satisfaction. "To go to Scotland," she added. "His mother is ill—dying—and she asked to see him. Except she wasn't dying until after she sent the letter. But Trick doesn't know that. I received another letter—"

"Whoa. Slow down." Jason gave a violent shake of his head, then rose from behind the desk and came around it to embrace his sister. "How are you doing?"

"I've been better," she muttered into his chest. "And I hate you, you know."

"I'm sure you do." He pulled back and kissed her on the forehead. "Now sit down and tell me about these letters."

"Ford?" Kendra called softly.

Surrounded by burning candles and dozens of ticking clocks, her twin looked up from the gears in his hands, his gaze going to the dawn-lit window. "Is it morning already?"

"It is." She walked closer, reaching a finger to set a pendulum swinging as she went. "We're leaving."

As he stood and stretched, a clock started chiming, and another, and another, a cacophony of discordant tones. Laughing, Kendra wrapped her arms around her brother. "I'll miss you and all your experiments," she said, her gaze sweeping over beakers and magnets, chemicals and microscopes, and the long, impressive telescope she and Colin had given him as a birthday gift two years before.

"I'm going to turn base metal into gold," he said, returning her hug. "And then I'll restore Lakefield House to a glorious standard."

"And fill it with machinery, no doubt."

"Of course." He pulled away, smiling. "Come, I'll walk you down."

Outside, early-morning sun slanted against Cainewood's ancient stones, bathing the quadrangle in a golden glow. Kendra pressed a kiss to her twin's cheek and swung up to Pandora's saddle.

"I'll miss you, too," he said. "Are you sure you'd rather not stay here with me? Jason can take the letter to your husband—"

"We've been over this already. I'm going."

Ford looked up at Jason, mounted on his favorite silver gelding. "Impossible, isn't she?" he asked his oldest brother. "I'll wager you're happier than ever she's another man's responsibility now."

"Not yet, it seems." The glint of amusement in Jason's eyes offset his sarcastic tone. "But the minute we reach Duncraven, I'll be happy enough to turn her over."

Sitting atop a shiny red-brown mare, Caithren shook her head. "Hush up, you two. You don't mean any of this." She turned to Kendra. "They love you, the both of them."

"I know," Kendra said with both a huff and a smile. No matter that she hadn't yet quite forgiven them, she knew her brothers would always be there for her. Family. That was what mattered.

Would she ever forge one with Trick?

Not if they didn't get going. Toying with the stones on her amber bracelet, she looked over at the three carriages—one for themselves should they tire of riding, one for their servants, and one for everyone's baggage—and knew this journey would be a torturously slow affair. With her husband traveling ahead, blithely unaware of the danger that might lurk at his childhood home.

"Are we not going to leave?" She lifted Pandora's reins, an impatience in her voice she felt helpless to control. "Trick has two whole days on us—let's be off."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Night was falling and Trick was spooning up the last of his soup when his wife blew through the door of the World's End tavern.

It was storming outside, and the room was dark, and for the barest moment, he wondered if he were seeing things. God knew he'd thought of little else than Kendra these two weeks past. She'd consumed his thoughts both waking and sleeping.

But she wasn't a figment of his imagination. She was actually here. He knew that because, had he conjured up his lovely and exasperating wife, he certainly wouldn't have conjured up her brother and sister-in-law along with her.

He stood, nearly knocking over the small square table. "What the devil are you doing in Edinburgh?"

At the sound of his voice, she turned. Then just stood there, halfway out of her cloak, her mouth hanging open.

"Looking for you," Jason answered for his uncharacteristically speechless sister, striding forward to shake Trick's hand. He removed his dripping wide-brimmed hat. "But we had no expectations of catching you. We were planning to bring her to Duncraven tomorrow."

Aghast, Trick dropped back onto the hard wooden bench. "When did you leave?"

"Two days after your own departure. We were already planning a visit to Leslie, and Kendra talked us into tagging along. I can see we made better time than you did. Was your journey unpleasant?"

"It went well." He just hadn't been in a particular hurry. The closer he got to Duncraven, the less he looked forward to a reunion with his mother. Half of him was afraid to hope for a reconciliation—afraid she'd disappoint him again. The other half was hoping too much.

"Finding you here is a timely stroke of luck," Jason added.

Perching her wet cloak on a rack beside Kendra's, Caithren aimed a coquettish glance over her shoulder. "Does this mean we get our own room at an inn tonight?"

Jason's green eyes sparkled down at her. "Just like old times, sweet," he said, referring to their own madcap courtship, conducted mainly on the road.

His wife went on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips.

"Delicious," he declared, pulling back with a grin. "Speaking of which, I'm going to get us something to eat."

He took Cait's hand and drew her toward the bar.

Kendra slid onto the bench next to Trick.

"How long have they been married?" he asked, moving close.

She smiled. "Almost a year."

"Newlyweds," he murmured.

"We're newlyweds, too," she reminded him. As though he could have forgotten. He moved closer still.

Unbelievably, she leaned against him.

This wasn't the Kendra he remembered—the one who always shied away from his advances. To convince himself she really was here, he ran a hand through her dark, rain-soaked hair. It felt as real as it looked. "I still like it this way best."

She pulled something from her pocket and glanced up at him. "What?"

"Your hair. Wild and streaming down your back. And wet isn't bad, either. I'd like to see all of you wet."

She blushed, then removed his hand from her head and put a letter into it. "I came all the way to bring you this. Read it."

"What could be so important?" Pushing his soup bowl aside, he spread the paper on the table and dragged a candle near. The letter was wrinkled and the ink a wee bit runny, but still readable.

"Dear Patrick Iain," he said under his breath, then scanned the page and whistled.

"It's a good thing I brought it, no?"

He nodded thoughtfully. "It could mean nothing. My mother might have asked him to write it just in case I'd decided not to come. A last ditch effort, if you will. But it's difficult to tell. I'm left to wonder what I'll be walking into."

"What we'll be walking into."

He nodded again, not at all sure he was happy about that.

But he was happy to have her here tonight. Wondering what could have happened to change her attitude, he tentatively laced his fingers with hers, smiling when she didn't pull away.

Conversation buzzed around them, mixing with the sounds of eating and drinking. "Do you remember this Mr. Munroe?" she asked.

"Aye. He was a jolly type, always hanging around, it seemed. A very old friend of my mother's—they grew up together." His other hand gripped his tankard, and beneath the table, he slid his foot against hers. "From what I remember seeing through the eyes of a lad, I wouldn't be surprised to learn he was sweet on her."

"Did that not bother your father?"

"He was never home. In any case, I'm sure nothing ever came of it. Of course, Father accused Mother of all sorts of things..."

Musing, he took a long sip. He didn't like to think of his mother as an adulteress, no matter what his father had said.

Something brushed his boot, and regardless that Edinburgh was teeming with rats, he'd lay odds it wasn't one. It was, incredibly, his wife's shoe. Looking toward her, he gulped more ale.

A faint smile curved her lips. "Now that your father is dead, what's become of her home, then?"

The question jarred him back to his senses. "Why, it belongs to me," he said, surprised at that sudden realization. For most of his adult life, he'd done his fighting best to banish all thoughts of home from his mind. "The castle was her dowry. So it belonged to my father, which means it's now mine. But I won't be selling it out from under her. She may have been an appalling mother, but I won't put her out on the streets."

He drained the rest of his ale, wondering whether to be annoyed or pleased that his wife had materialized in Scotland. Experimentally, he tried to draw his hand from hers, feeling his body quicken in response when she held it tight.

He was pleased, he decided. A long abstinence did much to sway a man's emotions.

Not to mention the apparent change of heart on Kendra's part. Mystifying, to say the least. But he'd be insane not to take advantage. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Only tired." Her gaze flew over to Jason and Cait, heads leaned close at another table as they talked while Jason shoveled meat pie into his mouth. "We ate but a couple of hours ago." She yawned, meeting his eyes. "We're too far from Duncraven to travel there tonight in the darkness, I presume?"

"Aye. It's a good day's ride."

"Then will we stay here?" she asked, the words threaded with husky curiosity.

Sweet Mary, she wanted to sleep with him. He could hear it in her honeyed voice, see it in her darkened green glance.

It was too good to be true.

"I've already taken a room," he said, amazed at this new good fortune. He rose, nearly stumbling over his own feet. "Shall we go up?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Trick stopped only for a stack of towels before he rushed Kendra to the room he'd rented. Once inside, he dropped them on the polished wood floor, paused a fleeting moment to set down the candle he was carrying, and dragged her into his arms.

His mouth on hers was hot and needy, and she responded in kind. She found it amazing how much she'd missed him. How much she'd missed this.

His tongue swept into her mouth, meeting hers with a thrilling urgency. Craving his solid warmth, she plastered herself against his body, reveling in the heated kiss, his arms around her, the feel of his hard muscles against her softness.

A long time later they pulled apart, and she leaned back in his embrace, gazing up into his seductive amber eyes.

How could she have put him off so long? Just the scent of him made her head swim.

She swayed in his grasp.

"Are you too tired?" he asked.

She was exhausted, but, "God, no."

His smile was blinding. "You missed me, aye?" Her heart flip-flopped at the sound of the low, throaty words, and when she nodded, he kissed her all over again, his mouth even more demanding, if that were possible.

Her breath was ragged by the time he stepped back. "You're soaking," he said.

Her gaze slid down his now-damp form, and her hands went to her drenched skirts. "I'm sorry."

"I told you, I like you wet." Lazy and persuasive, his grin seemed to touch a place inside her. A warm, melting place. "Come, leannan, let's get you out of these clothes."

She only nodded as, with practiced fingers, he detached the tabs on her stomacher and unlaced her bodice, then drew it down to her waist. His palms reached out and fitted themselves to her breasts. Puckering in response, her nipples strained against the thin fabric of her chemise.

He sucked in a breath. "I've wanted to touch you like this," he said huskily.

A little mewling sound rose from her throat. She'd wanted him to touch her like this, too. He hadn't done so since the night they were wed, and goodness, she'd craved his hands on her body.

If only she'd believed him when he'd said it wouldn't hurt.

She licked her lips, and his eyes darkened. He bent his head, taking the peak of one breast in his mouth, suckling through her gossamer chemise. Her breath caught, and she plowed her fingers into his hair, holding him closer still.

"Trick." His name hung in the air, not a protest this time, but an entreaty. He raised his head, measuring her and apparently liking what he saw. In the next moment, he dropped to his knees, and one hand found its way beneath her wet skirts.

He worked it up, up, and before she knew what was happening, he'd plunged a finger into a place that was wetter still.

Dear God. Her knees felt about as substantial as jellied fruit. Slowly, seductively, he worked his finger in and out, holding her gaze with his. It was shocking and probably wicked, but she couldn't focus on any of that, because something was happening to her. She started tingling and shaking all over.

Just when she knew she would collapse to the floor, he drew away and rose to his feet. "Let's get you dry."

Her breath came out in a rush. She nodded wordlessly, the only response she could manage—but it seemed to be enough for him.

In no time at all he had her stripped, her hair wrapped in one towel while he briskly rubbed her with another. The rough strokes sent her blood coursing like a spring flood. When he was finished, her skin was dry and warm and sensitive beyond whatever she could remember. At his lightest touch, she felt pleasure spiraling through her.

He raised one of her limp hands and ran his fingers over the amber stones that circled her wrist. "You're wearing it," he murmured.

"I—it matched my dress."

He glanced down to the gown on the floor. "Aye. Purple and amber—they go together so well."

She blushed, but he only laughed, a warm sound that rippled right into her.

He started ripping his own clothes off, his gaze on hers commanding her to watch. She backed away and sat on the edge of the bed, unwrapping her hair to towel it dry. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, tall, rangy and lean, with long, ropy muscles.

When his breeches slid down, her gaze slid down along with them. He was still as big as ever. Bigger, even, she would swear. Her breath caught as a tremor of panic took her by surprise.

What if Cait were wrong? What if it worked for most people, but in this case...what if he really wouldn't fit? She remembered the pain, and her lids slid closed.

"Kendra?"

He sounded so concerned. Trying to smile, she opened her eyes. But despite herself, she couldn't help where her anxious gaze was fastened.

His own gaze followed. "I promise you, it won't hurt."

"I know. Caithren told me."

His eyes snapped back up to meet hers. "When?"

"After you left." She bit her lip.

"You didn't believe her, though, did you?"

"Yes." She nodded frantically. "Yes, I did. And I came here wanting..."

"But then..." he prompted, waiting expectantly.

When she didn't continue, he sighed. "I knew this was too good to be true." His eyes slid closed momentarily, then opened and burned into hers. "Listen," he said, reaching to draw her up to stand before him. "The night before I left, you wanted me to touch you, aye?"

Like a simpleton, she stood there with her arms dangling loose by her sides. "Yes, but—"

"I wanted more than that. You know I did. I've thought of nothing but you since the moment I rode away."

Heat rushed to her cheeks—and other parts of her body. She'd thought of him, too, and how he could make her feel. She wanted to feel that again. This fear was irrational, and she had to overcome it.

But that was easier said than done.

"Trick—"

"Look at me."

When she did, he wrapped his arms around her waist. "I've told you I won't take you against your will, and I meant every word. But I'm finished playing games."

Her heart skipped a beat at that, then began racing in her chest. "Trick—"

"Nay. Hear me out." He tossed his head, clearing the hair from his eyes, and his arms tightened around her middle, arching her back, bringing her hips snug against him.

She could feel how much he wanted her.

"I'm done expecting you to beg," he said low. "I still want to take you, but I can wait until you're ready. In the meantime, there are other ways we can pleasure each other, without me entering your body."

She flinched at the frank words, the mental picture. But relief flowed through her veins. And the idea he proposed was intriguing.

"What sorts of ways?"

"I'll show you, lass." His eyes darkened. "Like this."

Her pulse skittered as he moved his hands to her shoulders, then eased her back until she tumbled onto the bed. He came down over her, settling his weight on his elbows. Against her melting softness, his body felt warm and hard as his lips descended to meet hers.

With calculated skill, he kissed her breathless. Senseless. Her world tilted when he rolled to his side and began tracing his fingertips along her heated skin.

"Like this, leannan," he murmured huskily. "We can make each other happy like this." And his mouth followed where his fingers had gone, over her breasts and down her arms and across her waist in a warm, damp dance.

She heard little moans, and they were hers. She reached for his shoulders, tracing her fingers in a way that mimicked his, trying to pull him up so she could touch more of his body.

He raised his head, his breath warm against her belly. "No, lass. Tonight just feel. Lie back and feel what I can do for you." As he talked, his hands caressed their way up her sides. "Then tomorrow," he said, "tomorrow, you'll learn what to do for me." He flicked his thumbs over her nipples, and a jolt of excitement streaked through her. "This can be good for us both."

Rich as velvet, his voice was a sensuous promise, a heady invitation that made her emotions whirl. And while she was still reacting to that, he lifted her knees and moved between them.

He kissed and licked and bit the tender skin of her inner thighs, and her fists clenched, bunching the sheets in her hands. A little cry escaped her lips when his tongue traced the crease where her legs met her body. Then it plunged into that place that was hot and aching, and she let out a gasp of stunned pleasure.

Something was happening to her—something confusing and marvelous. As his tongue continued a rhythmic, sensual assault, every nerve in her body came alight with fiery sensations, sprinting throughout her until she thought she would scream unless something happened—

She exploded, convulsing in wave after wave of pleasure so intense it was almost beyond bearing.

It seemed a long while before she could think straight, before Trick made his way up her body to place one last, gentle kiss on her lips.

"Tomorrow . . ." she whispered.

"Tomorrow is another day," he said. "And together we can make it a wonderful one."

"Wonderful," she breathed, meaning the glory of what had just happened.

"I know." A smile of pure male pride curved his lips. "Now sleep, leannan."

She inhaled deep of his distinctive scent, and another scent that was new to her, the seductive fragrance of spent passion. She sniffed again, smiling to herself, wanting nothing more than to lie awake and replay every moment, relive all the incredible new feelings.

But her earlier exhaustion overcame her, and wrapped in his arms, she drifted off.

It was pitch-black when Kendra awakened sometime in the night, the candle long since guttered out. In his sleep Trick was hugging her, his arms wrapped tightly. When she tried to wiggle free, they tightened more, holding her fast against his warm chest.

She felt smothered, trapped.

But she couldn't fight him, couldn't get away. She was too tired...she would try again later, after she got some more sleep...

Dawn was breaking when next she opened her eyes, feeling inexplicably lonely. Squinting in the faint gray light, she looked over to where Trick lay on his back, apart from her, snoring softly, his hands lax by his sides.

She scooted close, throwing an arm across his chest, but he snored on, still motionless. A stab of hurt, tiny but deep, took her by surprise. Tamping it down, she rolled to her back and stared at the beamed ceiling overhead, replaying last night in her mind.

Wonderful. Full of wonder. But something had been missing.

Everything he'd done had felt incredible, and she was certain she could do the same for him. But she wanted to be closer. Cait had said it wouldn't hurt. And maybe...maybe if she let Trick into her body, he would let her into his heart. Maybe she could start chipping away at the emotional wall he'd built.

And beyond those logical reasons, the naked truth was, she wanted him. Craved him. His body joined with hers, her heart joined with his.

"Trick?" she called softly.

No response.

She poked his shoulder. "Trick?"

"Hmm?" Without opening his eyes, he rolled toward her and flung an arm over her middle.

She snuggled happily into his warmth. "Tomorrow," she said, struggling to keep the tremble from her voice, "tomorrow night, I want to sleep with you."

"Sleeping now," he murmured.

"No. I want...I want..."

His eyes slid open and gazed into hers, so close. "Are you begging, leannan?" he whispered, a tentative note of hope in the words.

"I'm begging," she answered simply.

He raised up to give her a sleepy smile, and she kissed him, running her tongue across the chip in his tooth. When his head dropped back to the pillow, his arms tightened around her, holding her fast against his body.

And she drifted off to sleep again, not feeling smothered at all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"There's the castle," Trick said after a long day spent on the road. "In the distance, atop that hill. Just as I remembered."

Kendra squinted through the half-light of dusk. "It looks...forbidding." At the end of a narrow, twisty path, twin square towers rose from the hill, thrusting gray and ugly into the leaden sky. "How old is it? Is there no manor house attached?"

"Thirteenth century. It's just the two connected keeps. They're large, though—the distance is deceiving."

"It must be very cold."

"There are fireplaces."

"I'm not talking about the temperature. It doesn't look like a friendly place."

"It isn't," he said shortly.

While two carriages and a luggage cart rolled slowly behind, attended by Trick's servants, they guided their mounts silently past a somber gray-stone church that stood at the edge of a small village. The simple homes seemed eerily empty, however. Though the rain had stopped, no children had come out to play, no women were hanging out wash, no men were at work.

The clip-clop of their horse's hooves sounded loud in the odd stillness.

"Where is everyone?" Kendra asked.

"I'm wondering myself." He glanced up the hill. "Do you hear laughter?"

"Maybe. Far away."

"Up at the castle." As they rode closer, he could hear it better. "They must be holding an entertainment that includes the whole village. Strange...I cannot remember anything like that from when I lived here. Mother doesn't strike me as the type."

"People change in eighteen years."

"I expect you're right." Lost in memories, Trick remained quiet as they made their way to the hill and started up it. The laughter grew louder. When they crested the rise, they saw athletic events in progress on the lawn that bordered the keeps. Five young men were lining up for a foot race while two other lads executed standing jumps and lassies poked fun at their results.

"Will you test your skills?" Kendra asked as they slid off their horses.

"Maybe later." Trick gave her a shaky smile, handing his reins to an Amberley outrider.

A few curious glances were focused their way, but no one made a move to greet them. Shrugging, Trick instructed his staff to find the stables and settle the horses, then took Kendra's elbow and headed inside. Worn stone steps rose to a landing and a small, arched door that stood open, allowing more laughter to drift out into the cool early-evening air.

Beyond the door, a short tunnel led through the twenty-foot-thick wall. At the far end of the passageway they stepped into the first towering keep.

It was every bit as dark and cold as he'd remembered. Iron chandeliers dripped with candles struggling vainly to brighten the great hall, a vaulted chamber of ancient gray stone.

He stood stock still while memories flooded back: having lessons at the old oak desk with his tutor; taking meals at the long trestle table with his mother; playing at her feet while she sat with her embroidery at the far end where flames roared in the immense canopied fireplace, his toy soldiers lined up on the scarred wooden floor. The Cavalier soldiers had always won, of course, since his father had been away fighting among them.

The chamber was teeming with people, and two children chased around him, but he barely took notice even when one bumped his knees. "I remembered it larger," he murmured to Kendra. "It's not nearly the size of Cainewood's great hall."

"It's large enough."

"I recall thinking as a child that it was so big and high a man on horseback could turn a spear in it with all the ease imaginable."

"He'd have to get through the door first," she said with a grin.

Indeed, the entrance they'd just ducked through was shorter than himself by a head or more—precisely to stop raiders on horseback from entering. Even on foot, a grown man couldn't enter without stooping, therefore hampering his ability to attack. He remembered asking about that short doorway as a child, over and over, as children were wont to do.

Kendra's lips moved, but he cocked his head, unable to hear her through the din. "You look pale," she repeated loudly.

"Memories." He shrugged, looking around. "I believe there is a painting of Queen Mary of Scots under there," he said, indicating a rectangle draped in black.

"Why is it covered?"

"To prevent the spirit going in the wrong direction."

He blinked, wondering who had answered.

"You look oddly familiar," he heard Kendra say, and turned to see the man she was addressing.

He could only stare. Several heartbeats passed while all around them people cheered on their favorite of two men playing jump-the-stick.

"I'm Niall," the blond young man introduced himself, bewilderment clouding his golden eyes. "And I thank you for attending my dear mother's wake." He paused expectantly and then added, "Whoever you may be."

"Patrick Caldwell, the Duke of Amberley," Trick replied. "And my wife, the Duchess. And I'm looking for my mother."

"Holy Christ." Niall visibly paled. "I should have guessed. She always said we looked like twins." And he launched himself at Trick, wrapping his arms around him and letting loose a deep, shuddering sob. "You came," he blubbered. "You're a wee bit late, but you came, after all. I told her you would."

At a loss, Trick let the young man hang on his body, wetting his surcoat with heartfelt tears. Hesitantly he placed his hands on the lad's back and gave him a couple of awkward pats. His mind swimming in confusion, he looked to Kendra, sending her a silent plea for help.

She tapped Niall on the shoulder. "Who are you?" she asked.

The young man stilled and pulled back a bit, a frown creasing the forehead above his red-rimmed eyes. He turned to Kendra and blinked hard, swiping a hand under his nose. "I'm your husband's brother," he said slowly.

Feeling blank-headed, Trick gingerly extricated himself. "I have no brother."

"Aye, you do." Niall's gaze trailed to the center of the chamber. "And our mother is in that coffin."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Robbed of breath, Trick woodenly followed Niall to the open coffin. He wanted to protest—in his head, he was screaming this couldn't be his brother, it couldn't be his mother in that box—but words wouldn't come. Words were beyond him just now. Stepping closer, he peered inside.

It was she.

She appeared older than he remembered, though her gown looked as though it would befit a younger woman. Her deid-claes, he realized—the first duty of a new Scottish wife was to sew the funeral clothes for herself and her husband. She'd obviously followed the custom. Beneath the gown, her legs were encased in the traditional white woolen stockings, and upon her feet were sturdy shoes, symbolic of the thorny path she was about to journey.

He'd traveled all the way here to make his peace with his mother, but that was never to be. His mother was dead.

It seemed impossible.

Her serene appearance sat at odds with the churning in Trick's stomach. Why had she written to him? What would have been said between them had he arrived in time? Questions raced in his head, and he wished mightily that she would open her eyes and answer them.

But there were coins on her lids to keep them closed—it was feared that if one looked a corpse in the eye, it would take you as a companion. And he knew that, coins or not, she wouldn't be answering him, anyway.

His mother was dead, and he seemed rooted to the floor.

"Touch her," Niall urged, doing so himself, his fingers gentle on their mother's cheek. "They say it will banish the ghosts of her from your mind."

Trick reached out, then pulled back. "I cannot."

It had been too long since he'd touched her in life. Eighteen years of loneliness, eighteen years of resentment. This journey had been a pilgrimage of sorts, his chance to mend old wounds, reconcile his past so he could start life anew with his wife.

But inside him, the wounds seemed to gape open fresh.

His mother had always failed him, and this time was no different.

He turned and stared into his brother's golden eyes. His own eyes, it seemed. Niall's hair was longer, shoulder-length, but the same shining straight blond as Trick's, and though Niall was quite a bit younger—seventeen, Trick guessed him at—they were of a height.

His brother. He'd never had a sibling. His heart swelling with sudden emotion, Trick gathered Niall close, and Niall hugged him back, hard. Then they pulled apart and looked each other over.

"I have a brother," Trick said, and a small smile ghosted Niall's grief-ravaged face to match the larger smile on Trick's. "Who is your father?" Trick asked.

"Hamish Munroe. His wife died shortly after you left, and he and Mam...well, they'd always..." The younger man drew a shuddering breath. "I'll take you to him."

Niall motioned Trick and Kendra to a turret attached to a corner of the great hall.

They followed him single file up a narrow, twisting stone staircase lit by dangerous, old-fashioned torches set at intervals. The rocks looked ancient, and when Kendra put her hand to the wall for balance, she half-expected it to crumble beneath her fingers. But her hand just came away dirty.

She wiped it on her skirts. "I cannot believe people are playing games down there."

"It's the Scots way," Trick told her.

"Folk were somber early in the week," Niall explained. "But Mam has been gone six days now. All the tears have been shed, all the stories of her have been told and told again. The feasting, the games and riddles—it's all in her honor. The wake is a celebration of her life."

They followed him out into a spacious sitting room that seemed lacking in furniture. Though the windows were small and set back in incredibly thick walls, the stone was whitewashed here and reflected the candlelight, making this chamber much lighter than the one downstairs. A large tapestry hung on one side, looking like it could use a good cleaning, and across from it, four faded red chairs were arranged to face a fireplace.

"Still and all," Niall continued, "this is nothing like Calum MacKinnon's wake last year. They propped up the dearly departed and put a pipe in his mouth, then took turns throwing boiled turnips at him to try to knock it from his lips. I don't think Mam would appreciate that."

"I'd expect not!" Kendra exclaimed.

"Da is in here." Niall pushed open a door. "Come along."

The room was sizable as bedchambers went, with substantial oak furnishings lining the walls and a large four-poster bed in the center. A tall, gaunt man lay beneath the coverlet, snoring softly, and a middle-aged couple sat nearby on two chairs. They began to rise, but Niall waved at them to stay seated.

"Da." He reached to jiggle the man's shoulder. "Someone's here to see you."

Hamish Munroe started and opened his eyes, then blinked and looked again. "Patrick? Is that you?"

"Aye, sir, it is."

To Trick's apparent dismay, the older man's eyes flooded with tears. He held out a hand. "Come here, lad. Let me touch you." With seeming reluctance, Trick gripped his fingers. "Elspeth said you would come. I didn't believe her."

"I received your letter," Trick said, slowly reclaiming his hand. "Or rather, my wife did, and came after me to deliver it." He drew Kendra forward. "My wife, the Duchess of Amberley."

"I'm glad of your acquaintance," she said, reaching for the man's outstretched hand. It trembled in her grasp. "Please, just call me Kendra."

The man's fingers weakly squeezed hers, feeling hot and dry. "Then you must call me Hamish. It's pleased I am to meet you." Dropping her hand, he rolled his head on the pillow, indicating the other couple. "These are my oldest friends, Rhona and Gregor Haig."

"Your grace." Rhona rose and curtseyed, first to Trick and then to Kendra. "Your grace."

Kendra hated the formal address as much as she'd always thought she would. She smiled at the pale woman, wishing she could set her at ease. "I'm glad of your acquaintance," she said.

"Pleased to meet you," Rhona returned softly, not quite meeting Kendra's eyes with her shy blue ones.

Gregor bowed. "Your graces." Blue-eyed and silver-haired as well, he resembled his wife in the way that long-married couples often did. Kendra wondered if she and Trick might end up like that some day, but casting his golden countenance a glance, decided not.

"Sit," Hamish said before turning back to Trick. "They've been keeping me company." He paused and grimaced in pain, then blew out a breath. "I've fallen ill with the same plague that killed Elspeth, you see, and Rhona here is a fine healer."

His friend shook her head. "My possets and infusions don't seem to—"

"Hush, woman. I know you've done your best."

Wiping her hands on the skirts of her cranberry-red gown, Kendra stepped closer. "Your letter said that Elspeth's illness was inexplicable and alarming—"

"I thought so, at first," Hamish said. "But it was only that it was such a coincidence, aye, her sending that letter and then..."

When his voice faded, Niall took over. "It seemed such a coincidence that she should claim she was ill and then suddenly succumb. When Da fell ill as well, the doctor came to visit and"—tears flooded the young man's eyes—"and said they were suffering from a bilious fever. Nothing inexplicable."

"Did he say it was fatal?" Trick asked.

Niall crossed his arms, his familiar eyes radiating a mixture of grief and denial. "That doctor's a bampot if ever I met one. Da is stronger than Mam was. He's not going to die."

Gregor shook his head mournfully. "Last night, a coal in the shape of a coffin jumped from the fire to the hearth. Right there." He indicated the fireplace across from the bed.

"Old beggar-woman tales." Clearly agitated, Niall went to the hearth and grabbed a poker. "I don't believe such nonsense."

As if to contradict his son's opinion, Hamish's face contorted with another pain, and he bent over double in the bed.

Rhona rushed to his side and pressed a cup filled with vile-looking green liquid to his lips. "Drink, Hamish." A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. "Have a sip for me, will you?"

He did, and then his eyes closed and he seemed to fall asleep. Niall stabbed angrily at the fire, as though daring another coffin-shaped coal to jump out.

Trick moved closer and took Kendra's hand. "Only at Duncraven," he muttered under his breath, "is it cold enough in the middle of summer to keep a fire burning day and night."

"It's cold within Cainewood's thick stone walls as well," she whispered back.

But that was one of few similarities between the two castles. Though both were centuries old, the parts of Cainewood that had been restored were modern and clean, while this place looked aged and worn out. The white paint was chipping off the walls, and cobwebs lurked in the corners.

As the estate's mistress, she would never stand for such slipshod housekeeping. But Elspeth had been ill these weeks past—perhaps that explained the neglect.

"Come along," Trick said. "Let's leave him to sleep."

"Patrick. Wait. I wish to speak with you." Hamish forced open his eyes. They looked black, until Kendra realized they were light brown but seriously dilated. The older man's voice wheezed through paper-dry lips. "About...about your...your mother's letter."

"You're weary, Da." Niall dropped the poker and crossed to his father. "You're always better in the morning," he said, brushing the straggly gray-blond hair off the man's forehead. "You can speak with Patrick then."

"Elspeth's burial is in the morning," Rhona reminded him in a strangled whisper.

"Oh, aye." The young man closed his eyes for a moment while he recovered his composure. "Then after," he said when he opened them. "Or the next day. You don't have the strength now."

When his father nodded and rolled to his side with a grimace and a groan, Niall ushered Trick and Kendra from the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Back downstairs, Niall beckoned to his newfound brother. "Come, you should sit. This must be quite a shock to you both."

Trick allowed himself to be led through the crowd of reveling mourners. Servants passed among them, offering plates of oatcakes and shortbread. Goblets filled with spirits sat waiting on a sideboard, and he snatched one as he walked by, drinking deeply.

Beside the great hall's magnificent canopied fireplace, Niall pushed him into a seat niched into the wall. Trick drank again, then looked around him and leapt to his feet.

"Nay, you belong in the sedile now," the younger man said, gently easing him back down to the fur that draped the stone bench.

Kendra sat beside Trick in the niche and silently took his hand. He gave her a grateful half-smile. Just as he felt uncomfortable in his father's English mansion, neither did he feel that he belonged in this sedile—the seat of honor for the master of the house. Against his back, the stone felt too cold, too solemn.

But he did belong here now—that much was the truth. No matter how awkwardly that truth rode on his shoulders.

Heat rolled out of the fireplace beside them, and torchlight glinted off the armor scattered around the perimeter of the chamber, a reminder of days gone by. Curious glances were slanted in Trick's direction, and people seemed to be edging their way closer.

Oblivious to it all, his mother lay in a box in the center of the room.

Sipping again, he looked away, up to Niall. "I cannot believe she's dead."

"I share your disbelief." Niall hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. "But unlike Da, I'm not entirely sure there's no evil force at work. I intend to get to the bottom of it." His suddenly narrowed gaze hinted at bravery beyond his years. "Will you help me?"

"I wasn't planning to stay here," Trick said. "I came at my mother's request, and now she's dead." He had pressing matters back home. The king's mission still awaited completion. And a trusting relationship with Kendra was waiting to begin.

"Who is this?" a woman asked, stepping close. Her dull chestnut hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she looked to be near Trick's age.

"Ah, Annag." Niall's smile failed to reach his eyes. "May I present the Duke of Amberley, my mother's eldest son. Patrick, my half-sister, Annag."

"Pleased to meet you," Annag said, although she clearly wasn't. Her dark brown eyes flashed with some emotion Trick couldn't put a name to, but it was plain enough she didn't like him. Or didn't like him here.

"And Duncan," Niall continued as a man joined their little gathering. Another of Hamish's grown children, from the looks of him. He and Annag bore a marked resemblance to each other, the most obvious being their matching expressions of distaste.

Raising the tankard in his hand, Duncan took a deep swallow. "When are you going home?" he asked, skipping the preliminaries.

Wondering why he felt surrounded by the enemy, Trick rolled his shoulders and changed his mind about leaving so quickly. "When I'm good and ready. I've only just met my brother, and—"

"Oh, him," Annag interrupted, shooting Niall a look every bit as deadly as the one she'd given Trick. "High and mighty Lord Niall."

Apparently Niall had been passed off as the duke's son, and Hamish's other children resented him for it. But the young man only gave a good-natured shrug. "If you cannot be civil, Annag, I will ask you to leave my home."

Duncan took another gulp of his spirits. "It's his home now," he said, indicating Trick with a smarmy, pleased gleam in his eye.

Niall flinched, but recovered swiftly. "And so it is, I suppose."

"I won't be throwing you out," Trick assured him.

"I wouldn't trust him," Annag told Niall, as though Trick weren't even there. "He may have been born here, but he's turned English."

When Niall just glared at her, she continued. "Well, listen to the man speak. English through and through. He's forgotten his Scottish roots, and even you, gowk that you are, ought to know better than to trust a Sassenach."

"Don't the women need help in the kitchen?" Niall asked his sister. "And what are your bairns up to? And Duncan, have you sat some time with Da this day? Rhona and Gregor could use a respite. They're good friends, but you're his son." After that brave speech, he looked down to his scuffed black boots. "Give us some peace, will you? Our mother just died."

"And good riddance," one of them muttered as they shambled away. Trick wasn't sure which, but it didn't seem to matter. So far as he could tell, they both hated him equally. The fact that they'd hated his mother as well came as no surprise.

From what he knew of her, she, at least, hadn't deserved their love or admiration. His father had made no secret of all her faults, and already one had been proven true this night: His mother had been a whore. Perhaps Hamish's wife had been dead when Niall was conceived, but Elspeth's husband had not.

He slumped in the stone niche and extricated his hand from Kendra's, belatedly realizing she'd been holding it in an iron grip.

"Welcome to Scotland," he said, flexing it ruefully.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Although it had grown late, the castle was still overrun with people. Apparently, after his years away had made it clear to Elspeth that her husband was never returning, she'd invited Hamish to live with her and Niall. Hamish's older children had been grown by then and had homes of their own, but since Elspeth's death they'd had been staying here to keep him company. With his grandchildren, too, of course. One big, happy family, as the saying went.

Somehow, Kendra didn't think it applied in this case.

"Are you sure you don't want the master's chamber?" Niall asked.

Trick shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of moving your father. There must be a spare bed here somewhere."

And that was how Trick and Kendra came to follow Niall up what seemed like miles of winding stone stairs, until at last they stepped into a huge, deserted chamber.

Their footfalls echoed off the wooden floor as they entered. A few torches on the walls did little in the way of brightening the place, and the room gave off a musty scent that spoke of long disuse.

Kendra stared up at the gloomy vaulted stone ceiling. "It's spooky."

Niall gave her a wan smile. "Cromwell garrisoned his soldiers in here when he commandeered the castle during the war. A hundred of them, lying foot-to-head on the floor, with a second hundred on another level that rested on those posts you see protruding from the wall." He pressed a key into Trick's hand. "Your staff has moved your things up here already. Shall I have them sent up to attend you? You've a valet, do you not, and a ladies' maid?"

"Aye, my man goes by Cavanaugh, and Jane sees to her grace." Trick's gaze met Kendra's. "But I think we can fend for ourselves tonight."

Though she didn't know if he'd intended to remind her, Kendra's skin prickled as she recalled what she'd promised would happen this evening. Then he looked away, pensively moving off, and she knew that he was no more thinking of such things than she had been.

After all the upheaval today, last night seemed so very long ago.

"Good night, then," Niall said.

"Good night," she returned softly.

Listening to the young man's footsteps fade, she shivered. The candle in her hand wavered, throwing shadows on the gray stone walls. "I dislike to think of Cromwell visiting this place, let alone using it as a headquarters." Oliver Cromwell had been indirectly responsible for the deaths of her parents and her own exile that followed.

"It was against my father's wishes, to say the least. He was a Royalist, through and through." When Trick wandered to one of the deep-set windows, his voice echoed back out from it. "My mother talked him into leaving."

"Did she, really?" Squeezing into the niche, Kendra joined him at the window. In the small space he felt warm and near, yet cold and distant, too. By moonlight, she could barely make out the village below, surrounded by acres of wild pasture and tended fields. "This was her family's ancestral home, wasn't it? Why would she willingly surrender it?"

"She was a Covenanter," he said shortly, stepping back into the room. "Come, our chamber is this way."

He ducked through an arch in the wall and pushed open a thick oak door. On her way inside, she shot one last look at the empty vaulted chamber. The garrison. She wondered if it was haunted by ghosts of dead soldiers.

Not that she believed in anything like that.

The bedchamber was enormous. A four-poster bed in its center looked dwarfed, and after the din of the wake below, the room seemed deathly quiet.

She moved to set the candle on a bedside table, the dull wooden floor sounding gritty beneath her shoes. A fire burned on the hearth, and she wondered who had built it. Jane or Cavanaugh? One of Duncraven's servants? "Are we the only ones up here?"

"Aye. The towers are mirror images. One great room and one bedchamber on each top level." With a rueful smile, he locked the door behind them. "As a child, I was terrified to come up here alone."

"I'm rather terrified now," Kendra admitted. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "After you left the place to Cromwell, how long was it before you returned?"

"Until now." Trick shrugged out of his surcoat, folding it over the back of a chair that sat before an immense carved oak desk. "My father settled my mother with relations and spirited me away to France. I was ten." Abruptly he dropped to the chair. "I never saw my mother again." His voice cracked. "And now I never will."

Kendra rose to wind her arms around his neck from behind. "Surely she knows that you cared, that you came for her."

"Maybe." Sighing, he absently slid open the top desk drawer and riffled through some papers. Dust flew out, tickling her nose. She felt him stiffen. "Sweet Mary, would you look at this."

She straightened. "What is it?"

"A letter. From Oliver Cromwell himself."

A chill ran up her spine. "We were just talking about him. How odd." Irrationally afraid to touch the evil man's writings, she kept her distance while Trick scanned the page. "When was it written?"

"Eighteenth November, 1650."

"So long ago. Almost eighteen years."

"Other than my father, I rarely remember anyone coming up here." His gaze swept the chamber. "Nothing's changed in the interim. The same bed, the same desk. It probably sat here all this time."

"What does it say?"

He looked back down to the yellowed parchment. "'I thought fit to send this trumpet to you, to let you know that, if you please to walk away with your company, and deliver the house to such as I shall send to receive it, you shall have liberty to carry off your arms and goods, and such other necessaries as you have. You have harbored such parties in your house as have basely and inhumanly murdered our men; if you necessitate me to bend my cannon against you, you may expect what I doubt you will not be pleased with. I expect your present answer, and rest your servant, O. Cromwell.'"

"Dear God." Kendra released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Words from the devil himself. Can you blame your mother for wanting to walk away?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "Father refused at first. He'd fought well and bravely in support of Charles, but when Cromwell opened fire...well, I was inside." He drew a sharp, shuddering breath, obviously remembering.

Kendra was horrified. "He opened fire with a child inside?"

"Aye. The bombardment destroyed the east parapet and tore a large cavity in the stonework—did you not see it as we came in?"

"I wasn't looking."

"At my mother's behest, Father sent word to the Lord Protector that he saw the point, and he walked away, taking me with him and never looking back."

She folded the bed's simple white coverlet back and lowered herself to the plain sheets below. "She wanted to save you."

"She wanted to save her family's castle." He turned in the chair to face her. "If she'd cared for me, she would have come along with us."

"Maybe your father wouldn't allow her."

"Maybe," Trick conceded. "He was certainly mum on the subject." He shoved the paper into the desk and slammed the drawer. "And I wouldn't blame him if he did leave her that coldly. She was no mother or wife to be proud of. Besides being a Covenanter, she was an adulteress, and—"

"You judge her harshly."

A momentary look of self-doubt crossed his face, then disappeared so fast, she wondered if she'd imagined it. "I've told you how I feel about infidelity."

She'd told him how she felt about infidelity as well, but she knew better than to bring that up. Living with three brothers had taught her how to deal with men's moods. Gingerly. "Do you remember her as being that terrible?"

"Nay, but I was only a child."

Kendra glanced down and smoothed her cranberry-colored skirts, then lifted her head to meet his gaze. "If your father and she were at odds, why do you believe everything he told you about her?"

"For the longest time, I didn't want to," he admitted. "But then so much time passed and she never, ever came for me..."

"There are two sides to every story, Trick."

If his sudden silence wasn't agreement, at least he was man enough to consider she had a point. The only sound in the chamber was that of the flames that danced in the fireplace, until at last he said, "But I'll never hear her side of it, will I?"

The pain radiated off him in waves, but she knew that now was not the time to talk about that. It was too fresh. "What is a Covenanter?" she asked instead. "I know English history by rote, and Greek and Roman, but I'm afraid I was never taught much of Scotland's past."

"I cannot say that I'm surprised," Trick said dryly, but the remark didn't sound at all disparaging, merely resigned. He leaned back in the chair and began untying his cravat. "Many men, including my mother's father, signed a document known as the National Covenant. When the Civil War broke out, the Covenanters sided with the English Parliament against the king, in return for Cromwell's promise of a religious reformation in England and Ireland, based on the Scottish Kirk."

"And Cromwell never followed through."

"Nay, he did not. But it took a long time for the Scots to realize they'd been duped."

"They'd thrown their lot in with the devil."

Nodding, he slowly drew off the cravat. "I'm afraid this castle was instrumental in Cromwell's victory. My father never forgave my mother for that."

With a flick of his wrist, the cravat landed on the desk in a flurry of frothy white. She stared at it. He was undressing. Whether or not he'd spent the whole day thinking about it, she was sure he expected to make love with her tonight.

A little ball of anxiety lodged in her middle.

She tore her gaze from the lace-trimmed linen. "My father fought with King Charles, too. And died, along with my mother. He would have sympathized with your father's stance."

His expression hardened. "Father was no saint, believe me. I liked him no more than I did my mother. I'm well rid of them both."

"Trick—" She bit her tongue. Disparaging her husband's feelings was no way to fortify their shaky relationship. She forced a gentle smile. "How does it feel having a brother?"

He smiled in return—perhaps the first smile she'd seen from him that wasn't tainted with a touch of cynicism. "He's quite nice, isn't he?" His eyes softened as his fingers worked to loosen the laces on his shirt. "I find it hard to believe he came from my mother, and—and that man."

She wasn't surprised to find he didn't care for Hamish, either. "Niall looks just like you."

"I know. It's bloody amazing." Leaning forward, he pulled off a boot. "I wish I could stay longer and get to know him. Maybe he'll come visit us at Amberley."

"That would be nice." The more of Trick's clothes that came off, the more her stomach quaked at the thought of what she'd promised last night. Too nervous to just sit there and watch, she stood and wandered over to a small arched door. "Where does this lead?"

"To another staircase, if I remember right." In stockinged feet, he padded over and unlatched the iron bar that secured the door, poking his head into the darkness beyond. His voice echoed back. "Aye, another winding stairwell. To the roof above. Prisoner's Leap."

"Prisoner's what?"

"Prisoner's Leap." He turned to her, the stairwell gaping blackly behind him. "In the old days, prisoners were brought up from the dungeons once a year and allowed a chance to gain their freedom by successfully jumping from one tower to the other. Twelve feet, with their hands tied behind their backs and a hundred-foot drop to the bottom. And no running start."

"My God. Did any of them make it?"

"I expect not." His lips turned up in a half-smile. "Maybe that's why the villagers were practicing their long jumps today."

A little shiver ran through her. "I'm not sure I like this place, Trick."

"Why? Because I had barbaric ancestors?" Although reserved, his grin did seem to lighten the room somewhat. "There's no one in the dungeons today, so far as I know."

"So far as—"

"I'm jesting." He shut the door to the stairwell, and she relaxed a little. "Come here."

"Not until you bar that door."

With a strangled laugh, he did so. "There, we're safe. Come here, Kendra. I need you tonight."

No one had ever said anything like that to her before, and they were certainly words to melt a woman's heart. Frightened as she was, she walked into his arms.

When his mouth met hers, her reservations faded away. If her head didn't remember what had made her decide she wanted him last night, her body certainly did. She knew what he could make her feel now, and she wanted that again, and more. Much more. The tinge of fear in her stomach transformed to a rush of anticipation.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and threaded her fingers in his short, silky hair. Her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue swept inside, soft and sweet, flavored with the faintest trace of the whisky he'd sipped downstairs.

He eased back to plant little kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally the sensitive hollow of her neck. He lingered there, suckling gently while his hands went to work on the front of her gown. Her own hands streaked between their bodies to tug the bottom of his shirt from his breeches.

Her stomacher dropped to the floor as she worked the shirt up his torso, his bare flesh warm against her questing palms. She yanked the shirt over his head, and he gave a frustrated laugh when his arms tangled in the full-blown sleeves.

Soon their clothes were gone, and she plastered herself against him. Ah, the give and the take, the heat and the scent, the pure pleasure of his skin touching hers. He bent his head to take her mouth, running his hands down her sides and around to cup her bottom and pull her closer still.

At the intimate contact, she felt a jolt, a flood of excitement that at the same time made her feel heavy and lethargic. Her body trembled. He smelled of soap and sandalwood, and she couldn't tell where he stopped and she started. If he wasn't holding her up, surely she'd melt to the floor in a puddle of sensation.

Slowly he backed her up and eased her onto the bed, coming down beside her. He hesitated, levering up on an elbow, his head hovering above hers. Beneath his shining gold hair, his eyes caught and held her gaze. The faint blond stubble on his chin glistened in the candlelight.

Her heart pounded, and her breath came ragged and uneven. Every fiber of her being ached for his touch, screamed for release. She turned, reaching to pull him close.

The air was rent by a strangled groan.

"I cannot do this," he gritted out and rolled away. "I cannot do this. I cannot do this with my mother lying in a box downstairs."

She felt an instant of stunned disappointment before her head cleared and her arms went around him anyway. She squeezed tight. "It's all right. I understand."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I just cannot—"

"Hush," she said. Slowly she drew air into her lungs, giving herself time to adjust, time for her body to recover. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

She sat and pulled the coverlet over them both, then lay back down. With a regretful sigh, he turned to face her and gathered her close, his hand warm against her bare back, his head heavy against her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispered once more.

And long minutes later, when her heart had calmed, for the second night in a row she fell asleep in his arms.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Still wide awake an hour later, Trick eased away from Kendra and slid from the bed. Quietly he drew on his breeches and pulled his shirt back over his head, then lit a candle and slipped from the bedchamber, closing the door softly behind him.

The stone steps felt cold and rough beneath his bare feet as he trod carefully down them. A low murmur of voices drifted up the stairwell. Arriving on the ground floor, he stopped and stared.

Annag and Niall sat before his mother's coffin. Behind it, Duncan hid, manipulating a clever arrangement of twine and twigs. A deep, unearthly "Oooooooooh" issued from his throat as he twisted his hands. Elspeth's body jumped and twitched, and Annag jumped and screeched. Rising to his feet, Duncan burst into laughter and lifted a glass of whisky in a clearly drunken toast.

Trick couldn't believe his eyes.

Niall caught his gaze and offered a small smile. He rose and came to meet him at the bottom of the stairs. "Couldn't you sleep?"

"I kept thinking of her lying down here. Cold, in a box." Trick ran a shaky hand back through his hair. "It seems so unreal. I thought I could just sneak down here and...convince myself, maybe. Sit here a while."

Niall nodded slowly, then turned to his half-siblings and raised his voice. "Give us peace, will you? Go on to bed. We'll sit with Mam alone."

Still laughing, they staggered out, taking a bottle of spirits and their glasses along with them.

The candles surrounding Elspeth's casket flickered in their wake. "Why were they sitting with her?" Trick asked after they'd stumbled out of earshot. "It's plain as anything they held her in no esteem."

"Da wouldn't like to hear they've been shirking their duty. Mam must never be left alone—they say that a corpse left alone will find the road to hell."

Knowing his mother's history, Trick imagined Hamish and Niall would worry about her finding the road to hell. He went to the coffin and set the candle he was carrying beside the others, averting his gaze from his mother's waxen face. "I feel like I should be able to talk to her. I came all the way from England to talk to her."

"Then talk to her," Niall said.

Trick sighed, wishing he had some of his brother's calm confidence—wishing he knew where to start. Owing to Duncan's prank, Elspeth's hands were no longer neatly crossed on her chest. Wincing at the sight of the twine still attached, he began to reach, then stopped.

"Fix her, will you?" he asked in a voice rough with frustration. "Get that off her."

While Niall gently did as he asked, Trick dropped into a chair, staring blindly ahead. "I would think you'd rather sit by yourself than with those two. Especially considering they accord her no respect. I cannot believe what I saw when I walked in here."

"I cannot sit alone—there must always be two on guard." Niall took the seat beside him. "And a good prank at a wake is often enjoyed, even encouraged. You don't know our ways here, Patrick. Even though you were born within these walls."

"You've the right of it there." Trick sighed. He'd never felt very English, but he didn't feel Scottish, either. He only felt confused.

"What did you want to say to her?" Niall asked. "You can say it, aye? Out loud, or in your head. Either way, she'll hear you."

"Do you think so?" He turned to gaze at his brother. "You are young yet, but wise."

Niall broke into a grin—straight, white, and as familiar as the one Trick saw in the mirror every morning when he was shaving, except none of his brother's teeth were chipped. "I don't think Annag would agree."

"Nay, I expect she wouldn't. How do you put up with those two?"

The younger man gave a sheepish shrug. "They're not as bad as they seem. I grew up with them, aye? It takes two to fight."

"And you refuse to participate."

"More or less. Of course, once in a while..." The engaging grin reappeared before he sobered. "Annag...well, her husband's dead these two years past. And her with three bairns on her own. She wasn't always so bitter."

Trick hadn't realized she was widowed. "And Duncan?"

"He's never wed—no sane woman would have the bastard." Niall scrubbed his hands hard over his face, then blinked and looked at Trick. "The three days of keening have passed, but if you've no words for Mam, perhaps the traditional ones would help."

Trick knew little of this land's traditions. "I'm listening."

Now that the rowdy mourners had gone home to bed, the great hall seemed larger, yawning huge and dark, much more like Trick had remembered. Niall took a deep breath before his voice rose in song—not the mournful, haunting wail that Trick had imagined a keening would be, but a heartfelt, melodic lament that echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling.

"Oh, Mother, ye have left us! Ochone!"

He paused and looked at Trick, his golden eyes expectant.

"Ochone? Is that some pagan god?"

"Nay, it's Gaelic. Nothing more than an expression of sorrow or regret."

"Ochone," Trick said softly, expecting to feel silly. But he didn't. Sharing the sitting duty with his brother, keening their mother together, felt right.

"Why did ye leave us? Ochone! What did we do to ye? Ochone! That ye went away from us?"

"Ochone!" Trick sang for him.

"'Tis ye that had plenty!"

"Ochone!"

"And why did ye leave us?"

"Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!" The ancient syllables slipped through Trick's lips, and some of the pain along with them.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

When dawn had broken, Trick made his way upstairs to find a gray-garbed woman in his room, her back to him as she stoked the fire on the ancient, blackened stone hearth. At the sound of him entering, she slowly straightened and turned.

He gasped. "Mrs. Ross?"

"Aye, it be me," the tiny woman said in a reedy voice, coming closer. She was shorter than he remembered, but of course he'd last seen her through the eyes of a child. Her face was even more wrinkled, if that were possible, her blue eyes faded but glittering the same as they always had. "Why, I'd recognize you anywhere, even after all these years. Patrick, dear, how fare you?"

"I'm well." The door banged louder than he would have liked when he shut it behind him, and in the bed, Kendra stirred. "How are you?" he asked Mrs. Ross. Sweet Mary, the woman must be eighty years old.

"No complaints. But your mam..." The blue eyes flooded with tears. "I don't know what happened. She went so fast..."

"Trick?" Kendra blinked herself awake. At the sight of a stranger in the room, she clutched the blanket over her naked shoulders and tucked it under her chin.

"My wife, the Duchess of Amberley," Trick introduced her. Smiling to himself, he walked over to smooth her sleep-mussed hair. "Good morning, leannan. No need to blush—it's only Mrs. Ross, my old nurse."

"And his mam's before him," the older woman added.

"I haven't thought of her as Mam in eighteen years," he murmured. "She's Mother to me now."

Mrs. Ross's thin, bluish lips straightened into a disapproving line. "She was never Mother to you, and well you know it. She was much warmer than that. And why did you not write her, aye?" Her expression hardening, the bird-like woman came near and whacked him on the shoulder, although not without a modicum of affection. "Eighteen years and you never once answered one of that poor woman's letters."

Trick rubbed his shoulder. "What the hell are you talking about? She never sent me a letter."

"The devil she didn't. She cried for weeks after your father dragged you away. Then she started writing the letters—"

"I never received any letters," Trick insisted.

But Mrs. Ross wasn't listening. "—every week at first, then every month, and then, when she never heard back, once a year. Until finally she gave up. You broke her heart, Patrick Iain. I knew you were a bairn yet, but I thought I'd taught you better—"

"Mrs. Ross!"

The woman jumped and started twittering, and Kendra clapped her hands over her ears, her eyes wide as round portholes.

He waited until his old nurse quieted before continuing. "I never received her letters. Did you hear me, Mrs. Ross? I never received her letters. Not one."

She stilled, studying him for a long moment. "Did he keep them from you, then?" she whispered and burst into tears.

He gathered her fragile frame into his arms. "There, Mrs. Ross. I know you miss her." Patting her on the back, he silently cursed his father—the blackguard—for hiding the mail. And himself for never considering the possibility. "Mother wouldn't want you to be sad."

"Your mam was like a daughter to me." She raised her tear-stained face. "A woman isn't supposed to outlive her children."

He pulled back and nodded, and they gazed at each other until Kendra shifted on the bed and cleared her throat. "What was she like, Mrs. Ross?"

The old nurse dashed the tears from her wrinkled cheeks and sat herself down. The bulky oak armchair dwarfed her. "She was good. A good woman, Elspeth. She had no easy life."

Kendra slanted Trick a glance, knowing he didn't want to hear this, but also knowing he should. "How is it she came to marry the duke?"

"Him." The woman looked as though she wanted to spit. "King Charles—the first one—arranged the match. Part of his plan to Anglicize Scotland." She twisted her bony fingers in her lap, her voice going softer, as though it were coming from far away. "And my poor Elspeth was so in love with Hamish Munroe...but her father had never liked the lad. Too common for his tastes. A third son, and a businessman besides, buying flax for the weaving and then selling the cloth. He made a fine living, but Elspeth's father was the laird, and he expected better for his daughter. The Stuarts had made him an earl, but that didn't make him English."

"Of course not," Kendra said gently, noting that Trick seemed to be studying his bare toes. "My husband told me his grandfather signed the Covenant."

"Aye, the old earl was a bit of a rebel. It's in the blood. But still and all, he was happy enough when the king matched his daughter with a duke. He forced poor Elspeth into it."

Thinking of her own forced marriage, Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "How?"

"You don't want to know." The nurse's lips pressed tight, and Kendra knew that her brothers' matchmaking had been nothing like Trick's grandfather's. Unlike Elspeth, deep down she knew a small part of her had wanted to wed Trick. And she also knew her brothers wouldn't have pushed her into the marriage if that hadn't been so.

"She was unhappy all her days," Mrs. Ross continued. "Even after the duke left her alone to reclaim her lost love, she never recovered from the loss of her son." She brushed at her gray skirts and stood. "Well, I'd best be off about my duties," she said, looking to Kendra. "Welcome to Duncraven, your grace."

"My pleasure. I hope we can talk more later."

"Aye, we can. After we bury my Elspeth." With a long, miserable sniff and a swish of her skirts, she sailed from the room.

Kendra waited until the door clicked closed behind her, then released a heartfelt sigh. "Oh, how terribly romantic. Doesn't it give you the shivers?"

"Doesn't what give me the shivers?" Trick opened a cabinet and started pulling out clean clothes.

"Thinking about Elspeth and Hamish, in love all those years. And finally getting to be together." While his back was safely turned, she slid from between the sheets and hurried into her chemise. Relieved, she made her way over to look for a suitable gown to wear to a burial. She wondered what would be an appropriate way to wear her hair. She would have to send for Jane to come up and style it. "Now that I've heard your mother and Hamish's story, I'm so glad she invited him to live with her here. Maybe they found a bit of happiness, after all."

"Maybe my mother sent me letters. But that didn't make her a good woman." He shook out a shirt, then stripped off the one he was wearing, a long pull of his muscles as he drew it over his head. Kendra watched, enjoying the view more than she'd be willing to admit. "She was still an adulteress, and a Covenanter, and she betrayed—"

"Did you not hear a word your nurse said about what happened between her and Hamish?" Pulling out a forest-green dress, she sighed and held it up. "This is the darkest thing I brought. Do you suppose I'll be scorned for not wearing black?" She turned it around and frowned at the low, scooped neckline. "What will Hamish think? I noticed yesterday that the women here wear more on top."

He blinked at her. "Your top looks fine to me. Niall knows you didn't come here expecting to attend a funeral. And I cannot imagine why you'd care what anyone else thinks. Hamish, especially." He put on the clean shirt, then began to unlace his breeches. "I feel sorry for the old man, but that doesn't mean I like him. He lived in sin with my mother—"

"I suppose, then, that you've never bedded a woman without the benefit of wedlock."

His long fingers fumbled on the laces. "Will you stop interrupting me every time I try to make a point?"

Ignoring that request, she stared at him a long moment, until he lifted his head to meet her gaze. "Well?" she pushed.

"You know very well I was experienced when I took you to my bed."

Clearly fuming, he remained silent while he hopped on one foot and then the other to remove the breeches. Half annoyed, half amused, her gaze followed the breeches down, but his long shirt covered the interesting parts.

She blushed when he caught her looking, but he only crossed his arms and leveled her with a glare so fierce that, had he been a Gorgon, she would surely have turned to stone. "I've already told you I don't hold with infidelity. I've never slept with a married woman."

"Congratulations. You're probably the only male member of Charles's court who can say so." She dropped the green gown over her head and wiggled it into place. "Hamish and your mother were victims, Trick. They shared a love that lasted decades—a love the thought of which melts me inside. A perfect love, like my own parents'." Threading the laces across her bodice, she looked up. "How can you think to deny them what little happiness they found?"

"I haven't the choice to deny or allow it, do I? What's done is done. That doesn't mean I have to like it. Or them."

A knock came at the door, and she yanked her laces tight and reached for her stomacher while he stomped over to answer it.

"What now?"

Dressed in a red kilt, Niall took a startled step back. He turned to leave, taking with him an armful of matching plaid wool.

Trick reached to grab his elbow. "Forgive me, Niall. I thought you were Mrs. Ross. Not that I should have been barking at her, either." He blew out a breath before turning to face Kendra. "And I'm sorry I was so short-tempered with you."

"I understand," she said softly. The stomacher safely attached, she smoothed her skirts and put a hand to her disheveled hair.

Niall didn't seem to notice it, however. "Patrick didn't get any sleep," he told her.

"Did you not?" She cocked her head at her husband speculatively. "Any at all?"

"Nay. Niall and I stayed up with Mam." Kendra thought she caught a look of surprise when he heard his own use of the name. "We did some keening."

"Did you?" She couldn't imagine.

"Ochone!" Trick sang, the word vibrating up to the beamed ceiling, and Niall laughed, breaking the tension.

"Come in," her husband said, closing the door behind his brother.

Niall aimed a glance at Trick's bare legs and then held out the length of red tartan. "I've brought you this."

Trick made no move to take it.

"I thought you might like to wear it to the burial."

"My father wasn't Scottish."

"Your mother was." Niall pushed the woolen fabric into Trick's arms, along with a wide leather belt. "Wear it in her honor. Just this once. She'd have been proud to see you in it."

A long silence stretched between them while Trick shifted the cloth in his hands, a range of conflicting emotions playing across his face. "I don't know how to wear it," he said at last.

His brother's smile managed to look sad, pleased, and relieved, all at the same time. "That I can help you with." He placed the belt on the floor and crouched beside it, his own kilt skimming the wooden planks as he folded the plaid into pleats and arranged it on top of the leather. "Lie down on this," he instructed.

Trick's lips quirked. "You're jesting."

"Nay. The only way to get it on properly is to lie down."

Kendra squelched a laugh as her husband looked askance at his brother, then sighed and lowered his big frame to the floor.

"Nay, move up," Niall said. "The belt must be at your waist." After Trick scooted higher, his brother went about wrapping the pleated material around him and belting it securely. "Now you can stand," he said, offering him a hand up.

Trick flexed his knees experimentally while Niall took the large expanse of fabric above the belt and tucked it into the front, crisscrossing it to make what was essentially two big pockets. Then he drew up the extra cloth in back and draped it over Trick's shoulders.

Trick took a few steps, watching the kilt sway around his knees.

"Feels odd," he said. "What is worn underneath?"

Niall glanced down at his own kilt. "Nothing is worn. Everything underneath is in good working order." He looked up with an engaging grin.

Kendra's gaze drifted over to her husband, who looked mildly scandalized. He also looked devastatingly handsome. Better even than he had in his black highwayman garb, or maybe it was just knowing there was nothing underneath.

The very thought of that brought heat to her cheeks.

"Well?" Niall asked, and she glanced up to find both men focused on her. "How does he look?"

She felt her cheeks burn even hotter. "F-fine," she managed.

"I cannot wait to get it off," Trick grumbled.

Neither could she.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Led by a piper with a black pennant tied to his pipes, Trick and Niall headed the eight bearers carrying their mother's coffin from the castle down to the little kirk. Behind them, family, friends, and castle staff followed along in a rather informal procession.

"Why aren't there more women?" Kendra asked in a low voice from where she walked beside Trick, modestly wrapped in a homely brown shawl she'd borrowed from Mrs. Ross. Her hair was constrained in a plaited bun.

"Most of the women usually remain at the home," Niall explained. "They'll be preparing for the return of the mourners. And keeping my father company. It's not customary for a husband to attend his wife's burial."

"And she was his wife in his heart, I'm sure of it."

Her romantic sigh set Trick's teeth on edge. "Hamish couldn't have come along, anyway. Not in his state of health."

"Well, it's nice to know his illness isn't keeping him from something he'd regret missing later." She leaned close to Trick. "Hardly anyone is wearing black," she observed beneath her breath.

"It's unnecessary to wear black in order to pay your respects," Niall said, obviously overhearing her. "Not everyone can afford special clothes for mourning."

After that, she kept quiet. The bagpipe music was loud, the notes sad and lingering. All too soon they were gathered in the small graveyard, and the solemn tune came to an end. The single wreath of heather was removed from atop the oak coffin, and the lid was lifted for one last time.

Stepping closer, Trick peered inside, trying to memorize his mother's features and reconcile them with his faded childhood memories. Had she been the warm woman he sometimes saw in his dreams, or the cold one his father had told him about? What had they said, those letters he'd never read? Had they been written out of duty, or had the pages been spattered with her tears?

Knowing this was his last chance, he reached to touch her.

Her body felt cold and unreal, and touching it did nothing to banish the ghosts of her from his mind, as Niall had said it was meant to do. A shiver ran through him. Their rocky past would always stand between him and what should be happy memories.

Others came forward to pay their respects and touch his mother, then two men moved to replace the lid. Trick bent down with it as it was lowered into place, catching a final glimpse of her face.

"Good-bye," he whispered, and Kendra squeezed his hand.

He hadn't even realized she'd been holding it.

A short service was read, but he didn't hear what was spoken. His mind was numb, the words filtered through a haze. He shuffled his feet on the soft green grass, his gaze wandering the gentle mounds that marked where bodies lay, many of their headstones rendered smooth and unreadable by the ravages of weather and time.

A bell was rung; then the mourners filed past the tree where it hung, dropping coins into the plate below as they went. Burial silver. For form's sake, he imagined—surely the Dowager Duchess of Amberley wouldn't need help to defray her funeral expenses.

Or would she? He admittedly knew nothing of his parents' financial arrangements. Upon his father's death, he'd clearly failed in his duty as a son. And now it was too late.

He cursed himself roundly, if silently.

The mournful whine of the bagpipes rose again, and people began drifting out of the little cemetery. As he turned to leave, Kendra came around to face him and took both his hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He shrugged. "It's not that I'll miss her, precisely."

"But you'll miss what could have been."

She was wise, his new wife. Her fingers tightened on his before she dropped his hands and turned to Niall. Without hesitation, Trick's brother walked into her arms and stayed there, his shoulders hitching while she murmured words of comfort.

She was not only wise, Trick amended, but compassionate. She would make a good mother for their children. If only he could gain her trust.

But secrets stood between them, and it wasn't yet time for the truth.

At long last Niall pulled away and gave Kendra a shaky smile. "Thank you."

"I'm your sister now," she said kindly. "And you've no one here, Niall. Your mother is gone, your father is ill, and your sister and brother—" She broke off. "I'm here for you."

"I'm here for you, too," Trick put in, surprised how good it felt to say that. To be needed by someone, and to need him as well. He hadn't had that in eighteen years, and he'd never thought he'd have it again.

Despite all his father's tales of his mother's treason and treachery, he looked at the stoic backs of the people walking toward Duncraven and knew that once upon a time he'd felt happy in this place. Even living in that forbidding gray keep at the top of the hill.

And now here was a brother, needing him. And a wife, if only he could break down the barriers between them.

Clouds were gathering again, and the air held that elusive scent that meant wet weather was on the way. He pulled the wool tartan around his shoulders as they began following the others.

"What happens now back at the castle?" Kendra asked.

"A draidgie," Niall said. "Entertainment, dancing, drinking, eating. Some tears and some merriment."

"More merriment?" She looked incredulous.

"To celebrate the life of the one who passed on. A time to wish the departed spirit a safe landing on the other side."

She nodded, apparently accepting what Trick was coming to realize: Things were different here. Not bad or wrong, just different.

Still, they were both surprised at Niall's next words to Trick.

"Are you ready for a good fight?"

Niall stomped into the great hall, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let loose a loud, piercing whistle that had every head snapping in his direction.

The jabbering tapered to an expectant silence.

He drew a deep breath and raised his voice. "It's a sad day when my mother is put into the ground and not even one blow is struck at her funeral!" And without another word, he turned and slapped the nearest man.

Instantly, the chamber erupted in a free-for-all. Colorful tartans whirled in a blur. Food and drink went flying, trestle tables were overturned, and chairs were tossed aside.

Along with the other women, Kendra backed against a wall, not caring that it was rough and probably grungy. She clutched Mrs. Ross's shawl to her chest, unable to believe her eyes. No fists were used, but the sounds of open-handed slaps rang in her ears as family and friends went at each other with enthusiasm.

She watched as Trick delivered a stinging slap to Duncan, who retaliated with a blow across the mouth that had her husband backhanding blood from his lips. But he flashed her a chipped-tooth grin, then pivoted on a heel and slapped a perfect stranger.

He looked to be enjoying himself immensely.

"Men," she muttered under her breath.

The woman beside her shook her head, her gray-brown plaits swishing along with it. "I'll never understand them."

"You want mine?" another woman asked.

A good ten minutes passed before Niall decided enough violence had been done to pay the proper respect to his mother, and finally called for a truce.

Still grinning, Trick made his way over to Kendra. "Could you believe that?"

"No," she said flatly.

"Me, neither. I've never seen anything like it. But it felt good, aye?" He paused for a satisfying breath. "I was angry. I've been angry since I got here. I didn't want to come in the first place, then my mother was dead—"

"But you discovered a brother."

He rolled right over that. "It felt good to whack some people. Cleansing."

With a wry smile, she shook her head, and he smiled back, then winced and put a hand to his mouth. "Are you hurting?" she asked.

"Not enough to care." As if to prove it, he dragged her close and pressed his lips to hers. She tasted the faint coppery tang of blood, and then, as he opened his mouth, the warm, sweet slickness that she was learning to think of as Trick.

Her hands went around him, sliding beneath the folds of his plaid to feel the planes of his back under his fine lawn shirt. He leaned into her, and she felt the clear evidence of his arousal through her skirts and the kilt. The kilt with nothing underneath.

The thought turned her legs to pudding, and she sagged in his arms. "Is something amiss?" he asked with a grin, setting her away. Her plaited bun was beginning to unravel, and he tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.

Mrs. Ross's shawl slipped from her shoulders to the floor. "Goodness." She pressed her hand to her racing heart as her gaze traced down his body. The red kilt seemed rather primitive apparel, and it awakened a matching primitiveness inside her. She'd never imagined a man's bare knees could be so exciting.

She knelt to reclaim the shawl, sneaking a peek beneath the tartan as she came back up, but it was too dark under there to see anything. On this cloudy day, the dozens of candles in the chandeliers overhead were all but useless against Duncraven's gloom.

Trick's lips quirked in a knowing smile as he took the shawl from her and settled it back in place. "I asked Niall what leannan means," he said.

"And?" She reached down, her fingers skimming the kilt's hem.

"Sweetheart." He rubbed a gentle thumb beneath her chin, then bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. "It means sweetheart."

Something went melty inside her. "I want to reach under here," she whispered.

"Is that so?" Leaning closer to shield her from view, he traced a finger down her throat and into the low neckline of her very English dress. "We'll have to accommodate you, then. But not here."

At the word here, his expression sobered, as though he'd just remembered what had happened here today. He dropped his hand and smoothed down the front of his kilt. "Sweet Mary, I'm tired."

"You didn't get any sleep."

Her gaze followed his as he looked around the gathering. A few thoughtful souls were helping tidy the worst of the brawl's aftermath, but most folk were back to eating and downing spirits. Their chatter seemed to grow louder in proportion to the drink they consumed.

"I think maybe I'll lie down a spell," he said.

"Shall I come with you?"

"Nay." He scrubbed his palms over his face, avoiding her gaze. "I'm really tired."

She tried to ignore the rush of disappointment. "Perhaps I'll go sit with Hamish a while."

"You do that. It's a difficult day for him."

He started to leave, but she snagged him by the sleeve. "It's a difficult day for you, too, Trick."

When he shrugged and pulled away, she let him go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"How is he doing, dearie?"

Startling from a doze when Hamish's old friend Rhona came into the room, Kendra bolted upright on her chair. "He slept the whole hour I was here." For the hundredth time since she'd entered the chamber, her gaze darted to the bed and she was relieved to see Hamish still breathing.

Rhona touched a hand to her shoulder. "I thank you for sitting with him. It was a welcome respite."

"I can stay longer."

"Nay, you run along now," she said, settling to her embroidery. "Down at the draidgie, all the young people are telling ghost stories."

Kendra slowly rose. "If you're sure, then." At Rhona's nod, she slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.

She didn't want to hear ghost stories—this bleak castle gave her shivers as it was. Deciding to check on her husband, she made her way up the dozens of winding stone stairs.

He wasn't in their chamber.

Someone had made their bed after they'd left, and it was clearly undisturbed. He hadn't come up to rest at all. Disappointed that he'd apparently fibbed to get away from her, she wandered to the room's only window, deep in an alcove set into the wall. Resting her palms on the cold stone sill, she leaned out and looked up at the sky.

Gray, to match her mood. The clouds were moving swiftly; rain was on the way. A blackbird fluttered from the heavens and down to the garden below, spreading its wings to make a graceful landing on a stone bench.

Right next to a figure clad in a bright red kilt.

He was hunched over something in his lap. Something white. Paper. The man who'd told her he never wrote anything was outside scribbling up a storm.

She hurried downstairs, huffing and puffing by the time she reached the bottom, and headed for the door.

Niall caught her on her way out. "Why such a rush, lass? Is something amiss?"

"N-no." Of course nothing was amiss—in the midst of catching her breath, Kendra wondered for a moment just exactly what she'd been rushing out to do. Yell at Trick for not taking a nap? Or for pouring his heart out on paper? He was a grown man, entitled to do as he pleased, especially on a disturbing day like this one.

She forced a smile for her brother-in-law. "Nothing is wrong. I thought I'd just go out and take some air."

The bagpiper was warming up discordantly, and a fiddler was busy tuning. "The dancing is about to begin," Niall told her.

She looked around, noticing the tables and chairs had been pushed against the walls. "There's really going to be dancing?"

"Aye, there is. Mam would have expected us to celebrate her life rather than the death that ended it." The musicians launched into a jaunty tune, and Niall made an incongruously solemn bow. "Are you dancin'?"

She could see that he was trying very hard to keep what he considered to be the proper draidgie outlook, although she was sure he ached deep inside. Her heart went out to him. No matter that dancing today seemed wrong to her, she dropped a curtsy and gave him the answer he was expecting.

"Are you asking?"

With a low laugh that reminded her of Trick's, he twirled her into the center of the room.

The dance was performed by four couples in a circle, and it took all of Kendra's concentration to follow it. Halfway through the complicated pattern, she was already breathless and realized she had little time to think on her troubles, and neither did Niall.

Perhaps dancing on a day like this wasn't such a bad idea, after all.

When the tune ended, he took her by the elbow to draw her from the floor. "My father wants to talk to you and your husband," he said conversationally.

Surprised she hadn't lost it, she resettled the shawl on her shoulders. "He's sleeping."

"Patrick?"

"No, Hamish. Trick is out in the garden."

"Ah, then it was him you were rushing out to see." The music started again, and couples began forming a double line down the middle of the chamber. "Why do you call him Trick?" Niall asked.

"A childhood name. His father called him that."

"But Mam didn't." He sighed. "So much I don't know about my brother."

"He doesn't know you, either. But he'd like to, I'm sure."

He gave her a sad, gentle smile. "He won't be staying long enough to get to know me."

"Not this time. But he'll be back. I'll make certain of it."

"Now, that I don't doubt." The low laugh rang out again. "I saw you two kissing earlier, and I'd wager you could make him do anything."

She felt her face heat. She'd never thought of herself as a woman who could persuade with kisses. With words, yes—having been raised a Chase, she could argue with the best of them. But she'd never been much of a flirt, let alone a seductress.

Pleased at the thought, she grinned. "Thank you for the dance, Niall."

"My pleasure." The second dance was ending, but another would start soon. "Will you do me the honor again?"

"Maybe later. I've a man to meet in the garden." And hopefully persuade to open up and share himself with her...with kisses, if necessary.

"Trick."

Her voice was gentle, but he still startled, quickly flipping the paper facedown on the bench beside him. He'd been so entrenched in his thoughts, he hadn't heard her approach.

Her soft sigh belied her smile. "You shouldn't chew on your quill."

He swept it from his mouth. "I know," he agreed shortly, helpless to stop the annoyance he felt at being caught writing—something he'd hidden all his life. He took a calming breath. "It's how I chipped my tooth. What are you doing out here?"

"What are you doing out here?"

"Nothing." Fiddling with the quill in his hands, he looked up at the sky. "I couldn't sleep."

"Did you try to sleep?"

He was silent a few beats before dropping his gaze to meet hers. "Not really. I...I was writing." Silly that it seemed hard to admit, but there was no point in lying, seeing as she'd found him in the act.

Her expression seemed wary, reserved; then her gaze went to his kilt and she licked her lips. Remembering what she'd said earlier, he bit back a smile as she met his eyes.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "May I read some of what you wrote?"

His hand moved protectively to the thin stack of paper. "Why would you want to?"

"What you write is part of you, Trick."

True, but not the best part. What spilled out onto paper was often the parts of himself he didn't like.

"Is it poetry?" she asked.

"Aye. It's just poetry. Pretty words that sound good together. Meaningless."

"It wouldn't be meaningless to me."

Hurt dulled her eyes, and he looked away, wishing he had it in him to give her what she wanted. Rolling the sheets into a narrow tube, he tucked it into the pocketed front of his kilt. "Come, let's walk. The garden is quite whimsical."

He took her down a path where dozens of tiny model castles nestled in the shrubbery on either side. "The castle garden," she said with a smile, brightening with a determination that didn't fool him. "How very clever."

"It was my mother's doing. When I was a lad, she spent hours out here every summer. And when winter kept her inside, she designed and built the little castles. Sometimes she let me help." Their footsteps crunched on the gravel path. "Of course, Father thought it was a waste of time."

"What did he want her to be doing instead?"

"I don't know." He'd never wanted to know; not knowing had felt safer. "I was but a child, and I never did understand them or the way they were together."

"Was he a difficult man to live with, your father?"

Difficult didn't even begin to describe the late Duke of Amberley. "I cannot say what living with him was like for her, but for me, it was a living hell."

She slipped her hand into his. "He had high expectations for you, did he?"

"No. At least not in the way you're thinking." He felt as tired as he knew his voice sounded, drained and numb. "I was naught but a means to an end. A pawn in his game. It's safer to send a child to do the dangerous work, you see. Nobody would expect a child to be smuggling goods in his clothing. Nor would they see a child alone on a hill with a lantern, night after long, cold night, and suspect he was there to signal in ships."

"He had you do those things?"

"Those are the tamer examples." Her question sounded so innocent, the sympathy in her eyes so acute, he couldn't bring himself to burst her naïve bubble with any details. Besides, he didn't have the energy to go into it. Or the will.

"And when you were older?"

"He found different ways of using me." He stopped on the path. There were some things best left unremembered. "Must we talk about this now?"

There was a long pause while she seemed to come to a decision. "No, of course not," she said with a smile he suspected was forced. "Your mother's castle garden is charming. It's quite secluded back here, isn't it?"

"Aye, it is that." The trees made a leafy avenue, shielding them from prying eyes. "No one has ventured back here for an hour or more."

"Hmm..." she said speculatively, the smile turning real.

"Hmm? What do you have in mind?"

"Only this." And she backed him against a poplar, leaning up on her toes to crush her mouth to his.

After a stunned moment, he responded, gathering her into his arms, letting her lips and body comfort him the way words never could. She'd rejected him for so long that he found himself wallowing in her sudden acceptance. Her soft fragrance surrounded him, more potent than aged whisky.

A long, intense minute later, he drew his head to the side, still holding her close. "You've never kissed me first before. What's gotten into you, leannan?"

Silent save for the uneven sound of her breathing, she searched his eyes. The wind came up, sending the poplar's white-bottomed leaves into a silvery dance, and she leaned back in his arms. "It's this kilt, Trick. It drives me wild."

Though he was sure it was something more than that, he grinned and tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I will have to ask Niall if I can keep it."

"The idea is not displeasing."

"But only if you kiss me again," he added, then lowered his mouth to hers before she had a chance.

This new passion of hers made him desperate and demanding. He kissed her again and again, trying to lose himself in her. She leaned into him, slipping her hands under the plaid to rest against his shirt. Beneath her fingertips, the beat of his heart matched hers that he could feel through her gown. Frantic.

Pulling away, he pressed his forehead hard against hers. "Is this wrong?" he asked in a whisper. A strangled whisper, because he knew the answer.

Another gust of wind sent the brown shawl flying, but she let it go. "No, of course it's not wrong." Scant inches away, her eyes looked confused. "We're married, Trick."

"That's not what I meant." How the hell could he keep her at arm's length for the sake of respect, when after all these weeks she'd finally come around? He wanted her to understand. He wanted to understand, himself. "I buried my mother today. And now I want...I want only to be with you. To have you. As though her death, her life, didn't matter."

"Of course she mattered." Her hands clenched on his shoulders; her eyes cleared of the confusion and filled with concern instead. "It's natural, Trick. To want to reach out, reconnect. With people, with living. Like the draidgie, don't you see? Niall said it was to celebrate your mother's life, rather than dwelling on the death that ended it. It cannot be wrong."

She made a sort of sense, and he wanted to be convinced. Powerless to resist, when she touched her lips to his, his shoulders relaxed beneath her fingertips. The kiss turned from sweet to devouring, and for a long, euphoric minute, Kendra was the center of his world.

The only person, it seemed, who had ever really cared.

"I don't deserve you," he whispered, wondering when this would end. Because everything good in his life always did.

A soft smile on her lips, she went on tiptoe to kiss him again.

"Patrick! Kendra!" Niall's voice slashed through the leaves overhead.

Trick tightened his hold around her waist. "What does he want?" he muttered against her mouth. When his brother appeared on the tree-lined path, he dropped his arms and groaned.

"Da is awake," Niall said. "And this seems to be one of his good days. He wants to talk to you both."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Elspeth wasn't dying." Though Hamish was still in bed, he was sitting up for the first time since Kendra had met him. "When she wrote that letter, she was in perfect health."

His voice was strong and sure, which Kendra hoped meant he was getting better. Seated at his bedside next to Trick, she reached to touch one of his hands. "Perhaps she was already ill but didn't want to tell you."

"Nay, lass. Elspeth and I kept no secrets."

A look of disbelief crossed Trick's face. "Why, then?" he demanded. "Why would she have written saying she was dying if she wasn't?"

"She wanted to see you," Hamish said simply. "She was hoping the thought of her death would bring you here to Duncraven, even though you'd never answered any of her other letters."

"I never received any of her other letters."

"So Mrs. Ross informed me quite tearfully this morning."

"But you didn't believe her."

Hamish blinked. "Of course I believed her. What makes you imagine I'd think the worst of you, Patrick? If you say you never received the letters, I take you at your word."

A faint pink stained Trick's neck. "My father must have intercepted them."

Kendra took his hand and squeezed, feeling tension coursing through him. He didn't want to be here, talking about this. He wanted to be back in the garden. He'd grumbled as much to her three times on their long trek up the stairs.

"Your father..." Hamish's fingers tapped an irritated tattoo on the coverlet. "I wouldn't put destroying her letters past him, I can tell you that."

Trick set down the goblet of whisky he'd snatched in the great hall and brought along with him upstairs. "I assure you, sir, I didn't hold him in any higher esteem than you did."

Sitting on the bed beside his father, Niall sipped from his own glass of spirits. "Da, do want to tell Patrick why Mam summoned him?"

Trick's gaze snapped to his brother's. "Did she not just want to see me, then? Had she another reason?"

"Aye," Hamish said, "and it's a long story I have to tell you. A story about the first King Charles and his ill-fated visit here to Scotland."

"What could that have to do with—"

"Just listen." Looking toward the closed door to ensure their privacy, Hamish settled back against his pillows for the telling. "Charles was born here, as you know, but left when he was yet a bairn, and we Scots heard tell he rather fancied himself an Englishman." He took a small sip of the green concoction Rhona had left him, then grimaced and held out a hand for Niall's drink. "Still and all, Charles was our king—a Scottish king. The nobles insisted on a second coronation, on Scottish soil with the Scottish crown jewels. Thirty-five years ago, in the eighth year of his reign, he finally assented to the visit."

Intrigued, Kendra leaned forward. "Had he not been home in all that time?"

"He didn't think of it as home, as you will soon see." Hamish drank, closing his eyes for a long, contented moment as the whisky slipped down his throat. "Excitement was rampant," he said after smacking his lips. "Everyone threw themselves into the preparations. Roads were fixed and bridges were repaired. Thatched roofs were replaced with shingles, lest the king should think us poor. All in all, a great deal of money was paid out to improve and decorate the Royal route and show we were as good as the English. We hoped to appeal to his Scottishness, so he'd let up on us and allow us to live as we saw fit."

He paused for another sip. "But it soon became clear that he wanted to forget his origins. He arrived here for a month-long tour with a baggage train two miles long. Fifty wagons, two bishops, dozens of courtiers. Along the way, they stopped to lodge with our Scottish nobles, bankrupting them one by one with all of their costly demands. On a whim, Charles would change his itinerary, bypassing the places that had been so carefully prepared and making it clear he wasn't impressed with the preparations anyway. He treated us as inferiors when we hoped he'd relate to us as the Scot he was by birth."

Trick's thumb kept teasing the palm of Kendra's hand, and his lips quirked when she shivered in response. He didn't seem to be paying attention to the story at all.

"When the coronation finally took place, it wasn't the traditional Scots one that had been planned, but an elaborate religious ceremony instead. A Church of England ritual. The people were aghast to learn such Popishness and blasphemy had taken place in a Scottish kirk."

Apparently listening more than she'd guessed, Trick grimaced. "I expect they were angry as hell."

The older man nodded. "His actions incited a rebellion that eventually led to his end. But I get ahead of myself." He wetted his papery lips. "After the coronation, his last scheduled stop was at nearby Falkland Palace. All the local nobles were invited, and your mother went, of course, along with her family. Every able-bodied commoner was drafted to help with the banquet, myself among them, although I wasn't even Niall's age yet."

"Did the banquet go badly?" Kendra asked, pulling her fingers from Trick's.

"Not at all. We all thought it a roaring success, the entertainment more impressive than any we'd ever seen. But by then Charles had tired of Scotland—no doubt as much as we had tired of him—and at three the next morning, he woke the household and announced that he'd decided to leave immediately. Everyone at Falkland scrambled to ready his belongings for travel."

"What sorts of belongings?" Kendra asked as Trick reached over and took her hand again, resting it on his lap and trapping it there with his own hand on top. Neither Niall nor Hamish seemed to notice, but, scandalized, she couldn't help thinking what was beneath that fabric under her hand.

Nothing.

"You wouldn't have believed what he'd brought along," Hamish was saying, his gaze glazed with memory. "My eyes boggled, they did. Besides clothing and furnishings fit for a palace—he slept in his own Royal bed—King Charles traveled with his household goods, personal treasures, jewelry, and his entire kitchen including the Royal plate. Half a ton of silver and gold. Not for him to be eating off plain Scottish dishes or drinking from plain Scottish cups. It was this we were ordered to help pack for his return to London."

Beneath Kendra's hand, Trick stirred, and her palm tingled. "I-it must have taken you all night."

"The smells of the banquet still hung in the air, and we had but a few hours to get it done. Charles couldn't wait to leave. At first light, he set out. On the journey up they had crossed the River Forth by the bridge at Stirling, but this day the king was too impatient to take the long way around. His men found three boats to cross the firth from Burntisland to Leith and loaded two of them with as much as they possibly could. When it wouldn't all fit, Charles insisted the rest be loaded anyway, till everything was aboard and the vessels rode low in the water."

Trick frowned and shifted, draping an arm around Kendra's shoulders. "Were you there to see it?"

"Nay, but I've heard stories. It was storming something awful, that I do remember. The wind blew stronger and the waves tossed the boats as they piled the treasure chests aboard. King Charles was rowed to the third vessel while his domestics and servants went with his goods. Twenty-five people on one of those boats...but only two lived to tell the tale."

"Oh, no," Kendra said. "What happened?"

"The rest of them ended up at the bottom of the Firth of Forth, along with the treasure. Safe aboard another boat, Charles could see the vessel founder and sink, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing anyone could do to save any of those lives."

A chilling vision. Kendra leaned against Trick's side, taking comfort from his warmth. "Charles must have been furious."

"Aye, that he was. Folk claimed the sinking was an act of God to avenge his religious misdeeds, but he decided that witches were responsible and rounded up people to punish. It was injustice of this sort that led to our siding with the Roundheads in the Civil War, wrong though we were to do so."

Trick's fingers traced lazy circles on Kendra's shoulder, and her free hand fisted in her lap. The one on his lap felt hot against the wool. Keeping her face passive, she nodded at Hamish. "Were the chests ever recovered?"

"Nay, lass, for the Forth is cold and deep. They lie there to this day."

He briefly closed his eyes. Eyes that looked familiar, Kendra thought and wondered why.

"But the treasure," he said when he opened them, "is not in those chests."

Trick's hand stilled on her shoulder. "Pardon?"

"You must understand, the people were angry well before the witch hunt. After the banquet, your mother stole from her chamber and met me in the storeroom along with Rhona and Gregor—the four of us were best of friends, even then. The Yeoman of the Buttery had been charged with packing the kitchen, which included the Royal plate. John Ferries was his name. Shorthanded, he was, and willing to accept whatever help he could find. So we helped."

He fell silent.

Trick reached for his goblet. Niall put a hand over his father's atop the coverlet. "Tell them how you helped, Da."

Hamish sighed. "First we helped get John Ferries drunk. Then we helped fill the chests, but not with gold and silver plate..." He drew a long breath, a dramatic pause. "With rocks."

Trick choked on a sip of his spirits. "Rocks?" he repeated incredulously.

"Aye." Shifting on the bed, Hamish looked less than proud of what he'd done. "The treasure we spirited away. Poor John Ferries' body washed up on shore shortly thereafter, so the secret remained between the four of us. The Royal plate remains hidden to this day."

"Where?" Kendra breathed.

"If you're willing, I'll send Niall to show you. First thing tomorrow."

Trick failed to see the point. Intriguing as the story might be, he was planning to leave for home tomorrow. He needed to complete the king's mission. And make a fresh start with Kendra.

He gave her hand in his lap an experimental squeeze, smiling to himself when the pulse at her wrist sped up. "It's an interesting tale, but what does this have to do with my mother's summons?"

"She hoped—we hoped—that you'd return the treasure to its rightful owner. King Charles II."

Disappointment scraped a raw place inside him. His mother hadn't been wishing for a reconciliation. Like his father, she'd wanted only to use him for her own ends.

"They never sold even one piece," Niall put in, a transparent attempt to make light of his parents' wrongdoing. "It's all been locked away in twenty-three chests for thirty-five years."

Hamish nodded. "You must believe me, we didn't take it to enrich ourselves. It was a prank, an act of revenge. We were young enough—angry enough—to risk such folly. And although we were fortunate in that our rocks sank and were never discovered, the misdeed has preyed on our minds ever since."

It would, Trick supposed. But the fate of his mother's soul was in God's hands now, and he wasn't responsible for unburdening this old man's conscience.

Without Hamish, perhaps Elspeth would have come to love her husband, or at least learned to live with him, and Trick would have had a family. He owed this old man nothing.

Hamish took a long, bracing sip from Niall's cup. "Charles was beheaded—he paid for his actions. His son is a better man, a better king. We don't want the treasure—we never did. But your mother feared that if we returned it, we'd face arrest. So she was hoping you'd do it for us. You have the king's ear, and he trusts you—"

"How would you know that?"

"Do you think your mother wouldn't keep watch on you the best she could? We—she hired people to report to her. If ever you'd really needed her, Patrick, she'd have been there."

He had really needed her. The times he'd been left alone in a school in France, and the other times, the endless years he'd worked as little more than a slave for his father's unlawful business.

But the past was done. He'd long ago accepted the hand he'd been dealt, and more pressing matters required his attention.

King Charles deserved the Royal treasure, and God knew he needed it. The poor man was reduced to selling titles to make expenses. Even now, his ambassadors roamed the country with blank forms for anyone wanting and willing to pay for a baronetcy. Regardless of whether this ill old man deserved Trick's loyalty, his monarch did.

Charles. His life these days seemed to be reduced to serving Charles.

"I'll do it," he said with a resigned sigh. "Show me the chests tomorrow, and I'll find a way to get them home."

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"If I'm going to lug this treasure home," Trick muttered on the way down the stairs, "I need to make plans."

Behind him in the dark, narrow turret, Kendra sighed. All the sensual feelings between them seemed to have vanished into thin air. She a put a hand on his shoulder. "What is it you have to do? Maybe I can help."

"I must see these twenty-three chests and decide how many extra vehicles I'll need to transport them, how many additional guards I must hire. And what am I going to do with it all during overnight stops? We'll attract attention traveling through the country with an entourage worthy of royalty. The treasure will need to be protected around the clock."

"We'll work it out," she soothed. "Let's see the treasure first, then we'll deal with the logistics."

"My head aches just thinking about it."

"Perhaps it would be best to dispatch a messenger to Charles. He could send a contingent of soldiers to escort the goods."

"And wait here, twiddling my thumbs, for three weeks or more until the soldiers arrive? I think not."

They arrived downstairs to find that the dancing had ended and the trestle tables were back in place. Torches had been lit on the walls to augment the light from the iron chandeliers, and women bustled about, setting out all the dishes they'd brought for the draidgie supper.

Trick handed Kendra a trencher from a stack on the end of a table, then took one for himself. The food smelled delicious, but he was in a devil of a mood, and the offerings he piled on his platter didn't seem to help any.

Odd, he was, for a man, she thought as she chose a piece of spice cake and a wedge of lemon tart. Her brothers had never failed to be cheered by a hearty plate of food.

Niall waved them over to join him at an empty table, filling two more goblets with ale from a pitcher. They'd no sooner settled themselves than Annag and Duncan dragged her young ones over to take the remaining seats.

"What did Da want with you?" Annag demanded, waving a girl onto the bench and plopping a runny-nosed toddler beside her.

Niall filled another goblet for her. "Nothing of your concern."

Duncan sat, lowering his trencher to the table with a thud. "Did he not tell you of a new will, then?" he asked in a voice pitched to sound casual.

"Nay," Trick said flatly. He cut a hunk of mutton with more vigor than was necessary.

"Here, Alastair." Annag shoved a dish of hoch-poch in front of another of her children, a boy who seemed to have a sneer to match hers. "Are you certain there was no mention of a will?"

"Aye." Niall reached for some bread. "And Da seems to be gaining strength. So whatever it is you're hoping to gain upon his death, you shouldn't be expecting it anytime soon."

Kendra found Annag's affronted look less than convincing. "I'm not wanting Da to die, you eejit."

"But now that he's shown up, a duke and all"—Duncan slanted a none-too-friendly glance at Trick before focusing back on Niall—"you won't be needing any of Da's paltry holdings. With a new brother to provide for you."

Niall's mouth opened and closed like a salmon out of water.

Kendra saw Trick's jaw set before he pointed his knife at Duncan. "What makes you so certain I'm willing to provide for Niall? I'd lay odds your father didn't jump to such a conclusion."

Duncan sipped from his ever-present whisky, glaring over the rim. "What do you know of our father?"

"Enough to suspect he wouldn't readily cut his youngest son out of his will." Trick met Duncan's glare with one of his own. "His favorite son."

Sensing violence about to erupt, Kendra bit the inside of her cheek. "Can we not all be civil?"

Annag turned with a huff, her gaze narrowing with disdain on Kendra's low neckline. "You stay out of this."

"You'll address my wife with respect," Trick said through gritted teeth. If Annag had been a man, he'd have been on her, Kendra thought, drawing the shawl tighter to cover the front of her gown. As it was, she sensed he was barely holding himself in check.

When Annag's son started crying, Duncan's face turned red to match. "Who needs this trouble?" he barked at Niall, half-rising to his feet. "Ever since they've gotten here"—he waved an angry hand at Trick and Kendra—"I cannot have a word with you without them sticking in their noses. Keep them out of our family business, or else—"

"Or else what?" Niall stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "I'm grown now, aye? You cannot beat me up anymore. I'll floor you in a minute."

It was no idle threat. Niall topped the older man by a good four inches, and his youthful frame was hard and honed, while Duncan's was softened by sloth and drink.

Apparently not as dim-witted as he was surly, Duncan sat back down. "Just keep them away," he growled. "Both of them."

"They're family as much as you," Niall shot back. "My family."

Annag aimed a pointed look at Duncan. "Blood will tell."

"Blood will run if you don't back off," Trick said darkly. His knife clattered to his trencher, and, as he stood, his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Clutching the shawl closed in front, Kendra rose. "Have we not seen enough violence here tonight?" Evidence still remained of the earlier brawl. "Come, Trick. I know where I'm not wanted."

She curtsied to Niall but ignored his siblings as she took Trick by his sword hand and led him away. He allowed himself to be dragged, although not before fixing Hamish's older children with a murderous glare.

That was exactly what Kendra was afraid of—murder. Trick was a highwayman, after all, accustomed to violence, and she'd never seen him this incensed.

Wanting to get as far from Annag and Duncan as possible, she led him out the door and around to the garden. The whole long way he didn't say a word, but as they stepped into his mother's wonderland of little model castles, she felt him begin to relax.

Night had nearly fallen, and the branches overhead were black silhouettes against the dark gray sky. In silence they walked up the long avenue of trees and back, up then back again. The crunch of their footsteps on the gravel seemed lost within the sounds of rushing wind and rustling leaves. Trick's grip softened on her hand, and his breathing settled; his gait became looser.

A light mist began to fall, and in mute agreement, they headed back inside.

The door shut behind them, blocking the rain and the noisy wind. In the tunnel that led through the thick stone wall, Trick stopped and put his hands on her shoulders. Illuminated by the torches that lit the entry, his eyes searched her face. Kendra gazed back, wondering what he was looking for.

"I don't like those two," she said quietly. "I wouldn't put anything past them. I don't know what Hamish has to bequeath to his children, but I suspect they'd go to any lengths necessary to see it ends up in their hands. All of it."

Trick shrugged, moving closer, backing her up until she felt the wall, hard against her spine. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "They're powerless, and they know it. They speak from desperation." He skimmed his knuckles across her cheek. "Don't worry your pretty head about them, leannan."

Leannan. It sounded different now that she knew what it meant. "My head is more than pretty," she retorted, not immune to his scent and the sudden spark that lit his eyes.

He nodded slowly. "Aye, that it is." The wind had blown much of her hair loose from the bun, and he tucked it behind her ears, one side and then the other. He glanced into the great hall, sending a quelling glare to some poor soul who dared to look their way. Then, shielding her body from view with his larger one, he lowered his lips to hers.

The kiss was long and gentle, reawakening the stirrings in her belly that had started in Hamish's chamber. Her hands moved to clasp him by the hips; then her fingers worked down to the kilt's hem and edged underneath.

"Hmm." With a low laugh, he swept both her hands into one of his, then raised them above her head and pressed her against the chilly stone. In contrast, his body felt so warm along the length of hers. And his mouth this time was harder and hot, hungry, his tongue demanding. She itched to touch him, but his hand tightened and she couldn't, and it was strange what she felt, the twinge of frustration mixed with the heady thrill of the kiss.

He pulled back and cocked a brow. "That'll teach you to take advantage of a man in a skirt."

"Will it?" she asked. Nervously intrigued, she glanced up to their three hands.

His own gaze followed, and his laugh this time was short and amused as he released her wrists. "Seeing as it's taken you five weeks to come to my bed, I reckon I'll give you a few years before I go hunting for a way to keep those hands tied up and both of mine free."

"Tied up?" she wondered breathlessly. He was always so outrageous.

"Scarves, a pair of cravats"—he glanced down—"maybe a tartan sash?" His expression going from playful to meditative, he met her eyes. "Later, leannan. Much later for that, I think."

She blushed furiously, not at all as put off by that mental image as she thought she should be. Then his mouth claimed hers again, gentle once more, and she wrapped her arms around him, no longer thinking of that or anything while she gloried in his kiss.

As he drew back, a delicious shudder rippled through her. She knew for sure it would happen tonight.

"Are you cold, lass?"

"Maybe a bit." Nervous and excited and backed against the cold stone wall. But the stones were more than cold. "There's something about this place..."

He put a palm to the wall and leaned his weight on it. "What?"

"I...well, I'm just not comfortable here." She tried to look away, but he captured her chin in his free hand, forcing her gaze to his. "Throughout my childhood," she said, "marooned in exile on the Continent, parentless with no home to call my own, I never felt as out of place as I do here in this castle."

One of his fingers traced a lazy line on her jaw. "Then you'll understand why I wasn't in a hurry to return."

Her skin tingling under his fingertips, she nodded. But it wasn't only this place, these people, that contributed to her unease. Although she was physically drawn to her husband, and more so by the moment, he remained emotionally distant. Still a stranger, his essence far from her grasp.

Her hands rubbed up and down the plaid wool, and she swallowed hard, imagining the bareness beneath. He'd made a start, confiding a little bit about his childhood. If she trusted him with her body, would he perhaps return the favor by trusting her with his heart?

There was only one way to find out.

"Come upstairs," she whispered.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"Good evening, dearies." When Kendra and Trick stepped into their chamber, Mrs. Ross came forward, two goblets in her hands. "I thought you might be wanting a wee sack posset to help you sleep."

Kendra knew that sleep was the last thing on Trick's mind. Or hers, truth be told. She took one of the cups and sipped the warm, thick liquid, sweet and fragrant with the scents of cream and wine. Gazing at Trick over the rim, she watched as he removed the roll of papers from the front of his kilt and tucked it into his trunk.

"We thank you." He nodded and smiled at Mrs. Ross. "And we wish you a good night," he added pointedly.

Kendra sagged against the door after he closed it. "How strange that she would be waiting here for us."

"She was my old nurse." He unbuckled his sword belt and tossed it on the desk. "I reckon she saw us together earlier and figured it wouldn't be long until we were for bed." When she blushed, he pulled her close. "I don't want to be thinking about Mrs. Ross now."

His eyes burned into hers, making heat pool in her middle. She sipped some more of the posset, hoping the wine would bring her strength. And courage. She still wasn't sure he would fit.

Her heart skittered at the thought, along with a rush of warmth low in her belly.

Without another word, Trick pried the cup from her fingers and set it down beside his own. He pulled the shawl from her shoulders, balled it up, and tossed it into a corner. Lowering his head, he teased his lips over her cleavage. "I much prefer these delightful English dresses," he murmured.

The words felt warm against her skin. Until today, she'd never thought twice about the low necklines that had been in fashion since King Charles was restored to the throne. Trends were driven by Charles's love for everything French, which meant she'd worn gowns like this all her life, even as a young girl exiled on the Continent.

But, thanks to her exasperating, overprotective brothers, never before had anyone taken advantage of all the skin such dresses revealed. A shame, she thought now, enjoying the sensation of Trick's mouth against her flesh.

"I like this dress, too," she said breathlessly.

"I'd like it even better on the floor." He licked a shivery line up her throat, all the way to her lips. Just as she'd fantasized all day, she reached beneath the hem of his kilt, her hand making contact with the warmth of his legs and the springy softness of the hair that covered them. So different from her own, so very, very male. Feeling very daring, she reached up, up, until her fingers wrapped around steel encased in warm velvet.

God, she hoped he would fit.

She moved her hand experimentally. He stiffened, then sighed, and a thrill raced through her, that her simple touch could affect him so much.

"Aye," he murmured. "I'll definitely be asking Niall if I can keep this kilt." Then his hands went to work undressing her while he kissed the very breath out of her body.

She pulled her hand from beneath the kilt and reached for his shoulders, pushing the wool tartan off and behind. Under the draped front, she felt for the buckle on the thick leather belt, working it loose with frantic fingers. At last the kilt fell off, all of it, dropping to the wooden planks at his feet, the heavy buckle landing with a satisfying thunk.

He spread her bodice and worked the gown down her body to pool on the floor as well. And there was nothing left between them except his thin lawn shirt and her even thinner chemise.

His hands came around her back, and she leaned in, pressing her breasts against his hard chest and her hips against his hardness below. A hot rush of desire weakened her knees, and she wrapped her arms around him to hold herself up, wantonly reaching beneath the tail of his shirt to clutch his buttocks and press herself even closer.

"Sweet Mary," he breathed, clearly liking it.

But for her, it still wasn't nearly close enough.

At a noise on the stairs, she stilled, her heart beating double-time. "Do you hear something?"

Trick nuzzled her neck. "Something like what?"

"Like footsteps." His muscles tightened beneath her fingers, striking a spark of hungry desire. She arched in pleasure, then froze again. "In the stairwell—can't you hear it?"

"Nay." He raised his head. "Wait. Maybe I can." The sound was faint, muffled, so soft the beat of her heart and her heavy, uneven breaths nearly drowned it out.

Nearly.

She bit her lip. "There are people in there, I'm sure."

"Don't you worry about it." He hooked a finger in the top of her chemise and drew it down, fitting his palms to her breasts. Her nipples puckered in response, sending a hot streak of sensation down lower.

His lips grazed hers, then his tongue flicked out and teased the seam where they met, slick and sweet with the flavor of creamy sack posset. "It must be the ghosts of men going up to Prisoner's Leap," he murmured against her mouth, and she couldn't tell if he was jesting or not. "They won't bother us in here."

"D-do you believe in ghosts?"

His shrug conveyed a mixture of amusement and frustration. "Right now I believe in finishing what we've started."

She twisted away from his kiss. "What if it isn't ghosts on those stairs, but someone much more real and frightening?"

With a strangled groan, he stepped from the kilt at his feet, then bodily picked her up. He walked to the bed and plopped down, sitting her on his lap. "Like who?"

Fear mingled with bawdy thoughts of what she felt against her thigh. "Mrs. Ross, maybe? What if she only used the sack posset as an excuse, and she was really up here as part of a plot, but we surprised her—"

"A plot?" He shook his head decisively. "Mrs. Ross wouldn't hurt a midge." He reached to the bedside for his goblet of sack posset, taking a healthy gulp as though to prove he was sure it wasn't poisoned. "She cared for me as a bairn. Why should she want to do me harm?"

"She cared for your mother more, and she's less than happy with the way you ignored her all those years."

"She was, true enough. But she knows now that it wasn't my fault. I cannot believe she still holds a grudge."

"How about Annag and Duncan? They surely do."

Trick's clever fingers pulled the pins from what remained of her bun. "I seriously doubt Annag and Duncan are hovering behind that door." The gray day had delivered on its promise, and rain slashed against the small window set deep into the wall. "It's the storm you're hearing, leannan."

"Niall, then? He's been passed off as the duke's younger son. If something were to happen to you, he'd inherit it all. The dukedom, Amberley, Duncraven..."

In the midst of combing his fingers through her loosened hair, Trick stopped and stared at her, his jaw slack with disbelief.

"No, I don't believe that, either," she admitted with a sigh.

A flash of lightning brightened the window, and he smiled. "Listen." His gaze captured hers as the answering thunder rumbled. "It's naught but the storm. And a storm I'm feeling inside, right now."

He claimed her mouth once again, and in seconds she forgot the mysterious footsteps, caught up in a storm herself.

His lips opened, his tongue meeting hers, circling hers in a way that drove her wild. She tasted the tiny chip on his tooth, her hands on the sides of his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. One of his hands cradled the back of her neck while the other crept under her chemise, caressing her legs with a skill that sent a shudder ricocheting through her.

He worked the chemise out from under her, and she wiggled farther onto his lap, loving the feel of his skin against hers, reveling in the heat of the hard length of him beneath her bottom. She shoved a hand into the placket of his shirt, gripping his shoulder. The warm skin felt good, but she wanted more. One-handed, she loosened the laces, breaking their kiss to pull the shirt over his head.

With a sigh of contentment, she smoothed a palm across his bare chest. He groaned in return, urging her legs apart with his fingers. One hand delved between them while his other arm curved around her shoulders and he cupped a breast. Above and below, he played her body, his fingers doing an intimate dance that made her quiver and squirm on his lap. Closing her eyes, she threw back her head and surrendered herself to the feelings.

She wanted more, more. A finger worked its way inside her, teasing her to madness, and still it wasn't enough.

"Now," she whispered. "I want you now."

"Look at me, lass."

Her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze. She'd never seen anything so intense and compelling in her life. "I want you," she breathed again.

He ripped the chemise over her head and, in one smooth motion, twisted her off his lap and onto the mattress. Then he was lying atop her, skin to skin, heavy and warm and exciting beyond anything she'd ever imagined. Instinctively, her legs came up to cradle his hips, and he raised himself, poised to enter her. She felt him there, against her, and let out a little mewling sound of need.

"Now?" he asked.

"Now." She held her breath, still uncertain yet wanting him more than she'd ever wanted anything. As he slid home, she braced for the pain.

Nothing.

Well, not nothing exactly. She felt stretched, and filled, and where their bodies were joined was a feeling so urgent that a whimper escaped her throat.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

She nodded and arched against him, wanting more, needing more. It seemed an age passed while she held her breath and her eyes slid closed again. "Is there more?"

"Aye, there's more," he said, beginning to move, slowly shifting in and out. Just a bit at first, and then more, and then more still. Little by little the tension built, until her entire world was centered on Trick and what he was making her feel. A glorious whirl of exquisite sensation, and still it wasn't enough.

"Faster," she whispered, and he plunged into her faster and deeper, again and again, more and more, until she couldn't breathe and her body erupted and the world turned upside down.

She heard his groan and felt the hot flood of his release while the tremors still wracked her body. Finally, spent, he collapsed against her, kissing her neck and cheeks and whispering her name over and over.

"Dear God." She struggled to catch her breath. "I just—"

"What?" Trick asked, his voice husky against her mouth. "What is it, leannan?"

She sighed, a sound of regret from the deepest place in her heart. "I cannot believe I deprived myself of five weeks of that."

His reply was a strangled laugh, and another groan, but he clutched her close and kissed her all over again.

She felt languid and drained, and it was a long time before her heart slowed and her breathing quieted. A long time before she noticed the phantom footsteps again and flinched.

"It's the rain," Trick reminded her. His voice sounded low and lazy, satisfied, content. It thrilled her to know she had made him that way. "We're alone here at the top of the tower. It cannot be anything else."

"Annag and Duncan..."

Taking her with him, he turned over and cuddled her against his chest. "Do you honestly think they've climbed up on the roof to come down these stairs and commit murder? On a stormy night like this?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't put anything past those two. It's obvious enough they don't like you...or me."

"They're bitter. Odds are Niall has always been favored as the duke's son—Lord Niall while they were plain Duncan and Annag. Then their father left them to live here—although they were grown, that had to hurt."

"And now you've returned to claim that father—"

"A bit of his attention, maybe, but I've no claim on the man."

Rain pounded on the roof above them, loud needles of it striking the small window. She met Trick's eyes, remembering other eyes that had looked familiar. Beneath his shining hair, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. Suddenly she pictured Hamish, that same expression on his face.

And it all fell into place.

She reached a hand to graze his cheek, the faint whiskers scratchy against her fingers. So very male. "Do you not see, Trick, how much you're like him?"

"Niall? Aye, I've said how uncanny—"

"Not Niall. Well, yes, Niall, but you must know there's a reason for that, for why you're so very alike." He needed to hear this; he couldn't deny the evidence any longer. "It's because you share not only the same mother, but the same father as well."

"Do you think so?" Some of the puzzlement cleared, his amber eyes filling with a hesitant hope instead. "I suppose the timing makes it possible. Father was last here when I was ten, and Niall was born the next year...I wouldn't expect Mam would have willingly shared my father's bed again, but I wouldn't put rape past the man, either. Maybe Niall is my full brother." He managed to sound bitter and elated at the same time. "Wouldn't that be something?" he added before he suddenly frowned. "But why, then, would he say he's Hamish's son?"

"Because he is," she said gently. "And so are you."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The breath left Trick's body in a rush. "That cannot be."

"It is." Kendra's eyes searched his before she scooted up to sit against the headboard beside him, taking the coverlet with her. "No, I haven't asked Hamish about it, nor did he come to me. But I've eyes in my head, Trick, and I'm not as close to the situation as you are. You share his features, I'm telling you, and his manner, and then there's the way he looks at you."

"The way he looks at me? How is that?"

"With longing and pride. Were you the duke's son—a child gotten on his love by another—wouldn't he view you with resentment, instead? He's your father, I'm sure of it."

He couldn't find the words to disagree, mostly because he wasn't sure whether he disagreed or not.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Kendra pressed. "I know you don't hold him in much affection, but that will come, don't you think? Deep down, I believe he's a good man."

"It's much to absorb," he admitted. "Finding a new brother, and now maybe a father, too."

"We found a new brother last year." Looking down, Kendra moved the amber bracelet back and forth on her wrist. "Jason had a run-in with a man who turned out to be our half-brother, the spawn of our father before his marriage. But our brother turned out to be wicked. A murderer, nothing like Niall." She glanced up. "It was a horrible thing to accept."

For a few moments he remained quiet, imagining. "That must have been very hard."

"It was. Although I don't expect accepting Niall and Hamish is easy, either." The amber stones glimmered in the firelight as she slid them with a finger. "An instant family, as it were."

"Niall felt like my brother right off. It's hard to explain." He stared at the bracelet, remembering when she first wore it on their wedding day. It had looked strange on her then, but tonight it seemed like it had belonged there all along. Just the way he felt with Niall. "But Hamish..." He met her gaze. "I feel nothing there. I hear what you're telling me, and it makes sense, but I'm not sure I believe it."

She took their goblets from the bedside table and handed him his. "Just think about it," she said and drained her remaining sack posset.

The drink was cold now, he was sure. The rain coming down sounded cold, too, but she felt warm wedged beside him. He wondered how she managed to smell like sunshine on a blustery night like this.

"There's no need to rush into acceptance," she said softly.

"He could be dying." Trick downed the last of his own drink, cold, yes, but thick and bracing nonetheless.

"He could," she conceded. "But he seems to be getting better."

He took her cup and set them both on the table. "This may have just been a good day."

"Morning will tell." She yawned, then leaned over for a kiss, the sweet milkiness of the posset mingling on their tongues. With a soft smile, she lay down and curled tightly against him, like precious cargo carefully nestled in a ship's hold.

She felt good there, a perfect fit. "It's odd," he said, his voice low, his breath fluttering the downy hairs on the nape of her neck where she'd swept aside her tresses. "They don't know me, really, and yet they seemed to accept me from the first."

"They're family," she said simply. "They love you, Trick. Unconditionally."

And now she was family, too.

Unconditional love.

The idea was so alien to him that he thought about it far into the night as he watched her sleep.

"Wake up, you gaberlunzie." Mrs. Ross poked Trick's shoulder, and he moaned and rolled over. "Lord Niall is downstairs, pacing and waiting to take the two of you off somewhere, aye? So get your bones out of that bed."

"I'll make sure he gets ready," Kendra told her, sitting down to pull on a stocking. Having been awake for an hour, she was getting tired again just watching Mrs. Ross bustle around the room on her morning duties. "Could you send Jane up to fix my hair?"

"Aye. That I can do." With a smile, the wiry woman gathered the empty goblets they'd left on the night table. "Did you enjoy this, then?"

"Very much." Kendra silently scolded herself for thinking the sack posset might have been poisoned. Trick was right; though she sometimes had a brusque manner about her, the old nurse wouldn't hurt a midge. "Do you know, Mrs. Ross, where that corner staircase leads?"

The woman swiped her dust cloth over the table—not that it helped very much. The dirt just flew up and settled right back down. "That turret comes from the dungeons, lass. And goes to the roof above."

"Oh." Just as Trick had said. Kendra glanced at her slumbering husband. He slept like the dead, like he'd spent another wakeful night before succumbing to exhaustion. She, on the other hand, had slept like a newborn babe, dreaming dreams that made her cheeks burn to remember them.

Mrs. Ross was watching her, a question in her faded blue eyes. Kendra put a cooling hand to her face. "Though Trick insisted it was surely the rain, I thought I heard footfalls on those steps last night."

The woman's gray head nodded sagely. "It's been said to happen."

"People go up on the roof?"

"Not people, lass."

"Ghosts, then?" Kendra's breath caught. "The ghosts of prisoners?"

"Not that I've heard."

Kendra blushed as the woman bent to retrieve yesterday's clothes from the floor. Cavanaugh and Jane ought to be doing that—not that she and Trick should have left their garments on the floor in the first place. What could Mrs. Ross be thinking?

But apparently she was still thinking about the stairwell. "Other ghosts," she clarified, shaking out Trick's discarded kilt. "One in particular, a young servant girl who was said to have borne an illegitimate Duncraven son in this room some two hundred years past. Potential threats to the title, they were, and both swiftly put to the sword by an anonymous knight."

Kendra swallowed. "Anonymous?"

"Well, you cannot very well tell who's in a suit of armor now, aye? But legend says it was Lord Duncraven himself. A heartless man, to hear the tales." She smoothed the folded tartan over one arm. "The girl still wanders the spiral staircase, searching for her bairn. Some say they've seen her in this room, watching at the foot of the bed where a cradle may have once rested," she added, laying the red fabric right where Kendra imagined the poor murdered girl might gaze. "Don't you worry now, lass. She doesn't do any harm."

Was it the ill-fated servant girl she'd heard, then? Kendra wondered. Or had Mrs. Ross invented this story to cover her own wanderings? Or had Annag or Duncan been trodding the winding stone stairs?

Or had it only been the storm, mixed with her own imagination?

Her musings were interrupted when Mrs. Ross bustled over to Trick. "Wake up, lazybones." She thwacked him with her dust cloth. "Lord Niall is waiting."

Halfway downstairs, Trick's feet dragged to a halt on the second floor landing. "Bide a moment."

On the step below him, Kendra turned and looked up, tightening Mrs. Ross's shawl across the bodice of her lemon gown. "Niall is waiting to take us to the treasure chests."

"Then he'll wait." She looked so pretty this morning, all cheerful yellow against the dingy stone staircase, her mouth slightly swollen from his morning kisses. He bent down to give her another one, wishing he could take her back to bed. Their lips clung for a long, sweet minute before he straightened with a sigh and stepped from the turret, crossing the sitting room to knock on the master bedchamber door.

"Enter," came a muffled voice.

A voice not unlike his own? Trick hesitated, his hand on the latch.

"Did you not want to go inside?" Kendra asked.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Beyond it, Hamish sat against the sturdy oak headboard, his long, skinny legs looking like stilts beneath the coverlet. Trick gazed at him, a question burning inside him—a question only Hamish could answer.

But he couldn't seem to make himself cross the threshold, nor could he force the question past his lips.

Kendra had no such compunctions. She pushed past him and hurried over to Hamish, grasping the old man's hand. "Goodness." With a flounce of her English skirts, she seated herself at his bedside, a bright ray of sunshine in the gloomy room. "Rhona's vile green drink really worked magic, didn't it?"

Indeed, Hamish was munching on breakfast and looking much better. Younger. Trick was surprised to realize he wasn't such an old man, after all.

"Aye, I expect it did work magic," Hamish agreed. "But although she left a supply, I haven't been able to force myself to drink more." He made a face. "She'll be at me like a screaming banshee when she sees how much remains. Maybe I can prevail upon you to bury it somewhere?"

Kendra laughed. "Where is Rhona, anyway?"

Hamish shrugged. "I'm mending, aye, and she has her own life to attend to. There are people here to help me should I need it." His mouth curved in a smile very like Niall's—and his own, Trick grudgingly admitted. "To tell you the honest truth, it's been pleasant to spend a wee bit of time alone. A man gets cranky with people always fussing all over him."

"I'm sure he does," Kendra said, slanting a glance at Trick. She rose and went to open the shutters, letting morning light flood the room.

Hamish's gaze shifted to the open doorway, and his forehead creased in a frown. "Come in, lad, will you?"

Trick did so, slowly, still gazing at the man that Kendra insisted was his father.

"Have a seat," Hamish said.

He didn't. The question fought to get out.

The older man blinked. "It's uncanny how much you look like Niall. I used to catch your mother staring at him with a sad, faraway look in her eyes."

The same sad, faraway look that Hamish was giving him now. A look Trick suspected was on his own face.

At last, the words tumbled forth.

"Niall and I, we look so alike because...because we have the same father, don't we?"

Before Hamish even answered, Trick knew Kendra had been right. "Why?" he asked. "Why was I never told? And why did my mother marry another man and then have a child with you?"

Hamish licked his lips, not so papery this morning. "It wasn't like that, Patrick. She was already carrying you when she agreed to the marriage. Her only other choice was to give birth to a bastard child." His light brown gaze met Trick's own. "Her father threatened to kill me if she refused to marry the duke."

Kendra gasped. "He cannot have meant that."

Hamish turned to her. "Can you blame Elspeth for not testing him, lass?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "I cannot even imagine..."

"Well, if you'd known the man, the threat wasn't so hard to imagine coming from him."

"Very well, then, maybe she had a reason." Trick ran a hand back through his hair. "But why keep the truth from me?"

"The duke never knew you weren't his child. We didn't mean to keep you in the dark forever, but you left here at ten—too young to be told, to understand the importance of hiding your true parentage from the man you thought was your father. And when you returned..." Hamish's gaze flickered down to his lap, then back up. "I wanted to tell you the moment you arrived. But after all this time, I wasn't sure how you would feel."

Despite a long night spent thinking about just that, Trick wasn't sure how he felt himself. Anyone, even Hamish, had to be better than the duke, but the discovery of a new father left him reeling.

"I'll have to get used to this," he admitted.

Hamish nodded, looking both solemn and pleased. "I've waited twenty-eight years to acknowledge you as my son. I can wait a wee bit longer."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The day was sunny, the ride toward the town of Falkland pleasant over rolling hills. It felt so good to be out of the depressing castle that Kendra found herself smiling at nothing more than the light breeze, the purple thistles dotting the hillsides, a pair of blackbirds flying by. She chattered to Niall about anything and everything, enjoying his easy company. Seeming as grateful as Kendra to be out and about, Pandora felt warm and frisky beneath her.

Trick, however, was brooding.

Two miles into their journey, he finally turned to Niall. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Pardon?" Niall cocked his head, gleaming blond in the sunshine. "Why didn't I tell you what?"

"That our mother's is not the only blood we share."

Niall reined in at that, turning sideways to block the road. His mount danced under him as he stared at Trick. "What are you trying to say?"

"Did you think I wouldn't want to know we're full brothers?" His jaw tight, Trick studied Niall a moment. "Did you think I wouldn't care to know that Hamish is my father as well as yours?"

The younger man's face went white. "I didn't know." His amber eyes wide, he swallowed hard. "Are you sure? I swear to you, Patrick, I didn't know. Mam and Da never breathed a word."

Kendra, for one, believed him. Nobody was that good an actor.

But her husband, evidently, was blind. "Why wouldn't they tell you?" he pressed furiously. "What possible reason could they have had?"

"Trick!" she exclaimed in irritation. Not unlike her own brothers, he could be thickheaded beyond bearing. "I expect they thought your parentage was none of Niall's business."

"My mother knew how to hold her tongue," Niall added, his amber eyes darkening to bronze. "And my father is the most loyal man I've ever met. A loyalty I thought we'd share, now that we've found each other." With a jerk of his reins, he turned and trotted off down the road.

Kendra glared at her husband until his face turned red and he looked away. "All right," he shouted after his brother. "I believe you!"

There was no response, and looking at Niall's stiff back, she could sense his pain. Trick dug in his heels, motioning impatiently for Kendra to follow.

"You might also say you're sorry," she suggested under her breath as she drew alongside.

He stared at her a moment, then back to Niall. "And I'm sorry!" he called. Maybe not as sincerely as she'd have liked, but the effort was there.

Yet his brother's back remained rigid.

She saw a muscle twitch in her husband's jaw. "Very well, then, I'm not sorry," he growled.

They caught up to Niall and rode three abreast, the men in an obstinate standoff on either side of Kendra. The blowing of the horses failed to drown out their alternating huffs. She felt like Zeus in the Trojan War, stuck between the battling gods, wanting to stay neutral but suspecting she couldn't.

The gates of Falkland loomed ahead, and still neither of them softened. They were most definitely brothers, one as pigheaded as the other. As they entered the town, a few people waved to Niall, calling out greetings and condolences. He nodded his acknowledgments without uttering a word.

They rode past Falkland Palace, two long ranges of gray stone with a charming turreted gatehouse and slanting, moss-covered slate roofs. Kendra turned to her brother-in-law and forced a jaunty tone. "From how Hamish described the banquet, I expected the town of Falkland would be larger. Busier."

She'd known he wouldn't ignore her. "At one time it was more important," he told her, looking straight ahead. God forbid he should inadvertently meet his brother's eyes. "But Falkland today is naught but a small market town, populated mostly by weavers who keep indoors practicing their craft. You can blame the Union of the Crowns for that."

"Why would that make a difference?" she asked brightly. "Trick, you know a lot of history."

"Not of Falkland." She'd never heard him sound quite so peeved, not even when he was fixing to murder Duncan. "For God's sake, I haven't lived here in eighteen years."

As her efforts at conversation ground to a halt, she heaved an internal sigh. The clip-clop of their horses' hooves on the cobblestones seemed loud as thunder against the men's willful silence. As they rounded the market cross, a dray cart coming from the other direction forced them to the side of the narrow street nearer the houses.

"The lintels are all carved," she remarked, prattling on like a featherbrained nincompoop. She pointed to the nearest door, the stone beam above it engraved with letters and numbers. "What do they mean?"

"They're marriage lintels—" Trick began.

"Look there," Niall interrupted. "Two lovers' initials, and 1610, the year they were wed—the year their household was established. And other markings indicate their occupations. See, the crossed mells of a stonemason. And there, a shoemaker's knife."

As they rode past a few more, Kendra started to make sense of the symbols. "I see a butcher's cleaver. But the big '4' with three little x's...what does that mean?"

Niall opened his mouth then clamped it shut when his brother rushed to answer before him. "A merchant—a burgess with trading privileges."

The carvings were lovely, she thought, determined not to let their attitudes affect her appreciation. Lasting memorials to marriages begun in hope rather than deception. She turned to her surly husband. "These lintels are so romantic."

Trick rolled his eyes, prompting Niall to nod—pleasantly, she would think, if she didn't know it was mainly to make his brother look bad. "Some go back a hundred years or more," Niall told her. "Watch for them as you ride."

She peeked down the wynds as they went, but soon they were passing through West Port, the gate that marked Falkland's boundary. Dense woodlands loomed ahead. "The trees are so near to the town," she remarked, sounding inane to her own ears.

"Why wouldn't they be?" Trick asked churlishly.

"Actually," Niall said with a smug smile, "though nearly all of Fife was once covered in forest, the only large tracts remaining are here by Falkland. One of the reasons the Stuarts of old so valued their palace, a place to escape from affairs of state and spend some time hawking and hunting the wild boar."

She half hoped to see a wild boar now—at least such a threat would put an end to this petty bickering. Here they had to ride single file, weaving through the trees, which looked much the same as trees in England. Finding nothing left to comment on, Kendra chewed the inside of her cheek, wondering why she'd bothered trying to get her husband and his brother to talk in the first place. Brothers would be brothers, that she knew—from entirely too much experience with her own.

They were both stubborn as mules, she decided, and they could hate each other for life for all she cared.

Suddenly Niall heaved a sigh and looked back, his gaze reaching past her to Trick. "Full brothers," he said, calm as anything. "Bloody amazing, isn't it?"

"Aye." Aghast to hear Trick's agreement, she twisted in the saddle to see a smile teasing at the corners of his wide mouth. "Bloody amazing."

And just like that, they were best of friends once more.

Men. She wanted to spit.

She was still muttering to herself when they came to higher ground, a sparser wooded area that must once have been a clearing. It was peppered with stone ruins so thick and old, they could be of nothing else but a long-ruined castle. Overgrown with clinging plant life, low broken walls seemed to tumble over the uneven land, and the foundations of a round tower stood open to the sky, a few worn steps leading up to nowhere.

"We're here," Niall said.

They dismounted and tethered their horses. Pulling a heavy key from his pocket, Niall stepped into the circle of stone and reached through a layer of dirt and dead branches that seemed stuck to the hard-packed forest floor.

Not by a quirk of nature, though—by design. His fingers found a concealed padlock and fitted the key inside. It opened with a rusty click, and he tugged it off, hefting a wooden trap door that lay hidden beneath.

"Go ahead," he said.

After staring for a moment, Kendra followed Trick down a steep stone staircase, pausing when the trap door thudded shut and plunged the space into blackness.

Holding her breath and her husband's hand, she felt her way to the bottom.

It was a dungeon, deep in the earth. The only light was a tiny shaft that came through the tall ceiling from behind an iron grille. As her eyes adjusted, the sparse illumination revealed gruesome instruments of torture. A musty smell seeped from the packed dirt floor, making her imagine the ground wet and red with the blood of prisoners.

Hugging herself, she shivered.

Near the center of the chamber a human cage swung, its door hanging drunkenly from ancient hinges. The wooden rack sitting in a corner would have been used to pull a man apart. Along the far wall, four sets of ankle manacles were anchored near the floor, with matching sets for wrists higher up.

I reckon I'll give you a few years before I go hunting for a way to keep those hands tied up and both of mine free.

She heard the scrape of steel on stone, then the soft hiss of a wick catching fire. "They're gone!" Niall burst out behind her, his voice laced with disbelief. She swung about to see him holding a candle high, his eyes wide in the flickering light. "The treasure chests are gone!"

CHAPTER FORTY

Trick reached to put a calming hand on Niall's arm. "Where were they?"

"Here, I tell you. Here, and here, and here." He paced the dim chamber, indicating bare spots where Trick could see that heavy, rectangular objects had once sat. "I saw them but two days ago—the morning of the day you arrived. They were here, same as always. As they've been since before I was born. Before any of us were born."

The dungeon was warm and stuffy. While Trick found another candle and lit it from Niall's, Kendra slipped her cloak off and hung it from one of the manacles on the wall. "Whatever were you doing here two days ago?"

Niall hesitated but a moment. "This was Mam's secret retreat. I came...to feel closer to her. To escape the clamor of the wake for a wee while. How can all that treasure have gone missing since then?" He held out the lock, staring at it. "How did the thieves get this open?"

Trick took it from his hands. "It wasn't forced or picked."

"How can you tell?"

"There'd be marks." He handed it back. "Who else has a key?"

"Only Rhona and Gregor. So far as I know, nobody else is even aware this place exists. It makes no sense. Twenty-three enormous chests, all gone." Niall stepped closer to Trick, his face looking sallow in the light from the candle in his hand. "Will you help me find them?"

Trick blinked. He'd planned to leave for England tomorrow—a search could take days. Weeks. "I must get home. This isn't my responsibility. But of course I will bring the news directly to the king."

"What if the thieves start selling the treasure, aye? Gold and silver platters and goblets? We're a poor country. Should anything so rich as that treasure show up, surely someone will figure out whence it came, and then an inquisition will be made, and Mam and Da could be implicated."

"She's dead," Trick said. "What does it matter now?"

"Hamish isn't," Kendra reminded him.

But he didn't want to be reminded. He still didn't know how he felt about his father, and the last thing he wanted was a reason to stick around and find out while the rest of his life remained on hold.

"He could hang, Patrick." The flame wavered, ruffled by Niall's impassioned words. "Or worse. Stealing the Royal plate is treason."

"Treason," Kendra whispered. "Punishable by hanging, drawing, quartering—"

"I know the penalties for treason. But that doesn't change the fact that I must get home. And, hearts wounds, it's been thirty-five years since the crime."

Surely no evidence remained to tie the misdeed to his parents now. John Ferries, the only witness, was dead. These fears were groundless. Emotional rather than logical.

"Trick." She came close, capturing his gaze with hers. "Even should the crime continue undiscovered, King Charles would never regain what his father lost."

He hesitated but a moment, realizing she knew him better than he knew himself. Always it came down to what would be best for Charles Stuart. "Very well," he muttered. "I'll spare a day or two to help find it." That was the most he was willing to delay his return to England. "But let's not go off half-cocked. There may be some clue here of who took it or its whereabouts."

Niall's breath rushed out in relief. "Da may have ideas as well. Maybe someone else knew of the treasure or had a key to the lock. And in any case, he'll want to hear of this loss immediately."

"Go ahead, then, and speak with him. Kendra and I will remain behind to search for clues."

"You know the direction to Duncraven?"

"Aye. Back through the town, then southwest. Be on your way. We'll meet you later and formulate a plan. God willing, one of us will discover something useful in the interim."

Niall gripped him by the shoulders. "I thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Trick mumbled. "We're brothers, aye?"

"Brothers." The younger man kissed him on both cheeks and pressed the lock and key into his hand. He gave Kendra his candle and was off, the trap door banging closed behind him.

Kendra released a long breath. "That was good of you, Trick."

"He didn't leave me much of a choice."

Hearing his voice hitch, she guessed it was the result of brotherly affection. "Why did you hesitate to agree?" she asked, stepping closer.

He trailed his fingers along her arm. "After last night, I'm suddenly wanting to get home and start anew with my lovely wife."

She sensed that wasn't the whole truth. But, very aware they were alone deep in the earth, his words caused her heart to race anyway. "After we help your family, there will still be time for that."

"You can be sure of it." He kissed the tip of her nose, then took the candlestick from her and set it atop the rack, where it bathed the stone chamber with a faint but welcome glow. He set the lock there as well, an unnerving thunk of metal on wood. "Shall we see what we can find?"

"I really don't like it down here."

"We won't be staying long." Another candle blazed to join the two already lit, and Trick set it into a holder and placed it across the chamber. "There now, it's not so eerie after all, is it? Rather cozy, don't you think?"

Was it her imagination, or had his voice taken on a seductive tone? "Well, I don't expect it's haunted if it was your mother's secret place. But I cannot say I care for the decor, either."

"Early Torture isn't your style?" His easy grin made her feel a little better, but his gaze on the manacles had the opposite effect, even more so when the hot look he shot her made her knees go weak.

Memories flooded: The things I say are nothing compared to the things I'll do... There are other ways we can pleasure each other... Look at me, lass...

She shook away the images playing in her head. Knowing the way his mind worked, whatever he was thinking was most likely wicked, and she had no business being intrigued by that. Her brothers had always warned her that her adventurous nature would lead her to nothing but trouble.

"Kendra?" Her gaze snapped to his. She thought he sounded entirely too pleased with himself as his eyes burned a path down her body. "We'd better start looking."

Maybe she was only imagining it all, but the heat pooling in her center...that wasn't her imagination. In a dungeon, for God's sake. She shook herself again. "What are we looking for?"

"Hell if I know. A clue."

He slowly traversed one side of the room while she paced the other. Gingerly touching the cold instruments of torture worked well to dispel inappropriate feelings. The blackened metal felt evil beneath her fingers, the air thick and heavy with age, not to mention horrific tales.

When he let out a little hoot of discovery, she jumped.

"Footprints," he said.

She joined him, crouching down. "What do these tell us? They could be your mother's, or Hamish's, or even our own. No telling if they're hours old or years."

"But they're concentrated around where a chest once sat, see? As though people were recently here, trying to lift something heavy. And here, this deep line in the dirt. They used a board or something as a lever."

"One set of small prints and three larger ones. Yes, I see." She looked up. "But whose?"

He shrugged. "Just information to bring back to Hamish. Maybe it will jog an idea. Let's see what else we can find."

Half an hour's careful search revealed more footprints clustered around where other chests had sat, and little else. A scrap of dark fabric that Trick pocketed, a curved shard of cheap broken glass. It could have lain there for centuries, for all they knew.

He sighed. "Let's go up. We may find more clues outdoors."

It was a relief to ascend the stairs and see daylight once again.

"More of the same footprints." Breathing deep of the fresh air, Kendra followed the marks. "And wheel tracks," she called. "Here, leading out of the woods. How did we miss this before?"

"We weren't looking." He hurried over to see for himself. "I'll be damned. Multiple tracks from the same vehicle. Many of them. I'm guessing the chests were carted away one at a time."

"Southeast," she agreed. "Around the town. And then where?"

Trick lifted a shoulder. "Shall we go find out?"

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

They mounted their horses and headed through the woods, following the ruts. Once clear of the ruins, the trees grew dense, providing reason for the chests to have been carted out singly. A larger cart wouldn't have made it through.

At the forest's edge, the tracks stopped.

"They loaded them on a wagon here," Kendra said.

"Two wagons. No, three, or maybe four. Look." Wider-set tracks turned south and continued. "Shall we see where they went?"

The tracks were easy enough to follow, leading Trick to believe they'd missed the thieves by not more than hours. Clouds were gathering again, and the trail would soon be washed away. But for now, the air was warm, the day bright as only a Scottish summer afternoon could be.

The colors seemed more brilliant here, slopes of blues and purples, the land's harsh contours brought out by shadow and sun. Rabbits scurried in the underbrush, and a flock of swallows soared overhead. Scotland was beautiful, and Trick had missed it in a way he hadn't realized till now, stuck in the confines of the dingy gray castle.

"What happened back there?" Kendra asked quietly.

"Hmm?"

"With Niall."

"Oh. That." Warmth crept up his neck, his memories of the incident childish at best. "I'm not sure. But it won't happen again."

"It will."

"Nay, it won't. I'm not usually as volatile as you've seen me..." His voice trailed off, because he didn't know how to explain it. The longer he stayed at his crumbling childhood home, the more confused he seemed to get.

He'd learned his early years hadn't been as he remembered—or as the duke had later caused him to remember. His world had tilted on its axis. And though he'd found family, they were too new, too unfamiliar, to possibly lean on yet.

Which left him his wife. He needed her more than he'd like to admit.

Thank God she was here. He gave her a wavery smile, and her lips curved in return. He wanted to kiss them. Hell, he always wanted to kiss them. "I just need to become accustomed to having family. It won't happen again."

"It will," she insisted. "He's your brother."

"Exactly, and so he deserves my best. I'll apologize for disbelieving him, and from now on I need to be more patient. He looks a man, but he's yet a lad, and I must remember that."

"No." Her laugh rang over the hillside, and her smile would lift the most morose man's mood. Sweet Mary, he was lucky to have her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, Trick. This is the way brothers are. Families are. We don't give each other our best, I'm afraid, but more often our worst. We slide into comfort and forget ourselves. It's the hugs after the battles that make it worthwhile."

A concept so unfamiliar it bordered on incomprehensible. It had been so very long since he could reliably expect a hug from anyone, let alone someone he'd hurt.

Lost in thought, he was caught by surprise when Chaucer balked at the edge of a river. Kendra tugged on Pandora's reins. "Look, the tracks disappear. Shall we cross?"

There was no bridge in sight. The water didn't look too deep—waist high, he guessed, at most—but he eyed her long skirts and the sun overhead. "The day is getting away from us. Let's take what we've found back to Hamish and Niall. They may have an idea where the thieves were headed."

"I left my cloak in the dungeon."

"We also didn't lock up. We'll follow the tracks back. I'm not certain how to return from here, anyway."

Kendra's heart felt light as they rode back. She'd heard a warmth in Trick's voice that made her feel perhaps he was finally opening up. When she smiled over at him, he smiled back, raking her from head to toe with those amber eyes. A glimmer in them assured her that he liked what he saw, and her body reacted immediately.

How many more hours until they could sneak up to their chamber at Duncraven tonight? She'd never thought she'd look forward to anything in that gloomy place, but they had five long weeks to make up for.

Back at the ruins, she tethered Pandora and followed Trick into the dungeon, shivering a bit as she descended the narrow, cold staircase in the slanting light of the open trapdoor.

He turned to her at the bottom. "You're not still frightened, are you?"

"Maybe. A little." The candles had all guttered out. She hurried to get her cloak from the manacle on the wall.

He blocked her path and grabbed her around the middle, leaning to give her a kiss.

Just like that, her fear melted away. As his mouth slanted over hers, a dizzying cloud of his sandalwood scent surrounded her, overwhelming the dungeon's mustiness and reminding her of what she'd been thinking earlier. Her senses spun wildly, and before she knew what was happening, he'd lifted her by the waist.

"Oof! What are you doing?"

His only answer was a raised brow as he walked forward, then sat her in the open cage, letting her legs dangle out where the door hung loose. He gave the ugly black thing a push to start it swinging.

The metal felt cold beneath her skirts, and the swinging chain made an awful grating noise. Holding tight to the opening, she gave a shaky laugh.

He grinned. "See? It's not scary down here at all. Not with the sunlight and the company. And it must not have been scary to my mother, either, considering it was her special place."

Trying to be a good sport, Kendra reached her toes to push off again. The chain moaned a protest. "I can imagine her coming here to think," she told him, swaying to and fro. "The way you go to the cottage at Amberley."

He hesitated, then nodded his head. "Aye, just like that."

Pleased that he'd admitted as much, she pressed for more. "You write there, don't you?"

"Sometimes." He gave the cage another shove, sending the chain to its screeching song.

"I wonder if your mother wrote here?"

"I never saw her write anything other than letters. But I'd lay odds she came here with Hamish when they were younger—and not to write." He pushed her again, flashing a grin or a leer, she wasn't sure which. "Aye, I can picture them here, all right. I bet they came here to secretly make love."

A little tingle started in the pit of her stomach. "Make love? In here?"

"It's private enough." He cocked a brow. "I was conceived here. I can feel it."

"That's ridiculous." But intrigued, she looked around. "There's no bed."

"What makes you think we need a bed?"

"W-we?" Her fingers clenched the iron bars. "You cannot be serious. I cannot imagine—"

With his hands on the bars that flanked her head, he stilled the cage. "Ah, lassie, it's not really so hard to imagine." His wicked smile drew her attention to that tiny, charming chip on his tooth, and he took advantage, reaching down to flip up her skirts.

"Trick! What—" He was fumbling with the laces on his breeches. "Oh, my God."

"This would be easier in that kilt," he muttered.

And suddenly she had no problem imagining at all. In fact, her imagination was becoming reality. Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart began to hammer in her chest.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Kendra watched, riveted, as Trick ripped the lacing from its holes and stuffed it into his pocket. The front of his breeches gaped open.

"Oh, my God." She gripped the iron bars even tighter. "You cannot think—"

"Aye, now that you mention it, I am having trouble thinking." Tossing his hair from his face, he stepped close, a lethal look in his eye with a grin to match. "My head feels a bit light."

"Oh, my—"

Cutting off her words, his mouth came down on hers. Hot and frantic, his tongue delved inside immediately, and all at once, her head felt light, too. His hands spread her knees, and he stepped between them, pressing close. His warmth teased hers, and a shimmer of melting sensation rippled every nerve in her body.

Just like that, she wanted him inside. Part of her had been waiting for this from the moment he'd given her that lust-threaded look the first time they were down here. The saner part of her had gone into hiding.

He kissed her chin, her throat, the broad expanse of her cleavage exposed in the yellow gown's low neckline. Down below, she strained against him. "Oh, my God." She wiggled forward, wanting him, craving him. She needed him to fill her. "Now, Trick. Please."

With a low groan, he shoved his hips closer, and the cage swung away.

Suddenly bereft, she hung there in space—such a loss, the heat of his body. When the cage swung back, she released the bars to grip him tightly.

"Hell, leannan, this won't work."

"It has to." A fire burned inside her—how instantly it had flamed! She hadn't known it could happen so fast. She wrapped her legs around him, straining closer, a hot ache in the place she wanted him to be.

As her hands roamed his back, she groaned, irked to find so much clothing covering his body. A surcoat, a shirt, a cravat around his neck where her lips wanted to nip. "Your skin," she whispered, nipping his earlobe instead. "I want to touch you."

She tugged at the knot at his throat, managing to loosen it, ripping at the laces beneath. But the placket wouldn't allow enough access to make her happy, so she tugged the shirt out of his breeches in the back, slipping her hands up underneath.

"Jesus, lass." He rocked his hips closer again.

And the cage moved right out from under her.

The forward force of her body made him stumble back, but he managed not to drop her or fall. She clung to him, arms and legs wrapped tight.

"Hang on," he grated out. Capturing her mouth in a kiss, he walked forward, every movement an exquisite friction in that small unclothed area where her body met his. By the time he sat her on the rack, she was gasping for breath. He eased her onto her back and made to climb up—but the ancient, rickety contraption shuddered beneath them.

At the ominous sound of cracking wood, she twisted and jumped off, having to rip her skirt free of a large splinter. She frantically glanced around. Once this space had been filled with nice, solid chests, but now nothing was left to support them.

"The floor is dirt," she moaned.

"Easy, lass." Reaching for her, he raised a devilish brow. "We've no need to lie down." His hands warm on her shoulders, he backed her up until she was flush against the wall.

She couldn't envision how it would work, but she didn't care, so long as they could finish what they'd started. And when he took her mouth in a heated kiss, thoughts fled her head entirely. As the caress deepened, she raised her arms, intending to wrap them around his neck—and one of her hands hit an unhinged manacle.

At the muted thud, they both looked up, their ragged breathing the only sounds in the deserted dungeon. The expression in his eyes made her heart leap, made her remember him holding her hands above her head in the tunnel at Duncraven. Watching for his reaction, she wriggled her wrist into the open oval.

"Nay." His hungry gaze went down to her raised breasts, then back up, darting between the manacles on either side of her head.

Her own gaze followed.

"Nay," he said again. A more frustrated laugh she'd never heard. "It may be every man's fantasy, but you're not ready for that, leannan."

She was burning for him, and never in her life had she imagined herself fulfilling a man's fantasy. "Please," she whispered. She wrapped her free arm around his neck but left her other hand half-cuffed as she went to her toes for another kiss.

The kiss deepened, and she could feel his heart pounding against her breasts, her own blood rushing to match the wild cadence. "Please," she repeated against his lips.

A soft murmur vibrated from his body into hers, a sound of capitulation mixed with unbridled lust that made her knees threaten to buckle under her.

Lifting his head, he locked his gaze on hers. "Do you trust me, leannan?" His amber eyes fluttered closed and then opened, burning into hers, the most fervent, forthright gaze she'd ever seen. "Do you trust me?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed.

And she did. No matter that he robbed Puritans and didn't seem to trust her, in his own unique way he was the most honorable man she'd ever known. It seemed he always—always—wanted to do the right thing.

She waited, willing him to believe her, until finally he reached up. Cold metal circled her wrist, a grating creak in her ear and a bang as the manacle closed.

"Oh, my God, Trick."

"It's not locked. Just tell me if you want out." When she didn't cry off, he lifted her, fitting her legs around his middle before he reached for her other arm. "The offer stands—I can have the cuffs open before the words pass your lips." His voice turned hurried, frenzied. "Keep your legs wrapped, leannan. I don't want any weight on your hands. I would never, ever want to hurt you."

Snap.

Another bracelet around her second wrist, black iron instead of amber. Pressing her against the wall while he reached between their bodies, he tugged her skirts up and tucked the hem behind her shoulders. And with a quick upward thrust, he drove into her.

"Oh, my God." Her eyes slid shut, and she struggled against the restraints, not hurting or frightened—he hadn't locked them, after all—but just frantic with the need to touch him. In her few lessons on love, she'd enjoyed the giving as much as the taking.

Although she wanted to gift herself over to him, it was so hard to only succumb.

But as his hips initiated the rhythm her body craved, succumb she did. She clenched her fists against that urge to touch, her fingernails digging into her palms. Helpless to participate, she could only feel. Her skin prickled, her heart raced, and her whole world centered where her body met his.

It was agony, but sweet, so sweet.

As his tempo quickened, she felt a throbbing, and she couldn't tell if it was hers or his. Then it grew, until she knew it belonged to them both. Until she felt him pulsing within her and responded in a burst of exquisite glory.

"Oh. My. God."

"Are you all right, leannan?" Panting, he moved to release her wrists. Her legs straightened, reaching for the floor, and she slid down his body, her gown still wrenched up between them.

As she stood there on trembling limbs, he brought her wrists to his mouth and kissed them, one and then the other, so cherishingly that she thought her heart might crack at the tender look in his eyes.

"I think maybe I got carried away there," he confessed in a husky whisper, circling her wrists with his hands. Rubbing. Warm, and so gentle. "Are you all right?"

She gave him a shaky smile. "I don't believe I've ever been better."

His hands stilled, and the beginning of a grin tipped a corner of his mouth. "Are you sure, leannan?"

"Dear God, I've never been more sure in my life."

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The ride was hardly short, but Kendra was still glowing with aftereffects when they walked through the tunnel and into the great hall. Their hands were joined, and she looked down to her wrist. A bracelet of amber and the faintest pink line, not enough to hurt or even feel, just enough to remind her of the glorious afternoon.

Seated at a trestle table with a hearty meal before him, Hamish's gaze went to their joined hands as well. He smiled, a sigh escaping his lips. "You two put me in mind of my Elspeth, you do. Happy newlyweds you are, and glad I am of it."

It was true they were happy. True for Kendra, and as she met Trick's gaze, she knew it was true for him, too. Perhaps the matter of his parentage was disturbing, and perhaps she wasn't finished climbing the wall he'd built between them. But they'd turned a corner in that dungeon—they had laid the foundation for trust. A foundation they could build on in the days and weeks to come.

"The first time Da's been downstairs in weeks," Niall told them with a grin. "Join us, will you? Da has been trying to puzzle out what happened. Did you find any clues?"

Trick handed him the key. "Not much," he admitted, emptying his pockets. "Just this scrap of cloth"—he gave it to Hamish—"and this piece of glass." He set the shard on the table with an audible clink, then seated himself.

Kendra sat beside him, and plates were set before them. Seeing nothing sweet on the table, she took a wedge of spinach tart while Trick eyed a platter of meat slices swimming in onions and a savory-smelling sauce.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Mutton," Niall told him. "Scotch collops."

"Sounds good." He transferred a piece to his plate.

"Homespun." Hamish fingered the dark fabric. "It could have belonged to anyone, but most likely a common worker. Certainly not Elspeth or myself. As for this"—he picked up the glass—"it looks to be part of an old bottle. Wine, I'm guessing. We broke our share of them down there over the years."

Feeling her face heat, Kendra exchanged a look with Trick. And a secret smile. Maybe he had been conceived there.

And they could have conceived there themselves, she realized with a start.

He turned back to his father. "We also found many footprints—they looked to be of four different people, clustered around the chests as they lifted. Three larger sets of prints and one smaller." He polished off the mutton and reached for another serving. "So more folk than Niall supposed must have known about the treasure."

"More folk know about it now," Hamish corrected. His mouth straightened into a grim line. "After the original folk enlisted their help in this crime."

"The original folk?"

With a sigh, the older man ran a hand back through his thinning hair, a gesture that reminded Kendra of Trick. "Gregor and Rhona," he practically spat. "My friends. Or so I thought."

"Da!" Niall's eyes went wide. "You cannot really mean to accuse them?"

"No one else knew of the place. Or the treasure's existence." Hamish's voice sounded bitter, betrayed. "One small set of footprints—Rhona's. And three larger—Gregor and two men. One of them wearing homespun. Who else could it have been? The thieves had a key."

"Then they borrowed it or stole it—from you or Rhona and Gregor. Someone could have followed you there sometime. All those years..."

"No one followed. And as for all those years, there were things that happened in those years. Things you don't know."

Looking shaky, Niall took a long sip from his pewter goblet. "Such as?"

"Friends do not always get along. The four of us quarreled from time to time. Bitterly."

The spinach pie had turned out to be sweet after all, swimming in butter with cinnamon and sugar, but the last bite turned sour in Kendra's mouth. "What did you fight about?"

"For years now, Gregor and Rhona have wanted to sell off the treasure. The office of Town Clerk of Falkland doesn't pay so well, aye? At least not well enough for the two of them to live as they supposed they should, their best friend being a duchess. But Elspeth and I—we always argued with them, and we always won."

Niall ran his goblet back and forth on the pitted trestle table. "You were afraid if anything were sold, you'd be discovered."

"Aye, that was it in part, although Gregor always talked of carting the goods to London before selling them. Among the riches in that great city, he believed the treasure would go unnoticed, and in any case, not be connected to anyone back here in Scotland."

Kendra ran a finger around the rim of her own goblet. "But you didn't agree?"

"Royal plate is quite recognizable. But the truth is, we had other reasons for not wanting it sold. We only wanted it returned—off our hands."

Trick helped himself to a hunk of bread. "Could you not convince them?"

"We thought we had. Over and over. But always a few years later they would bring it up again." Hamish cut a piece of mutton. "I can only assume, Patrick, then when you arrived, they saw their last chance slipping away. They knew Elspeth had been planning to ask you to return the treasure. So they took it upon themselves to enlist help and make off with it before it was too late."

"Gregor and Rhona." Reluctantly, Niall nodded. "I expect that's why they've been absent since shortly after the burial. I thought they needed rest, but come to think of it, it's odd they left you alone, Da. When they spent every day here since Mam fell ill."

Hamish returned the nod.

Trick pushed his plate away. "So you think they're bound for London?"

"I expect so, son."

If Trick noticed the endearment, he didn't react. "We found cart tracks outside the tower, heading southeast around Falkland, and then more tracks from four wagons that went due south. At the point where they crossed a wee river, we turned back. Where would they go from there?"

"Down and over to Stirling Bridge," Niall said. "It's the only way across the Forth."

"Unless they were in a hurry." Hamish dabbed at his lips with a napkin. "Then they'd head for Burntisland and the ferry over to Leith. Just as King Charles did all those years ago."

"They're in a hurry," Kendra said.

The three men turned to her. "How do you know?" Trick asked.

"They crossed the river instead of heading up or downstream to a bridge. Although it wasn't overly deep, there had to be some risk involved in traversing the water with such a heavy load."

A new appreciation lit Trick's eyes. "You're right. But still and all, even taking shortcuts they cannot have gotten far, not with a burden like that. The tracks were visible, which means they left today." His gaze went to one of the deep-set windows. A light mist had begun to fall as they'd headed back to Duncraven. "I imagine the trail is washed away now. And they're making even slower progress."

Niall nodded. "If we ride out immediately, we could make it to Burntisland before them. And wait."

Kendra could hear the excitement in his voice. Clearly he saw this as more than a mission for right. She imagined he envisioned an adventure—he and his new older brother, off to save the world.

He rose, looking eager. "I don't suppose it will be too difficult for the likes of we two to dissuade one old man and woman."

"Watch your tongue, lad," Hamish put in, a ghost of a smile transforming his grim face. "Who are you calling old?"

With a laugh, Trick stood. "I'll fetch my cloak." He started for the turret steps.

"Wait!" Kendra leapt up to go after him. But he was already far ahead of her, his boots disappearing around the tight curve as he took the steep staircase two steps at a time, while she could manage only one.

By the time she caught up, he was already inside their chamber, spreading his cloak on the bed. Breathless, she caught him by the arm. "I want to go with you."

He spun to face her. "No. We've been over this before."

"You're not going to play the highwayman this time, Trick. I'll worry—"

"And I'll worry more if you come." He caressed her cheek with the backs of his long fingers, then moved away to root through the clothespress. "Stay with Hamish," he said, pulling out a black shirt and breeches. "He needs people around him."

"He has Duncan and Annag, and his grandchildren."

"Aye?" He tossed the garments on the open cloak. "Then where were they today?"

"At their own homes," Niall said behind them, "packing up their lives." They both turned to find him standing in the open doorway, holding a roll of parchment. "They'll return tonight. Seems they're moving here for good."

"Good?" Kendra asked incredulously.

"Bad choice of words." He half-grimaced, half-grinned. "But I don't want to upset Da by questioning this. Not until he's stronger."

"I understand." And she did. But that didn't mean she wanted to stay here with Niall's brother and sister. Left to deal with them alone, she could picture herself tearing her hair out. She'd be bald by the time Trick returned.

Suddenly she realized they were her husband's brother and sister as well. "They're yours, too, Trick," she blurted.

"Pardon?" He buckled on his sword belt.

"Duncan and Annag. They're your brother and sister."

In the act of shoving a pistol into his boot top, he stilled, the gun dangling from his fingers.

Niall leapt into the room to catch it. "Half brother and sister," he corrected.

Trick's face had gone pale. Kendra wished she could see the expression in his eyes, but his hair hung in the way.

"They're my half siblings, too, and I manage to survive," Niall joked weakly. "It's not all that bad."

"I just hadn't thought of it."

"Then have you thought about the fact that you're Scottish?" Niall handed over the gun.

Trick stared at it as if he'd never seen one before. "Scottish?" he repeated.

"One-hundred percent Scots," his brother said in an exaggerated burr. "Both your parents."

"I hadn't thought about that, either." Regaining his color, he shook his head as though to clear it, but the hair fell right back into his eyes. "I thought Mam was half Irish?"

Niall shrugged. "I suppose. But either way, you're not English, aye?"

A small smile tugged at Trick's lips. "I never did feel very English."

"Well, that's because you aren't." His brother returned his grin. "But you up and married a Sassenach, aye?"

"Guess I did, at that," Trick said, reaching an arm to pull Kendra close.

Seeing he was over the shock, she relaxed. He felt warm against her side, and she wished he wasn't leaving. She looked down, twisting the bracelet on her wrist.

Trick jammed the pistol into his boot top. "Are you ready?" he asked Niall.

"I brought a map." Walking to the desk, Niall unrolled the parchment. "I thought you'd like to see the way."

Trick helped him smooth it on the scarred oak surface. "We're here, are we?"

"Aye, and going here." Leaning over the map, Niall traced a finger southward. "Alongside the mountains and through the hills to the coast. Burntisland is directly opposite from Leith, do you see?"

"Across the Firth of Forth, aye." Trick's own finger followed the path. "How long should it take to Burntisland?"

"On horseback, not long. Two, three hours. With twenty-three chests of silver and gold, a whole day, maybe longer. Especially in the rain. The route is far from flat."

"That's in our favor." Trick rerolled the parchment and stuck it into his belt. "Shall we leave?

"I need just a minute to fetch my things. I'll meet you downstairs." Niall left, his footsteps hurrying through the garrison and then echoing as he descended the stairwell.

When the sound faded away, Kendra turned into Trick's arms. "Are you sure I cannot come with you?"

"I'm sure, leannan." He bent his head, his lips apologetic on hers. "This shouldn't take long. A few hours to get there, a day to get back with those chests." His lips brushed hers again, then lingered. His tongue teased her mouth, robbing her of breath, making her want to beg him to stay.

But she wouldn't. Rhona and Gregor had to be stopped. And she wouldn't push any more to go along. She was determined to be better than in the past, the sort of supportive wife he deserved.

"Be safe," she said softly.

"I will." A final kiss only left her wanting more. "I have a plan, so don't fash yourself."

"Don't worry, do you mean?" She squeezed him around the middle. "You're talking like a Scot already, you know that? Before much longer, Caithren will be the only one at home who can understand you."

With a laugh, he was gone.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

"Sit still, milady." Jane's hands curled and twisted. "You're restless this morning."

Feeling like little Susanna at the orphanage, Kendra sighed. Her gaze went to the bedchamber's window. It had rained all night, though it seemed to be letting up now. "I wonder how they're doing. All the night and into the morning."

"I'm sure they're fine, milady." Jane stole a cube of cheese from Kendra's untouched breakfast tray and popped it into her mouth. "They're probably on their way home already."

Kendra fingered the amber around her wrist, a bit sad that the slight pinkness from yesterday was gone. Trick had said he had a plan. She hoped it was a good one. "I didn't say I was worried."

"Of course you're worried." Jane tied a purple ribbon and stepped back. "There you go. He'll be home soon. You're doing well here, are you not?"

Was Jason checking up on her here, too? Kendra wondered. The thought made her warm inside. Though she knew it was unlikely, Leslie Castle being far from here, she also knew that her brother would do so if he could. He cared—just like Jane cared enough to ask the question.

"How are you doing here, Jane?"

"Why, fine." Gathering combs, pins, and ribbons, the maid arranged them in her little traveling case. "I've a room to myself bigger than the one I share at Amberley—why shouldn't I be fine?"

"How is that?" Kendra frowned. "I would expect the servants' quarters to be crowded, what with Duncraven's staff and now Amberley's."

"Didn't you know, then, milady?"

"Know what?" She rose and wandered to the window. The rain had stopped, and she smiled at the scene below, watching a mama rabbit hop after her baby through Elspeth's garden.

"When his grace—not your husband, but his father—left all those many years ago, he stopped providing her grace's allowance. She had to survive on what Duncraven earns, which I gather isn't much. Most of the servants were dismissed."

"My God." Kendra swung from the window. That explained why a nurse companion was doing bedchamber duty. And why the castle was so run down. "His grace—my husband—doesn't know of this, Jane. That I can promise."

"Calm yourself, milady." Jane shut her wooden case. "No one here blames him, and besides, this all happened long ago. The remaining staff are happy to have employment. And since Mr. Munroe moved in, they're even getting paid." She took her curling iron from the hearth and blew to cool it off. "Shall I sit with you and play some cards? The day might pass more quickly."

"Maybe later. I think I may sit with Hamish a while."

Jane's plain face split in a smile of approval. "Excellent idea. You know where to find me."

Kendra followed her maid out the door and down the winding, torchlit stairs, biting the inside of her cheek. She knew Trick wouldn't stand for his father and brother scrimping to the point they apparently were. Estate management was her strength, so she hoped to get to the bottom of Duncraven's problems before he returned. And find a solution that wouldn't involve him playing the highwayman any longer.

Coming into the sitting room, she headed for Hamish's door. Perhaps there were opportunities for income that they'd missed.

"Where did they go off to, Kendra?"

She whirled and, finding herself face-to-face with Annag, stifled a groan. "I told you, I don't know."

And told her and told her. At least a dozen times last night, before she'd escaped the great hall to toss and turn in her lonely bed.

She skirted past her sister-in-law, toward the master chamber's closed door. "Why are you so interested, anyway? Have you some stake in the outcome of today's work?"

Annag came around to block her way, fists raised. "Of what are you accusing me?"

"Go ahead, hit me. I've three brothers, and I can assure you they've schooled me well."

The woman's eyes narrowed, but she dropped her hands. "I'll get Duncan to find out, then." She flounced to Hamish's door, opened it, and slipped inside, slamming it behind her. "Dun-cannnn!" her voice came through the thick oak.

So much for consulting with Hamish—the last thing Kendra needed was another round with Duncan and his sister. So far she still had all her hair, and she preferred to keep it that way.

She headed downstairs and outside, hoping for some peace to appreciate the whimsical world that Elspeth had created. Once it had calmed Trick; perhaps the castle garden would work the same magic on her.

Though the rain had stopped, the day was blustery, the sky still gray and forbidding. She walked the paths, bending to touch a little castle here and there, smiling at Trick's mother's inventiveness. A blue one with little bits of metal to make it sparkle. A yellow one surrounded by miniature trees. She could almost picture Elspeth working on them, a small blond boy at her side. If he'd "helped" as well as the children at the orphanage did, she imagined it had taken the woman twice as long as necessary to build each one.

There was a fanciful one, painted pink, a green dragon guarding its entrance. It looked so pretty surrounded by bell-shaped purplish flowers.

She froze. Bell-shaped purplish flowers.

Black nightshade. Belladonna. Dwale.

She reached out, then snatched her hand back, hearing Caithren's voice in her head. Don't touch. It's possible to fall ill without even eating it.Do you see these dark green leaves? They're lethal.

She saw only a few of those dark green leaves...because most of them had been plucked off.

Like Cait, Rhona had knowledge of plants and herbs. And she'd been feeding a concoction to Hamish. Her "cure" with its dark green hue.

And Hamish's symptoms—likely Elspeth's symptoms as well—had been just what Caithren had described: shock, fever, slowed breathing, dilated eyes, stomach pain...

Rhona had been poisoning them both.

Dear God. She had to warn Trick and Niall. Her husband and his brother were all that stood between Rhona and Gregor and that treasure, and if the two of them had been willing to murder twice, they'd be willing to do it again.

Before she even puzzled it all out, she was running for the castle. Upstairs in her chamber, she ripped off her gown and threw a riding habit on instead. Grabbing her cloak, she lost no time heading for the stables and Pandora, praying that none of the family would see her before she could get on the road.

She'd hung over Trick's shoulder as he and Niall had pored over the map yesterday, and she was sure she knew the way.

Impatiently tapping a foot, she watched the stable boy lift the saddle to the mare's back. "Hurry, would you?"

The stable boy frowned. "You cannot go riding alone, your grace."

She forced a smile. "At home in England, I ride alone all the time."

"This is Duncraven, not England. Allow me to arrange for an escort."

"I thank you, but no." An escort would see where she was headed and ride right back. Then she'd be caught and kept from going altogether. Hamish would want to send someone else—a messenger or, God forbid, Duncan. And she wasn't going to sit here worrying while the men in her life were facing murderers. "I really prefer to ride alone. It clears my head."

The stable boy was backing through the doors, clearly going for help. Taking over where he'd left off, she cinched the saddle tight and swung herself up. "Tell Mr. Munroe I'll be back," she called as she rode off.

It was more miles than it had looked on the map, but Pandora was swift. The hours took her over rolling land nestled against a range of green mountains, then finally on a tree-lined road that wound through the hills shielding the coastline.

Cattle grazed in the meadows, and purple thistles sprouted everywhere. A fine mist fell from the sky, and the clouds were growing darker, promising heavier weather to come. When the twisting road crested and she could see the small village of Burntisland tucked into a bay in the distance, the Firth of Forth tossing fitfully beyond it, she began worrying about how she would locate her husband.

As luck would have it—bad luck—she barreled through a sea of cornflowers, rounded a bend, and nearly rode right over him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

"Grab her!" Rhona yelled.

In the middle of tying up a man, Trick looked up to see Kendra yanked off Pandora. A heartbeat later, Gregor had a blade to her neck.

Where the hell had she come from?

Stunned, Trick could barely find breath. Empty-saddled, Pandora reared and galloped up the embankment, his and Niall's mounts bolting after her.

"Damn you for a dastardly whoreson," Gregor grated through gritted teeth. "Release my man, before your pretty wife's head is rolling down the road."

"Don't listen to him, Trick!" Tears swam in Kendra's eyes. "He'll only kill you. He's murdered once already, almost twice—"

"Now!" Gregor bellowed.

His gaze riveted to Kendra's, Trick dropped the rope and slowly stepped back, the blood pounding in his ears.

I'm sorry, she mouthed, her heart in her glistening eyes. She raised her clenched knuckles to her teeth while the tears slipped down her cheeks.

"Rhona, get the weapons."

Stalking over to retrieve the pistols Trick had made them drop to the ground mere minutes earlier, Rhona smirked at Kendra. "Thank you, dearie." She handed a gun to one of their accomplices. "For a while there, your husband thought he had us fooled." The man Trick had been restraining struggled out of his half-tied bonds, and she handed over another pistol. "Imagine he and his brother thinking they could hold the four of us up."

Atop the rise overhead, Niall shakily stood, the lone real gunman among a dozen hats and pipes they'd arranged around him. He ripped the makeshift mask from his face. "We did fool you," he spat.

"Until your bonnie sister-in-law showed up and we put two and two together." Gregor tightened his hold around Kendra, and she flinched, making Trick's heart leap into his throat. "Drop your gun, lad, lest you be the next to feel my knife."

"He'll kill you anyway, Niall! I'm telling you—"

Niall's pistol fell to the road with an ominous thud.

Steaming—at Kendra, or Gregor and Rhona, or the world in general, he really wasn't sure which—Trick tore his own mask off and tugged the periwig from his head.

"Don't move!" Gregor growled. A tiny red nick appeared on Kendra's creamy skin, and her whimper took a year off Trick's life. Gregor swung his gaze on one of the other two men, motioning toward Trick with his head. "Kill him first."

"I told you!" Kendra wailed.

"Kill?" Palms forward, his gun pointed to the sky, the man backed away.

A Duncraven villager—Trick had slapped him at the draidgie. Now he wished he'd pounded him into the floorboards.

"Nobody said anything about killing, aye? We were supposed to move some chests and go home with gold in our pockets. Nobody said anything about killing."

"I'm with you, Davie." The second man's pistol dropped to the dirt. "Good day to you people. I don't know what game you're playing, but I'll be heading back to Duncraven now—you may keep my horse with my compliments." Casting a wistful glance to the animal in question, which was hitched to one of the wagons, he started walking.

"Wait!" Rhona's eyes darted back and forth between the retreating men and her husband. "We don't have to kill." Her voice rose an octave. "Damn you, Gregor, I told you from the first that we didn't have to kill!"

The men halted and turned back around, apparently reserving judgment.

"Aye," Gregor barked. "And then you talked me into that milk-livered way of doing it, when we could've been done with the deed and clear to London weeks before he showed up." He aimed a deadly glance at Trick.

"Hell mend you!" the first man said, pivoting away.

"Wait!" Rhona shot her pistol into the air.

Everyone froze. A choked sound came from Kendra's throat.

"We don't have to kill," Rhona repeated, her jaw tight with fury as she faced her husband. Visibly shaking, she gestured wildly at the four loaded wagons. "We cannot do this alone. We cannot let them walk."

Her gaze fell on the rope Trick had dropped to the ground. "We can tie the bastards up, like they were going to do us." He'd never heard such language from a woman's mouth. "We'll be long gone across the Forth before they can follow. The tide will turn, and they'll be stuck here till tomorrow."

Other than his labored breathing, Gregor remained silent. Resolute. The two other men exchanged looks and resumed walking.

A crack of lightning rent the air. "Come back," Gregor bellowed as thunder rumbled and rain began pelting the earth. "I'll hold this one until you tie up the others." His breath came in spasmodic jerks. "You!" he shouted to Niall. "Get down here unless you want to see the inside of your sister-in-law's gullet."

Niall didn't need to be told twice.

Using Trick's own ropes, they tied him and then his brother on the muddy ground, feet together, wrists crossed and bound behind their backs, then lashed to their bodies for good measure. Finally Gregor wrestled Kendra to the ground, and the two men gave her the same treatment.

"Ouch!" she yelled. "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! OUCH!"

Lying on his side, Trick winced with each tug of the rope, though frankly he couldn't imagine what she found so painful. The entire situation was aggravating as hell, but it didn't hurt so much as to warrant squealing like a pig.

His poor wife must have the lowest pain threshold in history, he decided, remembering her reaction on their wedding night. Should she ever give birth, he would do best to keep clear of the house. Or maybe the county.

He was jarred from those musings when Gregor came to stand over him, murder in his cold blue eyes. "You bleeding bastard!" A swift kick to Trick's side knocked the breath from his lungs. Gregor's jaw clenched, and he kicked again, a blow so hard Trick heard the sharp crack of a rib. Pain knifed through him, exquisite agony that made the worst of his father's beatings seem insignificant.

He shut his eyes, gasping for air, hearing the wagons roll down the road as he waited for the pain to subside.

"Trick? Oh, my God. Trick, are you all right?"

"I'll live." She was too far away to touch, but he opened his eyes and sent her a wan, forced smile. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." The tears welled up again, mixing with the rain. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I know you told me not to come, but she was poisoning them, Trick, they were—"

"We'll talk of it later." He was too confused right now, torn between fury that she'd shown up and relief that her throat was intact. The pain was becoming bearable, an insistent throb along his left side. "Niall? You all right, man?"

"Aye. I should have shot him."

"Don't be a horse's arse. It was four against two, and a knife at her throat." His eyes widened when he looked back to Kendra. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting out." She gyrated in the mud. "Angus and Davie, they're nice men at heart. I talked to them at the draidgie."

"What?"

"I thought if I could convince them they were hurting me, they'd leave the ropes loose." She wiggled a hand free. "It worked."

"Holy Christ," Niall breathed. "She's a bloody genius."

And Trick was a damned idiot.

Her arm was still tied to her body, and it took another few minutes to work it free. Then more long minutes to unravel the rest until only her ankles were bound. She made short work of those bonds and scrambled to her feet, shaking out the kinks, splattering mud to the ground.

"I never thought I'd say this, but thank God it's raining." She tilted her head back, letting the downpour run into her mouth and wash down her body.

A wry laugh shot from Trick's throat, shortened by the pain in his ribs. "Untie me, wench."

Minutes later, he was free, hugging her like he never wanted to let go, never mind the ache in his side. He dropped kisses on her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes. "Sweet Mary, leannan." He pulled back, running his fingers over the tiny cut on her throat, convincing himself it wasn't serious. "I thought I was going to lose you." Then he kissed her all over again.

Laughing, she drew away. "Don't forget your brother."

He knelt, stifling a groan, and loosened Niall's bonds, grasping his hand to help him up. They embraced hard, then drew back and met each other's eyes.

"Shall we go get them?" Trick asked.

"Hell, yes."

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The villains were already at the quay in the distance, unloading the wagons into a broad-beamed, single-masted boat. Or rather, the men were unloading. Rhona was wringing her hands. An agitated ferryman was alternately assisting and barking orders short-tempered enough to cut through the wind and the rain all the way to Trick's ears.

"No more, I tell you! She cannot hold it! And the tide has turned—we must leave, or we won't clear the harbor mouth—"

His words were cut off when Gregor turned a pistol on him. "Faster!" he shouted, shooting a shocked and then furious glance to where Trick and the others thundered closer on their horses. "Faster!"

"Enough!" the ferryman cried. "Take the last two off! She'll sink, I tell you!"

As the tide flooded out, the water level dropped between the two great stone piers that thrust east and west, the hundred-foot gap between them the only exit from Burntisland's harbor. In minutes, it would be too shallow and dangerous to navigate.

Trick reached the quay, his wife and brother arriving on Chaucer's heels. In unison they dropped to the dock, throwing their reins over a rail.

Ignoring the warnings, Gregor and the other two men thrust the last chest onboard and shoved off, the boat so laden there was barely room to stand. With a shouted oath, the ferryman jumped to the dock in the last instant, sputtering as the craft pulled away, already taking on water. In mute but panicked agreement, Gregor's helpers abandoned ship as well, leaping into the chilly harbor.

The boat's sails billowed, and it lurched forward, nearing the harbor mouth. Trick untied a smaller boat and scrambled aboard. "You, come!" he shouted to Niall. When Kendra made to follow, he waved her back. "You stay here!"

"A pox on you!" she screamed. With a running leap, she cleared the gap just as the boat pulled away.

Cursing under his breath, he shot a glance at the other boat floundering its way into open water. No time to argue, no time to turn back. "We'll discuss this later, too. Haven't you learned anything today?"

Niall grabbed two oars and started rowing. Before long, the ferryman looked like a tiny toy doll back on the quay, pacing and pounding his fists into the air. Another rumble of thunder ripped through the heavens.

"Look!" Kendra gasped.

From the west, a dense black cloud was sweeping down the firth.

"Bloody hell!" Trick had spent enough time aboard ships to know what that meant. Saying a quick prayer for the souls aboard the already-faltering boat, he snatched up the second set of oars to help row toward the laden ship, his ribs throbbing with every stroke. "If we transfer a chest or two aboard," he panted, planning as he went, "maybe we can lighten the load enough for the ferry to make it back. Niall, help me move them. Kendra, when I pull alongside, take the oars and try to keep her in place."

With the storm bearing down, he hadn't the luxury of being angry with her now. He would use her now, and yell at her later for complicating everything.

Damn stubborn woman. Always doing exactly as she pleased. Riding out by herself and getting them trapped into marriage, showing up at a highwayman raid when he'd expressly told her not to, running after him to Scotland, following him to Burntisland. And now this.

A few minutes later, they bumped up against the bucking ferry. "Now!"

He leapt across, his landing painful but safe. Niall followed and dashed to the nearest chest. Damn, it was heavy—not easily loaded by three men, and Trick was one injured man with a lad. But necessity bred strength, and together they wrestled it to the rail.

Frantically bailing water, Gregor and Rhona failed to notice them until they'd already half-shoved the chest onto their craft. A scrape and a clunk, and it was aboard—and Gregor rounded on Trick with a vengeance.

Trick took a punch to the gut that glanced off his tender ribs. He doubled over, wheezing in pain before he gathered force and returned the favor, smashing a fist into the older man's face. Niall added his own blow to the midsection, and Gregor stumbled backward, landing hard in a foot of water.

The ferry was pitching and yawing, slashing rain pounding its decks. As Gregor struggled to his feet, the vessel abruptly tilted. Thrown against the rail, Rhona screamed. One of the chests skidded past her, missing her by inches, and crashed over the side, taking a section of railing and Rhona along with it.

"Rhona!" Gregor scrambled after her, grabbing for her hand as she slid from the deck, their fingertips grazing but failing to grip. Trick leapt to keep Gregor from going overboard, his arms around the man's waist slamming him back into his abused body, while Niall jumped in to save the man's wife.

Tossed on the roiling firth, Niall's head swung wildly in search, but she'd already slipped beneath the waves. He disappeared after her. Bracing between two chests, Trick grimaced and hung on to Gregor, holding his breath until his brother's blond head broke the surface, the woman draped limp on his back.

Niall fought his way to the vessel's outer ladder, shoving her aboard before clambering up himself, fighting the wind and the rain.

Gregor wrenched from Trick's grasp and threw himself on his wife while Niall lay on deck, panting, water washing over him and into his open mouth.

"We've got to move another one!" Trick yelled. "She's still taking water!"

Niall nodded and pushed himself up.

"Trick!" Kendra's panicked voice came thready through the storm. "It's slipping!"

He rushed to the other side of the ship. Tossing wildly, the smaller boat had drifted yards away. Though she strained against it with both hands and a shoulder, the chest he'd loaded was inching toward one end, threatening to overbalance the boat.

Threatening to drown Kendra.

Faster than the wind, Niall flew past him and into the water. Priming to follow, Trick found himself smashed to the deck by an enormous, roaring wave.

He gasped for air, the deck awash, the rush sucking him over the side.

Freezing black water covered his head.

He fought his way to the surface, only to be blindsided by a plunging chest.

Woozy, he flailed in the lashing surf, battered by waves and debris. Chunks of broken timber, lengths of rigging, thick hunks of rope. He took water into his lungs, and it burned like the fires of hell. His ribs screamed with pain, and he couldn't lift his arms, couldn't swim, couldn't keep his head above the pitching seas that seemed determined to send him to a watery grave.

His last thought was of Kendra, struggling against that chest. Stubborn, willful, beautiful Kendra. Kendra, who put orphans above riches...Kendra, who'd accepted his own family before he did....Kendra, who could make his heart pound with a single glance...

Damn, but he loved her.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

He was freezing.

He wasn't dead, then. Hell was supposed to be hot. And heaven—not that he expected to go there—was supposed to be like floating on a warm, comfortable cloud. Yet he shivered with a bone-deep cold, so cold it felt as though he'd never be warm again. And he was far from comfortable.

A teeth-rattling jounce drove home that last point. Even hell would be better than this, he thought with a groan.

"He's coming around!" The voice was heavenly, the warm lips pressed to his face more heavenly still. "Oh, Trick, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Cold," he murmured.

"Just a minute. I'm almost finished."

A tug against his side sent such pain spiraling through him, he decided he must be halfway dead, at least. "Hurts," he grated out.

"I know. This bandage should help."

He forced his eyes open and lifted his head, which felt entirely too heavy—so heavy it dropped back with a skull-jarring bang. But he'd seen her. Kendra. Sweet Kendra. She hadn't drowned, after all.

His heart wanted to fly, but the rest of him insisted on staying earthbound. "Bandage?" he wondered.

"My chemise. Or part of it, anyway."

A bump sent his body into the air and back down with a wracking jolt. Not earthbound. Wagon-bound. He was in a wagon. And his precious wife was wrapping his ribs in a bandage ripped from her chemise.

His brain struggled to put the pieces together. How had he been hurt, but even more intriguing, how had she torn the bandage from the chemise? He pictured her lifting her skirts, her lovely, shapely legs coming into view as she rent the ivory fabric.

Wishing he'd been able to watch that, he realized he must not be half-dead, after all. Parts of him were far from dead, although other parts made him long for that peace. Then she raised her gaze to his, and he was glad, oh, so glad he was still alive.

"He's awake, Niall!" Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smeared with dirt, but her smile enough to brighten the cloudy day. Then her expression fell. "Oh, God, Trick, I'm so sorry." Tears sprang to her eyes.

He wanted to tell her not to cry, but the words were stuck in his throat.

"Brother!" Elated, Niall's voice floated to his ears from somewhere above his head. "How do you feel?"

"Throat hurts," he croaked, still staring at his wife. Even red-rimmed, her eyes looked the most beautiful green.

"You tossed a heap of water," Niall explained. "Jesus, was it disgusting." Something was passed over Trick's head. A flask. "Kendra, give him this."

She cradled his head in one hand, lifting the flask to his lips with the other. He drank greedily at first, then choked when the liquor burned his raw throat.

"Usquebagh," Niall called. "Water of life. Whisky. Take more, it'll do you good."

He did, gingerly this time, feeling the spirits burn a path to his belly. "Warm," he murmured.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Kendra blinked back her tears. "I'll warm you in a minute."

She tied off the makeshift bandage, a blessed tightness that seemed to pull him back together, both his body and his mind. Memory rushed back, and with it some of the anger at her for interfering. But, too, he remembered his thoughts as he'd sunk beneath the water. Thoughts of love, from a man who'd been certain he didn't believe.

Later. He would think about all of this later.

As she struggled to tug down his shirt, he levered up and found himself surrounded by horses. Niall had roped the four dray animals together to pull the wagon, and their own three mounts trotted behind. They were making good time.

Trick's feet were braced against a chest—the single chest they'd wrestled off the doomed ship. One chest saved out of twenty-three. He dropped his head to a makeshift pillow fashioned from his soggy surcoat. The rain had stopped, and the sun was struggling valiantly to peek between broken clouds.

"There." She drew up a blanket to cover him. It felt warm, then warmer still when she crawled beneath to cuddle up to his good side, sharing the heat of her body.

Heavenly. He was in heaven, after all.

"The ferryman gave it to me," she said.

"Gave you what?"

"The blanket."

"After you puked all over his floor," Niall added from the driver's seat up front.

"Nice of him." Trick laced his fingers with Kendra's. "Especially considering he lost his boat."

Fresh, warm tears wetted his almost-dry shirt where her head nestled on his shoulder. "We lost them," she said, the words soft and regretful. "Gregor and Rhona and the treasure."

"But we didn't lose each other." He squeezed her hand. "I think, leannan, we can thank God for that. And Niall."

"Nay," his brother called back. "Thank her. She's the one who pulled you from the water."

Stunned, he gasped. "How?" He was twice her weight, at least.

He sensed rather than saw Niall's shrug. "I managed to get to the boat, was dealing with the shifting chest. The next thing I knew she was leaping over my head."

"That wave." Kendra's voice shook with memory. "It was like a mountain. It came down, and you disappeared for a moment, then I saw you go over the side. It looked like you were riding a waterfall. I've never been more scared in my life."

"I know the feeling," he soothed, remembering the sight of her with a knife at her throat. "Rhona and Gregor? Did you see them, too?"

"No," she said. "We never saw them at all. They were there, they and the boat, and then they weren't. By the time I got you aboard, there was nothing where that ship had been but an eerie calm patch on the surface of the water, dotted with bits of debris."

Slowly he nodded, feeling an overwhelming weariness suddenly swamp him. Sweet Mary, she'd saved his life. Because she'd disobeyed him—because, in spite of his protests, she'd flown into that boat like an avenging angel—she'd been there, and she'd saved his life....

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

But Trick was already asleep.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

It was nearing midnight by the time they arrived at Duncraven, cold, hungry, and—at least on Kendra's part—exhausted.

Trick's long sleep in the wagon bed seemed to have gone an amazing way toward restoring his strength, and Niall clearly found his second wind as they neared the castle, itching to tell his father all about the adventure of a lifetime. But she hadn't slept a wink on the bumpy ride, too caught up in wonder that they were all alive, tempered by a wrenching regret that her own part in the day's events had led to its tragic end.

While Trick and Niall went straight to fill Hamish in, she begged off and dragged herself upstairs, wanting nothing but a hot bath and a good night's sleep.

She'd almost accomplished the first when Trick came in, a platter in one hand and two goblets in the other. Quickly she slid deeper into the water, crossing her arms over her breasts. No matter that he'd seen all of her before—no man had ever seen her bathe. It seemed different. Private somehow. And too intimate, considering what she'd put him through today.

He shouldn't want to see her at all.

"I can take over from here." He nodded a dismissal at Jane, and she left, quietly closing the door behind her. "Hungry?" he asked matter-of-factly.

"Not really." Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry, Trick, for ruining your plan. If I hadn't arrived and tipped them off as to who you were, none of this would have happened."

"You cannot know that; we cannot know what would have happened." He set the food on the desk, his gaze filled with concern. "Maybe you ruined our plan, but you also saved my life. I thank you for that, lass, from the bottom of my heart."

Her own heart hurt. Oh, if only she could forgive herself as easily as he seemed to forgive her. Then he ran a hand back through his hair, and she blinked, staring, so stunned her own guilt fled her mind.

"You cut it," she breathed. "Your hair."

A wry grin twitched at his lips. "Mrs. Ross cut it. There I was, telling Hamish all about what happened, her fussing over Niall and me both. Moving chairs near the fire so we could warm, pushing hot drinks into our hands. As we talked, she removed Niall's damp coat and ran a comb through his hair. And the next thing I knew she was standing over me with scissors."

"You didn't stop her."

His only answer was a shrug. But he was no longer hiding, not from her. The heart that he'd spoken of thanking her from was right there in his amber eyes.

He came close and knelt by the big wooden tub, setting the goblets on the floor beside him. "No more tears. I hold you blameless for anything that happened today. You must believe that."

When he drew her hands from her body, she forgot to be embarrassed. She squeezed his fingers, gazing into those unguarded eyes. "You blame yourself instead, don't you?"

"Aye," he admitted, toying with the amber on her wrist. "But Hamish—Da"—a fleeting smile curved his mouth—"did his best to set me straight."

"What did he have to say?"

He kissed her fingertips and sighed. "He thinks it's just as well that Niall and I didn't manage to keep his friends from drowning, since it saved him the trouble of having them hanged. As for the Royal plate, he believes it's fate...and only fitting that it ended up where it was thought to be all along."

She heard very little conviction in those words. "You don't agree."

"It's difficult to avoid feeling like a failure when you lose an immense fortune and two lives into the bargain. But I'm working on it."

She'd been working on trying to better herself, too. "I wanted to stay here like you told me to—truly I did—but then when I realized they were murderers, and thought of you out there not knowing that...your lives at risk..." Remembering, she felt her heart pounding all over again. "I tried to obey, but I'm not made that way, Trick."

"I know." He sighed theatrically, but the smile in his eyes told her it was only for show. "I expect I'll have to get used to that."

"I'm so glad you're willing to try." Though she still didn't hold herself blameless, relief flowed through her in heady waves. He was accepting her for who she was. More than anyone ever had in her life. "I was only trying to warn you of their wicked ways, but it all went wrong."

"Your heart was in the right place." His lips brushed her knuckles, and his breath on her hands warmed her somewhere deep inside. "I'm not used to anyone wanting to take care of me," he told her in a deep, husky voice, "but I do appreciate it. And I'm hoping we can make a fresh start, and that some day I'll prove myself deserving of your special sort of loyalty."

Could they really begin anew and learn to trust each other? Her heart soared at the thought. She sent him a tremulous smile, and he dropped her hands, reaching down for a goblet.

She took it, sipping the fortifying wine while he walked over to the desk.

"Midnight supper." Carrying the platter, he dragged the chair over to sit by the tub. "Will you have some bread and cheese?"

She nodded, surprised to find herself suddenly ravenous. "I'm worried, Trick. About Hamish and Niall."

"Aye?" Balancing the platter on his knees, he cut a slice of pungent cheddar. "What makes you worry?" he asked, tearing a hunk of bread and handing them to her together.

"Things haven't gone well here since your father—the duke—took you away." She nibbled on the bread. "Jane told me he cut off your mother's allowance, and she had to dismiss most of the servants."

Taking a hearty bite of bread, he nodded as he chewed. "I guessed as much, noting the state of this place." He swallowed and washed it down with a gulp of wine. "I asked Niall about it on our long trek to Burntisland."

"And?"

"Hamish does well for himself in the cloth trade. But other than allowing him to make up back pay for the servants, Mam refused to take his money when he moved in." In three big bites, he polished off a slab of cheese. "Stubborn woman. She may not have been as bad as the duke had convinced me, but she was far from perfect."

"None of us are," Kendra reminded him. "Will they be all right here, then, do you think?"

"Aye, with Hamish's help. And Niall is planning to visit Amberley later this year and learn some more progressive farming. Scotland is behindhand, it seems. I thought maybe you could help him with that."

His steady confidence did much to make her trust in this fresh start of which he'd spoken. And Hamish and Niall would be fine. She sagged with relief, draining the rest of her wine.

"Feel better now?" he asked.

"Immensely." Everything was working out perfectly.

"Good." He rose and took the goblet from her hands. Was that a gleam she saw in his eyes, she wondered, or was it only that she wasn't used to seeing them so clearly?

She got her answer when he started ripping off his clothes.

"Wh-what are you doing?"

"Joining you, leannan. I'm grubby as hell."

"B-but...together?" She half rose out of the tub.

With a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back down. "Together."

"You're jesting," she said. "And you're hurt."

But as his gaze held hers, his words that first night in Scotland slipped through her thoughts: I'd like to see all of you wet.

And she knew he wasn't jesting at all.

"Aye, I hurt a bit," he admitted. "But I trust you'll be gentle." Opposite her, he stepped into the water.

"Your bandage!"

"Stop being such a worrywart, lass. I'm more comfortable with it on." As he lowered himself, he nodded toward her tattered chemise. "There's another where this one came from."

She sat motionless as his legs slid beneath her own, then gasped when he grasped her by the waist to bring her up and onto his lap. But his small grunt of pain didn't seem to signal any loss of enthusiasm. His lips went to hers immediately, the kiss deepening while he reached back to arrange her legs around his body.

Lulled by his mouth and his hands roaming her wet skin, she pressed closer. Below, where her body met his, a hot stab of desire took her by surprise.

Dear God, he was right there, almost inside her.

He smiled against her lips. "Not yet, leannan. We haven't washed."

"I've washed already."

He reached for the soap behind her head. "Then you can wash me," he suggested, holding it out.

At the silky tone of his voice, her heart pounded wildly, and when she took the soap, it slipped from her fingers and plunged to the bottom. His knowing smile only flustered her further while she fished in the water for the hard-milled ball. But when she brought it up and its scent wafted to her nose—her lavender fragrance, not his sandalwood—a wicked idea took hold in her mind.

Languidly, she passed the soap back and forth in her hands. "I'll wash you," she told him, "but only if you promise not to move. Not your arms, not your legs, not anything."

"Not even my head?" He lurched forward and stole a kiss.

Her lips tingled as she firmly pushed him back. "Not even. Not even one inch."

Contemplating that, he ran his tongue over the chip in his tooth, and she wished it were her tongue, instead. "Why?" he asked.

"You're injured. You mustn't strain yourself. And besides..." Her lips curved in a calculating smile. "I wish to play Poseidon and rule these waters. Because I owe you. For the dungeon."

"Sweet Mary," he breathed as she lathered her hands. Dropping the soap on purpose this time, she smoothed her palms over his shoulders, tracing circles down his back until her fingers met the binding around his ribs. Then up again, slowly, slowly, as his eyes slid shut and his head tilted back.

"Don't move," she reminded him, a little breathless. Feeling daring, she ran her hands down his chest, skimming the bandage until they met warm skin below. And down. All the way down.

That part of him moved—more than an inch—before his eyes flew open. "Are you sure I didn't drown?" he husked out.

"Hmm?" She brought one hand out of the water, smiling to herself at the glazed expression in those newly unshielded eyes. Dear God, they were beautiful. Moistening a finger in her mouth, she wet his bottom lip, right there in the center where she always thought of touching it.

Thrilling to his soft intake of breath, she licked her finger again and drew it across his top lip. So chiseled, and so talented—oh, what that mouth could make her feel. A third time she sucked her finger, then worked it between his lips, rubbing his tongue while she held his gaze with hers. It was heady, the power of seduction, driving her to try things she'd never even imagined.

A dazed smile on his face, his eyes slid shut when she moved her hand beneath the water, leaning forward for a long, melting kiss. "Don't move," she reminded him when she pulled back.

His hands clenched on the edges of the tub.

"I know I drowned," he gasped, "because I've died and gone to heaven."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Duncraven seemed lighter the next morning.

When Kendra woke, the chamber seemed brighter, and the walls seemed to hold fewer secrets. Ghosts no longer seemed to be lurking. She found herself almost sorry to leave.

But Trick was in a hurry.

"I want to deliver what's left of the king's treasure. Get it off my hands." He latched his trunk. "And I want to get back to Amberley. Although..."

He watched her look up from tying a garter. "Although what?"

"It shouldn't be mine." He'd been thinking about that ever since he'd had other obvious facts pointed out to him—that Annag and Duncan were his siblings, and that he wasn't really English at all. "Amberley, and the dukedom. By rights, by blood, they shouldn't belong to me."

And the shock of it was, he found that disturbing. Mere months ago he hadn't wanted Amberley at all, hadn't wanted anything that came from the man he'd thought was his father. His shipping concern had been more than enough to support him, the estate and title just another reminder of the life he'd wanted to forget, another responsibility he hadn't needed.

But he needed them now. He needed them for his wife and the family he'd begun envisioning. No sane man would reject something that so clearly benefitted the people close to him.

Loving Kendra had changed everything.

"Who would get Amberley if not you?" Always direct, his Kendra.

"I don't know. The man who raised me had no brothers...some distant cousin of his, I imagine. Someone I've never met."

"And do you imagine he'd use that dukedom for the same good that you do? Do you imagine he'd shelter orphans in the old manor house?" Always straight through to the heart.

"I don't know that, either."

She rose and walked close. "You know I didn't want to be a duchess any more than you wanted to be a duke. But you earned that dukedom, Trick."

"Did I?"

"Yes. With your sweat, and I suspect with your blood and your tears." She leaned up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Legally, it's yours, and I see no reason on earth it shouldn't stay yours."

Maybe she was right, and there was no reason he shouldn't be able to keep it.

No reason except his monarch's threat hanging over his head if he failed to finish the job he'd started.

He kissed her back, a kiss filled with all the hope he had for their future. "Come, leannan, let's traipse down these endless stairs one last time. Let's go home and get started on our brand-new life."

Kendra held Hamish's arm, thrilled that he was strong enough now to accompany them outdoors along with Niall.

They paused on the drive where the Amberley servants waited. "What will you tell King Charles?" Hamish asked Trick.

"I'll think of something." Trick looked up to the single chest he'd had lashed to the top of the ducal carriage. "At least nobody will suspect I'm carrying anything of special value."

He'd told Kendra that when they stopped for the night at an inn, they'd simply bring it with them into their room. They didn't need all the extra guard he'd been envisioning. Four Amberley outriders stood ready, and that should be enough. They planned to travel directly to London.

Her gaze followed his. "I want to see it," she said.

"See what?" Niall asked.

"The Royal plate that brought about all this treachery and heartache. It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know." Her brother-in-law shrugged. "I've never seen it myself."

"In all those years?" She hadn't pegged him as being so uncurious. "I would have begged until my parents let me look."

"Oh, I did. But it was pointless. There's no key to the padlock."

Hamish gave her a hard hug. "I tossed all the keys into a loch years before Niall was born. After one of those bitter quarrels. To keep the pieces from disappearing one by one."

So he'd distrusted his friends even then. Unfortunate that he'd failed to take those feelings to heart—it might have saved Elspeth's life. But as the old French saying Kendra used to hear on the Continent put it, "L'amitié ferme les yeux."

Friendship closes its eyes.

Drawing her from those thoughts, Niall stepped forward and planted kisses on both her cheeks. "God willing, I'll see you soon."

She was surprised to feel tears welling up. "I expect you at Amberley before too long."

He nodded. "After the harvest."

Trick embraced his brother. "I thank you for taking care of that for me."

"We—Da and I—thank you for allowing us to stay." Niall's gaze flickered over to the castle's open doorway, where Annag and Duncan stood glaring, her children behind them. "And allowing them to stay, too."

Trick shrugged. "They're harmless." And he was right. For all Kendra's wild imaginings, Duncan and Annag had never done anything to hurt either of them. "Besides, they're my siblings. I won't pretend to like them, but if it makes Da happy to give them a home, then I'm happy, too."

Tears welled in Hamish's eyes as he took Trick by both hands. "We don't deserve you, lad."

He shook his head. "It's I that don't deserve you—a father and a brother that would do any man proud. Family, after all these years." Blinking back his own tears, he wrapped the older man into his arms and held him a long moment. "We'd best be going."

"Aye, I suppose you must." Hamish forced a smile and watched them climb into the carriage.

Trick closed his eyes until they rode away, then opened them and pulled Kendra across the cabin for a soft kiss. "When we get to London, I'm going to ask my solicitor to deed Duncraven over to Hamish, with Niall as his heir."

If she'd had any remaining doubts that her husband was a good man, they vanished then. "That's wonderful, Trick."

"Not wonderful, only decent." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Besides, the last thing I need is an estate in Scotland. My father—the duke," he corrected himself, "left me more than I can deal with as it is."

Maybe he could fool himself into thinking his actions were less than generous, but Kendra knew better.

CHAPTER FIFTY

It felt strange to Kendra to be back in London but at Trick's town house instead of the one she'd always known in Lincoln's Inn Fields. And Caldwell House, a dark monstrosity built before the Civil War, was every bit as disgustingly opulent as he'd said. Standing in the master bedchamber, where she was dressing before attending court, she was reminded of an overdecorated cake.

A blue and orange one.

"Ghastly," she said, kicking off her shoes.

"I told you that you would hate it." Trick shrugged out of the surcoat he'd worn for travel. "Feel free to redecorate."

"I imagine I have better things to do that will keep me busy a while." Peeling off her garters and stockings, she frowned at the lavender gown that Jane had selected. Too insipid for her mood. They'd sent a messenger ahead to request Kendra's London clothing be moved from the Chases' town house, and she hurriedly flipped through the gowns that had been crammed into the master bedroom's wardrobe. "I wonder how all the children are getting along?"

"Fine, I'm sure," her husband said absently while pulling a fresh shirt over his head.

Cavanaugh had laid a blue velvet suit on the bed. Men had it so easy, Kendra thought with a bit of weariness-induced irritation. Brown or green, velvet or satin. Aside from varying quantities of braid, lace, and ribbon, everything looked the same. Their shirts and cravats were always white, their shoes—with the exception of some foppish court dandies—invariably black. High-heeled with fancy buckles for court, low-heeled and plain for every day. There was nothing much for them to decide.

She selected a cloth-of-gold gown and held it up. "What do you think?"

His back to her as he reached for his breeches, Trick answered, "Fine." For a moment she stood there, aggravated, until he turned and favored her with one of his blinding white smiles.

He was right. Everything was fine, after all.

In a few short weeks, their relationship had come a long way—farther than she'd thought possible. The journey to London had been almost blissful. Trick had been the most attentive of lovers, but even more important, he'd answered most of her questions without resorting to evasion. The days on the road had gone a long way toward convincing her their future was bright indeed.

Bless her brothers for bringing them together, she thought, then silently laughed at her reversal of feelings.

"Come here, leannan," Trick said, and she did, letting the gown slip to the floor as she walked into his arms. His kiss was everything she hadn't been able to imagine before meeting him, and she was breathless by the time he finished. "I'm sorry to rush you out of the house when we've barely arrived," he murmured regretfully, his gaze lingering on the garish orange-hung bed, "but I want to complete my business with King Charles and take you home to Amberley."

With a sigh, she moved away and started detaching her stomacher. "I still wish I could see it."

"See what?" he asked, pulling up the blue velvet breeches.

"The treasure. Will we be bringing it along to court?"

Trick's gaze wandered to the massive chest sitting in a corner. He wished he didn't have to deal with this. He wished he didn't have to deal with King Charles or his problems at all.

"I think I'll just meet with Charles tonight to explain, then arrange to send it along later."

She wiggled her gown down and off. "I cannot wait to see his reaction."

Sweet Mary, he couldn't let her be there. He had delicate matters to discuss with the king. Looking down as he tucked in his shirt, he made his voice as casual as possible. "I believe Charles will feel this is a matter best settled between men."

He raised his gaze to hers, expecting to see that look in her eyes. The defiant look she'd given him when he'd told her she couldn't come along to Scotland, again when he went off to Burntisland, and yet again when he'd ordered her not to get on the boat.

But instead he saw a different look. Hurt.

He wanted to hit something. Not an hour in London, and the damn deceptions were coming between them already.

Characteristic of her, though, the hurt look was fleeting, and the one he'd expected came into her eyes, after all. He watched her draw breath, girding for battle. "Charles likes women," she said.

"In his bed, yes."

"No." She caught his gaze and blushed. "Well, yes, but that wasn't what I meant. He listens to women. Really listens, as if he cares what we say. Even about politics."

Lucky him, marrying one of probably three women in England who would think to discuss politics with their monarch. "If I let you see the treasure, will it make you feel better?"

"You cannot do that." She rolled her eyes. "There's no key, and Charles is going to wonder where the lock is if you hack it off."

"Then I won't."

"I knew you wouldn't."

"I mean I won't hack it off."

She glanced at the chest, then back to him, speculation narrowing her pretty green eyes. "Can you pick the lock?"

"You insult me." He swiped his knife off the dressing table, and she followed him to the chest, where he knelt and went to work, delicately probing the keyhole. "There isn't a good smuggler on earth who doesn't know how to pick a lock."

Wearing nothing but the amber bracelet and a flimsy chemise, she sat on the chest. When she crossed her legs right in front of his face, his knife slipped.

"Were you a good smuggler?"

Determinedly, he refocused. "Actually, I was a bad smuggler. My heart was never in it." A satisfying click reverberated in the room. "But I can pick a lock."

Removing it, he stood. With a happy gasp, she jumped up and threw open the lid.

"Oh, my God, Trick. Look at this." She hefted a solid gold charger, running her fingers over the delicately engraved rim. "It's beautiful."

"He'll probably melt it down."

"No," she breathed, dropping to kneel before the chest. "He wouldn't." She set the charger on the floor and reached for a silver pitcher in the shape of a swan. "Oh, I just knew I wanted to see this." One by one, she removed pieces, each more impressive than the last. Plates, bowls, goblets, cutlery, serving utensils, platters. "Hamish was right. The first Charles truly did live like a king on his coronation journey."

He smiled as she delved deeper, her lovely, scantily clad bottom rising as she leaned into the chest. Helpless to resist, he gave her a little pinch.

Laughing, she slapped his hand away. "Oh, what is this?" She drew out an ivory casket inlaid with scrolled gold wire.

He shrugged. "Small items?"

"In a beautiful box like this? And locked?"

Taking it from her, he made short work of that and put it back in her hands.

With a sigh of anticipation, she raised the lid. "Jewels!" She lifted an exquisite sapphire and diamond necklace. "My God, it looks like pirate's booty! How did jewels get in here?" Replacing the necklace, she slipped a gaudy emerald ring on her finger. "I don't understand this," she said, staring at it. Obviously made for a man, it dangled loose. "I thought Hamish and his friends only packed the kitchen."

"Supposedly." He ran a hand back through his hair, still surprised to find the front so short. "I guess somewhere along the way, someone filched this and slipped it inside."

"Rhona or Gregor, I'm guessing. I wonder if Hamish knows?" She dug around some more and drew out another necklace. "Goodness, will you look at the size of these pearls?"

The largest round pearls Trick had ever seen, with one enormous teardrop-shaped pearl dangling from the center. "Fit for royalty, all right."

She dropped it back into the casket. "Oh, Trick, look at this." Her voice turned wistful. "Amber."

"When did you grow to like amber?" he teased.

She blushed and pulled the jewel out, only to find it was a clasp attached to a gleaming string of smaller, pure white pearls. "Oh, it's lovely," she sighed, dropping the strand over her head.

It was so long, he reached to double it, settling the second half around her neck. "Don't you own any pearls?"

"Father sold all the family jewels to help finance the Civil War." Her fingertips danced on the lustrous strand. "Of course, Jason has bought me things over the years. And Colin and Ford. They all know I love jewelry. But pearls are terribly expensive."

And immensely popular. All the court ladies wore pearls, and most of the men, come to that. "You look beautiful in pearls, leannan."

She blushed and took them off. "For the price this trinket could bring, I expect we could feed the orphans for a year."

"A decade, probably." He smiled.

She dropped them back into the box. "Help me put this all away, will you? I still need Jane to do my hair, and if we don't get to Whitehall soon, we'll miss the presentations."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

"The Duke and Duchess of Amberley!"

Trick shot the puffed-up court usher an annoyed glare. "I abhor this sort of thing," he muttered under his breath as he and Kendra made their way down the aisle to where King Charles and Queen Catharine sat on the dias, dressed in crimson velvet with a swagged canopy overhead to match. "I really hate this."

"Oh, hush," Kendra chided. "A little pomp and circumstance never hurt anybody. And there will be dancing afterward—"

"I cannot wait."

His tone was dry enough that under different circumstances she might be tempted to slap him. As it was, she flashed Queen Catharine a brilliant smile and dropped into a deep curtsy, pressing a kiss to the back of the woman's slim proffered hand. "Your Majesty."

"Lady Kendra," Catharine said in gracious Portuguese-accented syllables, "or have I heard it's the Duchess of Amberley now?"

"You've heard correctly," she said, then leaned closer to her husband. "As long as he behaves himself," she added for his ears only.

Suppressing a laugh, he rose and traded sides with her. King Charles smiled as she kissed his hand. "It's glad I was to hear that two of my favorite families are united."

She only just managed to conceal her surprise. "I'm happy to have pleased Your Majesty."

He nodded, then looked back to Trick. "We'll talk later, yes?"

"Aye. And I've something to give you."

"Do you, now?" The king was not above delighting in gifts. "Did you bring it along?"

"It's rather...large. And it's at my home, but I can have it delivered—"

"Amberley House, or Caldwell House here in London?"

"Here in London, but—"

"I have matters to discuss with you in any case." Charles raised a meaningful brow. "I shall sneak out of my bedchamber this evening and come to you."

"Sneak?" Kendra burst out, then clapped a hand over her mouth.

Charles let loose a booming laugh. "My Master of the Backstairs is quite accustomed to making these arrangements, I assure you."

His eyes twinkled, and Kendra blushed. She knew he meant that he usually sneaked out for assignations with his mistresses, but she felt sorry for his long-suffering queen, who was studiously looking elsewhere.

She would never put up with that from her husband, not now that things were right between them in the bedroom. He'd promised her fidelity, and she expected him to give up his mistress. Just let him try to visit London alone again.

With another bow and curtsy, Kendra and Trick moved away so the next courtiers could be presented.

"Well, I expect we can leave now," Trick said as soon as they were out of earshot.

"I'm not leaving until after we've danced." Kendra flipped open her painted fan.

"Don't tell me you're going to titter behind that thing."

"Me? Titter?" She frantically fanned it at her face. On this late summer night, the Presence Chamber was hot and close, lit by hundreds of candles in wall sconces and liveried yeomen holding flaming torches. "What did Charles mean, two of his favorite families?"

Trick tucked his tongue in his cheek. "Were you not aware the Chases are favored?"

For the second time this evening, she was tempted to slap him. "You know very well what I mean. I've never seen you at court—"

"I do my best to avoid it."

"And I don't remember you from the years in exile, either. So how is it you've come to know Charles so well?"

"My father—the duke—was a major supplier of kingly luxury items," Trick said dryly. "All through the Commonwealth years, we had, uh...dealings."

Kendra stopped fanning. "You're jesting, right? Charles was as poor as we were during those years."

"I'm not jesting. The duke was happy enough to supply him free of charge."

"Out of loyalty?"

He snorted. "Out of greed. Charles promised him the dukedom restored upon his own restoration." He frowned across the chamber, then turned back to her, pulling at his cravat. "If you're not going to fan yourself, you may as well fan me."

"My wrist is tired. I've decided to sweat instead."

Chuckling, he leaned forward and gave her a kiss. "Ladies don't sweat. Ladies glow."

"I'm a duchess now, not a lady. I can do as I please." Suddenly he was staring at a woman across the chamber. "Trick? Who is that?"

"Most people call her Lady Charlotte Waller."

She blew out a breath, her free hand curling into a fist. If this was his London mistress...

"Most people?" she asked carefully.

"Charlotte, Harlot—what's the difference?"

Despite her distress, she laughed, thinking there were very few women present who didn't deserve such a designation. "And what, pray tell, could this Lady Harlot have done to earn such a title at King Charles's court?"

"She slept with the Earl of Danforth."

"From what I understand, so have half the women here."

He raised a brow. "Not while they were betrothed to me."

"Oh." Dear God, not a mistress, but the woman from Trick's poem. The reason Kendra had yet to hear a declaration of love from her husband's lips and despaired that she ever would.

Following his unfocused gaze, she glared at the simpering blonde across the room. Harlot. "I hate her."

"Aye. It was clear enough that despite her protests of love, it was my title she wanted, not me. Of course, I mightn't have been quite so upset had she not refused more than a kiss from me by claiming herself a virgin. And had I not found them together in said virginal bed."

In which case Kendra wouldn't have had an uphill battle to gain her husband's trust. Of course, if he'd married the harlot, Trick wouldn't be her husband. But that was beside the point.

No, that was the point entirely...he was her husband, not the harlot's. And although not long ago she'd never have believed it, she was very happy about that.

Courtiers were gathering around the dance floor, a rainbow of brilliant colors in the blazing light. Jewels glittered on ears, necks, wrists, and hands of men and women alike.

Kendra couldn't help but notice that most everyone wore pearls. With a secret smile, she fingered her amber bracelet. Who needed pearls, anyway? Looking down to her hands, she noticed the plain gold band around her finger. So very Trick. She should have realized from the first that he wouldn't be the type of duke she detested.

And she'd found she didn't so much mind being a duchess, either. Together in those roles, they could do much good. Whether it was fair or not, people listened to what dukes and duchesses had to say. With whispers in the right ears, they could raise enough money to open a hundred orphanages if they wanted.

And he wouldn't have to play the highwayman anymore. In fact, before they got to Amberley, she'd demand he stop. Now.

His attention still across the room, she sneaked a glance at her husband. His golden good looks set her heart to racing, and she knew that she couldn't stand to even think of the possibility that he might be hurt or—God forbid—arrested. She would find some way to keep the children fed and clothed until she could put her new plan into motion.

At the far end of the chamber, musicians were tuning up, and King Charles was leading Queen Catharine through the crowd to begin the dancing.

"Shall we dance?" Kendra asked Trick.

Tearing his gaze from the harlot, he looked down at her. "Am I not supposed to do the asking?" He smiled. "Oh dear, I nearly forgot. You're a duchess now and can do as you please."

Laughing, she turned into her husband's arms and let herself be led to the dance floor, where a minuet was playing.

He bowed to her, then did a small plié in a mirror of her own move. "Do you realize we've never danced?" he said conversationally.

She stepped forward with her right foot, rising on her toes. "I danced with your brother, you know."

"Did you? When?" They both brought their feet together, lowering their heels. "Should I be worried?" Trick asked with a mock-stern frown. "Remember what I told you about fidelity."

Though she was sure he didn't intend it, his gaze went to Lady Harlot, who seemed to be pointedly ignoring him.

She repeated the steps with her left foot, her own gaze going to King Charles. "Remember what I told you about fidelity."

His laugh made her feel a lot better. He dropped her hands so they could both turn. "Niall and I danced at the draidgie," she said coquettishly over her shoulder. "While you were outside writing." His hands felt warm when he reached for hers again. "It was a wild dance, I tell you—we weren't able to talk like this."

"Ah, yes, a Scottish country dance."

"Did someone mention Scottish?"

"Caithren!" Surprised, Kendra turned and threw her arms around her sister-in-law. "What are you doing here?"

"We've stopped in London for a few days before heading for Cainewood. Jase is insisting I see Dr. Willis."

Kendra frowned when a dancer had the nerve to bump into their happy little reunion. "The king's physician?"

"The very same." Cait sighed. "Just what I need—a man poking and prodding me. Wheesht!" she added as a broad-reared matron backed into her. "I've delivered a dozen or more bairns; I think I know what I'm doing."

"Shall we?" Trick asked, motioning them off the busy dance floor. "What's this all about?"

Kendra tried to look baffled. "Did I forget to tell you that Caithren is with child?"

"Aye, it seems you did." With a knowing smile, he turned to Cait. "Congratulations."

"Was Jason angry?" Kendra asked.

"Would you believe I convinced him I didn't know?" Concealed by a lovely rose-colored gown with a silver-embroidered stomacher, Cait's stomach still looked flat. She grinned. "The truth is he's not quite sure, and in any case, his main concern was getting back to England before the weather set in."

"So what was his reaction, then?"

"I'm thrilled." Appearing from out of nowhere, Jason bent to give Kendra a kiss. "How are you doing?" he asked in her ear.

Dressed in dark green and looking wonderfully familiar, the sight of him made her wonder why she'd been so angry with him. "I'm happy," she admitted.

"I'm so glad." He had the good grace not to look smug, although she knew full well he'd lord it over her in the future. He turned to his wife. "You didn't fool me for a minute, you know. I was too pleased to make a fuss...although now the excitement's worn off a bit, I've a mind to make you pay for that deception."

She raised a brow. "I cannot wait."

The stern look Kendra was more accustomed to settled on his features. "Your health could have been at risk. And the babe's as well."

"I've never felt healthier in my life." Cait slipped an arm around his waist, gazing up at him with a brilliant, calculated smile. "You're not really angry, are you?"

His answer was an indulgent sigh. "So what are you doing here?" he asked Trick.

"I have something that belongs to Charles. Long story," he added when Cait went to ask. "I'm sure Kendra will enjoy the telling."

Kendra grinned. "He only says that hoping I'll make him out a hero."

"I cannot wait to hear," Caithren said, snagging her by the arm. "Shall we repair to the garden?"

The music stopped, and dancers began jostling past. His obligations over, King Charles caught Trick's gaze and sent him a significant nod.

"I'm afraid your talk will have to wait," he said. "I believe I've just been summoned home to Caldwell House."

"We'll talk tomorrow, then," Cait said, dropping Kendra's arm and threading her own through Jason's. "And my husband will dance with me instead."

"Nothing energetic," he warned. "You'll stick to the minuet."

"You see what I have to put up with?" she asked Kendra with a roll of her eyes. "Crivvens, you'd think I was an invalid."

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

At Caldwell House later that night, Trick watched as Charles swirled Madeira in his glass and took an appreciative sip. "Amazing."

"The wine?"

The king's lips curved beneath his thin black mustache. "The wine's of admirable quality, to be sure. But then, your late father dealt only in the best."

Trick agreed with a curt nod. The best, aye. The best wine, the best fabrics, the best furnishings, the best books. His gaze wandered to the leather-bound tomes lining the walls in this, the most impressive study in all of London. He doubted the man had ever cracked open even one of them.

"However, it was your gift I was referring to." Charles set down the glass and reached into the chest, pulling out a solid gold dish and turning its heavy weight thoughtfully in his hands. "To think my own father's treasure has resurfaced after all these years."

"Only to end up where it was said to be in the first place." Pensively, Trick played with the lock in his hands—the one he'd hacked off in the king's presence.

"Od's fish—that was none of your doing. It's pleased I am that you recovered what you did, and I'd be pleased as well to see you keep a part of it."

"I couldn't." He'd lost most of it already, no matter that Charles refused to place blame.

"I insist." He handed Trick the plate. "Here. As a memento, if nothing else."

"I appreciate the offer, but I really don't want to keep this." The dish had to be worth a small fortune, and Charles needed it far more than he did.

"There must be something here that strikes your fancy." The king set down the plate and raised a jeweled goblet. "This. Or something else."

"No, really, I—"

"What is this?" Metal servingware clanked as Charles reached into the bottom and brought out the small ivory casket. His black eyes glittering, he lifted the unlocked lid and extracted the short necklace of large pearls. Raising it with a hand, he flicked a finger to set the giant teardrop pearl swinging. "There's a painting of my mother wearing this," he murmured.

"Henrietta Maria will be happy to have it back. It will look lovely on her."

The king looked up. "Yes, it will," he said softly. "I thank you." He fished out the sapphire and diamond necklace that Kendra had held up earlier. "If you won't take something for yourself, then take this for your new wife."

Suddenly inspired, Trick reached for the box, setting it on his lap to extricate a long strand of pearls from the tangle.

"This," he said. "If you insist I take something, this is what I'd like."

Charles frowned at it. "Those pearls are ordinary. And the clasp only amber. That's likely the least valuable item in the entire chest."

"It's the one I want." Trick's tone left no room for doubt.

"You shall have it then, with my thanks." The king shut the casket and set it atop the gold and silver that crowded the trunk. He reached for his wineglass again, his long fingers worrying the stem. "How goes the mission?"

"Very well, but for the interruption." The pearls made soft clicking sounds as Trick shifted them in his hands, thinking about Kendra asleep in the late duke's gaudy bed upstairs. "I have some descriptions that I was preparing to give to Pendregast when I was called away to Scotland."

"Excellent." The king sipped. "I assume, being away, you missed hearing the latest news."

"News?" A tiny chill crept up Trick's spine. Or maybe the chamber was a bit cold.

"There's been a reward posted for the mysterious Black Highwayman."

"Bloody hell." He could only hope his leads would pan out and he'd have no need to pose as the highwayman again. "No one has connected him to me, so I don't expect I have anything to worry about."

"No one?"

"Just my wife. And her family." Damn. "I haven't told them the purpose for the disguise—"

"Good. Let's keep it that way."

Broadsides were likely plastered all over the kingdom, advertising the reward. Kendra would see them and worry herself sick. "I'd like to tell only my wife—"

"If the mission is nearly complete, there's no sense involving anyone else."

"Just her—"

"I've never known a woman who could keep her mouth shut." Charles pinned him with his jet-black gaze. "Have you?"

Once Trick would have agreed, but now he knew he'd been wrong. His wife had kept Cait's secret, and she hadn't told her brothers about his supposed financial trouble or him continuing as a highwayman, either.

"Kendra's not like that."

"I'm happy your marriage agrees with you, Amberley. But I trust no woman to stay quiet, not even your wife. And I'm trusting you to respect my wish for silence. Your loyalty will pay dividends. Your disloyalty..."

The unspoken words hung in the air. There it was, that veiled threat to withhold the pardon.

"I'm sorry," Charles added with a sympathy Trick knew was sincere. It was part of the charm that made the king so popular with the people. But under that genuine kindness hid a streak of determination that was every bit as integral to the man's personality. "I cannot afford to have it bandied about that the king is condoning robbery, no matter the reason or how deserving the victims. They're my subjects, nonetheless."

"But—"

"I'm asking you, as your monarch and your friend, to keep this wholly to yourself."

Trick mentally threw up his hands. Opposing the monarchy went against everything he believed in. And although he'd agreed to this mission out of patriotism for king and country, he needed to finish it for his marriage. For Kendra, and for the children he hoped they'd have. Even now, an heir might be growing in her womb, and that son deserved Amberley.

He sighed. "Of course."

"Return to Sussex and arrange to meet with Pendregast. Fear not, for I've been thinking since I heard the news, and I've a plan to wrap this up. I owe you a debt for solving this little problem, and I won't see you or the Chases implicated in any way."

With a sinking heart, Trick listened to the plan. Despite his intentions otherwise, the deceptions would continue. For a man didn't put his wife before his sovereign.

Not a wise one, in any case.

Kendra woke to a husky whisper in her ear.

"I have a present for you, leannan."

Her head was lifted, and something cool and heavy slid down about her neck. Sleepily she reached for it, her fingers meeting a strand of smooth, hard orbs that could only be pearls.

Her eyes flew open. "Has it an amber clasp?"

"But of course." Standing over her stark naked, her husband smiled. Dear God, he looked gorgeous, every muscle outlined in the low light of the fire. "Charles tried to give me a solid gold platter as a reward, but I would have none of it."

She ran her tongue over her teeth, thinking of that tiny chip in his. "Well, are you going to come down here and let me thank you?"

She sighed as he joined her beneath the coverlet and settled his warm body beside hers, then laughed when he reached for the hem of her chemise and tried to pull it off, needing to draw it through the necklace to accomplish his goal. With a grin, she grabbed the far end of the long strand and slipped it over his head, roping him close.

"I've got you," she said.

"You certainly have." His mouth met hers for a long kiss, and she melted happily into his embrace.

No matter how many times he did this, she still thrilled like it was the first. A shiver of wanting rippled through her as she thought of all the times ahead.

A flush heated her skin, warming the pearls that draped heavily on her neck. When he rolled the two of them to their sides, the strand tangled between them, and she reached to pull it off.

"I'll take those, leannan." He held out his hand. And she gave them over, expecting him to drop them to the night table, as she had been about to do.

But instead, he just held the long rope in the air.

"They're beautiful," she said, watching them swing gently, firelight dancing off the gleaming round surfaces.

"Not half as beautiful as you." She'd never thought of herself as beautiful, and she swallowed hard as he brought the pearls under the covers and started drawing them over her body. Slowly. "Do you know how much I care for you, lass?"

Breathlessly caught in his gaze, she felt each individual pearl, an entire long row of them, skim her sensitive skin. "How much?" she whispered.

"Enough to make me question my loyalties."

Loyalties? Though she didn't quite understand, she could tell the admission was wrenched from somewhere deep inside him, and it softened the pain of not hearing the words she'd so desperately hoped he would say.

I love you.

She should tell him first, she thought, feeling light-headed as the pearls continued their sensual assault on her body. Over her arms, her back, her legs, her hip, her side, making soft little clicks as they went. Then up to trail her breasts, hitching as they caught on a nipple.

A shiver lanced through her. She should tell him first.

But she couldn't. Because he was still holding back.

Not here, though. Not now. He arranged the pearls around her breasts and leaned away. "Lovely," he murmured.

She mustered a weak smile. "I don't think that's the way they're meant to be worn. Rather scandalous, don't you think?"

"At King Charles's court? Not a soul would even take notice." But he drew them off and bunched them in a hand, meeting her lips for a desperate kiss.

There was something about him tonight...something about the way his tongue swept her mouth, the way his hands worshipped her body, the way he molded his flesh to match every curve of hers. Something. Something that made her feel, even though he was more of a man than she'd known existed, that somewhere inside lurked a lost little boy. Waiting to get hurt.

So she was gentle tonight, and he was gentle in return, running the bunched pearls over her skin in a heavenly, softly clicking massage. Guided by his hand, they rolled between her breasts and over a hip and down to her thighs. Her own hands skimmed his skin, soothing, everywhere she could reach. She sighed into his mouth, and his tongue stroked hers, more softly than she could remember, so cherishing that tears welled in her eyes and threatened to slip between her closed lids.

"Open for me, leannan." A thick, velvet-edged whisper, his voice sent a gust of desire shuddering through her. And because she wanted to please him, she did what he asked, parting her legs until she lay there, flat on the bed, wantonly open and ready. Then gasped when he drew the pearls, that long, long strand, agonizingly slowly between them.

She felt every pearl distinctly, felt herself moisten as they slipped. She wanted him there, filling her where she ached. "Oh, God, Trick."

"Hush," he murmured, nuzzling her throat. He suckled her breasts, her nipples rising to hard points that he circled with his tongue. While down below, the pearls continued their exquisite trail along where she wanted him, deep inside.

This was torment, but oh, so sweet, each individual pearl driving her to distraction. "I cannot stand this, Trick. It's too much." She reached for his free hand, clenching it hard in hers.

"I cannot stand it, either," he grated out, and he yanked the pearls away, coming over her to join their bodies together.

Her rush of relief lasted mere seconds before a new sense of urgency overwhelmed her. She wrapped him with her legs, her fingers threading in his hair, little sounds escaping her throat as his hips drove every thought but him from her mind. She rocked against him, wanting him closer, closer, hearing his breath ragged in her ear. Her heart pounded against his as her hands worked down his back and lower to pull him closer still.

If only she could climb the last of that wall and finally make them one.

Then, for one split second of infinity, they were one.

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

A long time later, Trick felt beneath the coverlet for the pearls, smiling when he found and snagged them. Drawing them out, he held them to his nose, breathing deep of her sweet scent before he dangled them above her head. "Do you like these, leannan?"

"In more ways than I could have imagined." Her smile, soft and achingly erotic, lit his heart. "But Trick..."

"Aye?"

"I mostly like them because we can sell them."

His fingers tightened around them. "No, lass. They're for you."

She grabbed them from his hands, cradling them against her breasts. "They would feed the children for a decade, you said. No longer will you have to be a highwayman. I was going to beg you to stop anyway, Trick—I cannot stand the thought of you being hurt or caught in the act." If her smile had lit his heart, her words melted it. "It's bad of me, I know, but you're much more important than the children. To me. The most important thing in my life."

She looked pained at that guilty admission, but not as pained as he felt inside. That she could put him above everything else...if only he hadn't the obligations that kept him from doing the same.

If only.

"Do you see the gift that Charles has given us?" She held it up. "We no longer have to choose between your safety and the children's welfare." Looking half-wistful, half-thrilled, she brought the pearls to her lips. "I'll sell them tomorrow. And I have other ideas as well, for how we can help more children. This—this gift—will get us started."

Her enthusiasm was more than he could bear. Soon he could bring her to the docks, show her whichever of his ships were in port, tell her that he could support all the orphanages she wanted. Soon this would be over, and he vowed to himself he'd be honest with his wife for the rest of his life. He would never make another promise that would be this hard to keep.

"You're not selling them tomorrow," he told her, peeling her fingers from the pearls. He lifted the strand and slipped it back over her head. "We're going home tomorrow. And I promise you, the children won't starve."

Back at Amberley the next day, Trick barely took time to see their luggage brought in before readying himself to leave.

Stunned, Kendra stood in their bedchamber watching him knot a fresh cravat. "We just got here."

"I have an errand I must see to," he told her, not quite meeting her eyes.

"An errand?" Although he was standing close, she felt as though he'd physically pulled away. "Are you going out to play the highwayman again? I told you—"

"Nay. I'm done with that."

And he wasn't wearing black—he'd dressed in a simple brown suit and white shirt. She should have noticed that. Her usually sharp powers of observation were dulled by disappointment.

Just last night, she'd felt so emotionally attached. She'd thought that with everything they'd shared in Scotland and since, things would be different now. But no matter that his hair had been cut and his eyes were unshielded—he was hiding from her again.

She backed away to sit on the gaudy red bed, her fingers going to the pearls around her neck. "If you won't sell these and you won't play the highwayman, where will we find the money for the children?"

"I told you last night," he said, even more slowly than usual, "the children will have plenty to eat."

"How?" Her head swirled with confusion. "Did Charles give you more than the pearls, then?"

"You could say that," he said dryly and fell silent.

He gazed at her for a long moment without saying anything more. Without moving. Without even blinking.

Then determination lit his eyes and his jaw tensed with resolve. "It's time that I told you the truth," he said, moving closer. "I have plenty of money to fund the orphanage without resorting to robbery. You've no need to worry for the children, I promise. All right? Can you take my word for that?"

The truth, he'd said. "I don't understand."

He stepped yet closer. "When my father—the duke—died, I took the ships he'd used for smuggling and started importing with them instead. It's all legitimate. I have nine ships now and a London warehouse filled with goods from across the globe that are sold all over the country. I can well afford to support the children and anything else your heart desires."

As though she'd been physically hit, Kendra found it hard to draw breath. "Then why did you tell me you needed to rob in order to fund the orphanage?"

"I never said that, Kendra."

She thought back, frantically running through their conversations in her head. "But you didn't correct me when I assumed it, either. A lie of omission is a lie, nonetheless."

Everything she'd thought she'd gained seemed to be slipping away. She struggled to keep a hint of hysteria from her voice. "This makes no sense. Why is it, then, that you played the highwayman? Why keep doing it when you knew it worried me and my brothers had asked you to stop? For your own amusement, as you once said?"

"Not for my amusement." Taking both her hands, he drew her to stand before him, his gaze filled with silent apology. "I had reasons, good reasons, but...I'm sorry, leannan. There are things I cannot tell you."

"Why?"

"I just cannot. You'll have to trust me." His knuckles skimmed her cheek. "Once you promised you'd trust me. Has that changed?"

Her memory flashed on that day in the dungeon, and she blushed hot. But that had been in Scotland, where they'd spent every day, almost every minute, together. Where he hadn't kept secrets, so far as she could tell, and where they'd grown close and learned to be easy with each other.

Yet literally the moment they'd stepped foot in Amberley, everything had gone back to the way it had been before they left. She'd thought she'd gotten through to him—that his wall was nearly down—but that clearly wasn't the case. Not here. How could they have any kind of marriage when he insisted on holding back?

She wished they'd never come home.

"I'm trying to trust you," she told him. "But it's very hard."

"It's hard for me, too. You must believe that, lass. Just let me finish what I must do to put this all behind us."

And with one kiss, so heartfelt it left her reeling, he was out the door.

It hadn't quite been a lie. Charles had given him more than the pearls—he'd given him orders not to tell his own wife what he was doing.

Bloody obstinate man.

Though Trick never thought he'd be cursing his king, he did so all the way to the cottage to fetch his papers.

From there he traveled two villages over to meet the contact Charles had arranged for, a man going by the absurd name of Zephaniah Pendregast and posing as a Puritan. On the ride, Trick switched from cursing Charles to railing at himself.

What an idiot he'd been to tell Kendra about his shipping company. He'd thought it would help to come clean with as much of the truth as he could, to relieve her mind where the children were concerned, at least. But he'd gravely miscalculated. He'd seen the doubt and confusion come into her eyes, and it had made him sick inside.

He had no experience with being in love, and he was doing it all wrong.

The foundations they'd built in Scotland were crumbling out from under him. He could only hope this mission would come to an end before those foundations eroded entirely. Hope there'd still be enough left upon which they could rebuild trust.

Hope his loyalty to the king wouldn't cost him his future.

Trick had sent a messenger before him, so Pendregast was waiting in back of the blacksmith's shop where Charles's men had arranged for his temporary employment.

"I hope it's damn good news you bring," Pendregast said, dropping his proper Puritan speech the moment they were out of earshot. He was tall and lean, dark haired with a long, hollowed-out face. The blows of hammer on anvil rang in the background as they paced together into the fields behind the town's High Street shops. "I'm bloody bored in this swiving establishment."

"It's sorry I am for the delay. I was called out of the country. In any case"—Trick pulled the roll of papers from his surcoat—"I have your descriptions."

They pored over the pages together, Pendregast asking questions and Trick answering as well as he could remember.

"So do you know these men?" Trick finally asked.

"I've attended enough secret meetings to last a lifetime, I'll warrant you that. This description here"—Pendregast stabbed a finger at one of Trick's pages—"seems familiar. And one other. I'll ask around, see what I can find. I'll be in touch."

Trick walked him back to the smithy, where they shook hands. "I'll be glad to have this behind me."

"No more than I," Pendregast grated out through the fake smile he put on his face as he reentered the shop.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

Knowing he'd have to leave Kendra home alone soon, Trick spent a tense couple of days tiptoeing around her, avoiding her hurt gaze while wracking his brain for a plausible explanation that wouldn't cause even more pain and distrust. Mostly he kept out of the house, acquainting himself with his estate—which was a fair enough use of his time, considering he now planned to be here more than he'd once thought.

Life near the docks in London now held little appeal. His new plan was to manage the company through correspondence plus regular jaunts to the City to check up on matters, bringing Kendra along with him. Eventually Niall might become involved as well. Having discovered a family, Trick found himself entertaining grand ideas. Expanding his company to include ships based in Scotland was just the start.

Both nights he delayed coming home until Kendra was in bed, when the darkness would save him from meeting her eyes. In those wee hours, he tried to tell her with his body what he couldn't say with words. And if her blissful sighs were laced with a touch of disillusionment, he could only remind himself that things would be better soon.

A terse message finally arrived: Meet me seven a.m. Saturday at the home of John Garrick. Z.P.

John Garrick? Trick wondered. Was he working for Charles, too? Well, at least this would give him a solid excuse to spend the weekend away. Kendra shouldn't question a card party at Garrick's—a house party her own brothers regularly attended. With any luck, she'd happily send him off.

Evidently, however, luck wasn't on his side.

"So soon?" she asked when he found her going over menus in the kitchen. She turned to the cook. "Will you excuse me a moment, Mrs. Brown?"

Dejection dulled her eyes as she led Trick to the butler's pantry, then, finding it occupied by two maids polishing silver, all the way into the deserted two-story dining room. One foot tapping on the black-and-white checkered marble floor, she stared up at the plasterwork ceiling, studying the painted scenes there as though they might hold the answers to her problem.

Her problem being him, of course.

"We've been home less than a week," she said.

As she lowered her gaze to meet his, he shifted on his feet. "The card weekends have become tradition. It's been months since the last one, ever since our marriage. The men have been awaiting my return."

She ran a fingertip along the carved and gilded mantel. The old duke had really outdone himself gussying up this chamber. "Trick, I'm..." He watched her draw a deep breath. "I feel like I've lost you since we returned home."

"I'm right here." He forced a smile.

"You've been out and about doing God knows what. Why can't we spend some time together? Shouldn't our marriage come before a card game?"

"It's already planned," he said, wishing he could find a way to make her feel as loved and secure as she deserved. He wanted that more than he wanted to breathe.

But first he had to complete the mission. He was so close. He'd already sent a message to King Charles saying the time had arrived to set their final plans into motion.

Soon he would be free.

The next morning found him leaving his sweet wife abed with a gentle kiss to her forehead. When faced with her disappointed sigh, he reminded himself why he was doing this.

These counterfeiters were undermining the economy, threatening the newly restored monarchy. He owed this to his country; he'd made promises to his king.

If a tinge of unease stayed lodged in his gut, he was determined to ignore it.

An hour later, he arrived at Garrick's estate to find Pendregast waiting along the road, he and his horse hidden behind a hedge that concealed them from the mansion.

"What gives?" Trick asked, reining in Chaucer. "Why aren't you inside?"

"We cannot just walk in and make an arrest. We need some damning evidence first. Have you any ideas how to gain entry?"

"We might try knocking on the door." Trick peeked through the hedge. "Is Garrick in on this or not? How many men has Charles roped into this operation?"

"Just we two. Garrick is the suspect."

"John Garrick? A counterfeiter?" When Trick jerked upright at the thought, Chaucer danced beneath him. "Are you certain?"

"Not entirely. He could be just another link in the chain. But that description you gave me that sounded familiar? I asked around, found the man, and followed him for two-and-a-half days, until finally he led me here. Was in and out in five minutes. Then I hid for a while, and another man arrived. Didn't match any of your notes, but he was in and out in five minutes, too."

"So if Garrick isn't doing it himself..."

"I'm assuming he's involved in the distribution at the very least. But we need proof."

Trick's mind reeled, remembering Garrick's preachiness, his edginess, the way he always seemed to be snooping around. A closet Parliamentarian?

Damn. It could very well be. That would teach him to move into an area and start blindly socializing with the neighbors. He could have brought Garrick and the others to the cottage someday. They could have seen his props.

Damn.

"We need an excuse to get in," Pendregast said. "He has too many servants to simply wait until he leaves. People are always around."

"I can gain us entry. I know him. And he owes me a meal."

"Pardon?"

Trick patted his stomach. "Breakfast."

"Mrs. Kendra? Were you not going to tell us about Clytie?"

With a sigh, Kendra flipped the page in the wonderful book of lesser-known myths she'd discovered in Amberley's double-leveled library. At least she'd thought it was wonderful last month when she found it. Today, reading from it, it didn't seem so wonderful at all.

Once she'd thought that attaining her dream, the orphanage, would be enough. But she'd been wrong. Working with the children was fulfilling, but it didn't mend the hole in her heart that had opened when Trick left her this morning.

Dragging her attention back to the children, she smiled at their rapt expressions.

"Clytie loved the Sun God—"

"Apollo?" Andrew asked.

"Excellent memory," she said, trying not to sound annoyed at the interruption. Every little thing seemed to annoy her these past few days. "But for this story we think of him as the Sun God. You see, he found nothing to love in Clytie, and so she pined away, sitting on the ground out-of-doors where she could watch him. And she would turn her face, following him with her eyes as he journeyed over the sky. And so gazing, she found herself changed into the sunflower, which ever turns toward the sun."

"Did he ever love her?" a chestnut-haired girl asked.

Kendra met her big brown eyes. "I'm afraid not." She sighed. "Clytie loved him with all her heart, but he could never return her feelings."

Just like Trick. Her feelings toward him had grown, but she was afraid his hadn't. The lies had started all over again, and so had the unexplained separations. No man could love a woman and treat her like that.

Was she destined, like Clytie, to follow him with her eyes all her life? Never succeeding in claiming his heart?

"Mrs. Kendra?"

She snapped the book shut. No use mooning about for these couple of days he'd be gone. He'd asked her to trust him, and she would do just that until she could force an explanation.

They'd come too far for her to let her marriage go without a fight.

Susanna wandered over to tug on her skirt. "Are we not going to finish the lesson?"

"Tomorrow, maybe." Feeling better already, she smiled. "For now, let's play blindman's buff."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

"Lord Garrick is not yet awake," a stiff-necked butler told Trick.

"Well, then, rouse him." Without waiting to be invited, Trick stepped into the sprawling, dark manor house and motioned Pendregast to follow. "Tell him the Duke of Amberley is here to collect on a debt."

"With all due respect, your grace—"

"Aye, I am due respect. I believe I shall wait in the dining room until I receive it."

With a jerk of his head to Pendregast, he started wandering in the direction he figured a dining room might be located.

Sputtering, the butler marched up the stairs.

The third room Trick looked into had a dining table. He promptly dropped into a dull-mustard upholstered chair. The rest of the chamber was no less drab. He'd seen no evidence of the remodeling Garrick had claimed was his reason not to host the house party, though the place was sorely in need of it.

Of course, the last thing a counterfeiter needed was construction workers roaming around his house.

"Forgot about this." Pendregast took a folded note from his pocket. "It was sent by special messenger this morning, addressed to you."

Trick broke the red seal and unfolded it. A letter from King Charles—he'd have recognized his distinctive hand even without the "Your loving friend, Charles R." at the bottom.

The king wrote with good news that all was set, the plan to commence today and culminate sometime Monday evening.

Damn. "A day or two," Charles had told him with his usual blithe indifference when describing the plan last week. Trick had latched on to the convenient card party excuse without considering the arrangements might prove too complicated to be carried out over a weekend.

Damn, damn, damn.

He couldn't even go home and try to explain to Kendra. According to Charles's letter, the king's men would be waiting for him when he finished here.

"Is something amiss?" Pendregast asked.

"Aye. Nay." He shook his head to clear it. "I just need to get a note off to my wife. I saw a desk in the sitting room next door—could I trouble you to fetch me quill and paper?"

While he waited, he composed the note in his head. Yet another half-truth. The web his marriage hung suspended on was becoming more and more tangled.

He had the note written by the time Garrick stomped into the room, hastily dressed and bleary-eyed.

"What's this about a debt, Amberley?"

"I seem to remember you showing up unexpectedly at my home, right in time for supper." Folding the paper, Trick plastered on a smile. "I just happened to be riding by this morning and noticed it was time for breakfast."

"What?"

"And you brought friends as well, did you not? This is my friend, um, Harold"—he slanted Pendregast a quick glance—"Gaunt. Sir Harold Gaunt."

"Pleased to meet you, Lord Garrick," Pendregast said.

Garrick gave him a curt nod before turning back to Trick. "The friends I brought were your friends, too."

"And so they were." Trick shrugged and held up the note. "Can I trouble you to have one of your staff run this to Amberley House? It's rather urgent." He licked his lips. "What are you serving this morning?"

When Compton met Kendra at Amberley House's door with his silver tray in hand, her stomach knotted.

Received an urgent message from my shipping company's manager, the note read. Following the weekend, must go to London for a day. Be back Monday evening or Tuesday. Will explain later. My love, T.

Her legs felt leaden as she trudged up the stairs. London. Without her again. Did he truly even own a shipping company? Or had he made that up as an excuse to run off to his mistress?

Arriving in her bedchamber, she leaned against the door and drew a calming breath. Surely her imagination was running wild. As usual, she was jumping to conclusions.

My love, T. She traced the words with a finger. He'd asked her to trust him. She had to believe him.

But three long, empty days yawned ahead, and she didn't have to stay at home pining for him, either. She was no Clytie. If he could spend his weekend in the "traditional" way, playing cards with the men, she could keep her tradition with the women.

In fact, Caithren was probably waiting for her, and no doubt Amy and Jewel would be at Cainewood, too. While the men did whatever it was men did at house parties, they could have a party of their own.

Decision made, she packed a bag and headed for the stables. In no time at all she was barreling toward Cainewood, trying to enjoy the wind in her hair as she coaxed Pandora to go even faster. The miles sped by, the landscape becoming comfortingly familiar.

Amy and Cait would help her put everything into perspective. Surely their marriages had gone through rocky times as well, yet they were both clearly happy.

She thundered over the wooden drawbridge, slid off Pandora, and ran toward Cainewood's double front doors.

A startled butler opened one of them. "Lady Kendra! I mean...welcome, your grace. What brings you here to Cainewood?"

"I wish to visit with Lady Cainewood. And—" Words failed her when she glimpsed her twin over the man's shoulder, pacing the upstairs landing with a contemplative look on his face and a beaker filled with bluish fluid in his hands. "Ford?" she called, stepping inside. "Why aren't you at the house party?"

"Kendra?" He blinked, looked down at her, then disappeared for a moment. Reappearing at the top of the stairs empty-handed, he ran down to catch her in a hug.

"What party?" he asked, pulling back. "Am I missing a party? Damn. Are there pretty ladies there, too?"

She frowned. "The card weekend, or whatever it is you men call it. Why aren't you with the others?"

"We've had no card weekends since your marriage. They were always at Amberley—didn't you know that?" Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he drew her down the corridor toward the drawing room. "What made you think there was a house party this weekend?"

Once in the chamber, she dropped onto a salmon-colored chair. Familiar, but not nearly as comforting as she'd hoped. "Trick. He told me he was leaving to play cards with the men, and he'd be back at the end of the weekend. Then he sent a note saying Monday or Tuesday." She bit the inside of her cheek. "Are you sure there's no party?"

"As sure as I can be. I'm sure Jason isn't playing cards, or Colin that I know of, either."

You'll have to trust me. Once you promised you'd trust me. Has that changed?

A lump rose in her throat as she hid her face in her hands. "I'm a fool then, aren't I? Over and over I believe what he tells me, but he always turns out to be hiding something."

"Perhaps he has a good reason." Ford sat in the adjacent chair, reaching to pull one hand from her face and hold it between his. "I cannot imagine—"

"No." She leapt to her feet, breaking the contact. Overwhelming sadness turned to bitter anger instead. "There's no good reason to deceive your spouse."

Trick had said there were things he couldn't tell her, and she'd accepted that, if rather reluctantly. But that wasn't the same as telling her an outright lie.

He'd lied to her from the beginning, before they were even married, starting by withholding the fact that he was a duke. Whatever had made her believe he'd change now? He'd implied that he needed to play the highwayman for the sake of the children, then claimed he owned a prosperous shipping firm. Which one of those facts was true?

My love, T. Another lie. A man who loved his wife wouldn't treat her like this. Wouldn't say he was going one place and end up another.

"He's in London with his mistress." She gritted her teeth, pacing the patterned black-and-salmon carpet. "That's why he was in such a hurry to return from Scotland. And afterward, to leave me at Amberley so he could go back to London alone."

And he'd made such a fuss out of telling her how he felt about infidelity. Over and over! The nerve of him, deliberately lulling her into false security with his trumped-up moral standards.

"Men talk, Kendra, and I've heard nothing of a mistress in London."

She looked away from the concern in Ford's deep blue eyes. "You're my brother. He wouldn't tell you about something like that."

"For God's sake, you've been wed less than three months." The concern was gone from his voice, replaced by an impatience that set her teeth on edge. "The last card party was before you even met the man, and I heard nothing of a mistress then. Yet there you go, as usual, leaping to conclusions. Wait to hear what Trick has to say for himself, will you? I cannot believe we misjudged the man so keenly."

She crossed her arms. "Well, you did." She stared at a portrait of some stern, long-dead ancestor. Another controlling man, no doubt. Her brothers had misjudged Trick completely and pushed her into this marriage. It was their fault she was hurting now.

Their fault she had fallen in love.

Dear God. She turned away, bringing her hands to her cheeks. In love—in love with a man who could never return it. Never trust her, never open up and share his life. She'd tried and tried to be the sort of wife he wanted, to no avail. She'd tried to listen, to trust him like he'd asked, only to be slapped with this bald-faced lie.

"Kendra." Ford drew her gaze. "You need to reconsider this in logical terms. I'm sure Trick has an explanation."

She'd come for her family's love and support, to find her own twin was siding with Trick. Tears threatened, but she wouldn't let them fall. Had Ford not heard a word she'd said?

Well, of course not—he was a man. "This is your fault—yours and Jason's and Colin's. You stuck me with this lying adulterer of a husband. Where is Cait?"

"Upstairs, I think, probably napping. But Kendra—"

She was already out of the room.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Garrick's kitchen had clearly been unprepared for breakfast guests. Engaging in desultory small talk with their reluctant host, Trick and Pendregast waited a good hour before an aging maid brought a tray of meat pottage and coffee. Two trips later, the table was also laden with spiced bread, caraway-seeded biscuits, fruited wheatmeal griddle cakes, and currant buns.

Sweets. Kendra would love this breakfast, Trick thought, wincing at the resulting stab of guilt.

The three of them ate until the butler arrived in the doorway. "A visitor, my lord."

Garrick blotted his flabby lips, then stood and patted his even more flabby belly. "Enjoy your breakfast, gentlemen. I shall return posthaste."

"Five minutes, I'm guessing," Pendregast said when the man had left.

"I'm going to follow him," Trick said. "If he returns before I do, tell him I was in need of a chamber pot."

He rose and peeked into the corridor. Thankfully, it was deserted. Slipping out, he flattened himself against the wall, moving along it until he nearly reached the front door.

Having already closed it, Garrick was leading a short man down the other wing of the house. Trick waited, watching, until he saw them enter a room. Then he hurried after them and listened through the door.

There was a scraping sound, something heavy sliding open and then shut. Hearing no voices, he cracked the door open and took a look.

A study. Empty, just as he'd thought. He ducked inside and hid himself in the kneehole of an aging oak desk. It wasn't long before the grating noise came again. He bent his head to see between the desk's claw-footed legs. A section of bookshelves disappeared, then slid back into place as he watched.

Garrick set something down on the desk above Trick's head. "Very well. But I don't want to see you for another month. Send someone else in the meantime—we cannot risk having the same men traveling the roads all the time. Not until that blackguard is caught."

"Yes, my lord."

"I'll see you out."

When the door closed behind them, Trick scooted from the cubby. A pewter candlestick now sat on the desk, and Garrick hadn't bothered to extinguish the taper. How convenient.

Trick felt around the bookcase for a handle, a button...ah, there it was. A latch. Throwing it, he was able to push the shelves behind the ones adjacent.

He grabbed the candle and held it up to illuminate the windowless space beyond. A fair-sized room, if bare of luxuries. Atop a table sat three crucibles, a melting pan, dies, shears, and other equipment Trick didn't recognize. But the coins scattered over the surface were familiar indeed, as were the bars of base metal.

He'd seen all he needed to see.

A couple of minutes later he strolled back into the dining room, adjusting his breeches conspicuously. "Nice place you have here, Garrick." He aimed a discreet nod at Pendregast.

Garrick grunted. "I'm due for renovations."

"So you've said."

Pendregast pulled out a pocket watch. "Damn, I've forgotten an appointment. Garrick, my thanks for the fine food and company. Amberley, I'll stop by to see you later."

More senseless chitchat that lasted an hour, then longer. God's blood, Trick thought, would this never end? What the hell was taking Pendregast so long?

Garrick grew restless, pacing the chamber but unable to politely escape while Trick kept eating and engaging him in conversation. It got to the point where Trick wondered if he could cram in another morsel of food without vomiting, but he supposed the meal might hold him for the long ordeal ahead. Although this had been surprisingly easy, the next few days would be much harder.

But then this would be over. With any luck, by Monday night he'd be joining Kendra in their bed. For the rest of his life, if he had any say in the matter. And no more secrets.

At last the butler announced another arrival.

Trick followed Garrick to the door. "Sir Harold," Garrick said, finding Pendregast on the other side. "Have you forgotten something?"

"I'm afraid so," Pendregast said as a balding man with a scar across his cheek stepped from around the corner. "The sheriff."

"Kendra! Cait! Open up!"

Kendra scurried into the far corner of her old bedchamber while Caithren made her way to the door and opened it a crack. "Your sister doesn't want to talk to you," she told Jason. "Or Ford, either."

"Oh, for God's sake. Tell her it's dinnertime, and we've strawberry tarts for dessert."

Trust a man to think food would solve his problems, Kendra thought. Most especially a Chase man. Well, he wasn't going to coax her by tempting her sweet tooth. "Tell him I'm not hungry," she called to Cait. "Tell him I'm not going to eat until the absurd marriage he arranged is annulled."

"She's not hungry," Cait started. "She's—"

"Forget it." Jason stuck his boot in the doorway when Caithren would have shut it. "Tell her I'll be here when she's ready to talk. Tell her that until then she can starve for all I care. Tell her Cook is baking cherry pie for supper." He paused for a breath. "Are you coming down for dinner, then?"

"Nay. I believe I'll stay here with Kendra."

"Women." Following the single terse word, Kendra heard his boots stomp down the corridor.

Cait closed the door. "Cherry pie later, Kendra."

"Oh, my. I suppose I'll have to save some room." She went back to her dressing table, where a veritable feast was laid out, delivered by Cait's loyal maid, Dulcie. Sitting down, she stabbed her spoon into her second strawberry tart. "I believe I'll skip the sallet and asparagus, then."

"You didn't mean that about an annulment, did you?"

"I'm not sure what I meant." She knew she and Trick had come too far to go back to their old lives, but she was too furious at his deceptions to think straight. "If I were you, Cait, I wouldn't believe a word I said right now."

Not about Trick and not about her brothers, either. After all she'd been through in Scotland, coming to love Trick and deciding her brothers had been right after all, her blaming them made no sense.

But then, her emotions rarely did.

Cait took a bite of roast beef. "Your anger certainly hasn't affected your appetite. For sweets, anyway."

"Nothing ever does." She licked strawberry juice off her lips, looking at Trick's amber bracelet where it lay on the table's marble surface. Her wrist felt empty without it.

Her heart felt empty without him.

She turned to Cait. "Have you ever been this angry at Jason?"

"Don't ask. There have been times, especially when we first met, that I'd have been happy to see the back of him forever. But we always worked it out."

"But you never suspected he was cheating on you."

"Nay, never that. I know the man well enough to feel certain that hasn't happened."

"I thought I was coming to know Trick, too."

No wonder Eros, the God of Love, was often portrayed wearing a blindfold. Love was truly blind.

"There could be another explanation, Kendra. Although I remember a time you wouldn't have cared if he cheated." Cait sipped from her cup of wine, regarding her over the rim. "Things have been getting better for you, then?"

"Things?"

"You know...in the bedchamber." Kendra felt her face heat, and Caithren laughed. "I can see that they have."

She couldn't stand to think about that now, let alone talk about it—not when she wondered if she'd ever feel that close to Trick again. "How was your visit home?" she asked Cait instead. "Is Cameron doing well? And Clarice and little Mary?"

Cait grinned. "Clarice is with child, too. And Cameron walks around all day with a smile on his face."

"I can imagine." Would she ever have children now? It was clear enough Trick would never commit to the sort of marriage she'd dreamed of all her life, but could she learn to live with less? Could she accept only that part of him he was capable of giving? "I'm so happy for them—"

A knock on the door interrupted, and Cait went to answer.

"Are you finished, my lady?" Soft-spoken, her maid entered and began gathering dishes. She refilled their cups with the dregs of a bottle of wine, then smiled, revealing small, child-like teeth. "Would you like another bottle now, milady? I can ask John to fetch one from the cellars." John Foster was one of Cainewood's footmen and Dulcie's latest amour.

"Thank you, that would be nice." Cait set a decimated tart on the tray. "How is Foster today, Dulcie?"

"Oh, fine, milady. He's had a half-day off and been into the village to visit with his mother. Would you know, he came back with interesting news."

Kendra drained her cup. She hoped this Foster fellow would fetch a new bottle soon. She needed more wine if she was going to decide whether to give up on the love of her life. "What news is that?"

"Word has it that the Black Highwayman has been caught and arrested at last. Hauled off to London this very day to be tried."

"Tried?" Kendra's cup clunked to the marble-topped dressing table. "When will he be tried?"

Dulcie's gray eyes filled with confusion. "Monday, your grace. Say...are you all right?"

Kendra woke in her old bed at Cainewood with two of her brothers hanging over her. She blinked at the mint-green canopy above their heads, wondering how she'd gotten here.

Had she fainted? She'd never fainted before in her life. Trick would pay for this.

Then she remembered, and an aching hollowness opened in her heart.

Trick wouldn't pay for this. Trick would be dead.

She struggled to sit, glancing around to make sure no one but family was in the chamber. "Did you hear?" she asked, her vow of silence forgotten.

Her brothers, after all, were not the villains in this tragedy, no matter how much she wanted to blame them. She needed them, and they were here for her, as they'd always been.

"Aye, they've heard," Cait said softly. "I told them."

Kendra's stomach felt leaden, and tears threatened to leak from her eyes. "How can this have happened now?" One tear did leak, running hot down her cheek. "He promised he was finished playing that game."

Though Jason's eyes were compassionate, his mouth was set in a grim line. "I warned him."

"He must have gone out and done it anyway. Stubborn fool." And more fool she, for believing him when he said he'd stop. She sat and swung her feet off the bed. "I must go to him."

Ford put a hand on her arm. "I thought you wanted to be rid of him?"

"I thought so, too," she said, her voice rising in a wail. Her earlier anger seemed to have vanished, replaced with a fear that clawed at her insides. "But I never wanted to see him dead!"

Jason sat beside her and gathered her into his arms, patting her back as she sobbed against his shirtfront, wetting his shoulder. "Perhaps he'll be acquitted."

Accused outlaws were rarely acquitted, but she clung to that thin thread of hope. "I must go watch the trial. Take me to the trial."

"Think, Kendra." Ford crouched by the bed, looking up at her, his bright blue eyes filled with the calm reason that seemed to evade her but come so easily to him. "Why would the Chases attend the trial of a common criminal? What will you tell those who ask? Especially if you look...distraught."

God, he was right. As things stood, no one connected the Duke of Amberley with the Black Highwayman, but if anyone discovered she'd been married to the notorious outlaw, her reputation would be in tatters—along with that of the rest of her family.

But this was Trick. No matter how angry she was at his falsehoods and deceptions, she had to go to him. Had to see what was to become of the lying, cheating rogue she'd lost her heart to.

"I'll wear a disguise," she said. "But I'm going."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

Never in her life had Kendra thought she'd find herself outside the Justice Hall at the Old Bailey. After nearly two days spent in a sleepless fog of wrenching misery, endless tears, anger, and self-doubt, she'd thought that actually getting here and seeing this trial through would be something of a relief.

But she knew now that nothing could be further from the truth.

The courtyard viewing gallery was mobbed with Londoners hoping to get a glimpse of the notorious accused, and even more people stood outside the spike-topped iron fence. Wearing Dulcie's gray skirt and plain blouse, with her telltale red hair stuffed under a mobcap, Kendra grasped Ford's hand and pulled him through the masses toward the front.

A light rain was falling, making the spectators—no polite crowd to begin with—even more surly. "Whyever do they make us stand outside?" she grumbled, dodging a sharp elbow as she made her way to the three-walled open courtroom.

Ford pushed back the straw hat he'd borrowed from a stableman. "It reduces the risk of prisoners infecting the spectators with gaol fever," he explained in his usual matter-of-fact manner.

She returned a tradesman's dirty glare with one of her own, tugging her sleeve down to cover her amber bracelet as she pushed her way to the rail. "Oh, God," she breathed, her heart clenching when she reached the front. She gripped the rail with both hands to keep her knees from buckling. "Oh, God, there he is."

Gazing at Trick, she slowly jockeyed herself over to the right, nearer to where he sat in the enclosed dock, chained to eleven other men.

He was wearing black velvet and the long brown periwig that she hoped would keep any spectators from recognizing him as the Duke of Amberley. But the wig was a tangled mess, the usually immaculate black suit all rumpled, and he looked more exhausted than she'd ever seen him. His head was bowed, and his hands hung limply between his spread knees.

A guard reached a pike through the bars to prod him to stand when the red-robed judge walked in, followed by jury members who shuffled to two long benches. The dock's door swung open with an ominous creak, and the prisoners began making their way to the bar, their chains clanking as they dragged on one another.

Watching Trick, Kendra felt as though her heart might burst. Literally pulled along by the others, he stumbled and had to be righted. Dark blood crusted his wrists beneath the iron cuffs. A sheen of sweat slicked his features, and he seemed to be having trouble simply drawing breath.

He was ill.

She pressed against the rail as though she could reach him. So close, maybe ten feet away, but oh, so far with the law between them.

So very, very far. And ill.

"Dear God," she whispered to Ford. "Can he have caught the gaol fever already?"

"Hush." Her twin's eyes filled with sympathy as he peeled one of her hands from the rail, lacing it with his. "It's starting."

The prisoner's names were called one by one, and they identified themselves by raising a hand. The charges were read in Latin before each of the accused pleaded either guilty or not guilty.

"But they cannot even understand the charges!" Kendra whispered in horrified protest.

With unbelievable swiftness, witnesses were brought forward and evidence was presented by the prosecution. Prisoners were not allowed counsel. Of the eleven men brought to trial before Trick, one was acquitted when no witnesses appeared. The other ten were all sentenced to death, for felonies ranging from stealing an orange, to setting fire to an outhouse, to murdering a neighbor.

By the time Trick's turn arrived, Kendra had lost all hope. Tears swam in her eyes, and her body felt like a single, heavy mass of dread.

"The Black Highwayman," the clerk read, and the crowd hissed gleeful disapproval. They had saved the best for last.

When Trick failed to raise his hand, the prisoner next to him did it for him.

"What be your name?" the clerk demanded.

Trick stared blindly ahead. A long silence stretched.

"What be your name?"

He hung his head, looking too weak to lift it. Too weak to answer.

A speculative murmur rose from the onlookers. The guard prodded Trick with his pike, and Trick stumbled to his knees, taking the prisoners on either side down with him. With a rattle of chains, they hoisted him back up.

"Black Highwayman, what be your name?"

Inside her, Kendra was screaming. He was too ill to defend himself; couldn't they see it? Couldn't they wait for another day?

"Black Highwayman, what be your name?"

"Can you not see he's ill?" she called out. A gasp of disapproval rose from the crowd, and the clerk glared in her direction.

Trick's gaze snapped to meet hers.

Recognition lit his eyes. But from where Kendra stood, they looked black, not golden. Dilated and dark, filled with regret and defeat.

She'd lost her amber highwayman already.

The clerk tried another tack. "Black Highwayman, what do you plead?"

Trick's gaze was still locked on hers. One hand reached into his pocket, and he slowly drew out a piece of paper, crumpling it in his fist. Something was written upon it in black ink, but much too far away to see.

"The press!" The crowd began to chant. "The press! The press!"

"What is that?" Kendra asked, afraid she didn't want to know.

"They call it peine forte et dure," Ford whispered. "Prisoners who refuse to plead are stripped and laid on their backs, a wooden plank placed upon them and piled with stones."

"Stones?" It was even worse than she'd imagined. Salty blood flowed into her mouth, and she realized she was chewing the inside of her cheek.

"Yes, stones." Ford's fingers tightened around hers. "Three hundred pounds or more. And they add another fifty pounds every half-hour until the man agrees to plead."

"The press! The press! The press!"

They couldn't. They couldn't do that to an ill man. How could this mob demand such a thing? What kind of barbarous riffraff were they?

"The press! The press! The press!"

"Silence!" The clerk's bellow rattled the very air, and the chant abruptly cut off.

Soft rain pattered in the sudden stillness as he looked to the man in red robes.

"Guilty," the judge declared, doubtless thinking his decision merciful since the prisoner was too weak to plead.

Ford's hand squeezed Kendra's so tightly, it was a wonder her bones didn't snap. He succeeded in quelling her outcry. But inside, every fiber of her being was howling.

Though Trick had been spared the press, she had no doubt what the sentence would be for a highwayman when she'd seen another man sent to the gallows for stealing a piece of fruit.

"Death by hanging." The judge banged his gavel. "Tomorrow at noon."

Trick's gaze remained on hers, his eyes imploring. His mouth moved, but no words came out. Her fingers worried the amber bracelet, and she could see in his face that he noticed. A single tear welled and rolled down his cheek, making her own tears flow faster.

Suddenly he looked away and started scraping with a fingernail at one of the crusty scabs on his wrist.

Another queue of accused prisoners were brought clanking into the dock, and Trick's group started moving out. She watched in a haze of pain as he drew a red-tipped finger across the crumpled paper in his other hand.

"He's writing something," she whispered in horror to Ford. "He's trying to write something. In blood."

His hand with the paper shaking, he reached it toward her as he was dragged by. She pressed against the rail, straining to get closer, their fingers almost touching. She moaned when he was jerked back, the look in his eyes anguished but unreadable.

Seconds later, he was tugged from the chamber and out of sight.

"He's ill," she sobbed, tears running freely down her face to mix with the miserable cold rain. "He was trying to tell me something, wasn't he?"

"He was too weak." Ford wiped her cheeks. "There's nothing you can do about it now."

"He tried to give me a message in blood." Her eyes burned and her heart was cracking. The man had only preyed on Puritans—the real criminals in her eyes—and for the good of orphan children. No matter that he was a liar and an adulterer, he didn't deserve to die.

She leaned far over the rail and shouted to the guard who was closing the gate. "Where are they being taken?"

"Newgate," the man said as the iron bars banged shut.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

"Kendra, you cannot go to Newgate." At the Chase town house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Jason pushed her onto the drawing room's burgundy brocade couch and handed her a large goblet of Rhenish wine. "It's a hellhouse. And there's nothing you can do for him anyway."

"I must see him." Maybe she could sneak him out. At least she could say good-bye. "I'm going." She set down the wine and rose.

He took her by the shoulders, his bright green gaze determined. "You cannot go."

Equally determined, she wrenched from his grasp. "You cannot stop me."

"We'll go to King Charles," Ford said.

She whirled to him. "What?"

"We'll go to Charles and ask for a pardon."

Hope fluttered in her chest. "Could...could that work?"

He shrugged. "It's certainly within his power. I saw him pardon Swift Nicks."

"Who?" Her legs feeling weak, she dropped back onto the couch.

"The infamous highwayman, Jack Nevison." Ford began pacing. "Early one morn he robbed a fellow in Kent who recognized him and threatened to turn him in. To give himself an alibi, he rode for York, arriving the same evening—"

"Impossible," she burst out, never mind that she didn't care to hear this since it had nothing to do with Trick. The ride to York took at least four days, more likely a week.

"Apparently not impossible when his life was at risk. He had friends at the taverns all along the Great North Road who supplied him with a fresh horse every hour. When he arrived in the town that evening, he hurried to the bowling green, in time to play a game of bowls with the mayor and other city functionaries. When he was brought to trial later, no less than six dignitaries could honestly swear he'd been in York that day, not Kent."

"Then Charles had no need to pardon him."

"But he had past crimes. The tale made the London rounds, and when Charles heard it, he commanded Nevison to court to tell the story himself. The king laughed until tears came to his eyes and then dismissed him with a signed and sealed pardon for all his prior misdeeds. I'll never forget it. So you can see that Charles can be prevailed upon under the right circumstances."

"Regardless of whether our merry monarch might be swayed by a bit of humor," Kendra said, "you have no knee-slapping story to tell him. There's nothing funny about Trick's situation."

"True," Jason admitted. "But perhaps when he hears only Puritans were robbed, it will soften his heart."

"Possible," Ford said. "And let's not forget that he knows and likes Trick as the Duke of Amberley."

"And Trick just brought him all that treasure." Kendra grasped at a wisp of hope. "But are you really willing to bring all of this up? Admit that my husband and the Black Highwayman are one and the same?"

"We'll do whatever it takes," Jason said. "Considering the alternative, I hardly think Trick will care that the Caldwell name is tarnished."

"And our name?" Trick's life took precedence for her—but he was her husband, not theirs.

Yet their expressions told her, unquestionably, they felt the same. Which melted whatever resentment was left in her heart.

"Thank you," she said softly, knowing they were right. Not only about this, but about how she always jumped to conclusions without giving them the benefit of the doubt. "I know you married me to Trick with the best of intentions, and I shouldn't have blamed you for his lies." She drew a calming breath. "I'm sorry I got angry. It won't happen again, I promise."

Jason released a choked laugh. "Of course it will happen again. We're family."

Ford's blue eyes twinkled. "Besides, those times when you storm off not speaking to us are the only peace and quiet we get around here."

"We're your brothers," Jason said, "and we'll always be here for you to lean on."

"And abuse," Ford added with a smile. "That's part of our being family, too."

Once she'd told Trick something similar. Her eyes flooded at the memory. "But I'm going to try to do better anyway. I love you both."

"We never doubted it," Jason told her. "Shall we go ask for that pardon?"

"It cannot hurt to ask," she said with a sigh.

No matter that the Chases and Trick were all intimates of Charles, she had little confidence they'd get him to pardon another infamous highwayman. One prank on that order made for a rollicking good story—he might feel that twice would make him look like a man with no care for his subjects' welfare. Appearances counted in politics.

Besides, the king might not even be at Whitehall for all they knew.

But they had to try. She began to rise. "Let's go ask now. I have my doubts this will work, but the sooner we find out, the better. Trick is ill."

"You're staying here." The gentle, forgiving smile on Jason's face disappeared as he pushed her down to the couch and shoved the wine back into her hands. "Women are rarely granted audiences, as you're well aware, unless they take place in the Royal Bedchamber. Just sit tight, and we'll be back before you know it."

When her brothers left, Kendra was still wearing her disguise, and she was still determined to see Trick. Having heard that gaolers were fond of bribes, she pocketed some coins and slipped out into Lincoln's Inn Fields to hail a hackney cab.

On the bumpy ride to Newgate, she wondered what she could say to him. Though she was still furious at his lies and infidelity, a man at death's door deserved some peace of mind.

Then the cab jolted and she heard his voice.

I'm sorry, leannan, but there are things I cannot tell you. You'll have to trust me. Once you promised you'd trust me...

A surge of panic overwhelmed her.

Could it be she'd misjudged her husband as badly as she had her brothers? Had she jumped to conclusions there, too?

Her heart raced as all the memories rushed back. The way he'd been slowly revealing himself; the hushed, earnest words; her conviction that he always wanted to do right.

Do you know how much I care for you, lass? Enough to make me question my loyalties.

What had he meant by those words? What if he really did have a explanation for all that had gone on? He'd been trying to tell her something at the trial and been cheated of his chance.

My love, T.

Dear God, she loved him, too.

She could have been wrong. As she'd been many times before, she could have been so, so wrong.

And now it might be too late.

Her brothers had to get that pardon. They just had to. And if they failed...

She would go to the king herself. The hanging wasn't scheduled until noon tomorrow, so she had all night. She didn't care if she had to go into the Royal Bedchamber. Hell, she'd even sleep with Charles if it meant he'd pardon Trick. She was willing to do whatever it took to save her husband from the noose.

But that was for later, after she heard back from Jason and Ford. For now, she just wanted to get into that gaol. She just wanted to see Trick and wrap him in her arms and tell him she was sorry, so sorry...

When the cab rattled to a halt, she unclenched her fists and hurried to get out.

Newgate Prison had burned in the Great Fire two years earlier and was only partially rebuilt. The new entrance was magnificently decorated. Four figures represented Liberty, Peace, Security, and Plenty, but behind the impressive facade, the gaol itself remained as miserable as Kendra had always heard.

After she paid a man at the gate, it creaked open to admit her to what seemed a dark pit of squalor. Her footsteps echoed in a stone corridor still blackened from the fire. Noxious odors of slops, rotten food, and unwashed bodies made her gag before she stepped into the relatively luxurious keeper's house.

"Walter Cowday," a hard, graying man introduced himself. "Who you here to see?"

"The Black Highwayman."

He raised a grizzled brow and held out a hand. Her heart pounding, she put a silver coin in it, and then another and another. When he remained silent, she added the one she had of gold. She clenched her hand around her few remaining coins; she'd never imagined it would cost this much.

"He went straight to the condemned hold. Lucky bastard don't have to wait. Tyburn Fair day tomorrow."

When she failed to show the proper excitement for the public holiday that a execution meant, he pocketed the money and motioned for her to follow him back to the corridor.

He lifted a hatch door and pointed down. "There you go. If you've more silver, a guard will point the way."

Holding her cumbersome skirts in one hand, she descended a ladder and dropped to a damp stone floor.

Bleak gray cells lined both sides of another corridor, moisture trickling down their walls. Each looked about eight feet by six, furnished with a wooden bench and a Bible. The iron candlesticks, one per hold bolted to the stone, apparently were saved for night. The only light came filtered though a tiny window high in each cell, covered by heavy iron bars.

She swallowed hard and started searching down the corridor. It was cold and dark, and she stumbled more than once. Men hooted at her, and chains clanked as they stuck their arms through the bars and grabbed at her in the blackness. Tears pricked her eyelids.

Trick was nowhere to be found.

"Who goes there?"

She couldn't remember ever being as relieved when a uniformed guard appeared in the corridor holding a burning torch. Blessed light.

"I'm looking for the Black Highwayman."

Wordlessly, he held out a hand, and she gladly filled it with the last of her silver. Yet he made no move to show her the way.

Through heartache and fear, indignation rose. "Well, where is he?" she demanded.

"Doctor took him."

Once again, hope fluttered in her breast. Maybe they'd noticed he was ill and brought him to an infirmary. Perhaps they'd let him recover and retry his case. It was possible the pardon would be unnecessary, after all.

"He's not here?" she asked.

The man shook his head.

It was like pulling teeth to get answers from the cur, and this after she'd paid. Impatience and worry combined to make her jaw tighten and her words sound shrewish. "Where did the doctor take him to, then?"

"The graveyard, mistress."

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

"The graveyard?" A wave of apprehension swamped her. Her chest felt as though it might burst, and her breath came in short, shallow pants. She couldn't have heard the guard right. "The graveyard? Are you sure? What happened?"

The uniformed man shrugged.

"Tell me what happened! I paid you, damn it!"

She rarely used such language, but it could be effective. He blinked and took a small step back. "He was ill when he came in, you see. A doctor went in to examine him, came out and said he was dead. Of the plague."

"The plague?" She knew it could kill swiftly, but she'd seen Trick only hours ago. Ill, but very much alive.

And he'd wanted to tell her something.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I will own up I didn't go in there. One don't mess with the plague, mistress."

"Did you see him at all?"

"Aye, through the bars from a safe distance. He was dead, all right. Blue spots all over him, and he was stiff as a long-trapped rat. Within the hour he was put in a coffin and carried out. I imagine he was buried just as quick."

She sank to the sticky stones, not caring that she sat in filth shared with bugs and rats. Her lids slid closed against the tears that welled, poised to fall.

Trick was dead. Dead and buried. Along with his lies and his deceptions, his soft words and cherishing kisses.

And she was dead inside.

It was over, and she had no emotion left in her.

"Mistress?" The guard shook her shoulder. "Mistress, you cannot just sit here."

She opened her eyes and took a deep breath. No, she could not just sit here. The man reached down a hand, and she let him help her up.

Her brothers. She needed to get to her brothers. Hopefully they hadn't made fools of themselves already by asking the king for a highwayman's pardon.

And she needed to lean on them, too. To let them take her home. They would order up a bath, and she'd wash off the incredible stink of Newgate. Then she'd sleep and escape this nightmare her life had turned into.

She had no money left for a hackney, but when she tearfully asked a driver to take her to Whitehall Palace and promised to see he got paid, he agreed.

The gatekeeper at Whitehall was not about to let a servant girl in.

"I'm Kendra Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood's sister."

"Sure you are." Dressed in red livery, the man looked her over with patent disbelief. "And I'm King Charles himself."

"I mean..." Drawing a shuddering breath, she closed her eyes, opened them, and tried again. "I'm the Duchess of Amberley."

"Kendra!"

The voice, heavy and seductive, came from an open window overhead. She'd forgotten Lady Castlemaine's suite was over Holbein's Gate. Although both of them had spent the Commonwealth years with King Charles's exiled court, Barbara, the king's longtime mistress, had never been her favorite woman. But this wasn't the time to be choosy.

"Barbara!" she called up. "My brothers are here, and this gentleman refuses to let me in."

"Dolt," Barbara said. Her titian head disappeared from the window, and a minute later she was standing on the other side of the scrolled wrought iron gate.

Kendra felt like a guttersnipe beside Barbara's lush, fashionable form, but she couldn't dredge up enough energy to feel properly chagrined. She was so tired.

"Let her in, you clodpoll," Barbara said. She'd never been known for her tact. The gate swung open. "I know just where your brothers are." Before Kendra knew it, she was following Barbara down the maze of halls that traversed Whitehall's two thousand rooms. "And your husband along with them."

"What?" She stopped in her tracks, her heart leaping with relief—until she realized Barbara had to be mistaken.

"You're married to Amberley, aren't you?" Barbara pouted as she took Kendra's arm and hurried her along. "And I wasn't invited to the wedding. You know how I like a good party."

"We didn't have much of a wedding," Kendra said woodenly. Trick wasn't here—he was dead in the ground in a graveyard near Newgate.

Coming to a stop, Barbara threw open a magnificent carved and gilded door. Beyond, Kendra saw a splendid sitting room in shades of gold and black. A fire blazed on a marble hearth. King Charles sat in a tufted velvet chair, his head thrown back in laughter. Jason sat in another, laughing along with him.

And reclining on a black satin daybed, a smile curving his lips and a cheroot in one hand, sat Patrick Iain Caldwell.

The bastard wasn't dead.

If she'd had a pistol at her disposal, she'd have rectified that.

CHAPTER SIXTY

She bolted past Barbara, retracing her steps through the palace and outside. The hackney was still waiting, and when a hysterical woman begged the driver to take her to a town house, he wasn't about to disagree.

She hadn't known it was possible to feel such deep hurt. No matter Trick's reasons, that he could let her go through all that, allow her to think he was dead...

It was the most unforgivable betrayal she could imagine.

He would never, ever measure up to even the lowest of her expectations. She couldn't live with such a man—couldn't live with herself if she accepted such a marriage. Such a lack of basic caring and commitment.

Cold anger. It was the safest emotion to feel, the one—the only one—that would protect her from being ripped apart.

She was going to her house, not Trick's. Caldwell House had never felt like hers, and it never would, any more than Amberley or Duncraven had. When the hackney pulled up in front of the house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, she couldn't wait to get inside.

As always, Goodwin opened the door. "A bath, please, Goodwin. And pay the hackney driver, if you will."

Leaving him openmouthed, she barged past, heading for the wide, curving staircase and the comfort of her feminine chamber upstairs. A chamber no man had ever slept in.

Ford was waiting in the entry, seated in one of two matching brocade chairs. "Kendra."

Not wanting to, she stopped and turned.

His blue gaze swept her costumed form. "When we arrived at Whitehall and learned from King Charles what had happened, Jason sent me back immediately to let you know your husband was well and would soon be free. But you weren't here."

His voice betokened both vexation and distress, but she didn't have it in her to express sorrow for causing him worry. Not now. She had no space left for any more emotions now.

"I sent six servants out looking—"

Turning away from his accusatory eyes, she climbed the graceful stairs, one foot in front of the other, just as she always had.

Her chamber was the same as always, too. A green oasis of familiarity. Nothing in her life had been familiar lately—not her feelings and not her surroundings. Here, in her old room, she could flip back the calendar to last June, when she'd been an innocent virgin going on about her boring life.

Here, in her old room, she could call for a bath and wash away not only the stink of Newgate, but all her confusing emotions. The first blush of love and the subsequent hurt. The incredible joy of fulfillment, the disappointment and disillusion. All of it—the ups and the downs, and the downs and the ups, and the final descent into that pit of despair.

She'd never appreciated how wonderful her old, predictable life had been.

When the bath was prepared, she peeled off Dulcie's clothes and sank into the steaming water right up to her chin, ready to recover that lovely, boring life. Who needed a husband? Especially one who felt so little for her that he would lie to escape her and then let her think he was dead and laugh it off like the world's best joke.

She knew when it was time to give up.

With shaking fingers, she unfastened the clasp on the amber bracelet and let it fall to the carpeted floor. Then she tugged off the plain gold band. When she dropped it, it rolled a few inches from the carpet onto polished wood before landing flat with a tiny plop. Until now, since that fateful day in Cainewood's little chapel, it had never left her hand.

She hardly noticed her tears dripping into the lavender-scented water. Just as she hardly noticed the knock at the door until it opened.

"Kendra."

The expression on Trick's face was achingly apologetic, but she'd been through that before. He wouldn't fool her ever again.

Sinking deeper into the water, she dashed the tears from her cheeks and narrowed her eyes. "Who invited you in here?"

Still dressed in rumpled black velvet and looking more than a little unsteady, he quietly shut the door behind him. His gaze flicked to the amber bracelet, then back to her. "You didn't complain the last time I walked in on your bath."

Despite all the anger and hurt, she blushed to remember. "That was before I left you," she said. "That was a lifetime ago, when I was still blind and innocent."

He walked over, and, wordlessly, handed her a crumpled piece of paper.

Tearing her gaze from him, she unfolded it with wet, shaky hands. The five words were barely legible, thick swashes of rusty red-brown.

DON'T WORRY JUST AN ACT

Leaning close, he turned the paper over in her hands, and her heart turned over along with it. He straightened while she read the words in black ink—the writing she hadn't been able to make out at the trial.

When love on my sweet wife's wings
Comes to hover within my walls
If I turn it away with untruths and deceit
'Tis myself I must blame for the fall

Trust must be earned then earned again
Ere forgiveness can overcome sorrows
Yesterday's errors wiped from the slate
May leave room for joyful tomorrows

Stone walls do not a prison make
Nor iron bars well-turned
While I bear hope, mayhap forlorn
My love will be returned

Poetry written in prison.

Reassurance written in blood.

Tears flooded her eyes, blurring her vision. Instead of her mint-green chamber, what she saw was the damp, crowded courtyard outside the open courtroom of the Old Bailey. Instead of the soft swish of water, what she heard was the jeering crowd. And she remembered Trick's stricken face as he tried to reach her, first with words and then with this very same note—and the expression in his eyes when he failed to succeed.

"Why?" she asked, finally ready to listen. "Why all the lies?"

He stayed riveted in place. "Before I ever met you," he said slowly, "I made a promise to King Charles. I thought that promise, to my sovereign, was more important than my wife. I was wrong. And if I've lost you because of that mistake, I'll never forgive myself."

Oh, God, he was getting to her. Could she allow herself to feel this again? "What was this promise?"

"I was never really a highwayman. That was naught but a ruse to find some counterfeiters who were bedeviling the country's economy, emptying the king's purse and undermining his credibility. I was part of his scheme to uncover it."

"Just as I guessed, only I never completed the connection."

He nodded. "And I'd sworn not to tell a soul. I never considered that the Black Highwayman might become a wanted man. When it happened, Charles devised a plan to get rid of him, so I could live my life as the duke without anyone ever suspecting that the highwayman and I were one and the same. He arranged for the arrest and the public trial. And he had a doctor drug me to make me look ill, and that same doctor visit later and paint blue spots on my body, then declare me dead and carry me away. I suggested we use black nightshade."

"Dwale." The fever, the slowed breathing, the weakness, the dilated eyes. She should have realized. "It killed your mother, Trick. It could have killed you."

"Weeks of it killed my mother, and my father recovered, after all. It was one dose. A calculated risk, and at least I knew what I was getting into."

"It was a perfect plan," she admitted. "Brilliant."

"Not perfect. Because Charles still refused to let me tell you. And I was foolish enough to believe we could pull this off over a couple of days when I could give you another excuse to be gone, and you'd never find out."

"But I did."

"Aye." He took a step closer, then swayed. "I was wrong, leannan. I trusted you even if Charles didn't, and I should have told you everything, no matter that he ordered me not to. I was wrong to think you'd never find out, and I was wrong to lie to you about what I was doing. But most of all, I was wrong to think any promise to a king, or the king himself, is more important than you. Nothing is more important than you."

Disregarding Royal orders was considered much worse than highway robbery. Punishable by hanging, she heard herself whisper deep in a dungeon in Scotland. Punishable by hanging, drawing, quartering...

"Nothing is more important? Not even treason?"

"Nothing. I knew it—I knew it while I sat in that prison awaiting trial, wondering where you were and whether rumors had reached your ears to cause you torment. And then, when I saw you standing at that rail..."

His eyes mirrored the anguish she'd seen in them that moment.

"But by then," he continued, "it was too late. I was too weak, too drugged." He swayed again. "I still am, it seems. They told me I wasn't recovered enough to come home yet, but, like you, I didn't listen. Like you, I couldn't listen, not when my love was at stake." He risked a tiny grin, that chipped tooth peeking through a tentative smile.

It cracked her heart.

She'd been wrong, too. He'd asked her to trust him, said there were things he couldn't tell her. But she hadn't listened. She wanted to say she understood, but her throat closed with emotion.

She looked down to the paper in her hand, the dear words blurring through fresh tears. In his own blood, he'd tried to tell her not to worry. And he'd written a poem for her, admitting his love, promising to earn her trust, asking for forgiveness.

Poetry. He'd shared himself, just as she'd hoped for all along. His wall had finally come down.

Or maybe she'd managed to scale it.

He came forward and took the paper from her trembling hands, setting it aside.

Then he stepped right into the water.

"Your boots!" she gasped.

In the big tub, he knelt at her feet. "I own a shipping line and a warehouse stacked with imported goods from all over the world. I can buy a hundred pairs of boots."

His voice was thick and unsteady, his amber eyes so intense they seemed to spear her to her very soul.

He reached beneath the water to take her hands in his. "Don't you understand, leannan? I can buy almost anything—anything, that is, except your love."

"You have it," she whispered.

EPILOGUE

Six years later

Kendra ran down Amberley's marble front steps, then, waiting for Trick, paused and looked back at the house. She smiled at the incongruous stone lintel over the elegant double front doors—a long, decidedly inelegant rock with symbols chiseled into it: the letters KC and PC, a ship, a heart, and a date. 1668.

"What's that?" she'd asked Trick the day she first came home from the orphanage to see it.

He'd blinked. "Do you not remember Falkland? And the marriage lintels?"

"Well, yes. But this isn't a weaver's cottage in Scotland—it's a mansion in Sussex. And this house wasn't built in 1668."

"Maybe it wasn't," he'd told her, pulling her toward him for a kiss. "But that was the year it became a home."

Remembering now, the same warmth filled her heart that had filled it then. She fingered the stones on her amber bracelet, knowing with a certainty that she'd never take it off again.

Trick finally sauntered out, displaying none of her own impatience.

"Hurry, Trick, or Cait's babe will be born before we get there."

"Slow down, or our babe will be born too early." Walking her over to the caleche, he smiled and ran a possessive hand over the slight bulge of her middle. "Besides, we were there already. It was you who insisted we leave everyone and return home to get the gift you forgot."

"It was you who insisted on the hour we just spent in the bedchamber." Grinning as he climbed up beside her, she leaned to give him a quick kiss.

With a hand on the back of her neck, he held her close, his lips meeting hers in a much longer, warmer caress. His mouth opened, his tongue circling hers, sending a wild swirl of excitement spiraling through her. Her senses reeled, and the soft, paper-wrapped package in her hands slipped to the caleche's boards.

He broke off and, with a low laugh, reached to snag it and set it back on her lap. "Do you want to go back upstairs, leannan?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed on a sigh. "But no."

"Women." He shook his own head, bright gold in the sun, and lifted the caleche's reins.

"Drive fast," she urged, and then, "Faster," until they were racing toward Cainewood at an alarming speed, considering her delicate state. "I want to be there with Cait when the babe greets the world."

But as she was hurrying up Cainewood's carved stone staircase, the thready cry of a newborn split the air. She paused with her hand on the gray marble rail.

Trick squeezed her around the shoulders. "Sorry we're late, lass, but do you not think our little interlude was worth it? We so rarely have time to ourselves these days."

"I suppose." She gave him a mock pout. "Let's go meet the child."

The door to Jason and Caithren's chamber was wide open, the room crammed with cooing Chases. Cait reclined like a queen in the cobalt-curtained bed, a squalling infant in her arms.

"For me?" she asked with a smile, indicating the gift in Kendra's hands. "Or the babe?"

"Both." Kendra handed it to her. "Though really it's from your cousin Cameron. I wrote asking him to send it. Then he wouldn't accept my money." Looking around the noisy chamber while Caithren opened the package, she spotted Jason and Colin, but not her twin. "Is Ford not here yet?"

Jason sat beside Cait. "He sent a message from Lakefield House that they'd be a bit late," he said, helping his wife unfold a green and blue plaid blanket. "Seems to think he's on the verge of some discovery."

"Turning iron into gold? He always did want to be Midas." Kendra laughed, moving closer as a grinning Cait wrapped her child in the Leslie tartan.

Like magic, the babe quieted.

Swathed in its mother's clan colors, the child looked so precious and content. Feeling her heart melt with tenderness, Kendra ran a fingertip along its downy cheek. "Everything went well?" she asked Cait while smiling down at the newborn. "The babe is healthy? And you're fine?"

"Aye. Everything went perfectly."

The baby grasped her finger with tiny fingers of its own. Such a miracle. Beneath the new blanket, it was swaddled in white, not blue or pink. She looked up. "Well, what is it?"

Cait gave a happy sigh. "A lad."

"Another boy?"

That made three. The Chase family had multiplied in the six years since Kendra and Trick were wed.

Cait's two older sons were bouncing on the canopied bed. Thankfully the babe didn't seem to mind the wild ride.

The rest of the chamber was no more calm. Amy and Colin's two boys were racing around the room, chasing Kendra and Trick's two giggling daughters and gleefully careening off the tapestried walls. The oldest of the cousins at seven, Jewel was a bit more sedate. Of course that was because she was busy at the moment, serenading the new arrival with a lullaby—at the top of her lungs.

One of Kendra's young daughters rammed into her knees, the result of a hopeless attempt to escape her pursuing cousins. As she lifted the girl into her arms, Trick moved close. "Chaos, as always," he whispered.

"Yes," she said, turning to him. "But a happy chaos, don't you think?"

He grinned and took her mouth in a kiss, right there in front of her brothers and everyone, like their first kiss in Cainewood's chapel so many years before.

And this kiss left her every bit as shaken.

A glorious thing, true love was, she thought as she pulled back with a smile, their daughter wriggling between them. Once, long ago, she'd promised Trick he'd find true love, and she'd followed through, hadn't she?

A Chase promise was never given lightly.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Dear Reader,

King Charles I's baggage ferry really did go down in the Firth of Forth that fated summer of 1633, although—so far as I know!—nobody had substituted rocks for the treasure. Interestingly, the sinking wasn't common knowledge until the early 1990s. Apparently embarrassed by the loss, Charles did his best to keep it quiet, and it was centuries before a historian noticed a footnote and began to look into it. Since then, three accounts have been found that make mention of the sinking. But although all the writers were contemporary to the incident, none of them were actually present, and therefore little is known about what actually lies at the bottom of the Firth of Forth.

We know that one of two wooden ferries went down, carrying a portion of the king's household property, but which possessions were aboard remains to be seen. It is assumed to be mostly kitchen goods—a Royal "kitchen" consisting mainly of solid silver and gold serving pieces—but this is only a guess based on accountings of replacement items that were ordered in the months afterward.

The search for the shipwreck begin soon after discovery of its existence, but progress has been slow, because conditions in the Forth—frigid choppy water, strong tides, poor visibility—severely limit diving opportunities. Early on, an American team searched for several summers, but their efforts proved unsuccessful. Following two years of inactivity, the project resumed, this time under a nonprofit group formed for the purpose, Burntisland Heritage Trust. The search is being carried out in acceptance with strict archaeological guidelines, and Historic Scotland is responsible for assuring that those standards are met and maintained. The world waits with bated breath to see what will rise from the Firth of Forth...here's hoping they don't find chests filled with rocks!

As for the highwayman Jack Nevison (nicknamed Swift Nicks by King Charles II himself), the story Ford told of his ride from London to York was true, as well as the tale of his court visit and pardon from Charles. But alas, not one to learn from his mistakes, the notorious robber continued his life of crime. His escapes from prison were legendary, including the stunt I borrowed where a doctor friend painted him with blue spots and declared him dead. In 1685, he was caught for the last time in York. Brought to a hasty trial before he could devise an escape, he pleaded the king's most gracious pardon, which he claimed covered subsequent as well as prior misdeeds. Not surprisingly, the court dismissed his defense, and at the trip old age of forty-six, Swift Nicks found himself hanged.

The homes in my stories are usually inspired by real-life places, and this book is no exception. Although I put it in a different geographic location, Amberley House and its beautiful gardens were loosely modeled on Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, England. The original palace, built in 1497 by the Bishop of Ely, was the childhood and young-adult home of the first Queen Elizabeth. Two portraits of her can be viewed in the home today, along with some of her clothing and letters.

Elizabeth's successor, James I, didn't care for Hatfield as a home, preferring Theobalds, the residence of Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury. He proposed an exchange, and the Cecils agreed. In 1608, the earl tore down most of the palace and began building the present house in what was then a modern style, at a cost of over £38,000, a staggering amount of money in those times. Though first designed by Robert Lyminge, the plans were modified by others, including, it is thought, young Inigo Jones. This is the house that you can visit today, and the one Kendra saw when she first rode up that long drive.

From the seventeenth century until present day, Hatfield House has served as both a social and political center, hosting luminaries from royalty on down. Well worth a visit, the magnificent house is open for tours from March through October, and most of the gardens are open year-round.

Duncraven Castle was invented when I stayed at Borthwick Castle, twin towers located just south of Edinburgh in Scotland (although, once again, I took the liberty of moving it). Built in 1430 by the first Lord Borthwick, whose sepulchre can still be seen with that of his Lady in the old village church, its virtually impregnable stone walls sheltered Mary Queen of Scots in her last days of freedom. When a force of some thousand men surrounded the castle, her husband, Bothwell, escaped, leaving Mary behind under the protection of the Borthwicks. Disguised as a page boy, Mary then climbed through a window in the great hall, lowered herself by rope to the ground below, and set off through the gate and across the glen in search of her husband. The stuff of romance novels, isn't it? But sadly, their reunion was a short one, and the tragic queen never again knew true freedom.

Nearly a century later, Borthwick Castle was besieged by the forces of Oliver Cromwell, whose letter demanding surrender—the same one read by Trick in my story—hangs framed in today's great hall. Weathered and nobly scarred, Borthwick still stands hundreds of years later. Sir Walter Scott described Borthwick as by far the finest example of the Scottish castles which consist of a single "donjon," or keep. So it was, and so it still is, now run as a bed and breakfast. Do treat yourself with a stay there if ever you get a chance. After a delicious gourmet dinner, you may sit before the immense fireplace, sipping spirits while the caretakers regale you with stories of ghosts and legends. And when you climb the winding staircase to your chamber, don't be surprised if you find yourself looking over your shoulder...

To see pictures and learn more about the real people and real places in Amber, please visit my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com. There you may also enter a contest, sign up for my newsletter, and find recipes for some of the seventeenth-century foods that Kendra and Trick ate in this story. My favorite is the Tarte of Spinage (otherwise known as spinach pie), which my daughter and I make every Thanksgiving. I adore reader mail, so I hope you will e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com and tell me which recipe you like the best!

For a chance to revisit Kendra and Trick, look for Violet, which is Ford Chase's story and the first book in my Flower Trilogy. If you missed Colin and Amy's story, you can find it in Amethyst, Book 1 in my Jewel Trilogy. Jason and Cait's story is in Emerald, Book 2.

To hear about my upcoming releases, my contests, and other news, please sign up for my newsletter, friend me on Facebook, or follow me on Twitter (@readLaurenRoyal) or Pinterest. I love to keep up with my readers!

I hope you enjoyed Amber—thank you for reading!

Till next time,

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My heartfelt thanks:

To my editor, Audrey LaFehr, for always knowing how to make my stories better.

To my critique partner, Terri Castoro, for her willingness to read it again no matter how many times I decide to Change Everything.

To my husband, Jack, for encouraging this all-consuming career, even though he thought he was marrying a jeweler, not a writer. And also for keeping up with my website with surprisingly little nagging.

To my son, Brent, for designing my website in the first place and formatting all of my books.

To my daughter, Devonie, for the brilliant new blurb.

To Ian Archibald, Project Manager for the Burntisland Heritage Trust, for information regarding the search for the Charles I shipwreck.

To seventeenth-century poets George Herbert, Robert Herrick, Richard Lovelace, and Samuel Rowley, for inspiring Trick's poetry (and generously—if unwittingly—allowing him to borrow a line or two for period flavor).

To my official First Readers—Alison Bellach, Taire Martyn, and Karen Nesbitt—for lots of laughs and invaluable feedback.

To Herb, Joan, Ken, and Dawn Royal, for reading and commenting on the sort-of-spiffed-up version (and, as always, for being willing to make fools of themselves promoting their daughter's/sister's/sister-in-law's books).

To Libby Graham and Andrew Metz, for touring me though the used bookstores on Charing Cross Road and sending hard-to-find research material from the UK.

To my fearless and intrepid Publicity Team—Deb Alexander, Dick Alexander, Jane Armstrong, Robin Ashcroft, Joyce Basch, Alison Bellach, Caroline Ballach, Diana Brandmeyer, Carol Carter, Terri Castoro, Vicki Crum, Elaine Ecuyer, Shirley Feit, Dale Gordon, Darren Holmquist, Lori Howell, Irm Jawor, Taire Martyn, Cindy Meyer, Lynne Miller, Amanda Murphy, Karen Nesbitt, DeeDee Perkins, Nancy Phillips, Jack Poole, Stacey Royal, Wendi Royal, Sandy Shniderson, Diena Simmons, Connie Story, Stacy Volpe, and Julie Walker—for enthusiastically going above and beyond.

And, as always, to all the readers who have taken their time to write and tell me how you feel about my stories, for being my inspiration.

Thanks to each and every one of you—you're what keeps me writing.

ABOUT LAUREN ROYAL

I decided to become a writer in the third grade, after winning a “Why My Mother is the Greatest” essay contest and seeing my entry published in a major newspaper. But everyone told me it's too hard for novelists to get published, so after college I spent fourteen years as the CEO of my own jewelry store chain before writing my first book.

I've been oh-so-lucky to see my books hit bestseller lists all over the world and win awards including the Golden Quill and Booklist's Top 10 Romance of the Year, making this second career a real dream come true. I live in Southern California with my husband, our three young adult children, and one constantly shedding cat, and I still think my mother is the greatest!

I love to hear from readers. You can e-mail me at Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com or via the "Keep in Touch" section on my website at www.LaurenRoyal.com.

BOOKS BY LAUREN ROYAL

The Jewel Trilogy
Amethyst
Emerald
Amber
Forevermore (a Jewel Trilogy novella)

The Flower Trilogy
Violet
Lily
Rose

The Temptations Trilogy
Lost in Temptation
Tempting Juliana
The Art of Temptation

Boxed Sets
The Jewel Trilogy
The Flower Trilogy
The Temptations Trilogy

LAUREN ROYAL'S
CONTACT INFORMATION

Email: Lauren@LaurenRoyal.com

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If you enjoyed reading Amber, please post a review. Books with more reviews are more likely to show up in searches, so I'm thankful for every review! Thank you for reading Amber!

CAPTAIN OF MY HEART
Heroes of the Sea Series, Book 1

Danelle Harmon

This version of CAPTAIN OF MY HEART is dedicated to
the memory of the original Pride Of Baltimore,
a ship I was fortunate enough to visit when she came to
Newburyport, Massachusetts, many years ago.
She and she alone was the inspiration for the schooner, Kestrel.

May this proud beauty and those who were lost with her, never be forgotten.

Pride of Baltimore
An original oil painting by Newburyport, Massachusetts artist Herb Crooks
Collection of the author

That seat of Science, Athens, and Earth’s proud mistress Rome;

Where now are all their glories? We scarce can find a tomb!

Then guard your rights, Americans, nor stoop to lawless sway;

Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose, for North America.

We led fair Freedom hither, and lo, the desert smiled!

A paradise of pleasure was opened in the wild!

Your harvest, bold Americans, no power shall snatch away!

Preserve, preserve, preserve your rights, and free America!

Torn from a world of tyrants, beneath this western sky,

We formed a new dominion, a land of liberty:

The world shall own we’re free men here and such we’ll ever be;

Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, for Love and Liberty!

Lift up your hands ye heroes, and swear with proud disdain.

The wretch who would enslave you shall spread his snares in vain.

Should Europe empty all her force, we’ll meet them in array,

And shout huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, for brave America!

“Free America”

— Dr. Joseph Warren, 1774

Prologue

July 1775

Unwilling spectators to yet another whipping, a trio of pigtailed seamen in blue jackets and striped ticken trousers stood by the rail of His Majesty’s Ship Halcyon. Their attention was not on poor Dalby, strung up to the gratings with his stooped back already blistering in the merciless sun. It was not on Captain Richard Crichton, tapping his foot in impatience as he waited for the boatswain’s mate to begin the punishment.

It was on the barge that had set out from the big seventy-four-gun flagship Dauntless.

“He’s coming,” said one, in a low, reverent whisper. “I knew he would.”

“We all knew. Our Brendan would never let us down.”

“Aye, just because he’s been promoted to flag captain doesn’t mean he’s forgotten us.”

They stared at the barge, watching as it cut its way through gentle swells that danced and glittered in the summer sunlight. Then Crichton turned, saw it, and paled. Swearing, he barked out a string of commands. Marines were hastily mustered. Officers in blue and white coats scrambled to receive the esteemed visitor. Uniforms were straightened, pipes shrilled. And then the barge was alongside, bumping against the frigate’s hull as its crew tossed their oars.

As usual, the flag captain had arrived unexpectedly—and with his usual disregard for the fanfare the Royal Navy insisted upon giving him.

Crichton was furious.

“Boat ahoy!”

“Halcyon!” roared the flag captain’s coxswain, Liam Doherty, a strapping, blue-eyed Irishman with a beam-to-beam grin and a shock of spice-colored curls. “Stand by t’ receive Cap’n Merrick!”

Orders were passed. The bosuns’ pipes pierced the air.

“Imagine,” whispered one of the seamen, “troublin’ himself with the likes of us. Ye don’t really think that’s why he’s here, do ye, John? ’Cause of us?”

“Oh, aye. No doubt about that,” the first seaman said. He gazed at the purple hills that rimmed Boston Harbor. “We all signed that appeal to Sir Geoffrey to do something about Crichton, didn’t we? The vice-admiral’s got a good heart, and a wise head on his shoulders, picking our own Brendan Merrick to be the new flag captain. Just think of how easy things were when Captain Merrick commanded this ship—he never once had a man punished, not once, mind ye! And he’s not going to like how bad things’ve gotten here.”

“Bad? By the saints, poor ol’ Dalby’s the second man Crichton’s strung up to the gratin’s for punishment this mornin’ alone, and that ain’t countin’ the three from yesterday!”

“There were four from yesterday, Zach, not three. . .”

At the rail, smart, red-coated marines snapped to attention. A final drum rolled on the wind. The pipes quieted, the seamen held their breaths, the tension built. They heard him coming up the ladder. They saw his gold-laced hat appear in the entry port. And then he was there, resplendent and handsome, the sunlight glinting with blinding intensity off his epaulets and picking out every gold button on a coat as blue as the sea that rolled behind him. Doffing his hat to the quarterdeck with a solemnity befitting the gesture, he turned, met their gazes—and grinned, for he had last walked among them as their captain, and he knew every one of the 150-man crew by name.

“Mr. Burke! Ce’n chaoi bhfuil tú? You’re looking a wee bit on the sorry side this morn! Been in your cups again, laddie?” They all had the same thought. Promotion hadn’t changed him a bit; he was still the same man he had been when he’d been their captain, not above using the old Gaeilge when addressing an Irishman, not above caring about the welfare of everyone on the ship. “And Mr. Howes! You keeping your hands off my little sister? Where is the lassie, anyhow? Faith! A half mile through spray and wave in that damnable barge and the least that Eveleen could do is come topside to greet me, eh?”

Still grinning, he winked at one of the drummers, a pale, scrawny little tyke who blushed and bobbed and dropped his drumstick under the attention. Captain Brendan Jay Merrick merely laughed, picked it up, and handed it back to him, oblivious to the way the boy clutched it to his chest as though it had been blessed. He was nothing like Crichton, the men thought with a mixture of pride and bittersweet relief, nor those who’d held the coveted post of flag captain before him—dour-faced, cautious men who’d reeked of protocol and the stuffiness so inherent in those of their station.

No, their Brendan had always been carefree and gallant, with a face to turn a lady’s head and the charm to win her heart. Elegance lay in the span of his shoulders, the shape of his hands; mirth danced in his eyes, and laughter in the swiftness of his grin. But beneath his jocular manner, he was strong and capable and a clever tactician, and no one in the King’s Navy knew ships as well as he. No one before or since had been able to make the frigate Halcyon dance through sea and spray as he had done; no one had had the deck a-hopping to Irish jigs as they’d gone into battle; and certainly, no one had stood on the quarterdeck sketching the enemy’s ships while iron flew overhead and the deck thundered beneath the might of Halcyon’s thirty-two guns.

Someday he’d be an admiral as his English father had been before him. No wonder his dash and derring-do had caught the attention of his superiors back in London. No wonder Sir Geoffrey Lloyd had promoted him to flag captain. No wonder the seamen were all ready to mutiny under Richard Crichton’s iron rule, whereas they looked upon their “Captain from Connaught” as a god.

No wonder they looked upon him now as their savior.

As Crichton came forward to greet him, the marines stepped back and Captain Merrick got a clear, unhampered view of Dalby O’Hara at the gratings, his head hanging between his frail shoulders, the rope that bound him leaving bracelets of angry red flesh at his swollen wrists.

Instantly the mirth faded from his eyes.

“Captain Merrick, how nice it is to have you grace my humble command,” Crichton said tightly, with a quick salute that was more mocking than respectful. Sarcasm stained his words, and any sincerity he thought to convey was belied by hard, naturally red-rimmed eyes whose irises were the color of milk allowed to go bad. Obviously Crichton was still furious that Sir Geoffrey had put the young half-Irishman in command of his flagship and not him, a fact he tried, unsuccessfully, to hide beneath the veil of hospitality. “Perhaps you’d care for some tea in my cabin? ’Tis dreadfully hot out here on deck.”

Brendan, staring at Dalby, didn’t give a damn about Crichton’s sarcasm, his hatred, or, for that matter, his tea. It was hot, all right; brutally so. The sun beat down upon Dalby’s sunburnt back and pulled blisters from the angry flesh. It baked the planking beneath his shoes, melted the tar between the deck seams, and made the sweat run down Crichton’s pale face.

And Crichton was offering him tea?

Furious, he tore his gaze from Dalby and swung around, his jaw clenched, his fingernails biting into his palms. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the flagship, anchored in shimmering haze a half mile distant, where Sir Geoffrey’s flag floated on the wind and tickled the pale clouds above. He would not let his admiral down. He would not let that flag down.

He would not let his men down!

“Captain Crichton—”

“If not tea, sir, then how about some coffee?” Crichton sputtered, sensing his superior’s rage and nervously fingering the hilt of his dress sword. “I’m sure Miss Eveleen has it all poured for you. She really is a most unusual young woman, and thoughtful, too! Doesn’t matter how hot it is, every morning she hauls her paints and canvas topside and sits out on deck painting the men’s portraits; why, she even gives them away afterward! Must run in your family, this talent for the fine arts. I needn’t tell you how popular she is with Halcyon’s people—” Sweat ran from Crichton’s temple as Brendan’s gaze went once more to Dalby. “—and how we all consider it a blessing that she’s chosen to accompany you here to Boston. And while I’m not accustomed to having a woman traveling aboard my ship, I daresay her presence has been a most enjoyable one—”

“Captain Crichton, I did not come here to discuss my sister.”

“But of course not, sir, though she did see your barge coming across and is probably expecting you—”

“I came here to address complaints made to me and our admiral regarding your unnecessary brutality!”

A hush fell over the ship, the slap of waves against the hull breaking the sudden, strained silence. Somewhere overhead, a gull cried.

“My—my brutality?” Dark, angry color suffused Crichton’s face. “Why, that’s preposterous! Who would dare lodge such a ridiculous complaint?”

“Your crew. And I, after observing your actions over the past several moments.”

Crichton followed the young flag officer’s gaze and waved his hand in a dismissive motion. “What, are you talking about Dalby O’Hara? Why, he deserves everything that’s coming to him. Lieutenant Myles caught him stealing bread just this morning from the purser’s stores. Surely you don’t think I’m going to let such atrocities go unpunished—”

“Captain Crichton, the only atrocities I see here are those committed by you. Do you think a man can subsist on moldy bread and watered-down rations and not be hungry? Cut him down now and send him to sick bay until he is well enough to return to his duties. And after you’ve done so, I would like a word with you.”

“A word, sir?”

Brendan drew his admiral’s orders from his pocket and said tightly, “I am taking over command of Halcyon until Sir Geoffrey’s faith in your competence as a captain can be reestablished.”

Crichton stood as if stunned. His upper lip quivered, his nostrils flared, and the trickle of sweat that ran from his temple seemed to freeze in place.

“I said, cut him down,” Brendan snapped.

“But that man is guilty of numerous crimes, and by thunder, he’ll get the punishment he deserves!”

“That man will be cut down now or so help me God, ’twill be a court of inquiry you find yourself facing, not just Sir Geoffrey’s wrath! Now, do it!”

The seamen, the officers, and even the marines gaped, for never had they seen their former captain show anything but blithe good spirits. Even the wind, humming through tarred shrouds and furled, salt-streaked canvas, held its breath. Crichton remained unmoving, blatantly defying the order; a moment passed. Two. Then Brendan shoved the dispatches back into his pocket and strode toward Dalby himself, his shoulders rigid with fury, his stride purposeful, his mouth tight and hard.

Crichton, they all knew, had just sealed his fate.

Hearing his approach, Dalby dragged his head up. “Oh, sir, I knew you’d come! You’d never have let anyone treat us like this! Crichton’s a demon, sir, a demon! ’Twas just some biscuit I took, I didn’t do anything bad, sir, honest, I didn’t—”

“I know, Dalby. Rest easy.”

“He barely feeds us enough for a rat to live on and then expects us to work like dogs! Just yesterday little Billy fell from the rigging and drowned because he was so weak from lack of food! Oh, there’s good grog and plenty of fresh meat, but it all goes to Crichton and his officers. And all I took was a piece of moldy biscuit, sir, just one little piece. . . .”

“I know, Dalby. And we can’t have you eating biscuit when everyone knows the salt beef’s far better, now, can we?” he joked, for it was a well-known fact that the beef was far worse than the biscuit could ever be. “Faith, at least there are no worms in it!”

But Dalby didn’t notice that Brendan’s words came through tightened lips, nor that his grin didn’t quite light his eyes. All he knew was that his captain had come to save him. All he heard was the musical lilt of his voice, its Connemaran cadences still wonderfully vibrant despite an English father and fifteen years in the Royal Navy. Dalby sobbed in relief, unwittingly setting the spark that inflamed the crew to mutiny.

“No worms, but he doesn’t feed us enough to live on!” someone shouted.

“And half the time the meat’s rotten!”

“Cut him down, Captain!”

“Aye, cut him down! Cut him down!” It became a chant, gathering force and momentum and thunder, rolling through the ranks like a comber in stormy seas. “Cut him down!”

“Sir, I will not tolerate this!” Crichton roared, above the din. “Do you hear me? I will not tolerate this!”

Brendan began cutting.

Crichton stepped forward, and all hell broke loose.

A seaman broke from the crowd with an unholy yell, his eyes maniacal, his knife raised as he charged toward Crichton. Someone screamed. Someone else cheered.

The reports would say that it had been an accident, and that the shot had been fired in self-defense, for with officers and marines trying frantically to regain control over the mutinous crew, no one knew exactly what happened. But Dalby, turning his head, saw it all: a lieutenant knocking the knife-wielding seaman aside; men storming the quarterdeck; and in the confusion Crichton, calmly drawing his pistol and taking careful aim—not at the seaman, not into empty space, but at Brendan, the man who’d come to save him, to save all of them—

Dalby screamed.

The explosion rent the air and stunned the decks into silence. And when the echoes died and Dalby opened his eyes, he saw that the flag captain was down, lying on his back and blinking up at the furled white sails and hazy sky, his mouth tight with pain, his rich chestnut curls bared to the sun. His tricorne lay upside down beside his shoulder. A dark rose bloomed on his chest, spreading over his fine new coat. He coughed once, twice, and and then his eyes began to close. . . .

“Brendan!” A woman charged through the stunned crowd, her paint-smeared skirts and petticoats flying, her golden hair streaming behind her. “Brendan! Oh God, Brendan, noooooo!”

The young flag captain opened his eyes. Weakly, he turned his head, trying to muster a grin. And then Dalby saw those pain-glazed eyes widen in alarm, for Crichton had reloaded, was bringing the pistol up once again, and Eveleen was running directly into its path. . . .

Brendan staggered to his feet. “Eveleen!”

The pistol barked; the girl cried out, clutching her hand as she fell. And there was Crichton, smiling now, as he narrowed those pale, red-rimmed eyes and raised a second pistol to finish a task left undone.

The ball hit the flag captain, spinning him around and flinging him backward. Through the blur of tears, Dalby saw him flounder, saw the brief flash of sunlight against his epaulets and gold buttons. Then the back of his legs hit the rail, and staggering, he tumbled over it, falling down, down into the sea below.

Silence.

The wind sighed through the shrouds above. A mast creaked. On deck, the crew stood frozen in shock, horror, and fear.

And Crichton, in command once more and hopeful candidate for the now vacant position of flag captain, smiled, tucked his pistol in his belt, and met the gazes of his faithful lieutenants. Their expressions were carefully veiled, their drawn pistols holding the stunned and horrified crew at bay once more. His officers would not disappoint him. They’d allow no more reports to get to Sir Geoffrey, and they would support his official statement that Captain Merrick had incited a mutiny.

What they’d seen today would go no further than the wardroom.

He’d make sure of it.

The girl lay in a crumpled heap, her shattered hand clutched to her breast, her frilly white petticoats sopping up the young flag captain’s blood. Ignoring her sobs, Crichton picked up the whip and handed it to the boatswain’s mate. Dalby was still lashed to the gratings, his face paler than death. Smiling, Crichton nodded to his officer.

“You may proceed,” he said coldly.

The mate smiled back and the whip slashed down, again and again and again.

And this time, there was no one to come to Dalby’s aid.

No one at all.

Chapter 1

Newburyport, Massachusetts, 1778

Three years had elapsed since Captain Brendan Jay Merrick had fallen from the frigate Halcyon and, subsequently, out of the Royal Navy. The American colonies had made good use of those years; they’d declared their independence from Britain, they’d won many fine fighting men and sea officers to the American cause, and they’d been busy infecting themselves with healthy patriotic fever.

The town of Newburyport had no trouble taking up the fight for liberty, for its people had been independent even in the days before the struggle for independence. Situated at the mouth of the mighty Merrimack River some forty miles north of Boston, the town depended only on the sea for its survival. Salmon, herring, striped bass, and bluefish migrated up the river. The ocean provided cod, mackerel, and other fish, as well as oysters, lobsters, and scallops. Clams grew fat in the tidal flats of nearby Plum Island; ducks were plentiful. A few wooden fish flakes dotted the riverbanks to dry the great catches of cod, but Newburyport, unlike Gloucester and Marblehead to the south, had never relied on the fishing industry to support itself to the extent that they had. Commerce was its lifeblood.

Not so many years ago, it had been common to see great oceangoing ships tied up at the wharves unloading cargoes from distant lands. Farmers had come from the inland towns of Haverhill, Amesbury, and Bradford to trade vegetables, corn, barreled pork, beef, and flour for staples—rum, coffee, sugar, and molasses—as well as extravagances: silk from the Orient, and grapes and oranges from Spain. The docks had bustled with activity, and the shops in Market Square had boasted linen, wool, and porcelain from England, wine from Madeira, broadcloth and satins, iron, paper and glass, nails and gloves, and just about anything anyone could want that Newburyport didn’t make or supply itself.

The farmers still came. The docks still bustled with activity. But the ships that were now tied up at those wharves were of a very different breed from the ponderous, wallowing vessels that had come before. This new breed was leaner. Battle-scarred. Sharp-toothed, toughened, and hungry—and as independent as the town that spawned them.

These vessels were the privateers.

And Newburyport couldn’t turn them out fast enough to meet the demand.

For if commerce was the town’s lifeblood, then shipbuilding was its livelihood.

Along the Merrimack’s banks, new shipyards sprang up seemingly overnight, and existing ones grew in size. Each was as self-sufficient as Newburyport herself. Each had its own smithy, sawpit, mast pond, and mast houses. Each had its own sail loft, where bolts of heavy linen were destined to hold the wind as foresails, mainsails, topsails, and jibs. And each had access to the town’s rope walk, where hemp fibers were combed out, spun into yarn, and formed into rope that would see service as rigging in those predatory vessels that called Newburyport their home.

Prosperous merchants and shipowners who’d gained their fortunes through commerce, rum manufacturing, and the blatant ignorance of England’s Navigation Acts now invested in the privateering boom. On High Street, handsome three-story Georgian houses surrounded by elegant gardens and furnished with fine Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture reflected the affluence of those who were successful at it. In the spirit of liberty, the men abandoned their silks, velvets, and fancy powdered wigs for clothes of native wool and homespun; the ladies burned their English tea and brewed their own from ribwort and other plants instead.

Newburyport was as independent as ever. And its patriotism was reflected in every citizen, young and old, male and female; in its militia, in its naval men, and in its privateers.

Enclosed by woods and a haphazard fence, Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship was nothing more than a field that smelled of clover and wet grasses and the fresh pungency of newly churned mud. It had rained the night before, and now moisture dripped from the many oaks, maples, and pines, pitter-pattering down through branches and shimmering leaves that quivered beneath the extra weight. Drip, drip, pitter, patter, on and on until all the woods surrounding the field were alive with the soft sounds of falling rain. Yet the sky above the treetops was cloudless and pale, and sunlight stabbed through the branches, glowing pink and gold through the mists and sending vivid rainbow colors twinkling off the bent grasses like stardust on a fairy’s crown.

It promised to be another scorcher of a day.

Sounds broke the tranquility of the new morning: the steady beat of a horse’s trot; the snap of a whip licking the air; the snort of a dappled colt whose chiseled head and short back spoke of desert blood and whose color was so pure a gray as to appear almost blue; and from the slight figure in the middle of the field, around whom that colt trotted in a doughnut of deepening mud, an exuberant voice belting out the tune of “Yankee Doodle.”

“Fath’r and I went down to camp, along with Captain Good-ing! And there we saw the men and boys, as thick as hasty pud-ding!”

A quarter mile away, Ephraim Ashton, shipbuilder, sat down to breakfast and the Essex Gazette, a pot of strong black coffee at his right elbow, a basket of hot buttered corn muffins at his left, and a jug of New England rum before him, blissfully unaware that his daughter stood ankle-deep in mud with her head thrown back, her chest puffed up, and her voice belting out a song with all the lusty fervor she might’ve lent her favorite fo’c’sle chanty:

“Yankee Doodle keep it up! Yankee Doodle, dan-dy—”

Rigel flicked an ear but knew better than to slow his stride.

“Mind the music and the step, and with the girls be han-dy!”

But then, there were a lot of things Father was unaware of; he didn’t know about Rescue Effort Number Thirty-One, he didn’t know that she was going to ride Rigel for the first time tomorrow, and he didn’t know that she had a bet going with her brother, Matt, that she could sneak aboard Matt’s privateer, Proud Mistress, at least two more times before Father caught her at it and flew off into one of his rages. No, Father would be reaching for one of those muffins just about—Mira squinted up to look at the sun’s angle—now, dipping it in maple syrup, and shoving the whole sticky mess into his mouth as he thumbed to the newspaper’s Marine News section, where he would scrutinize each and every word until he found mention of an Ashton ship. He might get a smudge of syrup on the top right corner of the page—but not on the Marine News section. Heaven forbid. And it would take him exactly one third of the hour he allotted to the paper to study that section, snowy brows curling out over his nose like fishhooks and throwing shadows across the page, and his fist slapping the table with a good hard wallop when he found what he was looking for. And then he would hoot and holler, and heaven help the neighbors if they were still abed, for they’d be asleep no longer.

“And there we see a thousand men, as rich as Squire Da-vid, and what they wasted ev’ry day, I wish it could be sa-ved! Yankee Doodle, keep it up, Yankee Doodle dan-dy. . .”She sucked in a great gulp of air and shouted to the treetops, “Mind the music and the step, and with the girls be han-dy!”

Hers—like her father’s, her brother Matt’s, and Newburyport’s itself—was red-hot rebel’s blood. Yet Mira’s patriotism didn’t end with a mere song, nor the limitations of her sex, though she’d shunned English tea, donned native homespun, and worn her dark hair in thirteen braids, one to represent each colony, as the other women had. As she was a sea captain’s daughter who’d come into the world some one hundred forty leagues east of Newfoundland in the middle of a raging gale, with a pitching, yawing ship her cradle and a piece of sailcloth her first blanket, the role she took in the defense of liberty was a bit more . . . active. But it was damned hard to man a cannon—and win a wager—if Matt kept sneaking off on Proud Mistress without her, which was the only reason she was standing here in the muddy field this morning and not beside him on the brig’s stout decks.

“And there we see a whopping gun, as big as a log of ma-ple, mounted on a little cart, a load for father’s cattle! Yankee Doodle, keep it up . . .”

She bawled out the rest of the verse, then hummed the next one through her nose, pacing the song to Rigel’s hoofbeats and plotting, as she’d been doing all morning, the best way to sneak the latest cat—Rescue Effort Number Thirty-One until further named—into the house without Father’s knowledge.

She could hide him in the stable and wait till Father left for his shipyards, which he would do at precisely one o’clock. She could smuggle him in through the back door. Or she could simply put him in the front hall and hope he mingled well enough with the other Rescue Efforts that Father wouldn’t notice him.

But whatever she did, she’d have to be careful, because Father was in one of his moods this morning, and with good cause.

The client—not just another client, but the client, whose drafts for a fine new schooner would’ve pulled the Ashton Shipyards out of their slump and made Ephraim’s name famous—had never shown up last night. And it was no wonder he hadn’t shown up, because the gallant captain of the American privateer Annabel, who’d outfoxed a British frigate at the mouth of the river last night, had been swept overboard during the ensuing sea fight and was, by all reliable accounts, presumed dead.

That captain was the client.

So much for all their efforts to make a favorable impression on this naval architect whom only Matt had met, several months ago off Portsmouth. But these drafts of his had so impressed her brother that Ephraim, stopping to listen to him for once, had finally posted a letter to this unknown captain and invited him to Newburyport in the hopes of snaring his business.

The preparations they’d gone through to make sure they got it! Abigail had cooked up a supper that could’ve fed the entire town. The rugs had been beaten, the table rubbed with beeswax, the silver polished till it shone. Mira had even donned a gown and put her hair up under a little lace mobcap, managing to look demure and ladylike enough to please even Father, who’d been just coming up from the cellar with several bottles of his finest Madeira when he’d spotted her uncharacteristic appearance and almost dropped them on his toe.

But it had all been for naught. Just like Matt’s dire warnings to mind her behavior, now dancing through her head like singsong verses from a nursery rhyme, shaping themselves to the tune of “Yankee Doodle” and filling the morning with sound:

“Don’t race El Nath down High Street, the client mi-ight see you! Stay at home and mind yourself, and please try to be go-od!” Laughing, she threw her head back, let the sun splash across her face, and belted out, “Mira Ashton, you’re a brat! Mira, you’re naught but trou-ble! All boldness and all brazenness, and don’t feed Luff beneath the table!”

Hmm. That last phrase didn’t quite fit within the confines of the tune; she’d have to work on it a bit, then bawl it out on the fo’c’sle the next time Matt took Proud Mistress to sea. Nice and loud, loud enough to send the company into a fit of guffaws and Matt into teeth-gritting anger. She could already envision him going as red as his hair, his spectacles steaming up, his lips thinning out the way they always did when he was particularly annoyed about something. . . .

Her laughter, fresh as the sea wind that drove across the marshlands and dunes of nearby Plum Island, soared up to the hazy blue sky above, for the rest of his silly warnings didn’t have a prayer of fitting within the confines of “Yankee Doodle.”

No climbing Mistress’s masts just to prove you can do it faster than anyone else!

Watch your language, and don’t show up at the supper table wearing those trousers and smelling like horses!

And for God’s sake, please find a place to hide that cat you snuck home off the docks! When Father finds out, he’s going to have a damned fit!

Well, it wasn’t as though she kept all of the Rescue Efforts. She did place them in good homes after getting them back on their feet. So what if the number was up to thirty? It was a cumulative count, anyhow; there were actually only nine cats presently living at, in, and around the Ephraim Ashton household.

Well, ten. She’d forgotten Rescue Effort Number Thirty-One, a scruffy ball of orange fur watching her from atop a fence post and wondering, no doubt, just how she intended to get him into the house and past Ephraim without all hell breaking loose. She’d planned it for yesterday; having this esteemed Captain Merrick around would certainly have diverted Father’s attention long enough for her to get the cat in and placed safely among the others roaming the house.

She sighed and squinted up at the sun, just beginning to burn through the haze. Right about now, Father’d be reaching for his third muffin and hollering for his second pot of coffee, laced with a generous dose of rum to “wake him up.” And any time now, she predicted with that strange intuition that binds sibling to sibling, Matt would come home with another brave deed under his belt to make the ladies sigh, the young boys idolize him, and the other privateers go green with envy. His name would make the Essex Gazette, of course; Ephraim would have something more to brag about when he met with his cronies down at Davenport’s Wolfe Tavern on Saturday night; and perhaps he’d cool off about the loss of the client whose business he’d been so eager to land, a client whose loss had not been because of her this time. . . .

Just then she heard the distant, dull thump of a cannon down in the harbor as a ship was welcomed in from the ocean and into the Merrimack River. The report was followed by a steady succession of twelve more—thirteen in all, one for each colony. It was a jubilant salute, repeated by every vessel in the harbor and the great field battery guarding Newburyport at the tip of Plum Island. Finally the reverberations faded, leaving in its wake only the distant screams of gulls and wild cheering from the wharves and shipyards lining the riverfront.

Matt was back, all right.

She pictured him standing tall and proud on Mistress’s quarterdeck as the brig glided past the smoking field battery and up the river, his spectacles hazed with dried spray, his coattails flapping in the wind, his red hair whipping about his freckled face as he considered which woman to choose from among the throng waiting to pounce on him at the wharf. It would probably take about an hour for him to drop anchor, make that decision, claw through that throng, and find his way up High Street and back to the house in time for breakfast.

Mira would be waiting for him, of course—but the greeting she planned for him would not be as sweet as the one he’d get down on the wharf.

She continued working the horse. A mosquito bit through her trousers, and she reached down, slapped her leg, swore in a way that would’ve made Father proud had she been his son and not his daughter, and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her sleeve. Then she heard a commotion coming from the house. Was Matt home? Already?

Mira could hear Luff’s insane barking, mingling with the frightened whinny of a horse. Above it all came the sound of male voices raised in greeting, or, as one of them was Father’s, more likely battle.

Already.

By the time Mira had cooled Rigel down and led him back to the stable, the argument was loud enough to be heard clear across the street, across the town, and across the river in Salisbury. Entering the house, she traced its progress as it moved at what sounded like dizzying speed, from the upstairs, the hall, the parlor, the dining room; Matt shouting at the top of his lungs; Father bellowing ferociously; Matt again, his voice suddenly muffled as he no doubt shoved one of Abigail’s muffins down his craw. Counting the seconds, Mira waited for the hollering to fade toward the back of the house before tearing the front door open. With Number Thirty-One tucked in the crook of her arm, she kicked off her muddy boots and darted across the thick carpet.

“I’m telling you, Father, he’s not a Brit! How many blasted times do I have to repeat myself? He’s not a Brit! Not a Brit!” Something crashed violently against a wall. “For Christ’s sake, he was wearing an American privateer’s coat!”

The argument was approaching the parlor now, fading behind wainscoted walls, rounding entranceways, and bouncing off high ceilings as Mira listened with amused curiosity.

“That don’t make him American!” Ephraim bawled.

“What about the missing client, huh? What about the drafts?”

“What drafts? I ain’t seen no bloody drafts!”

“That’s because they were destroyed by seawater, damn you!”

Father’s gale-force roar made the walls shake. “Don’t gimme any of yer lip, Matt! I know a damned Englishman when I see one! Ye come to me with some cockamamie story about this captain surviving a sea fight with that British frigate, and then a night alone on the open ocean? Whaddye take me fer, a damned idiot? That rascal upstairs ain’t my client! Why, I’ll bet ye my eyeteeth he’s a British deserter off that same bleedin’ frigate! Christ! Now, get him outta here, damn you! Cart him down to Davenport’s tavern, let them take care of him! I want no part of him, ye hear?”

“Damn you, he’s our responsibility, our client!”

“My client died a gallant death aboard that sloop!”

“Your client’ll die upstairs unless you show him some proper American compassion!”

“He ain’t my client, and I ain’t showin’ nothing to no goddamned Brit!”

“Damn you, get it through your thick skull he’s not—a—Brit!”

Mira ducked behind the staircase, flattening herself against the fine paneling of Santo Domingo mahogany. She held her breath as the two stormed into view, Matt with so much steam on his spectacles, she wondered how he could see. Behind them the housekeeper, Abigail, trailed like bubbles in a warship’s wake, flour breezing from her skirts.

“Christian charity, Ephraim!” she pleaded. “What if Matthew’s right and he is the captain of the American ship Annabel? And if not, what difference does it make? So what if he’s British? You can’t just abandon the poor fellow like so much garbage!”

“All Brits are garbage!”

“Dammit, Father!” Something else crashed against a wall.

“Ephraim, please listen to your son—”

“Abigail, you stay outta this! And, Matt, you throw one more thing and I’m gonna take a stick to yer hide! Don’t think I’m too old to do it! I’m still yer father, and what I say goes. Now, git that bloke outta here by the time I count to ten or you can damn well fergit ever making another cruise in that brig again, is that clear?”

“You can’t threaten me, damn you!”

“I’ll threaten all I like!”

“Over my dead body!”

Something else shattered.

They were storming into the dining room now, Father’s silver-buckled shoes just disappearing behind the doorway. Thanking God for the argument, for it was the perfect chance to get Number Thirty-One safely inside, Mira darted out from behind the staircase.

Matt turned—and saw her.

She ran for the stairs.

“Mira! You stay out of the east bedroom, you hear me? Mira!”

He couldn’t have issued a better invitation. Taking the stairs three at a time, she careened around the landing, took the rest of the steps in two bounds, charged down the hall, and lunged for the closed, paneled door. Downstairs she heard Ephraim lighting into Matt once more.

Her hand hit the latch. Without a second thought, she burst into the room.

Chapter 2

Behind her, the door swung shut with a click she never heard.

A man lay asleep in the big four-poster tester bed—a handsome, nearly naked man with damp knee breeches pasted to his well-muscled thighs, long legs sprinkled with auburn hair, and bare feet that stuck out over the foot rail by a good ten inches. There was sensitivity in the shape of his face, elegance in the slant of his brows, artistry in the way his cheekbones stood above the faint hollows beneath them. It was a handsome face, even in sleep; the jaw firm, the lips sensual, the mouth and eyes framed by laugh lines that appeared to get much use. His hair, dark against the white pillowcase, tumbled rakishly over his brow and was the color of September chestnuts, rich and glossy and curling at the ends where it had begun to dry. He was by far the best-looking specimen of his gender Mira had ever seen.

And, looking at his hands lying atop the counterpane, she knew immediately that Matt had spoken the truth.

His weren’t the blunt, stubby, work-roughened fingers of a seafarer. They were the strong, graceful hands of an artist . . . a naval architect.

The client.

Good God. She stepped closer, staring. Beneath swollen lids rimmed with long lashes, his eyes were moving slowly, as though he was caught in the throes of a dream. She saw his fingers twitch, heard his soft intake of breath, watched his head move slightly on the pillow.

But he never knew she was there.

For Brendan, time had rolled back to the night before, and he was once again commanding Annabel’s desperate flight from the sea, the rebel town of Newburyport approaching off their bows, HMS Dismal in hot pursuit, and the schooner’s drafts spread out over his knee and fluttering in the breeze.

“Brendan!”

Liam’s voice, desperate and wild.

“Bren-daaaaan!”

Faith, where was their confidence in him?

Sure enough, there was Liam, all two hundred strapping pounds of him, shoving his telescope into a seaman’s hand and hurtling toward him at breakneck speed. Blue eyes bulging, he slid into the deckhouse where Brendan was sitting, nearly tripping over a ringbolt as he grabbed desperately for his arm.

Brendan barely glanced up. “Honestly, Liam, as an officer, you really should try to set a better example. Racing across the deck like that—”

“God Almighty, Cap’n, it’s Crichton commandin’ that frigate!” Liam had his arm now, nearly ripping it from its socket; the drafts jumped in the wind, and Brendan grabbed them just in time. “D’ye hear me, Brendan? Crichton!”

Astern, the British frigate drew closer, determined to prevent them from reaching the Merrimack River and the safety of Newburyport. Water thundered and creamed from her bows. Drums rolled ominously upon the wind. Pipes shrilled. Gunports were yawning open. . . .

While forward in Annabel’s bows, Dalby O’Hara crouched miserably, a gnarled hand clamped over his belly, and his face the color of oatmeal as he remembered his own treatment at the hands of that frigate’s captain, three years before.

At his elbow, Fergus McDermott, an atheist who’d adopted religion thirty seconds earlier, recited the Twenty-third Psalm over and over in a mindless chant.

Brendan held up the schooner’s drafts so that Liam could see them better. “Y’know, Liam, I’ve been thinking . . . Maybe I ought to give the bowsprit a bit more steeve. Other than that, I think she’s going to be perfect. Sharp in the topsides around the bow, lean in the stern, and lots of rake in both. Not only will our new privateer be as swift as the wind, she’ll sit so low in the water that her profile will be all but invisible from a distance! And with this hull shape, she’ll be perfect for windward sailing, and we’ll be able to carry a greater press of sail, even flying topsails and topgallants if we’ve a mind to—”

“Brendan—”

“Too little beam and she’d be fast but unstable. Too much and she’d be a laggard. Too fine at bow and stern and we’d sacrifice weight-carrying ability fore and aft. That means guns, Liam! And in a privateer, that won’t do, now, will it?” Beyond Annabel’s desperate bowsprit the sunset smeared the sky in brilliant tones of red and purple, reflecting against the water as it changed from sea-chop to rippling cat’s paws of current. In the distance, Newburyport was coming into view. “Ah, Liam, if we had this schooner right now, we’d leave that beast back there lumbering in her own bow-wake. If we had the schooner—”

“Dammit, Brendan, we’re not goin’ t’ have a schooner if ye don’t put down those bloody drafts and listen t’ me! It’s Crichton!”

Brendan glanced up, his eyes alight with mirth, and his mouth set in that same quirky grin that was as reckless now as it had been when he and Liam had spent their childhoods exploring the rocky shores of Connaught. It was a grin that was sure to drive poor Liam mad. “So anyhow, I’ve decided that if I have this Ashton fellow build her exactly to my specifications, ninety feet on deck, with a beam of twenty-three feet—”

Dead astern, the frigate’s sails shook and boomed as she leaned over onto a new tack, the guns that stabbed from her forecastle glinting blood-red in the setting sun.

“—and with a draught of just under ten feet—Faith, Liam, will you please let go of my sleeve?”

“But it’s Crichton!”

“I know it’s Crichton, and I imagine I’ve known so for a sight longer than you have, given the fact you were boozing it up belowdecks for the better part of the afternoon. I also know there’s a squadron behind him and Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s flag on the seventy-four. Three years ago that was my ship, remember? And Sir Geoffrey my admiral?” He grinned, as though the memories brought him no pain, and glanced around Liam’s brawny shoulder. “A point more a-larboard, Mr. Keefe! Aim her right toward that big tree sticking up above the others.” Dropping his gaze to the drafts once more, he added conversationally, “They call that the Beacon Oak, Liam, because it’s a landmark to guide mariners in from the sea. In his letter, Ashton said to watch for it—”

“If ye don’t get yer head out o’ the clouds and stop thinkin’ of that bloody schooner, none of us’ll live long enough t’ see her built, let alone sail her!”

“Now, Liam.” Brendan elevated one eyebrow and gave his friend a patient look. “My head is not in the clouds, but set properly atop my shoulders, just where it should be and just where I intend it to remain. Faith and troth, I do wish you would all stop pestering me so.”

“But yer leadin’ him straight into the river!”

“Precisely.” He grinned. “Now, stop worrying, would you? Do you see me worrying? Faith! Newburyport’s a rebel town, Liam; they simply despise the British. Not only did they stage their own tea party four years ago, they’ve even sunk a pier and some old hulks across the mouth of this river just to keep them out. Hidden, of course, but combined with the currents and shifting sandbars just beneath this placid-looking surface, I do believe one of them will stop Crichton.”

“One o’ them’ll stop us! Ye haven’t the foggiest idea where yer goin’! Ye’ve never been up this damned river in yer life!”

“First time for everything, eh?” Still grinning, Brendan returned his attention to the drafts.

The frigate was so close now, they were almost riding her bow-wake. Carriages squealed as her mighty guns were rolled into position. Musket fire cracked from her tops, and a ball whizzed past Liam’s ear, parting a stay. Another holed the speaking trumpet beside Brendan’s hip and flung it to the deck. Forward, Annabel’s men began to shout an alarm, while Fergus’s chanting rose to a desperate pitch: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—”

Shots pinged against a nearby cannon, tore another chunk from the deckhouse, drove into the mast.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters—”

Another shot ripped the tricorne from Brendan’s head.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—”

Brendan looked up, his expression puzzled. “How odd, all this time and I never knew Fergus to be a religious man . . . Oh, Liam, would you fetch my hat, please? I seem to have lost it. Faith, what would Ashton think if I showed up for dinner half dressed?”

“—for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me—”

“I do hope I can find this place, Liam. Ashton says I’m supposed to look for a big, handsome Georgian house when I get into town, white with green shutters and an anchor out front. Newburyport’s a sea town. I’ll bet everyone has white Georgian houses with green shutters and anchors out front. Think I’ll have any trouble finding it?”

Pop. Crack. More musket fire. Pieces of wood exploded from the boom above their heads. Liam buried his face in his huge hands.

“And do you think Ashton’ll have the table all set?”

Liam’s head jerked up. “What?!”

Brendan folded the drafts with precise care, slipped them into his pocket, and grinned. “Why, I could just kill for a nice, savory neck of mutton, a wedge of fine cheese, hot boiled potatoes, and Indian pudding, drenched in maple syrup. . . .”

“Dammit, Brendan, how can ye even think o’ supper at a time like this?!”

“And why not? ’Tis seven o’clock, precisely the time I should be thinking about supper, as it is when I usually dine. Oh, Mr. Keefe! You might let her fall off another point; we don’t want that broadside staring us in the face . . . Liam? Liam, are you listening to me?”

“Jay-sus, Brendan, Jay-sus—”

“Well, please do, because if I should fall today—which I’ve no intention of doing, of course—you will remember your promise to get these drafts to Ashton, won’t you? Have him build the schooner and use her as the privateer I’ve designed her to be. And as for the steeve in the bowsprit, I’ve decided that more is better, after all . . .”

But Liam wasn’t listening; he was staring, transfixed, at Dismal, his mouth opening and shutting like a gasping fish as he caught sight of the haughty, triumphant figure on her quarterdeck. “B-Brendan,” he choked out.

“And if Crichton should take us—again, I vow he shall not—then, and only then, rip the drafts up. Toss the pieces over the side. Destroy them, burn them, swallow them if you have to, but do not, I repeat, do not allow them to fall into British hands. If the Admiralty manages to get hold of them, ’twill be a terrible thing indeed. . . . Why, Dalby!” Brendan glanced up to find the terrified little sailmaker standing before him, his Adam’s apple bouncing up and down amid the cords of his birdlike neck. “’Tis kind of you to join us, but I really would like a good eye up in the bows—”

“Those sunken piers are beneath us, sir, I just know it! And I can’t see a thing with all this glare on the water. We’re going to hit one of them, and it’ll be my fault!”

“Calm yourself, Dalby. I have things well under control.”

“But, Captain, I’m going to be sick, sick—”

“Please don’t get sick now, Dalby; wait till we reach port.”

“But, Capt—”

“Liam!” Brendan grasped his lieutenant’s arm, jerking him from his terrified reverie. Newburyport was approaching fast; Brendan could hear the church bells ringing now, guns firing, dogs barking as the alarm was raised. “Please take Dalby forward and watch for those piers, would you?”

“Aye, Cap’n!” he shouted. “’Bout time ye got serious!”

Liam was already hauling Dalby forward at a dead run, his shirttails billowing behind him. Brendan grinned, and in his best quarterdeck voice, called, “And glazed almonds and mince pie, and pear tarts smothered in sweet, fresh cream. . . .”

He heard Dalby’s wheedling voice: “Liam? Liam, why’s the captain talking about food at a time like this?”

But Liam only ran faster, hauling Dalby over debris and deck furnishings alike.

“Haven’t had fresh cream in ages! Faith, must be at least three, four years now! How ’bout you, Liam? Getting sick of pork souse and hardtack?”

Over his shoulder Liam shouted, “If I ever get t’ see pork souse and hardtack again, I swear, I’ll get down on me knees an’ kiss yer goddamned feet!”

Brendan, grinning, glanced over his shoulder at Dismal’s bloated spritsail. “And custards and jellies, apple cider, cold glasses of milk—run out the starboard guns now, would you, Mr. Saunders?—sauces and gravies and piping hot bread, fresh from the oven and just oozing butter. . . .”

“And your bloody toes, too!” Liam bawled.

Brendan laughed. “Double-shotted, Mr. Saunders!”

“In the bread, sir?”

“For heaven’s sake, Mr. Saunders, in the guns.What in God’s name d’you think I’m talking about, eh?”

“Aye, sir! Right away!”

“And lively, Mr. Saunders!”

They were well into the mouth of the river now. Close abeam, marshlands and riverbanks slid past. Ahead, Newburyport was growing larger; fine homes of brick and white-painted wood looking out over the riverfront, their windows glinting with orange sunset. Wharves stretched into the harbor, and a church thrust a spire toward the sky.

Dismal, just beginning to overtake them, maneuvered her mighty guns into position.

“Stuffed mutton and Indian pudding. . . .” Retrieving his speaking trumpet, Brendan dusted it off with his elbow, heedless of the fresh musket hole like an eyeless socket in the metal. “Though I could pass on the green beans, if Ashton’s serving them!”

He peered over the side, staring down into the swirling depths, not thinking at all about the supper he was determined not to miss, but about those sunken piers that Dalby and Liam would probably never see, the sunken piers that were probably approaching just . . . about . . . now—

“Hard alee, Mr. Keefe!”

The helmsman shoved the tiller over so violently that men lost their footing, shot spilled across the deck, and the topsail yard stabbed down like a harpoon. Striated bars of sand swept beneath them, broken here and there by the fuzzy, ominous hulk of the sunken pier just beneath the river’s surface. As one, the crew held their breaths, cringing. But their captain knew what he was about. A sigh, a whisper, and they were safely through the channel. Another sigh and they looked up to see brigs and sloops, schooners and cutters, some anchored, some docked, and some already moving toward them.

Brendan leapt onto the deckhouse, waving his speaking trumpet and jumping up and down in excitement. “Steady, Mr. Keefe, steady, steady, steady!”

Crichton wasn’t as clever. With an agonized shriek of grinding timbers, Dismal struck the sunken pier, her broadside lighting up her entire side in fiery tongues of orange against black. Thunder split the air with an unholy, deafening roar. Iron slammed against Annabel’s sides and whined overhead. There was an awesome crack, like a lightning bolt hitting too close, and the mast teetered wildly. Men screamed, stays and shrouds split with a noise like gunfire, and the deckhouse fell out from beneath Brendan’s feet.

Air whooshed past him. A cannon belted him across the shoulders, sky flashed beneath his shoes, a piece of railing shot by his face. He hit the deck on his back, careened across it on his coattails, and slammed into the truck of a gun so hard that his sword split in two. He lay there for a moment, stunned, the fact that he was too dazed to even wonder if he was dead assuring him that he was not. Smoke burned his throat, seared his lungs—and through it he saw the ghostly shapes of Crichton’s guns, running out once more.

He lurched to his knees, raised his half-sword, and choked out, “Fire!”

And then the deck itself seemed to open up and fall away. Grabbing frantically for a line, he was aware of someone yelling his name, and then nothing but weightlessness, space, and the dizzying rush of air against his face, his arms, his legs, before he hit the sea with a stunning slap.

Not again.

He clawed toward the surface, grabbing a piece of flotsam and fighting to stay afloat as the river’s mighty current swept him past the smoke-wreathed frigate, the point of Plum Island, and eventually, into the cold, open Atlantic. Powerless, he watched the thick black cloud that hung over the two ships diminish in size as he was carried further from his ship, saw a few stabs of orange as fire was exchanged. And then there was nothing but vast, empty space beneath his feet and a sea bottom that lay countless fathoms beneath him. And still the current, drawing him farther and farther out to sea.

Sunset came and went. Gloom snuffed out the smudge of land that was Plum Island, distant now and growing more so, until even the lights that marked it sank below the horizon. The flotsam was cold and slimy beneath his cheek, the constant slap of the waves filling his nose and mouth and sinuses with every rise and fall of the sea beneath him. Up and down . . . up and down. . . . The stars came out. The moon rose to stand guard over him, sheeting the ocean in silver and picking him out as a speck of life in a vast and starlit emptiness. He locked his arms around his float, laid his cheek atop the wet wood, and despite the biting chill of the ocean, fell asleep.

His Irish luck held. Dawn found him still alive, paralyzed with cold and barely able to open his swollen eyes when the first rays of sunlight poked over the horizon and nudged him out of his stupor. His waking thoughts were of neck of mutton and Indian pudding dripping with sweet maple syrup. Groaning, he dug at his eyes with a white and wrinkled fist. Sunlight lanced his pupils and sent a shaft of pain straight into the back of his skull. Spitting out seawater and squinting against the glare, he managed to focus on that blinding ribbon of sea that marked the eastern horizon.

He blinked, squinted, blinked again. For there, etched as dark squares against the white glare, were the sails of a fine and lovely ship, a ship that saluted the morning and heralded its arrival upon her proud pennants and the highest reaches of her sun-gilded masts. A curl of pink light sparkled at her bows, along her sides. Her canvas and shrouds sang in the wind.

She was glorious. She was beautiful.

And she was coming for him.

He wondered if he was dead and this was his just reward, for there was no feeling left in his limbs, no reasoning left in his brain. Just fogginess and a thick, swirling haze, pierced here and there by sounds; the protests of spars and canvas as the brig hove to, the keen of water dying beneath her bows. Frantic shouts above him, splashes nearby, the thunk of oars against a hollow hull. Gentle hands worked around and beneath him. Rope, swathed in sailcloth to lessen its bite, was passed beneath his arms and chest, tightening until the pressure between his shoulders and against his ribs became blinding pain. The sea sucked at his legs in a last desperate attempt to hold him as he was hauled free of it, and through the salt-swollen slits that were his eyes, he saw blue water, slowly revolving beneath him, sparkling, blinding, as he was hoisted higher and higher.

A rail brushed his knees. Hands supported and guided him as his feet touched a solid deck, his legs crumpled beneath him, and he was eased down to warm, dry planking that smelled pleasantly of sunlight and vinegar beneath his cheek. Dimly, he was aware of someone tugging at his stock, loosening it and tearing it free.

“Easy, now, careful with him. The poor fellow’s been through enough. Joey, fetch the surgeon, would ye? And Jake, stop gawking and go get me a bucket of fresh water from below. Blankets, too, while you’re at it, lots of ’em. Hurry, now!”

Brendan coughed, and tried to sit up.

“Easy, there, fellow,” came that Yankee drawl again. Firm hands pressed against his chest, pinning him against the sickeningly solid deck. Brendan saw a pair of boots three inches from his face, smelled their worn leather, and felt shadows cooling his cheeks as someone leaned over him. “Mr. Malvern’s on his way to see you now. Some hot gruel and a few warm blankets and you’ll be on your feet in no time, guaranteed.”

He tried to open his eyes, for there was something familiar about that voice . . . something very familiar. Something connected to the drafts.

It hit him with choking horror. The drafts. He’d never given them to Liam! They were still in his pocket, and he’d just spent the night in the open Atlantic—

He clawed upward into the blinding brightness. His fingers brushed a hat, knocked it awry. A rough cheek, someone’s nose, a light object of wire and glass.

“The drafts!” His eyelids parted like ripping cloth. Through a wall of pain he saw a reedy man in a slapdash, half-buttoned coat bending over him and blocking the sunlight, the proud pyramid of sails rising high above his head. Hair so red, it hurt his eyes to look at it. Dense patches of freckles sprinkled like cinnamon over a narrow nose down which a pair of spectacles was slowly sliding. The man raised his head, presenting the underside of his red-stubbled jaw, but Brendan had seen enough to know who he was.

“Ashton!” he gasped, lapsing into a fit of choking.

“That water, Jake, give it here!” the man yelled, reaching impatiently for the wooden pail.

Moisture trickled between Brendan’s teeth and across his swollen tongue, dragging pain down his throat and into his writhing stomach. The world tilted and swam. The water was coming too fast for him to swallow, most of it splashing down his chin and the rest of it making him cough and gag. Choking, he twisted away, willed himself not to be sick, and gasped, “Matthew Ashton!”

Instantly the water stopped coming.

“Nice . . . to meet you again, sir. I trust—” Brendan’s swollen lips cracked in a grin. “—you have the table all set?”

Ashton gaped at him. “What?”

“He’s out of his head,” a seaman muttered.

“And British, just as we thought,” another said darkly. “His Majesty’s finest. Told ye he was off that frigate.”

“British? Sounds Irish t’ me.”

“Idiot, he’s as British as tea an’ crumpets!”

“Irish, damn ye! And as full of blarney as a four-leaf clover.”

“’Bout as lucky, too.”

But Ashton was peering speculatively at him, his brown eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his spectacles. Didn’t he recognize him? Didn’t he remember their meeting off Portsmouth?

But no, the Yankee was already standing up, pushing his spectacles up his nose with one freckled finger. “I, uh, think we’d better take you below, good fellow. My surgeon is most competent, and perhaps some rest would do you good. You’ve obviously been through quite an ordeal.”

“No, please, you must understand! I am not . . . unhinged.” Brendan shut his eyes, too sick, too weak, to protest further. “I know fully well what I’m about . . . but I see that my delay in introducing myself has . . . led to some confusion about my identity.” He opened his eyes and stared desperately up into the Yankee’s freckled face. “You are Matthew Ashton, American privateer. Your father is Ephraim Ashton, shipbuilder—” He took a deep breath and tried to grin. “—and I am Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, late of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, late of the sloop Annabel, and late—very late, I’m afraid—for dinner.”

“Good God,” Ashton expostulated, and dropped the water pail.

Someone wrapped a blanket around him. Hands drove beneath his shoulders, his arms, his legs, lifting him high. The deck fell away beneath him and he opened his eyes to the sight of Ashton’s face, spinning in a blurry mass of freckles, red hair, and spectacles. Didn’t the Yankee believe him? Did he look so bad he didn’t recognize him? Panicking, he began to struggle wildly.

“Hold still, ye bugger!” a seaman growled. “Ye wanna make us drop ye?”

“Won’t be no big loss, I tell ye.”

“Only t’ Georgie’s bloody navy. He’s lyin’, I tell ye. He ain’t no American.”

And then, Ashton’s quiet voice. “You drop him and you’ll be going to England in his place.”

“But, Cap’n, ’e’s a Brit!”

“I said, be easy with him!”

But one last look at Ashton’s uncertain face told Brendan the Yankee was unconvinced. And as his dripping blue coattails brushed the deck, and darkness began to dim his vision, he remembered.

The drafts.

He drove his hand beneath the wool blanket and into his pocket. His fingers found—and sank into—a sopping, squishy mess of pulp that instantly disintegrated between them. With something like a sob, he drew it out.

Motion stopped. The back of his head lurched against someone’s chest, slamming his teeth down hard upon his swollen tongue. He choked back the flood of nausea and let his head roll, until Ashton’s face appeared within the circle of his spinning, darkening vision. The Yankee still looked dubious, unsure, his kind brown eyes confused behind the thick lenses of his spectacles. And then he looked down and saw the sodden ball of pulp that dripped, in pieces, from Brendan’s fingers.

Brendan shut his eyes as Ashton reached out and took what remained of the sad lump, hearing his own voice coming from further and further away. “The drafts . . . for the schooner . . . your father was to have . . . built . . . for . . . me. . . .”

And then that freckled face faded, the darkness swept in, and the nightmares that had been his for three years now came surging back. Halcyon’s sunny deck. Crichton firing, the burst of agony in his chest. And Eveleen, oh God, Eveleen . . .

He struggled, knowing it was a dream, fighting to wake up but unable to.

The drafts.

Please God, no—

The drafts! For God’s sake, Ashton, don’t let Crichton get his hands on the drafts!

Panicking, he went wild, clawing desperately toward consciousness—wake up, wake up, WAKE UP! —and then his own screams jolted him rudely awake.

Wild-eyed, he threw off the dream and bolted upright in the bed.

Chapter 3

Dazed, it took him a moment to realize he was not on a ship, not in the sea, and certainly not drowning, but lying on a handsome Hepplewhite field bed whose tall posts rose majestically above him and supported a graceful canopy that looked like bleached fishnet.

He shut his eyes, his heart still pounding.

Opened them again.

The first thing he saw was a telescope pointing out an open window through which bars of bright sunlight streamed. A mild breeze, heavy with the scent of summer flowers and newly cut grass, stirred the gauzy curtains. As they wafted in and out, he saw trees, buildings, and in the hazy distance, marshes and glimpses of a silvery, mast-clogged river. An hourglass, a half-spent candle, and a fine model of a brigantine stood on a bedside table, and from its lofty perch atop a carved mantel, a shelf clock spoke steadily in a rhythmic tick, tock, tick. Brendan shut his eyes, his pounding heart beginning to return to its normal rhythm. Just outside, a songbird trilled from a nearby tree, and he heard carriages passing on a street below. He sank back in a thick stack of pillows, let the breeze cool his brow, his cheeks, his damp and naked chest—

“Nightmare?”

—and bolted upright in the bed.

Just beyond his toes a young lad stood, his baggy trousers belted with a piece of frayed rope, his stockings caked with mud, and his shirt, probably borrowed from his father, hanging off him like a slack sail. A scruffy orange cat was tucked in the crook of his arm, and both were staring at him intently, the cat’s eyes baleful and annoyed, the lad’s the color and coolness of fresh celery. Dirt smudged the hollow beneath one pale cheek, and above the questioning arch of fine dark brows, a floppy hat, also too big, covered his hair and cast most of his face in shadow.

The breeze bumped the door open and shut. Without taking that unnerving stare off him, the lad kicked it closed, let the latch fall into place, and casually tossed the cat to the foot of the bed, the movement of his arm stirring the thick, sultry air and sending a variety of scents wafting across the room. Horse sweat. Mud. And the harsher, cleaner one of lye soap and roses.

Roses?

“You could at least answer me,” the boy complained, the pitch of his voice that of a lad not yet into manhood, which, combined with his scanty height, told Brendan he couldn’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen at the most. “Pretty rude of you to just lay there gaping, don’t you think?”

“I beg your pardon?” But Brendan, confused, was staring at the cat, now creeping, panther-like, toward his face, its yellow gaze fastened on his and its paws pressing against his legs, his thighs, his bare stomach. Tensing, he groped for the sheet, yanked it up, and spilled the animal from the bed and onto the floor. Flicking its tail in pique, the cat leapt to the window seat and sat glaring at him.

“I asked you if you were having a nightmare. By the way, who’s Eveleen? Your wife? Mistress?” The lad grinned slyly and cocked his head. “Lover?”

“What?”

“Eveleen. She your lover?”

“My lover?”

“Aye. You were hollering for her.”

“My lov— Oh, dear...” Brendan glanced about the room. It was a masculine chamber, with a chair rail running along its perimeter, and the woodwork beneath painted a deep, strong red the color of oxblood. The windows were recessed, and framed with small, hinged panels that were folded back, exposing window seats topped with embroidered cushions.

He had no idea where he was and no idea what had happened to him except that it had been something bad, something very bad. And as the young stablehand came forward and idly picked up the brigantine model, it suddenly all came flooding back to him.

Crichton. Annabel, trying desperately to make the river. Cannon fire and smoke, and Newburyport, where he was to meet the shipbuilder to discuss—

The drafts.

He bolted upright, terror draining the color from his face.

“The drafts!” he gasped.

The lad put the ship model down. “Huh?”

“The drafts!”

“Want me to close the window?”

“The win—? No, I don’t want you to close the window, I want to know where the drafts are!”

“Why, coming in through the window,” the lad said, jerking his thumb toward the sunny panes. “Can’t see how you’re cold, though, it being summertime and all.”

“Drafts, not drafts! Ship’s drafts. Plans!”

The lad stared at him for a long moment; then his eyes gleamed, a sly smile curved his mouth, and little wrinkles appeared on either side of his impudent nose, fanning out like the whiskers of a cat. “Oh . . . those kind.” Chuckling, he tipped his hat back with a grimy finger. “So Matt and I are right after all.”

“What?”

“About you being the client. Father doesn’t believe him, because the client was supposed to have drowned last night during that scuffle with the Brit ship. That’s what they’re arguing about. Father hates being lied to.”

As though punctuating his words, something broke somewhere with a horrible crash, and a chorus of shouting and yelling rose up from downstairs. But the lad seemed oblivious to the commotion, and wiping his grubby little hand on his trousers, held it out in greeting. “Fine job you did, tricking that British frigate onto the sunken piers last night. Whole town’s talking about it. In fact, they’ve got its crew down in the jail now.” The hand was still there; Brendan slowly reached out and took it. It was tiny, even for a lad’s, the bones fragile and the skin as supple and smooth as a child’s. “By the way, my name’s Mira. Welcome to Newburyport, Captain.”

Brendan shook his head, trying to clear it. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t catch that.”

Downstairs the shouting grew louder, angrier. Something else broke.

“Mira,” the lad repeated, and then added proudly, “Spelled like the star in the constellation Cetus but pronounced Myra.”

“Oh. Mira.”

It came out Moyrrra, with a pleasant, lilting roll on the r’s that most would’ve recognized as an Irish brogue; but either the lad didn’t know his geography, disliked Irishmen, or found something in the way he said it that bothered him, for he frowned and regarded Brendan with the same baleful stare that the cat was still bestowing upon him. “Aye, Mira. You got a problem with my name, Brit?”

The shouting was getting louder, closer. Brendan pressed his fingers to his temples. He had dim memories of yesterday—or was it this morning? last week?—of floating, of being fished out of the sea and lying helpless on a sunny deck while a red-haired man bent over him. Ashton.

Faith, he hoped he hadn’t said or done anything stupid. His memory was terribly foggy where all that was concerned.

“No, I’ve no problem with it,” he heard himself saying. “What I seem to be having a problem with is remembering the events of my life during the past several hours, or perhaps days, for all I know.”

“Oh,” the boy said, relaxing. “The way you said it, I thought you were picking on my name. You weren’t, were you?”

“Weren’t what?”

“Picking on my name.”

“No, I was not picking on your name—”

“What’s yours?”

“Brendan,” he said tiredly.

“Sounds Irish to me. You Irish, then?”

“Well, partly—”

“You a bloody king’s officer?”

“What?”

“I said, you a king’s officer? Father thinks you are. That’s what all that damned hollering’s about out there. You talk like you’re Irish but I could be wrong. And Matt didn’t say anything about the client being a Brit, which is making me wonder if maybe you aren’t the client after all, but someone off that bleedin’ frigate, trying to spy on us so you can go back to your countrymen and tell ’em all you know. Like how to get past those barriers in the river. And don’t tell me you ain’t a Brit, ’cause I know a Brit when I see one, and I’ve seen plenty.”

“Look,” said Brendan, sitting up and trying in vain to untangle the sheets from his legs, “I don’t know where you get your ideas from, young man, but I’ll have you know I am a privateer in the service of America, and have been for the better part of three years!”

A pounding started on the door. “Mira! Mira, you in there? So help me God, you open this door this instant!”

The orange cat shot from the window seat and dove under the bed. The sea breeze fled back through the open window, taking the lower half of the curtains with it. And the lad drew himself up to his full, scanty height and shouted, “Bugger off, Matt! I’m having a conversation with this damned Brit you brought home, and I don’t care to be interrupted!”

“You open this door right now!”

“I will not!”

“Open it now!”

“I said go to hell, Matt! Your arse can fry there till the cows come home as far as I’m concerned!”

“Yours is going to fry when I get this damned door open!”

Bang. Bang. Bang. The door couldn’t take much more—and neither could Brendan. His damp breeches pasted to him like a second skin, he finally untangled himself from the sheets, swung his legs out of the bed, and clutching one of its tall, carved posts for support, rose above the bristling lad.

“I am not,” he said archly, “going to stand here and suffer the insults of a stablehand who stinks of horse dung and field mud! That’s Captain Ashton out there, and I demand to see him now!”

Uncowed, the boy turned on him and stabbed a finger into Brendan’s chest. “You’ll see him in good time, Brit, and not a moment before. Ye think ye can give orders around here just ’cause you’re a guest? Now sit down and cover yourself! I can see everything ye own through those breeches, and that ain’t no way to appear before the lady of the house!”

“When the lady of this house arrives, I’ll thank her to bring me the rest of my clothes so I can greet her with proper British courtesy!”

“You’ll greet her with proper courtesy now, ’cause I am the lady of the house, and I ain’t going to stand here and suffer your rudeness!”

“Like hell you are!”

“Like hell I am!”

And then, incredibly, the lad reached up and in one angry, fluid motion, swiped the hat from his head and flung it to the floor, releasing a glorious mane of rich, glossy brown hair that tumbled down and down and down in an impossibly thick fall all the way to that tiny, rope-cinched waist. Staggering back, Brendan grabbed the bedpost for support and sat down hard on the damp counterpane.

“Great God,” he murmured, taken aback. “Tá tú go hálainn. . . .”

Yes, she was beautiful, but since he’d unconsciously reverted to his native tongue to say so, the strange words meant nothing to her and only made her more irate. She stood glaring at him, her pixie face all but obscured by that fall of hair through which her impudent nose poked and eyes as green as the underside of a winter wave now glittered. Hooking a finger beneath it, she shoved it behind her ear and revealed the curve of a pale, mud-stained cheek. Beneath the mud there were freckles and a spot of high color.

“Satisfied? The next time ye speak to me, Brit, ’twill be with the respect I deserve!”

Numbly he reached down and drew the sheet up over his lap, heat flooding his face. She was right. The damp breeches revealed every curve and ridge he owned. He swallowed hard and looked at the ticking clock. “Will you please go away?”

“I will not. This is my father’s house and I’m staying right here. And if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

“Mira!” The pounding began anew. “So help me God, if you don’t open this door now, I’m going—”

“To what?” the girl hollered. “Sneak off without me again? You’re a real louse, Matt, you know that? A real louse! You just wait! One of these days I’m going to best you at your own game, and we’ll see who comes out laughing!”

“Damn you, Mira, I didn’t sneak off, and if you’d been on the ship instead of with those damned horses, I would’ve waited.”

“You snuck off, Matt, admit it!”

“I did not! Now open the goddamned door!”

“I will not!”

“You will, too!”

Brendan shut his eyes. Dear God. He was trapped in here with a crazy female and no clothes. No clothes. Better to be stuck between the broadsides of two ships of the line than this. Females. After being at sea for most of his life, he had to admit they unnerved him. Intimidated him. Confused him. And this one, garbed in male clothing and shouting at the top of her lungs, had taken him totally aback.

Ashton was kicking the door now. A dark line split the fine paneling and left a gaping crack.

“Mira! Open up!”

Bang. Brendan winced. Bang. BANG!

Clutching the sheet, he started to get up, but at that moment the door finally gave and Ashton charged into the room, red-faced and furious, spectacles fogged with steam and halfway down his nose. In his wake was a bright flash that might’ve been a dog, and a glowering old man with white hair growing out of his ears, cheeks as red as cherries, and a voice that almost shook the paint right off the wainscoting.

“Tripes ’n guts, what the bloody tarnation’s going on in here!”

Undaunted, the little hoyden put her hands on her hips and looked at him with a mutinous set to her chin. “Why, nothing, Father,” she said sweetly.

The orange cat, shrieking, tore out from beneath the bed, the dog in hot pursuit, and bounced off the walls, trying to find an escape. The resulting noise was loud enough to shatter glass, but it was nothing beneath the old man’s cannon-roar. “Mira, you get those critters outta this room and outside now!”

She managed to snag the cat but it went wild, clawing free and hurling itself to the bed, where it disappeared beneath the covers as the dog sailed onto the sheets and tried to grab it. The racket was earsplitting. Brendan shut his eyes and swayed on his feet. And through it all, the girl, Ashton, and the white-haired old man battled it out with a ferocity that rivaled, then rose above, the banshee-like howling emanating from the bed.

“That’s another damned cat, ain’t it?” the old man roared. “How many times do I have to tell you, no more animals in this house?”

“It’s just one little cat.”

“One little cat! One more cat! How many cussed cats do I have to put up with before they start stinkin’ up the place? I want it outta here and I want it out now!”

“It’s not an it, it’s a he!”

“I don’t care what it is, if it ain’t outta here by the time I count to three, it’s going out the gosh-danged window!” The old man ripped a watch from his pocket and held it out like an amulet blessed with the power of God. “One—”

“For Christ’s sake, Mira, go put on some decent clothes! That’s no way to dress in front of our guest!”

“Shut up and stay out of this, Matt. I’m sick of your advice!”

“Two!” the old man roared, brandishing the watch.

“Mira, I’m telling you, go put on—”

“Three!”

Ashton slammed his fist against the wall, sending a fine Chippendale mirror tumbling to the floor in a crash of glass. “Damn it all, you two are an embarrassment to this town, to this house, and to me!”

The girl whirled on him with equal heat. “Shut up, Matt, and stop picking on me about my clothes. If they were such a big issue, you’d get our guest something to wear so he doesn’t have to stand there in a damned sheet!”

“Guest?” the old man roared. “He ain’t no guest of mine! I’ll have no Briton in this house, is that understood?”

“How many times do I have to tell you he isn’t a Brit!”

“Don’t listen to him, Father, he is too a Brit, and he walks like he’s got a pole stuck up his—”

“Damn you, damn both of you!” Spectacles fogged with anger, Ashton tore off his hat and flung it so hard that a picture tumbled off the wall, smashed against the floor, and sent the cat streaking from the room, squalling at the top of its lungs with the dog in hot pursuit. “I hope to God neither one of you ever has reason to prevail upon British hospitality, ’cause you’ll find ours sorely lacking in comparison!”

“There, you just admitted yourself he’s British!”

“That bloody well doesn’t mean he’s fighting for them. And if you weren’t such a brick-skulled old donkey, you’d know that, dammit!”

“Brick-skulled? I’ll have no son of mine taking that tone of voice with me!”

“I’m not your son if you insist on treating your guest like rubbish.”

“He ain’t my guest!”

“Then he’s my guest, and I’ll not have him cast out because of your damned mulishness!”

“This is my house!”

“And as long as my ship is bringing money into it, I have as much damned say about who stays here as you.”

“Like hell you do! I built that bleeding ship for ye! Gimme any more lip and I’ll—”

Brendan had had enough. With all the dignity he could muster, he turned on his bare heel, strode shakily from the room, and found himself in a rectangular hall with several doors, behind which countless numbers of cats and dogs undoubtedly slept and fought and bred atop beautiful beds. The sheet dragged behind him like a bridal train, but he didn’t stop, staring straight ahead as he strode purposefully across a Turkish carpet toward the wide staircase. His toes sank into the rug’s plush depths, his hand found the carved banister and trembled on its sleek wood. Down the stairs he went. Past portraits of proud and forbidding Yankee sea captains. Around landings. Toward the square of light from the front door that spread itself across the carpet . . . Five more steps and he’d be there, through that door, and out of this crazy, insane, nightmarish house.

Four more stairs now. Three. Oh, legs, don’t give out on me now. . . .

Two.

Above and behind him, a door slammed and voices exploded into the hall.

“Damn you, Matthew, I thought I raised you with sense. I thought I raised you with respect. I thought you were a patriot!”

Brendan hit the last step and made for the door at a dead run.

“How dare you imply that—Merrick! Merrick, wait! Don’t touch—”

The door.

Too late. As Brendan’s hand hit the latch, the dog, anticipating a walk, hurled itself down the stairs and hit the door, and both he and Brendan went down in a helplessly tangled heap.

“Luff!” the girl was shrieking. “Luff! Matt, do something!”

The dog’s thick wet tongue swiped Brendan’s face—and then it was over. Shaking, Brendan got to his hands and knees. Ashton, looking sheepish and humiliated in the awkward silence, held the dog by its collar. He stretched out a freckled hand and pulled Brendan to his feet, his eyes pleading for forgiveness before he turned to glare at the white-haired old gent behind him. Then he dug in his pocket, fished out a crumbling ball of dried-out pulp, and placed it in Brendan’s hand.

“Here. Why don’t you tell Father who you are.” His voice was very quiet, too quiet, as though the effort to subdue his anger was costing him every bit of strength he had. “Better yet, tell him why you’re here. It seems he’s having a rather hard time believing me.”

This was worse than the nightmare. It was worse than being shot down on the decks of that long-ago frigate. It was worse than anything Brendan had ever imagined. But behind the bristling old man, the dog, and a troop of cats now filing down the stairs one by one, stood the girl. Grimy and dusty, her eyes dancing, she was grinning at him in a way that could only be called . . . impish.

Something fluttered in his chest.

“Yes,” she said sweetly, and put her fists on her hips. “Why don’t you? We’re all waiting.”

That grin was infectious, perky, crinkling the sides of her nose in an endearing way that made the flutter in Brendan’s chest become a downright palpation. It was a challenging grin, and Brendan, who’d been only five years old when Liam had dared him up the highest tree in Connemara and he’d paid for his courage with a fall and a broken wrist, had never been able to resist a challenge.

“By all means,” he said as the girl’s blatant gaze slid over his bare torso in an assessing way that pulled the heat to his cheeks and made him uncomfortably aware of how ridiculous he must look, standing here in a sheet and not much else. He bowed deeply. “I am Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, master of the privateer Annabel and an expected guest of the shipbuilder Captain Ephraim Ashton of Newburyport.” He opened his palm, where the drafts lay as crumbling bits of paper. “He was to have built a schooner for me.”

The old man’s face went dark. Observing it, the girl pushed her fist against her mouth as though to hold back laughter.

Brendan swallowed and said, “Am I correct in assuming, sir, that you’re the man I came here to see?”

Please God, he thought, don’t let him be. Oh, please God, I’ll do anything . . .

But Providence isn’t always kind, even to an absurdly lucky half-Irishman. Something clouded the old man’s face. His jaw tightened. He cleared his throat several times, passed a hand over his bushy white brows, and turned a brilliant, fiery shade of red. Slowly, he reached up and pulled off his hat. “Aye, I’m Ephraim,” he said gruffly, glaring at his son in a promise of just retribution. “And aye, we was expectin’ ye. But hell, ain’t nobody told us ye was English!”

“Irish,” Matt corrected.

“Irish, English—why the hell didn’t ye tell us, Matthew?”

“Because I know how you two feel about Brits, that’s why.”

“Please!” Brendan held up a hand before the fighting could start once more. “You’re both right. My father was Cornish, my mother Irish. But despite my heritage, I can assure you my loyalties lie in the same place yours do. My first commission was penned in Washington’s own hand, my sloop built in a Yankee yard. If she still floats, you’ll find her papers in a locked chest beneath the window seat in her cabin. I invite you to inspect them for yourself so that you may believe I am who I claim to be.”

Brendan’s attempts at playing mediator did little good. Ephraim turned on Matt with the ferocity of an angry bear. “Why in tarnation didn’t you tell me that? Blood and wounds, ye think this is any way to treat a guest? And one I’ve been expecting for clear over a month? What the hell’re ye trying to do, make me look like a bleedin’ idiot?”

Matt’s glasses steamed up. “Damn you, I tried to tell you—”

“Don’t gimme any of yer blithering excuses, you hear me? Tripes and guts, the two of ye are nothin’ but a damned embarrassment to me, ye know that? A damned embarrassment! You with yer wenching and she with her damned cats!” He shoved a hand toward Brendan. “Merrick, ye have my heartfelt apologies. Here I thought I brought the boy up with manners as fine as my own, but I can see now I was mistaken!” He clapped his hat to his wide and barreled chest and gave Brendan a yellow-toothed grimace that tried to pass as a smile. Bowing, he came up slowly, indicating the grand hall and whatever lay beyond it with a sweep of his arm. “My home is yers, Cap’n. Stay as long as ye like. A shame about those drafts, but we can work something out, eh? Here, let’s find ye some decent clothes and put some good home cooking in yer gut. Ye look a little pale around the gills. Thin, too. I’ll wager Abigail’s got some leftovers saved from last night. If ye don’t mind eating ’em cold, I’m sure you’ll find ’em to yer liking. . . .”

Before he could protest, Ephraim was dragging him down the hall, hollering at the top of his lungs and making Brendan long for a kerchief to tie around his ears. He’d be fortunate to leave this house with his hearing intact, let alone his sanity.

“Abigail?” The walls shook. “Abigail? Find some of that stuff we had for sup last night and lay it out on the sideboard fer Cap’n Merrick! And some of Mira’s pudding, too. And be quick about it, will ye?”

“God, Father, not the pudding!” Matt cried.

Impatiently waving his son away, Ephraim led Brendan to an elegant, wainscoted dining room hung with French paper, more portraits, and a chandelier that glittered like diamonds in the hot sunlight. A magnificent Willard clock dominated one corner of the room, and a shelf clock sat on the carved mantel. Someone in this house must have an obsession with timepieces, Brendan thought, for there was another one of equal size back in the entrance hall, one on the stairway landing, and of course, the one in his room; but he was too conscious of his half-nakedness to consider it further, a fact of which he was painfully reminded as he took a seat and looked down at a table that smelled of fresh beeswax and tossed his bare-chested reflection back at him like a mirror.

Stuffing his watch back in his pocket and still hollering for Abigail, Ephraim stormed out of the room. Good God, Brendan thought, his ears ringing. He’d never felt so embarrassed in his life. And now something cold and wet was touching his bare ankle, and he knew, without looking, that it was the nose of the dog.

And then he forgot his state of undress, his humiliation, and even the dog as a plate was shoved beneath his nose and a fork thrust between his fingers. There was his longed-for leg of mutton, stuffed with oysters and accompanied by thick wedges of cheese, sauce, and pickles.

And beside it, dwarfing it with enormity and ugliness, was a shapeless, lumpy mass of quivering yellow slime that looked like the remains of a dead jellyfish.

He dropped his fork.

“I hope you like Indian pudding!” Gulping, Brendan looked up. A plump, apple-cheeked little woman bustled about, clucking like a mother hen and briskly arranging salt and pepper and a pitcher of cold milk. She smelled like flour and had bright, birdlike eyes that didn’t miss a trick. “Our dear little Mira made it herself. She’s quite a cook, isn’t she? Here, help yourself,” she said, plunking a silver bowl down before him. “There’s plenty more where that came from!”

That didn’t surprise him. Slowly Brendan picked up his fork, stared down at his plate—and choked back a tide of nausea. The woman—Abigail?—was smiling at him, hands steepled beneath her chin, eyes glowing with pride.

Waiting.

“Go on!” she urged.

There was no way out. Steeling himself, Brendan cut a piece of the meat and slowly placed it in his mouth. It was cold, but it was good—and recognizable.

Mutton, all right.

“Isn’t that good? Here, you eat up. You’re awfully lean. We can’t have our guests leaving the table with no meat on their bones, now, can we?”

She hovered about, humming and clucking and tsk-tsk-ing some more. Brendan took another bite of the mutton—a very small bite—chewing it as slowly as possible, prolonging the inevitable, and willing to make it last until Christmas if he had to despite the ravenous hunger it awakened in him. If only the woman would leave. He wished it with all his heart. He prayed. Anything, dear Lord, so that he wouldn’t have to eat that . . . that pudding.

He was down to one last, pitiful bite of the meat when his prayers were answered from a most unlikely source—Ephraim. As the old man began bellowing from a thankfully distant corner of the house, Abigail, mobcap askew and petticoats flying, bustled out of the room with an “Oh dear,” and a “Here we go again,” and he was left—thank God —to himself.

He didn’t waste a single precious minute.

Quickly scraping the slimy mass that didn’t look like any pudding he’d ever seen into a quivering ball, Brendan shot a quick glance at the door, grabbed his plate, and slid it beneath the table where the dog waited so expectantly.

Frenzied sniffing. A clang of the plate against the floor as the dog began to bolt the food. Then, silence.

The animal backed out from beneath the table and, throwing Brendan a look of betrayal and disgust, slunk from the room.

Brendan, frowning, lifted the tablecloth and peered under the table.

The pudding was uneaten.

Chapter 4

William Davenport had been a Newburyport man who’d seen General Wolfe die on the Plains of Abraham, and it was something he never forgot. On his return to Newburyport, he’d converted his home into a tavern, hung a sign out front on which was faithfully carved and painted a bust of the famous general, and swung open his door for business.

In the years since, Wolfe Tavern, at the corner of State Street and Threadneedle Alley, had become the most popular spot in town. The long, rectangular building hosted political, patriotic, and social gatherings, as well as travelers of all sorts. Here, men gathered to hear the latest news on the war, engage in spirited debates, or just amuse themselves with a game of cards. Back in ’65, when the local Sons of Liberty had terrorized Newburyport, roaming the streets and making the lives of those in favor of the hated Stamp Act terrible, it had been in Wolfe Tavern that they’d met. Davenport had died back in ’73, but the tavern had continued under the capable management of his sons Anthony and Moses, still offering stout drink and hearty food for weary traveler and townsman alike.

It would have been safe to assume that it was the stout drink and not the hearty food—although that was certainly being consumed with equal ardor—that had drawn Annabel’s company after they’d brought the battered sloop into port with the help of two Newburyport privateers. Now the mortally wounded Annabel lay in her bed of riverbank mud, while every man Jack and officer of her crew—with the exception of her missing captain—sampled the fine food and drink for which the tavern was famous.

Miraculously, not a soul had been killed or seriously injured during the short but scrappy engagement with Crichton’s frigate. Oh, Dalby complained that his chest hurt when he breathed in—too much smoke had got into his lungs, he insisted—but aside from that, and a few scrapes and scratches here and there, Annabel’s crew had been lucky.

Dalby sat now with a mug of ale before him and a plate of beef and potatoes growing cold beneath his nose, his shipmates, no doubt the rowdiest bunch of tars to put into unsuspecting Newburyport all week, surrounding him. The tavern was clean enough, with well-swept, wide-boarded floors scuffed by the heels of a thousand boots and shoes, a huge fireplace, and wainscoting painted an unpretentious shade of ocher. The light from a tin chandelier, set with spitting candles, cut through the smoke.

His brow furrowing, Dalby scrutinized the other patrons. Men lounged at sturdy walnut tables drinking foamy mugs of beer and puffing on long clay pipes. Three tables away, a group of finely dressed gentlemen, either merchants or, more likely, shipowners, were engaged in a lively game of backgammon. A dog lay half asleep at their feet, and a seaman dressed in baggy trousers, torn shirt, and a threadbare vest sat on a stool sipping ale and conversing with a disreputable-looking man in buckskins and a fur hat.

None of them looked to be ill . . . and his own companions had never seemed to enjoy better health. He eyed them with increasing annoyance. Liam’s laughter was growing louder with every tankard of cherry rum he downed, and Dalby knew it would only be a matter of time before he picked up the fiddle propped against his chair leg and struck up a lively jig. Across from him sat John Keefe, his flowing silver hair caught in a leather tie. McDermott had his nose in a book, and Amos Reilly and George Saunders were guffawing over something Liam had said.

Dalby’s pinched mouth anchored itself in a frown. He stared down at his plate; it was the only one that had any food left on it, and his companions were all eyeing it like a pack of half-starved wolves. If the captain, God rest his soul, were here, he’d have finished it off. But the captain was gone. Dalby bit his lip and blinked back tears, wondering if life was worth living. The captain was gone, Annabel was a wreck, and his beef didn’t taste right. Probably spoiled. As if to affirm that assumption, his stomach lurched and he had to swallow tightly to quell a quick flood of nausea.

A hearty whack across the back from Liam nearly brought the beef straight back up. “God Almighty, Dalby, ye’re spoilin’ the fun! First time into port in three weeks and ye’re sittin’ there lookin’ like it’s the end o’ the world. Cheer up, would ye?”

“My stomach hurts.”

“Yer stomach hurts? Then here, ’ave s’more ale, ’twill make it feel better.” Liam dumped a flood of it into Dalby’s half-empty mug. “What’s this? Not drinkin’, either? God Almighty, what’s the bloody matter with ye, laddie-o?”

Anyone in his right mind would know better than to ask Dalby what the matter was; it was something they’d all learned not to do. But Liam, in his cups, had grown careless.

“I told you, I have a stomachache. Probably from the beef. It’s gone bad, I just know it has. And that ale tastes suspicious, too. How do I know where it’s been? How do I know it wasn’t in someone else’s mug before mine? How do I know that person didn’t have the smallpox, or a fever—”

“What’s that, Dalb?” Reilly yelled. “Don’t want your supper?”

“Heck, if you don’t want it, slide it over here and I’ll take it!” Keefe cried.

Reilly leaped up, knocked Keefe’s hand away as he reached for Dalby’s plate, and grabbed it for himself. Keefe responded with a hard punch to Reilly’s jaw. Reilly howled and drew his own arm back to return it, and Liam casually yanked the plate away before the dispute could get any worse. “Look at ye, fightin’ like a pack o’ curs over a bone.” He curled his brawny arm around the plate to guard it and plunged his fork into a greasy slab of beef. Popping it into his mouth, he chewed loudly, washed it down with rum, and stabbed another chunk. “And over a hunk o’ meat that Dalby says ’as gone bad. Fer shame, lads! Fer shame!”

“Dalby’d say it’s gone bad if they carved it off the pig right here in front of him.”

“Pig? You pillock, beef comes off a cow. The kind with udders.”

“Ye mean like the ones that serving wench has?”

“You keep your eyes off her, Reilly, you hear me? I saw her first!”

“The hell with ye, Keefe! I spoke for her first!”

Dalby lunged to his feet, so angry the cords in his neck began to vibrate. “How dare you all sit here and talk about food and drink and women when our poor captain is dead and drowned? How dare you!”

They all stared at him.

“Now, Dalby.” Liam plucked his napkin from the table, swiped at his jaw, then tossed the cloth back to his plate. “The cap’n’s goin’ to be just fine. Ye don’t see me worryin’, now, do ye?”

“Just fine?” Dalby wailed, and made a sudden grab for his chest. He mustn’t holler like that. It wasn’t good for the heart. Taking several deep breaths to calm himself, he faced Liam angrily. “That’s easy for you to say now, but you sure weren’t so confident about things yesterday, if I remember right! The captain’s not just fine, and you know it! We all saw him get swept out to sea by the current!”

“Cap’n can swim,” Saunders grunted, reaching for his mug.

“But it was cold last night!”

“It ain’t cold, it’s summertime.”

“Aye, the seas are still warm.”

“This is not the Indies!” Dalby wailed. “And what if a shark got him?”

“Ain’t enough fat on the cap’n’s bones. Shark’ll spit him out.”

“Not enough fat? Hah, not enough meat, either,” Liam said, stabbing another chunk of beef. “Always told him to eat more. Too damned thin fer his own good. Course, if he had some stoutness to him, he wouldn’t’ve tumbled off o’ the ship in the first place. And if he had some fat under his hide, he wouldn’t have t’ worry about stayin’ afloat—”

“—or keeping warm, either,” Keefe added, importantly.

Dalby sat down hard. Oh, how could they sit here and joke about the captain like that? And Liam—Liam was the captain’s best friend, and had been ever since Brendan’s father, the distinguished old Admiral Merrick, had died and his widow had moved herself and her two children back to her beloved home in Connemara.

“Ah, ye worry too much fer yer own good, Dalby.” Liam leaned back and crossed his massive arms behind his head, making his chair protest beneath his great, muscled bulk. “See what it’s doin’ to yer stomach? Ye’re makin’ yerself sick o’er this. Cap’n’s da was English, aye, but he’s got the luck of his Irish ma to see to him, and it’s never failed him yet.”

Dalby bristled. “The only Irish luck I see here is yours. With the captain dead and gone, you’re in command now. You tell me who’s the lucky one!”

Fortunately for Dalby, Liam’s temper was not easily ignited, for Liam was twice as big, thrice as strong—and half his age. He merely smiled, belched in happy contentment, and picked up his fiddle. “An’ would ye mind a-tellin’ me just what it is I’m supposed t’ command, Dalb?”

Dalby’s mouth snapped shut. It would be a while before Annabel was seaworthy again—a long while. And the magnificent schooner that had been the captain’s dream . . . her drafts had died with her creator. Dalby turned his face away to hide the emotion in his eyes.

Liam was an astute man, even with a quart of ale swimming in his belly. “Here now, Dalb,” he said, laying a big, square hand across the little sailmaker’s bony arm. “There’s not a soul on earth who cares for the cap’n more than I do. If I thought he was dead an’ gone, d’ye think I’d be a-sittin’ here drinkin’ away his memory? God Almighty! Why, I’ll bet ye my share o’ th’ next prize that any minute now, that door yonder’ll swing open and our Brendan himself’ll come strollin’ in—”

As if on cue, the door did swing open and a tall figure stood silhouetted in the hot sunlight.

“Captain!” Dalby cried, lunging to his feet.

But it was not their gallant young commander who stood there, but a stranger with a freckle-dusted face that looked as if it would stand little, if any, sun, and unruly red hair curling out from beneath a floppy felt hat. There was no doubt that he was a seaman; probably an officer if not a captain, judging by the way he carried himself and rocked back on his heels. His eyes, magnified by spectacles that gave him an almost scholarly appearance, swept the crowd, crinkling in a smile as they perused each of the serving wenches. Yet in true Yankee style, he had no pretense—his jacket of pilot cloth had seen better days, and a strip of leather belted a pair of trousers rolled up to display white hose and scuffed, buckled shoes.

Forgetting his stomach, Dalby squinted through the smoky air and tried not to stare, for the man looked awfully familiar.

The newcomer took off his hat, raked a hand through his wild red locks, and grinned broadly as the serving wench whom Keefe and Reilly had been arguing over for the better part of the last hour flung herself into his arms with a squeal of glee. He caught her, kissed her full on the lips, and set her down, where she clung to his arm like a barnacle.

“The nerve of him! We’ve been sitting here for a bloody hour, and he comes in here, just like that, and draws her in like a fish on a line.”

“Says a lot for your charms, Amos.”

“Be damned to ye, Fergus!”

The serving wench, blushing hotly and giggling under the Yankee’s attention, nodded and pointed toward their table. They all watched as he strode purposefully toward them.

“Ahoy, there,” Liam drawled, leaning back in his chair and setting his fiddle across his knees. “Have a seat an’ join us for a mug or two.”

Matthew Ashton perused this odd group, his eyes lingering on the grumpy little man whose hand was pressed to his gut as though he were ill. He wondered briefly what was wrong with him to make him so silent and surly when his mates were obviously well into their cups. “Much obliged,” he said, accepting both the chair that the burly Irishman slid toward him and the ale Belinda set beneath his nose. Calling for another round for those around the table, Matt blew the foam from his ale and looked at each of the strangers over the rim of his mug. They were all staring at him. “You the crew from the sloop Annabel?”

“Part of it,” the big Irishman said, extending a huge hand. “I’m Liam Doherty, first lieutenant. This here’s Dalby O’Hara. He’s sick, so don’t mind him. Oh, don’t bother movin’ away, ’tisn’t contagious. Dalby’s always got somethin’ wrong with him, but it’s all in his head. This here’s John Keefe—”

“Jack Keefe, now!” Reilly cried. “Don’t ye know that once a man’s coin’s all gone, he’s just Jack again like the rest of us?”

Liam shrugged, his grin splitting his broad and beamy face. “Jack Keefe, and this toothless cur by his side with the purple jaw is Amos Reilly. Yonder’s George Saunders, gunner, and Fergus McDermott, able seaman, who’ll need to be askin’ ye about the churches in town as he’s decided to join one after yesterday—right, Ferg? And God only knows where the rest o’ the crew is, though some are at the other tables, and others, I’d wager, probably seekin’ a warm bed with room for two.” Dalby was elbowing him again. “Oh, and our cap’n’s at sea,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “We expect him back any time.”

“Oh?” Matt raised his red brows above the rims of his spectacles.

“He is not at sea!” Dalby cried. “He’s dead! Dead and drowned!”

“That makes him at sea, don’t it?” Reilly cackled, and slapped the table as laughter erupted around them.

Matt eyed them all warily, thinking them a strange bunch indeed. “I, uh, take it he was a hard master,” he said slowly.

Dalby lunged to his feet, stomachache forgotten. “He was the best master there ever was! Fair and just and honest. Brave and laughing and unafraid, right down to the end. And he knew everything there was to know about ships, everything! He could design one as well as he could sail one—”

“Aye, ye should’ve seen those drafts he drew up,” Keefe murmured, breaking an inch off his clay pipe.

Dalby was heading straight for apoplexy. “Those drafts! Those stupid drafts! If it weren’t for them, he’d be safe and sound right now! But no, he had to find the best man in the colonies to build that ship for him. Said she’d need a good dose of Yankee know-how, else she just wouldn’t do. And now look what’s happened! If he’d just been content with Annabel, he’d be standing here right now—”

“Like hell he would, Dalb,” Liam said, brushing bread crumbs from his shirt. “He’d have us out on some salty deck givin’ the Brits what for. He isn’t one to waste time ashore. Why, even when we made port, he’d stick aboard, workin’ on those damned drafts, fantasizin’ about this an’ that, wonderin’ if he should hang a tops’l above her mainmast or just let her go with the one on her fore.”

“Oh?” Matt watched them over the rim of his mug with sudden interest. “And what did he finally decide?”

“To put ’em on both.”

“And studders outside o’ that,” Keefe added.

“Topgallants, too.”

“Good God.” Matt almost dropped his mug. “Wouldn’t that make her unsteady, hard to handle?”

Dalby puffed his chest out like a banty rooster. “Our captain could sail a ship to the moon and back if he had to! If he wanted to string sails clear up to the stars, he could handle her!”

Liam put a restraining hand on Dalby’s arm. “She would’ve been deep-drafted enough to take all the sail the cap’n asked of her,” he explained. “Brendan’s a wee bit reckless, sometimes even to the point o’ seemin’ empty-headed, but he’s no fool. He knows his business right enough when it comes to designin’ ships.”

“Knew it!” Dalby cried, perilously close to tears. “Can’t you get it through your head he’s dead?”

Seeing the telltale moisture in the little man’s eyes, Matt decided he’d let the game go on long enough. He took a long swig of his ale, leaned back, and told them the reason he’d come here—and who had sent him. By the time he’d finished, Liam was grinning down into his ale as though his captain’s survival had come as no surprise, and Dalby was all but sobbing in relief.

Saunders shrugged. “Told ye he could swim.”

“Praise the Lord,” Fergus said, without looking up from his Bible.

“Think that serving maid’s got any more beef and potatoes out in the kitchen?”

Yet Matt saw that they were all staring at him—Keefe, digging a finger against his front teeth to dislodge a string of meat; Saunders with a great gap where his own front teeth had been, and Reilly, with no teeth at all. “Well, what’re we waiting for?” Matt picked up the salt-stained hat he’d been vowing to replace for the past eight months, knowing it would probably be another eight before he got around to it. “While we’re sitting here drinking the place dry, the finest schooner this town—nay, this colony—has ever seen waits to be built.”

“But the drafts are gone.”

“Gone—but not forgotten.” Matt grinned, removed his spectacles, blew on them, and wiped them with a corner of his shirt. He put them back on, shoving them up the bridge of his nose. “Your captain tells me he kept detailed notes. Perhaps he can simply redraw those drafts.”

“Aye, that he could, if he had all those notes and calculations. . . .”

Matt grinned in triumph. “Which are, I’m told, locked safely away in Annabel’s cabin.”

But the group went suddenly silent, remembering that last terrible broadside that had smashed through the stern. They’d be lucky to find part of the sea chest that Brendan had kept those notes in, let alone the notes themselves.

But Matt guessed their thoughts. “And what was it you were saying about your captain’s Irish luck, Mr. Doherty?”

They stared at him. And then, one by one, they grinned, and then they laughed, slapping one another across the back and drinking toasts to that same Irish luck until finally Matt jumped to his feet and pulled the strapping lieutenant with him, complete with fiddle, toward the door.

Outside, it was hot and muggy, and as a heavily guarded cart went past, the horses that drew it kicking up a cloud of dust, Matt never saw how Liam shuddered, paled, and made the sign of the cross. In that cart were the officers of the British frigate that Captain Merrick had tricked onto the sunken piers last night, and the red-rimmed eyes of its captain sought Liam out and remained on him long after the cart was just a speck in the distance.

Had his vision not been hindered by the cloud of fresh dust filming his lenses, Matt might have shuddered, too, at the pure hatred in the British commander’s eyes.

Coughing and waving the dust aside with his floppy hat, he poked his head back inside the tavern, managing to catch the attention of the seamen once more. “Gentlemen!” They looked up, their faces dim through the cloud of pipe smoke. “I forgot to tell you. If you’d like to visit your captain, please feel free to stop by our home on High Street. It’s the big white Georgian with green shutters, dormered windows on the second floor, and an anchor on the front lawn. Can’t miss it.”

“Why, thanks, Cap’n Ashton!”

“Any time after one o’clock’s fine.” He paused, biting his lip. “Uh, better make that one-fifteen, instead.”

“One-fifteen?”

“Aye, one-fifteen.” He touched his fingers to his temple. “See you then.”

And with that, he clapped his hat atop his red hair, yanked the floppy old brim down to shield his face from the blazing sun, and together with Liam, sauntered off down the street.

“Alive,” Dalby breathed, eyeing Fergus’s Bible with some reverence.

“Did any of us ever doubt it?”

“We have to go see him.”

“Aye. But you heard Ashton. After one-fifteen.”

Dalby stood up. “I’m not waiting for one-fifteen. I want to go now.”

“You heard him. One-fifteen.An odd time, if I do say so myself. Why not one o’clock? One-thirty? Or even two?”

Keefe belched. “Damned if I know.”

But they were soon to find out. For one o’clock was when Ephraim Ashton left that fine Georgian home, climbed into his carriage, and drove himself through town to the Ashton Shipyards on the waterfront, where he would remain until precisely six o’clock and not a moment later.

One-ten was when his daughter went riding down High Street.

And one-fifteen was when Matt estimated that street to be safe for unwary passersby.

Chapter 5

Unfortunately for Brendan, he was unaware of the Ashton schedule. By midmorning he was bored, frustrated, and impatient enough to be roaming about the house, wondering why he was having such a hard time thinking of the drafts he ought to be redrawing, and such an easy time thinking of Miss Mira Ashton.

He told himself he couldn’t work on the drafts until Ashton got back with his notes, but he knew, of course, that that wasn’t quite true. His memory was excellent when it came to the notes.

He peered out the window. The heat of the day was building. Outside, milky haze clung to thick, grassy fields that smelled sweetly of summer hay and wildflowers, and great, purple-stained clouds were stacked like shelves in a cornflower-blue sky. His gaze followed the haphazard trail of a stone wall, choked with weeds and wildflowers of every color. The fence led off into a stand of trees, and the bent grasses along its border suggested that a horse had recently passed. Miss Mira’s, perhaps?

Faith, why was he still thinking about the shipbuilder’s daughter? She was one puzzle he wasn’t even going to try to figure out. Better to concern himself with the drafts, and the familiar challenges of a naval architect—challenges involving length, beam, speed, stability, and living and storing space; sail suits and mast heights, bow rake and stern design. Not hoydens with smart mouths and impish grins and endearing little cat-wrinkles fanning out from the sides of her nose when she grinned.

Faith, laddie, get to work.

He wandered back upstairs, hoping the nautical décor of his room might stimulate him. He pushed the door open. Someone had thoughtfully laid out some clean, dry clothes on the bed for him. There was a cat curled up in them. It was not asleep, but staring haughtily at him over the top of its tail, as though annoyed that he dared interrupt its slumber. The tail twitched as Brendan let the door sigh shut behind him and strode across the room to the desk.

It was obvious his mind was not in the mood to be productive this morning. Sighing, Brendan went to the window and swung the telescope toward him, bending at the waist so that he could peer through its long tube. Over the tops of the foreground trees he could see the cluster of shops and brick houses in Market Square, and a forest of masts stabbing skyward just beyond them. A cutter was just filling her sails and coasting out with the tide, the people on her decks scurrying to and fro like ants.

There was no sign of Annabel.

The shelf clock on the mantel ticked softly: twenty minutes to one.

At a quarter to one he coaxed his tousled chestnut curls into a queue and tied them with a piece of black ribbon at the nape. At ten to one he dressed, earning a look of irritation as he removed the cat from the pile of clothes and brushed its hairs from the formerly clean shirt.

He was just pulling on his shoes when every timepiece in the house, led by the huge Willard case clock in the entrance hall, struck one o’clock. Downstairs, the front door slammed. Brendan moved to the window in time to see Ephraim striding down the driveway, consulting his watch and growing so engrossed in resetting it that he almost plowed into the waiting groomsman and the horse that stood sweating beneath its harness in the sun. And then Ephraim drove away, still fighting with the watch and cursing loud enough to be clearly heard from two stories up as he nearly sent the horse into what Matt had proudly pointed out as the town’s “Liberty Tree” before gaining control of both animal and carriage—and hopefully, watch—and disappearing from sight.

At five past one Brendan decided he’d had enough of being housebound, especially in this strange mansion where cats, clocks, and procrastination were about to drive him mad. He might as well go down to the waterfront and inspect the damage to Annabel.

Unseen eyes weighed heavily on him as he left the room and made his way back down the huge, angled staircase. Not just the Yankee sea captains staring from their portraits, nor the dour gazes of their prim and proper wives, but cats. Hiding beneath the mahogany washstand in his room. Curled in the pewter bowl that sat atop it. Sitting on window seats in the parlor, draped along the fireplace mantel, and lying behind a model of Matthew’s Proud Mistress, which held a special place between two candlesticks on the gleaming surface of a fine pianoforte.

In the entrance hall he looked warily over his shoulder for the dog, and assuming it was probably off harassing one of the cats, opened the door and went out.

He stood for a moment in the hot, blistering sunlight, wondering why he felt like a prisoner escaping a gaol. The urge to peek over his shoulder was strong; his determination that he would not stoop to such foolishness was stronger. Taking a deep breath and listening to a locust humming in the nearby field, he filled his lungs with the sweet scent of late summer grasses.

With a jaunty step and newly found purpose, Brendan paused to get his bearings, and without a backward glance, headed down the driveway and toward High Street beyond.

It was a quarter past one.

Beside the small paddock attached to the stables, Mira stood holding Rigel’s reins and eyeing the empty saddle atop his back.

She wasn’t one to believe in premonitions; if so, she might have heeded the little voice that warned her that riding Rigel for the first time today was not a good idea. The colt’s dark eyes were rolling, he was lathered in sweat, and he was dancing circles around her.

Rigel was smarter than most dogs she’d known. No doubt he knew her intentions.

She glanced quickly up at the house, at the open windows of the east bedroom, where the chintz curtains that Mama had made so long ago—before the birth of a third child had claimed both her and the babe—were blowing in, blowing out. Was the handsome captain watching her? She imagined him leaning out the window, his hands gripping the sill as he might a quarterdeck rail, that one fine brow that was set a little higher than the other raised as he smiled down at her and admired her flawless horsemanship. . . . Inexplicably, her heart gave a little flutter. But the window was empty, and her only spectator was Rescue Effort Number Thirty-One, sitting in the shade of a rosebush and licking his orange coat.

Some audience. But it was better than nothing.

Nevertheless, she glanced up at the empty window a final time and berated herself for letting her attention wander. Impressing that haughty Brit was not important.

Was it?

No!

She turned away so she couldn’t see the window. Above, clouds lolled in a silver-hazed sky, and barn swallows wheeled in and out of the stable’s loft. “Now, Rigel,” she said, stroking his sweaty neck in an attempt to calm him. “It’s not going to be that bad. Do you think I’d let anything happen to you? Do you think I’d do this if I thought you were going to get hurt? Hell, do you think I’d do this if I thought I was going to get hurt?”

The colt stepped up his fidgeting, blowing hot breath through red-flaring nostrils and eyeing her warily. Despite herself, Mira glanced up at the window a final time. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed a fistful of reins and mane in her left hand, put her foot in the stirrup iron—and vaulted lightly into the saddle.

She was on. On!

And almost off as Rigel exploded sideways—then bolted.

“Whoa!” Clinging like a thistle, she hung on for dear life as he tore blindly around the side of the house and rocketed toward the street. Powerful muscles rippled beneath her. His whipping mane stung her cheeks. Shortening the reins to no avail, she managed to get her seat under her and her feet back in the flying irons. “Rigel, whoa! Easy! Whoa!”

The side of the house and the front door passed in a blur. Shod hooves thundered across the lawn, struck sparks off the cobblestoned drive, and hit the street. Desperately she drew on the reins. “Whoa, Rigel, easy!”

Houses flashed by. Passersby screamed and dove out of the way. An oncoming shay careened to the right, then to the left, and overturned against a tree. Rigel shied and found more speed. He had the bit in his teeth now, the wind in his mane, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do but hang on and enjoy the ride.

Too late, she saw the Jacksons’ tricolored hound sitting on his lawn with tongue lolling, waiting, as he did every afternoon at exactly a quarter past one, for the black stallion El Nath to come thundering down High Street in much the same manner as his colt was doing now. Mira glimpsed him through the strands of Rigel’s whipping mane, tried desperately to turn him—and saw the dog hurl himself across the lawn straight into their path.

Rigel never slowed, shying sideways and across the street, flank and shoulder first. A woman screamed. Someone shouted. Mira saw a white shirt, a startled face, and then the colt’s shoulder hit something hard and her seat went out from under her. She felt space where the saddle should have been . . . air whistling through her clothes—

Bang! She landed in a very undignified heap on a manicured front lawn, in plain and humiliating sight of everyone: Jonathan Jackson, clad in his banyan and a red velvet hat and hanging out of his second-story window; Nathaniel Tracy, rival shipbuilder and privateer, leaning from a carriage and touching his cocked hat to her in an amused salute; three women who’d been taking the air on the far side of the road, now standing in speechless horror as they watched Rigel’s riderless flight back down High Street—and a man, lying crumpled in the road. Mira felt the blood draining from her face, and a flood of prickly horror.

The man was Captain Merrick.

As one, the three women picked up their skirts and rushed to his side. Tracy’s carriage slowed, stopped, turned around in a cloud of dust. And coming up the street was a group of seamen who pointed, yelled, and broke into a dead run toward them. But Mira, forgetting her humiliation, saw only the captain, lying very still on the hard-packed dirt, and as the people surged forward, nothing but a wall of breeches, coattails, and skirts. “Let me through!” she cried, leaping to her feet and trying to shove them aside. “Let me through!”

Tracy, adjusting his powdered wig, was stepping down from his carriage. “You really ought to be more careful on those horses, Miss Mira. Racing down the street like that, ’tis a wonder you haven’t hurt someone sooner.”

“Hurt him?” A woman turned, her hand to her mouth and her eyes horrified above it. “I think she’s killed him!”

“No!” With a cry, Mira ducked between a seaman’s bowed legs and fell on her knees before the captain. He was as still as death, and just as white. “Captain!” She seized his hand, rubbing it, patting it, slapping it in frenzied terror. “Captain Merrick, oh God—”

Father was going to murder her.

“Captain, wake up!”

“You killed the poor fellow, Miss Ashton,” Tracy said quietly, and took off his hat.

One of the women began screaming, another swooned, and the third, gasping like a dying cod, clung to Tracy’s arm, her wrist flung across her forehead. The hound raced to and fro, barking in mindless frenzy. And then the group of seamen thrust through the crowd, tossing people aside, their yelling—and the hideous wailings of the oldest, smallest one—bringing the clamor to din pitch. Horrified, Mira fell forward, blocking out the screaming, the bellowing, the barking. She put her arms around the captain’s shoulders, a hand behind his head, and pulled him up against herself, where she hugged him for all she was worth as though to hold the life in him.

He was warm and heavy and smelled faintly of seawater. His chestnut queue was silky beneath her fingers, the back of his head warm against her palm. And as she held him, pressing her lips to his forehead, his arm moved and his hand came up to push blindly against her breast.

A shock wave tore through her at his touch, but she had no time to ponder it, nor savor the relief that she hadn’t killed him after all. “Make way there, make way!” someone shouted, and then she was seized by a pair of brawny hands, yanked to her feet, and flung rudely aside, landing hard on her shoulder just beyond the throng of people.

One of the seamen—the big one with bare arms showing through slit sleeves—had done it. And now he was bent over the captain, slapping his cheeks hard enough to dislodge a tooth and yelling in an Irish brogue so thick, she could barely understand him.

“Brrrrendan, wake up, me laddie, wake up! Fer God’s sake, wake up!”

Mira sprang to her feet. She was a child of the docks, of the sea—and of Ephraim Ashton. Cursing, she pounced on the big seaman’s unsuspecting back like a hellborn sprite, fists beating against his beefy shoulders, and feet kicking at his stout legs. His ear was conveniently close. “Damn you for a bloody idiot! How dare you toss me aside, you big, stinking oaf! Now, get away from him, you heap of bilge rot, before I—”

The seaman was turning, an incredulous grin splitting his broad face, his bear paw of a hand already removing his tricorne. “God Almighty,” he said slowly. “’Tis—”

“—a woman, Liam!” another shrieked, grabbing the big one’s arm. “By the blood of Christ, a woman!”

She glared at them through a wall of hair. “Damn right I am! You think because I’m in breeches and shirt, you can treat me like a bleedin’ barnacle? Try it again and I’ll send your nose right through the back of your bleedin’ skull. Wretch! Brute! Bastard! Now, let me through, you blithering barrel of sea slime, so I can tend to the captain!”

The one named Liam threw back his head and split the air with laughter. The toothless seaman was guffawing, the little one was clutching his belly and looking quite ill, and the others were all bending over Captain Merrick. But the townspeople were staring at her; not in disbelief, for they were well used to her ways, but in a manner that spoke all too well of their sympathy for poor Ephraim at having to take such a wild one in tow.

Ephraim. At that moment, Mira heard hoofbeats—and saw her father’s horse and shay coming back up High Street.

She stared, eyes widening in horror, the blood draining from her face. And then she panicked and ducked back through the forest of hanging coattails, stockinged legs, and buckled shoes.

Brendan was awake. Painfully so. He may have been stunned and he’d certainly had the breath knocked out of him, but he’d never quite lost consciousness. Being run down, being slapped, being screamed at, and being hugged—he’d felt it all. He sat leaning heavily against Keefe, his elbows on his knees, his aching head cradled in his hands, and his ears ringing like a blacksmith’s anvil. People were yelling, screaming, crying all around him. A dog was barking. Dalby—that was Dalby’s voice, wasn’t it?—was wailing at the top of his lungs, and someone else was shouting. Quite loudly, in fact. He would’ve recognized that voice anywhere. Ephraim. And with sudden, awful clarity, he recalled the face of the young laddie who’d run him down and knew it had been no laddie at all.

Miss Mira Ashton.

And she’d hugged him.

Not just hugged him. Kissed him.

He panicked. Fighting off Liam, Keefe, and a crowd of concerned people he’d never seen before in his life, he lunged to his feet. Above the screening buffer of their heads, Ephraim’s bellowing was much louder.

“What are you doing out here dressed in those clothes? I told you I don’t ever want to see you in public in anything but skirts and gloves again!”

“I can’t help it, Rigel got away from me! And you can stop screaming, I can hear you just fine!”

“I’ll scream all I want!”

“Scream a little louder and maybe they’ll hear you clear over in Salisbury!”

“They’ll hear me clear down to Boston if I ever again catch you outside of the back pasture wearin’ breeches! What the hell kind of daughter have I raised? Whaddye think the client would say if he saw you like this?”

“Why the hell don’t you ask him? He’s sitting right there!”

But Brendan wasn’t sitting anywhere. He was off at a brisk, limping walk that was just shy of being a dead run. Away from the crowd. Away from the commotion. Away from those crazy Ashtons.

There were plenty of other shipbuilders in the world.

“Merrick!” Ephraim roared.

Brendan stepped up his pace, moving so fast that Liam had to break into a run to catch up.

“Merrick!” Ephraim’s voice would’ve cut through a mile of fog. “Merrick, for God’s sake, don’t go!”

Liam was there beside him. “Brendan, wait! Ye can’t go off, just like that.”

“I can and I will.”

“What about the ship?”

“Someone else can build it. I’m done with this town!”

“But Ashton’s the best!” Liam tried to keep up with Brendan’s long strides. “Ye said so yerself.”

Brendan whirled to face his friend. “I’m through with Ashton, too. And his daughter, and her cats, and her dog, and her pudding!”

“Pudding?”

“Stow it, Liam!”

“But I thought ye wanted to come to Newburyport to get the schooner built. I thought ye were determined that this Ashton fellow would do it. Besides, his daughter’s not the one buildin’ the ship!” Seeing his captain’s set, angry face—Brendan? Angry?—Liam tried a different tack, for Brendan was off again, faster than before. “What are ye, afraid of her? A lassie? Ye sit there cool as frost on a pumpkin when the ship’s gettin’ blown out from under us, yet ye run from a mere lassie, and a wee one at that.”

“I am not running!”

“Oh? Then what d’ye call it, eh?” Liam edged around in front of him, trotting backward to keep ahead. “I dare ye to go back there and confront her!”

“Forget it, Liam! Dare me all you bloody want, but this is one dare I will not take you up on! If I stay in this godforsaken town any longer, I’ll end up buried here! Already I’ve nearly been poisoned with pudding, knocked down by a dog, and now, run down by a horse! No, thank you. We sail on tonight’s tide!”

Crossing his great, meaty arms over his chest, Liam stopped. He planted himself like a well-rooted oak and with an infuriating grin, drawled, “In what, pray tell?”

Brendan pushed him aside. “A damned rowboat, for all I care! Find something!”

Behind him, the argument between father and daughter had exploded into full-blown war. Liam set his jaw and pounded after his captain. Brendan had put too much time into choosing the right man to build his dream ship; he couldn’t just let him walk away from it all. But God Almighty, for someone who’d just spent a night on an open ocean and the last few minutes sprawled on a bed of hard dirt, he was being surprisingly difficult. No, not surprisingly, he corrected himself. Brendan was a scrappy lad, and when he set his mind on something, there was no stopping him. Not his best friend’s reasoning. Not the combined might of the Ashtons. Not even dreams of the schooner—which would be a dead dream if he allowed him to leave Newburyport.

Down High Street they stormed, Liam stepping up his efforts to make his captain see reason, Brendan stepping up both his pace and his determination to ignore him. Past the giant Beacon Oak they went. Past the stately homes of seafarers, shipbuilders, and shipmasters. Past the windmill, Frog Pond, the powder house where they made saltpeter to aid the war effort, the long rope walk, and a flock of sheep that stared at them curiously. Down Fish Street, through Market Square, and to the riverfront. The others had caught up to them now, breathless with exhaustion. Dalby took up the rear, clutching his chest.

Everyone but Brendan came to an abrupt halt when they reached the harbor. Lying in the pungent muck of low tide was Annabel—or what was left of her. Without slowing his stride, Brendan sloshed through mud and marsh grass alike, hauled himself up and over her side by way of a severed line, and strode across her tilted decks as though she heeled in nothing more than a strong wind.

Peace. Solitude. And escape. He stormed down the companionway, found the door to his cabin, and slammed it behind him. Here, at least, there were no crew members, no cats—and no Ashtons.

Supper that night was a delicious meal of wild goose roasted on the clockjack till it was juicy and golden-brown; peaches stuffed with mincemeat; cornbread and sweet, creamy butter. Once again, Abigail had outdone herself—and once again, it was all for naught.

The client was absent.

Mira sat staring into her fish chowder while Ephraim glowered at her from the head of the table. Outside, a steady rain fell, pattering gloomily against the gutters and streaming down the many-paned windows. Only Matt, with one of his lady friends beside him, seemed to have any appetite. The chair the esteemed Captain Merrick should have occupied was empty.

It was most unfortunate, too, for Mira had made the chowder—as well as dessert.

“Heard Merrick’s heading back to Portsmouth tomorrow,” Ephraim muttered between mouthfuls of cornbread, to no one in particular. “All my dreams, right out the window. Just like that.”

Mira said nothing and stared down into her chowder, wondering why it was such an odd grayish color and not creamy and white as it was when Abigail made it. So much for trying to make amends.

Matt took pity on her. “Oh, lay off, would you? There’ll be other clients.” Turning to Miss Lucy Preble beside him, he smeared strawberry jam on a piece of cornbread before placing it on her plate. Matt, kind soul that he was, was treating her with sickening gallantry, but Mira knew it would only be a matter of time before Matt realized this woman was as selfish and unpleasant as the rest of them, and dumped her for someone else. As if to confirm her thoughts, Mira looked up and found the woman’s haughty stare raking her with unconcealed disdain.

Mira straightened in her chair and smoothed her skirts over her knees. What right did Her Bloody Highness have to look so damned lofty? Did she think that just because she’d powdered her hair, garbed herself in fine silks and velvet, and was attached to the arm of Newburyport’s most eligible bachelor, she could look down on someone else? Raising her chin, Mira shoved her hair behind her ear and returned the stare with a defiant one of her own. Miss Lucy Preble could be as lofty as she damn well pleased, but she’d never lifted one of those white fingers in the name of Liberty, never dirtied them making saltpeter down in the powder house, never pricked them sewing uniforms for the Continental army, or, heaven forbid, used them to defend the bloodstained decks of a privateer!

But then, she’d never frightened off an important client, nor run a person down on a horse, and there was no way in hell she’d be caught dead in breeches. Mira swallowed hard and looked down at her cold, gray chowder. Someone as perfect as Miss Lucy Preble didn’t do those things. Someone like Miss Preble didn’t bring disgrace upon her family name.

“Oh, there’ll be other clients, all right,” Ephraim growled, glaring at his uncharacteristically silent daughter from beneath his bushy white brows. Just because she was all dolled up in her pretty gown and petticoats didn’t change the fact that he’d raised a damned hoyden. “But none like Merrick.”

“I thought you hated him. After all, he was an Englishman,” Matt drawled with biting sarcasm.

“Irishman,” Ephraim snapped. “Besides, it don’t matter where he was born an’ raised. He was privateerin’ fer our side, and that’s all that matters.” He stared at his precious Willard clock for a long moment, then slammed his spoon down so hard that flecks of chowder leapt from his bowl and spattered his white stock. “Cripes, did ye see those figures, those calculations? That man ain’t just a naval architect, he’s a blasted engineer! That schooner he wanted me to build would’ve been the finest ship ever to slide down our ways. By God, Tracy, Greenleaf, Cross, and even Hackett would’ve all been drooling with envy, ’cause there ain’t no way in hell any of ’em could’ve ever dreamed up something like that. Not even Hancock would’ve compared, and you know what the damned Brits said about her when Greenleaf and Cross turned her out back in seventy-seven. Finest and fastest frigate in the world! But she weren’t nothin’ compared to what that schooner would’ve been! And now—” Picking up his fork, he stabbed a peach and shoved it into his mouth. “—Merrick’ll go and give his business to someone else. And someone else’ll get the glory for building that ship, not me!”

Lucy appeared unfazed by Ephraim’s tirade, but then, everyone in Newburyport was well used to his ways. She eyed Mira with cool disdain and said airily, “From what I’ve heard, that man will be Tracy.”

“What?” Ephraim’s fork came down so hard, his plate cracked.

She shrugged her shoulders and swayed slightly toward Matt, who was beginning to look disgusted with her. “Oh, yes. Nathaniel tells Papa that Merrick’s lieutenant came to him just this evening with a proposal.”

“Of all the goddamned luck!” Ephraim’s fist crashed down on the table, rattling china, upsetting the chowder bowls, and making crumbs of cornbread jump like fleas on a cat. “This is the first I’ve heard!”

“Oh, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, Captain Ashton,” Lucy said sweetly, heedless of Matt’s growing annoyance with her. “Why, it’s all over town.”

Mira shoved her hands between her clamped knees before she could give in to the urge to haul off and give Miss Lucy Preble a bloody nose. Act like a lady, she told herself. Just this once. She smoothed her skirts—native homespunskirts, not that frippery Lucy was wearing—and turned to face her father, determined, for once, to please him. “I am sorry, Father.”

“Sorry? You think being sorry’s gonna bring Merrick back?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“Well, ye sure weren’t sorry after you ran him down in the street! Why didn’t you think of saying ‘sorry’ then, huh? Cripes, maybe if you had, he’d be sitting there in that cussed chair and I’d have an agreement right here—” He raised his hand and shook an angry fist. “—to build that schooner. But no! Thanks to you and yer damned shenanigans, Tracy’s gonna build it! Why can’t ye be a daughter I can be proud of? Why can’t ye act like a lady for once instead of a damned hoyden—”

“I said I’m sorry!”

“—and why can’t ye be like Matt? Thank God I have one offspring I can be proud of!”

Matt choked on his cornbread, and Mira stood up so fast, her chair nearly went over backward. Tears blurred her vision and she had to bite down hard on her lower lip to keep from either losing her temper or crying in front of the other woman. “I—” She swallowed, gulping. “I—”

“Father, I suggest you take this discussion into the library,” Matt said firmly.

Ephraim threw down his fork. He sat there for a long moment, his eyes hard, his lower lip quivering. “All my life, I dreamed of gittin’ the chance to build a ship like that one would’ve been,” he finally said, the bluster gone from his voice. He looked at Mira, and she saw depths of pain in his eyes that shook her to her soul. “I’m an old man, Mira. It ain’t much I asked for. Just a little glory. Something that people would’ve remembered me by when I’m gone.”

He put down his napkin, got to his feet, and quietly left the room, leaving an awful silence in his wake.

Swallowing hard, Mira looked down at her plate.

Her appetite gone, she took a deep and steadying breath, aware of Matt’s sympathetic gaze upon her. As she left the dining room her gaze fell upon the beautiful Delft punch bowl that commemorated the launching of the ship Temper. Unless she found a way to get Captain Merrick’s business back, there would be no such memento to honor his fine schooner.

The fine schooner that Tracy would build.

Chapter 6

The full moon rode high above Newburyport Harbor, playing chase with lofty clouds that scudded across the vast and purple heavens on their way toward the sea. On this quiet night the river flowed like pale silk beneath it, and the shrouds and masts of anchored ships climbed skyward as though paying homage. Booms and yards were bathed in silver, sails glowed with its heavenly light, and a gentle wind whispered over all, stirring the marsh grass and filling the night with the rhythmic creak and ease of settling timbers and swaying rigging. The tang of the sea lay heavily in the air, ripe with salt and marshlands and the promise of fresher winds on the morrow.

Just beyond the tide-swell, the little sloop Annabel rested. The moon had found her, too, making pewter of her battered decks, throwing shadows across her forecastle, softening the ragged edges of spars and torn planking, and dragging ghostly fingers of light along the splintered boom of her mainsail. To all appearances she was deserted, but at her shattered stern windows a lantern shone, reflected upon the river’s shimmering surface as it rolled past on its way to the sea.

By the light of a tired candle, now spitting tallow and sending up a finger of smoke to tickle the deck beams above his head, her master worked. But it was past the candle’s bedtime as well as his, and now it shivered, faltered, flared once more, and started to die. Brendan put his pencil down, rubbed his eyes, and, digging through his splintered sea chest until he found another, lit the wick from the dying remains of the first and stuck it in the lantern.

His eyes ached with fatigue, but he’d spent the night redrawing the drafts, and he’d be damned if he sought his bed before he finished them. After his rash behavior this afternoon, he’d have to swallow his pride and go crawling back to Ephraim in the morn, hoping to God he didn’t get run down by a horse, carriage, or pack of cats along the way. What a fool he’d been for letting his humiliation over the accident dictate his behavior; he should have just got up, brushed away the dust, and laughed the whole thing off. At any other time he probably would have. But oh, Miss Mira … how she had unsettled him.

She hugged me.

Now, he’d have to swallow the pride that Liam insisted came from his stiff and proper English side. Well, damn his English side! Always getting him into trouble and leaving it to his Irish side’s luck to bail him out.

But could even his Irish side rescue him from Miss Mira Ashton?

He bent his forehead into his hands and rubbed his temples. How differently things might have turned out if Crichton hadn’t stumbled upon Annabel twelve leagues east of Cape Ann. Or if his arrival at Ashton’s had been dignified, instead of one he didn’t even remember. Fine way to make an impression on a man—and his daughter.

His daughter.

Groaning, Brendan went to the stern and leaned his brow against the sill of the shattered windows. Why should it matter what Miss Mira thought? He was a seafarer, a privateer, with barely enough time for himself, let alone a pretty lass. And Mira Ashton . . . well, she sure didn’t fit any definition of “lass” he’d ever used. Lasses were supposed to be delicate, charming wee confections who dressed in ribbons, lace, and gowns. They were supposed to ride sidesaddle and spend their time pursuing genteel things like sewing and reading and spinning. They were not supposed to wear trousers. They were not supposed to curse like seasoned tars in a king’s ship. And they were not supposed to ride wild stallions and run innocent people down in the street.

Liam’s words came back to taunt him. What are ye, afraid of her? A lassie? Ye sit there cool as frost on a pumpkin when the ship’s gettin’ blown out from under us, yet ye run from a mere lassie, and a wee one at that!

Oh, he was running all right. After Julia’s betrayal, he knew better than to get tangled up with another pretty girl. There was no way he was going to let another woman steal his heart and cleverly manipulate him into a position where he’d have to choose between her and his ship. A man could not serve two passions. The next lass he gave his heart to would be made of sails and wood and wind. Ships were safer, sweeter, and ever faithful.

The schooner.

He returned to his desk, picked up his pencil, and went back to work. Fatigue made the drawing blur before his eyes, and he took a long swig of cold black coffee. He loved this stage of design, when the drawings themselves seemed to come alive beneath his hands. He envisioned the reality, the ship they would be, and his heart beat a little faster with anticipation and excitement. A side view, a turned-turtle view, a fore and an aft view of the hull. The dimensions noted carefully in the corner of the paper—beam molded and beam extreme, depth in hold and craft. Particulars—of mast height and spar length, of cannon placement and rigging details. He grinned. Old Ephraim had doubted his identity, eh? Well, these drafts would prove it far better than a dried-out ball of useless pulp.

A rap on the door startled him and he jerked up, his gaze moving to the chipped sandglass. Two bells of the midwatch, though Annabel’s was now somewhere beneath the inky surface of the Merrimack River. In landsman’s terms, one o’clock in the morning, almost twelve hours since his fateful departure from Ashton’s house—

The rap came again, impatient this time. “For heaven’s sake, foighne ort!” he called, tossing his pencil aside and rubbing his tired eyes. It was Dalby, no doubt, coming to complain about a fever, chest pains, indigestion, or whatever else he imagined he was dying from this time. Rising carefully to avoid hitting his head on the deck beams, Brendan made his way, stooping, across the steeply tilted deck and flung open the door. “Faith, Dalby, can’t it wait until morn—”

It wasn’t Dalby O’Hara standing there with a hand held to his stomach, but Mira Ashton, dressed in a pretty homespun gown of all things, with a hand held to her bosom. Obviously the way he’d jerked the door open had caught her by surprise—but it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt at seeing her standing there.

“D’ar m’anam,” he managed, so startled that he unconsciously reverted to Irish.

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain Merrick.”

“I’ll bet you are.” He tore his gaze from the creamy flesh so tantalizingly displayed above the lace of her decolletage. “What are you doing here? And how the devil did you get by my watch?”

She fidgeted, picking at her sleeve as though the gown was not something she was accustomed to wearing. In all probability, it was not. “I didn’t. Your lieutenant stopped me as I boarded, but I told him my father was building a ship for you, so he let me through.”

And then she brushed past him, barging into the cabin with as much force as the cannonball that had destroyed it. Seating herself in his chair, she caught a handful of her thick, board-straight hair and began twisting it around her fist, back and forth and up and around in a way that caught the light from the candle and did odd things to Brendan’s heart and the temperature of his skin.

“Miss Ashton.” She let go of her hair and met his gaze, one green eye disappearing behind a fall of hair that tumbled down over her pixie face at that very moment. “I don’t know if you’re aware of the time or not—somehow, I should think that you are, given the fact that your household does not lack for timepieces—but don’t you think it’s rather late to be calling on a gentleman? And if, by some miracle of ignorance, you’re not aware of the time, then certainly you’re aware of the impropriety of visiting me in the dead of night, and all by yourself, at that. I would urge you to consider your reputation.”

“Captain Merrick, I’m fully aware of the hour. But it was the only time I could sneak out. You see, Father has his nightcap at eleven-thirty, and goes to bed at eleven forty-five. He stays up and reads from the New Testament until twelve-thirty. Right now he’s up to Romans, chapter two, I believe. At exactly twelve thirty-three he snuffs his candle—”

“Miss Ashton—”

“And at twelve forty-five he falls asleep, which I know because I can hear him snoring—”

“Miss Ashton!”

“And at four-thirty he gets up to use the priv—”

“Miss Ashton, please!”

She rose and moved across the cabin, her petticoat hem sweeping up dust and glass and wood splinters, her finger trailing across his desk and leaving a line through the dust left by damage from Crichton’s guns.

“Sorry for running you down in the street today,” she murmured. “It was an accident.”

“I accept your apology, Miss Mira.”

“I . . . I hope you weren’t hurt too badly.”

“I am quite recovered, thank you.”

“And I hope you’ll reconsider having Father build your schooner. You’ll break his heart if you have someone else do it.”

Brendan just stood looking at her, trying to reconcile this vision standing before him with the smart-mouthed hoyden who’d been pummeling Liam with her bare fists not twelve hours before.

“May I see them?” she asked, looking up.

“See what?”

She nodded toward the drawings on the table. “The drafts.”

He picked them up and handed them to her.

He saw the exact moment she realized just what she was looking at. When casual interest became sudden, wide-eyed shock. Her jaw fell open and she just stood there, speechless, staring down at the drafts with her thick hair tumbling down over one shoulder and brushing the vellum. She blinked. Once. Twice. And then she looked up, and their gazes met.

“You drew this?” she whispered, her eyes filling with awe. “Designed it?”

He glanced away, looking at his desk, the moonlit river outside, the glass-strewn floor—anywhere but into those translucent green eyes. Spying a pitcher, he grabbed a mug and began to pour. “Would you care for some water, Miss Moyrrra?”

She ignored his question, and the mug. “Did you?”

He gave a little shrug, and grinned.

“Captain Merrick, I . . . this . . . this is amazing.” She was studying him with unnerving intensity. “I’ve never seen anything like these drafts in my life.”

He began to fidget like a six-year-old at an all-day sermon.

“Do you always have such a hard time handling compliments, Captain Merrick?”

He gave her a fleeting grin. “Do you always have such a hard time stating your purpose in visiting gentlemen in the wee hours of the morn?”

“I don’t usually visit gentlemen in the wee hours of the morn. But if I did, I should think my purpose would be quite clear.”

He almost choked on his water. “Then what is your purpose now, Miss Mira?”

She gave one of her cat-smiles. “To try to get your business back from Tracy.”

“Tracy?” He set the mug down and looked at her, puzzled. “Who’s Tracy?”

“Patrick and Nathaniel Tracy? The shipbuilders?”

“Sorry, I don’t know them.”

“I heard you’re giving them your business.”

“Well, you heard wrong.”

“Then you’re going to place it with Father?”

“I didn’t say that either,” he said, although that was precisely his intent. He’d play her along for a wee bit and see what she was up to. As for this Tracy thing, it was no doubt a rumor fabricated by Liam designed to come back to haunt him.

“You’ve got to let Father build this schooner for you,” she said, vehemently. “You have to. If you don’t, he’s going to be furious!”

“So? It seems to me that he spends the better part of his life in that state. He should find it quite comfortable by now.”

“But you don’t understand!”

“Understand what?”

She stood there looking very small and helpless—Mira Ashton, helpless?—with the gown clinging to her curves, nipping a waist that needed no nipping and showing a full and lovely bosom that invited his stare, held it, and wouldn’t let it go. After seeing her garbed in shirt and trousers, the gown, which would’ve looked quite benign on anyone else, enhanced her fine figure in a way that made his mouth go dry and his thoughts turn toward other things.

Such as the usual reason a woman might seek out a man in the middle of the night.

He took another gulp of water and wondered if steam was rising from his pores.

“Understand why I came here,” she said softly, finally putting the drafts down. She looked him straight in the eye and said, “I came here to bargain with you.”

He quirked a brow. And then Mira saw amusement beginning to dance in his eyes. They were warm, honey-colored eyes that knew how to caress a woman without stripping her, to flatter her without insulting her, and he was doing that now. Mira felt her cheeks grow warm, not out of maidenly embarrassment, but in direct response to the assessing admiration and invitation in their laughing depths.

What would it be like to let him touch her? Hold her? Kiss—

Picking up a quadrant from his desk, he asked, “And why are you so desperate for my business, Miss Ashton? Do mishaps such as those that have befallen me since I’ve made your family’s acquaintance happen to all of your potential clients? Is that why you’ve come a-begging, lassie?” The grin deepened. “Business a bit slow lately?”

She colored, for his teasing speculation had found the truth. “Yes, but . . . no one’s been really hurt. Just little things, like Caesar spilling the gravy in Mr. Whigham’s lap—”

“Caesar? Mr. Whigham?”

“Caesar’s a cat that I rescued. Rescue Effort Number Twenty-Nine, I think. Mr. Whigham was a client. Or would’ve been, anyway, if Caesar hadn’t jumped up on the supper table the night he was supposed to sign the contract and spilled hot gravy all down the front of his breeches.”

“And Caesar? What was his fate that he needed your, er, rescuing?”

“Caesar’s a she. She was ship’s cat on Captain Greenleaf’s brig when I found one of his gunners abusing her.”

“Am I correct in assuming that this gunner met with a fate that was far less, er, pleasant than, uh, Caesar’s?”

Mira matched his grin, her face innocently impish. “Aye. I caught up to him that night and blackened his eye. Father was furious.”

“For blackening his eye?”

“No, for bringing the cat home. She was pregnant.”

“Oh.”

“And he was even more furious when she had her kittens.”

She looked very serious, and Brendan tugged at his mouth to hide his amusement. “And why was that, Miss Ashton? Doesn’t he like kittens?”

“Oh, he likes them, all right. He just doesn’t like seeing them born on the dining room table. You see, we were entertaining another client that night ...”

“Who no doubt decided to take his business to this Tracy fellow instead?”

She smirked. “Something like that.”

“I see. Well, Miss Ashton, as you’ve come here without cat, dog, or horse, I assume that I’m safe for the time being. Therefore, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here.”

She swallowed hard. The drafts lay atop the table, and she picked them up again, her heartbeat quickening as she took in the schooner’s rapine hull, the sharp rake of her masts, and her lean, predatory lines once more. Matt hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d predicted this ship would see the Ashton yards out of their slump. He hadn’t been talking through his hat when he predicted she’d be the pride of Newburyport. Hell, she’d not only be the pride of Newburyport, she’d be the pride of Massachusetts.

Wild despair filled her. She had to get Captain Merrick’s business back.

“Captain Merrick, I’m sure you realize that your schooner’s design and, uh, differences from what is considered standard will make her quite costly to build.” If Father caught her at this, he’d be furious.“ According to these plans, you want her hull sheathed in copper. Where do you think we’re going to find copper with a war going on? You want tops’ls and t’gallants, and studding sails, too. On a schooner? I’ve never seen the like! And you want hatches that face aft instead of forward, differences in rigging, and all sorts of unconventional modifications to deck features, let alone deviations from a standard hull shape—” She pointed toward the sleek bows. “—like this forward-raked stem, for instance. These things cost money.”

He was at the window again, sipping his water and staring off into the silvery, moonlit night. “Drier,” he said simply.

“What?”

“Facing the hatches aft, instead of forward. ’Twill keep her much drier belowdecks. Never could see the sense of having them open toward the fore.”

“Captain, with studding sails on her, I really don’t think you’ll have to worry about how dry she’ll be. I guarantee that’ll be the last thing you’ll be thinking about when a gust of wind hits her and knocks her over!”

He turned then and smiled, patiently, the way he might have done with an uncomprehending child. “Miss Ashton,” he said, coming forward and standing so close, she could feel the heat of his body and smell the pleasant aroma of his shaving soap. Gently, he took the drafts from her, his fingers accidentally brushing hers, causing her heart to jump madly beneath this foolish, constricting, silly gown she’d worn to try and impress him here tonight. But he, without even trying, was sure making an impression on her, and now her mouth was going dry as she stared at his hand, its long fingers now tracing, no, caressing the curve of the pencil-drawn hull. She trembled, wondering how those hands would feel on her, what it would be like to have him looking at her with as much fond admiration as he did those drafts.

And then he spoke, his voice soft, mellifluous, and very close to her ear as he set the drawings on his desk and, bending down beside her, pointed at the hull. “Kindly take a second look at the depth of her draft, Miss Mira. Do you honestly think she’ll not handle a fine press of sail? A wet boat she may be, but a stable one.”

“I don’t question your designing abilities,” she said, moving away from him in hopes of calming her racing heart.

“Oh? Then do you question my sailing?”

“Captain Merrick, are you going to listen to me or not?”

“Miss Ashton, are you going to offer me something I can use or not?”

“Fine!” Her chin came up and she stormed away, yanking out a chair and throwing herself into it with eyes flashing. Wryly, he noticed that she didn’t perch birdlike on the chair’s edge as a lady would’ve done; but then, he knew enough about this wee sprite, this bean sí, to know that despite the gown and the forced genteel demeanor, she still had the manners—and the temper—of a dockside brawler. And now she was leaning back, one arm thrown over the top rung of the chair and winding that thick hair around her wrist again, and it was only as she raised her leg as though intending to put her foot atop the table that she caught his eye and seemed to remember herself. Coughing discreetly to hide his amusement, Brendan watched her grin somewhat sheepishly and put that tiny foot back down on the deck where it belonged.

“I’ll be honest with you, Captain Merrick. I have nothing to bargain with, really. Oh, I have cats, but you don’t strike me as a man who’s terribly fond of them, and besides, they don’t like you either. I can offer you breeding rights to a fine Arabian stallion—” She ignored his shocked stare. “—but I have the feeling you don’t care for horses very much, and after today, I probably can’t blame you. And I have half ownership in the brig Proud Mistress, but what good would she be to you? She’s a fine ship, swift and sturdy, but beside her, your schooner would look like—like a kestrel beside a turkey vulture.”

“Kestrel,” he said softly, his eyes thoughtful.

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing. Do go on.”

“So I guess what I’m trying to say is that you simply have to give your business to Father.” She became desperate when he looked away in amusement. “Captain Merrick, please! I know you’ve had a . . . hard day, but you must understand how a shipbuilder like my father would sell his soul to build a vessel like your schooner. I’m prepared to beat any quotation that Tracy, Cross, Greenleaf, or even Hackett offers you.”

She didn’t have that authority, but he didn’t have to know that. Right now it was more important for him to see the light. She could make Father see it later.

“Any? And what will you give me if I do so, Miss Ashton?”

“Give you?”

Brendan held the quadrant up to the lantern, squinting as though taking a measurement. “Aye, give me. I do believe you came here with a proposal? A bargain, you called it.”

“I just told you, I could lower the price.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, looking unimpressed.

“Or we could better the delivery date, beat whatever Tracy or anyone else offers you.”

The captain yawned, picked up the sandglass, and flipped it over.

“There might be some way to get that copper for you. I don’t know how just yet, but I’m sure I could think of something.”

Brendan sighed and tossed the quadrant to the desk. “I think it’s past my bedtime,” he said.

“But, Captain Merrick—”

“Miss Ashton, those offers are all well and good, but they’re not enough to convince me that I should give my business to your father.”

“Then what would convince you?”

He leaned against his desk and crossed his arms. She saw his warm, laughing gaze drop to her bosom, move slowly up her throat, linger on her mouth, and finally meet her eyes. She suddenly knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

“A kiss from a pretty lass—” He grinned, full of roguish charm. “—may be all the convincing I need, Miss Moyrrra.”

“That’s . . . it?”

“That’s it.”

“Well then, I . . . I suppose that’s fair.”

“More than fair,” he agreed, his grin as weightless as a kite on a windy day. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid.”

“Afraid?” She laughed, too loudly, and made a dismissive motion with her hand. “I’m not afraid of a kiss.”

“Then come here, lass, and prove it.” His honey-colored eyes were growing warmer.

“Why don’t you come over here?”

“With pleasure,” he said, and Mira felt everything inside her stop as he straightened up from the desk and came toward her. Her heart began to beat frantically against her breastbone.

“Have you ever been kissed before, Miss Moyrrra?”

“By a man?”

“No, silly, by a tortoise. Of course, a man. What do you think?”

He paused before her, and slowly, gently, reached out to cup the side of her face with one of those hands that she’d been admiring just moments before. She shivered as he briefly caressed her cheekbone with his thumb, then slid his hand along her jaw and pushed his fingers into the unbound mass of her hair, forcing her to look up at him. For a moment, he just stood there, gazing into her eyes, and something inside her began to melt.

He bent his head so that his forehead rested against hers. “Put your arms around my neck,” he murmured, so close she could see the laughter in his eyes.

She reached up and did as he asked, and she felt his other hand go around her waist, the fingers splaying against her lower back and pulling her, unresistingly, closer to him. His breath feathered against her brow, her lashes, warm and smelling of sugared coffee.

“Are you ready to be kissed, Miss Moyrrra?”

“I’m ready. . . .”

“Then close your eyes.”

She closed them. Felt his lips touch her brow . . . her nose . . . the corner of her mouth as he lifted her face with gentle pressure beneath her jaw. Her heart began to pound, and a thick, languorous sensation flooded her limbs. She pressed closer to him, feeling the heat radiating from him like a furnace. His thumb rubbed lightly over her cheek, pushing her hair aside; and then—contact.

The kiss was all that she’d known it would be, and more than she’d dreamed it could be.

Mira wilted against him, shamelessly pressing herself against his body, pulling his head down to hers. She forgot to breathe. Her senses swam. His mouth ground against hers, the pressure forcing her lips apart, and she felt a strange, hot dampness at the junction of her thighs as his tongue slipped out and wickedly touched hers, warm and wet against her own. Colors burst behind her eyes and time and place slipped away. Her head was reeling. Spinning. Of their own accord, her hips pressed closer to him, and she felt the firm, unyielding pressure of his arousal against her belly.

He groaned, reached up to unhook her hands from behind his neck and pulled back, breaking the kiss.

“Is that all?” Mira asked, confused. The kiss had left her with a strange, unsatisfied longing for something she didn’t understand. Her lips were on fire. Her breasts were tingling, her lungs aching for want of air, and why did she feel so hot and aching and strange down there in her womanly parts?

“Let’s do that again,” she said, unable to keep her gaze from dropping toward the hard bulge beneath his breeches.

He was no longer laughing. In fact, he was breathing hard, the sound echoing in the stillness of the cabin, and the look in his eyes was one of confusion and something like panic. He swung away, as though in pain. “I think you should go,” he said, his voice oddly strained.

“Why?”

“It is late, Miss Ashton.”

She could see him fighting to gain control of himself. He was gripping the back of a chair, refusing to look at her, and she saw that his knuckles were white. “But what about finishing our kiss?” she asked, confused.

“Faith, lassie, you’re young enough that you’ve no idea just what it is you’re offering—” He opened his eyes and stared desperately at the deck planking above. “—and I’m old enough to know better than to take it. Now, go, before I change my mind and do something we’ll both regret.”

Mira stared at him, wondering if he found her wanting. “I can’t see how we’d regret it.”

“I said go, Miss Moyrrra!”

“I mean, you might regret it, but I won’t,” she said, still reeling from the heady, wild sensations that tingled through every nerve in her body. She moved closer to him, pulled him away from the chair, and tried to wind her arms around his neck once more.

Her hands never got past his shoulders. He grabbed her wrists, thrust her away, and stood staring at her, holding her at arm’s length. “For the love of God, Moyrrra, go! Faith, just go! I’ve already decided who shall build my schooner, and nothing you can say or do will change that.”

If he’d slapped her across the face, he couldn’t have hurt her more.

Mira’s volatile temper flared to life. “What about our bargain? I gave you your kiss and it’s still not good enough, huh? What kind of a bleedin’ bargain do you drive, anyhow, Brit? I held up my end of it!” Embarrassed and humiliated, she picked up her skirts, holding them above the glass-strewn floor as she stormed toward the door. “If that’s how you want it, then fine. Take yer drafts to Tracy or Hackett or Greenleaf and let them build the damned thing! See if I bloody well care!”

She grabbed for the latch.

“Miss Ashton?”

She whirled, her petticoats twining around her legs, her hair flying over her shoulder.

“I really don’t think they could kiss as well as you.”

“Wha—”

The total ridiculousness of his statement—and the way the corners of his mouth were turning up once more—melted her anger. For a moment she glared at him, trying to maintain it, but she couldn’t. A sparkle had come into his eyes, and it was impossible to be mad at him when he was looking at her like that.

Especially when he was looking at her like that.

“I told you I had already made my decision,” he said. “And there is no changing my mind. I will call on your father tomorrow to give him the drafts and sign any papers that need signing.” His grin spread. “There was no need for you to worry so, Miss Mira. There was never any question about who would build my schooner.”

Chapter 7

Work began on the schooner without delay.

Her lines were lofted to Brendan’s drafts in an empty room above Ephraim’s office, her keel scarfed and laid on blocks a stone’s throw from the Merrimack, not far from where Annabel, stripped of her guns, fittings, and furnishings, lay moldering in muck and marsh grass. Shipwrights, carpenters, planking gangs, and caulkers; sailors, strong-armed men, young boys, and old salts alike—they worked like hell to build her, fitting stem and stern posts, hewing sleek ribs from massive white oak, and finishing them with broad ax and adz.

By first frost, the cry of “Frame up!” was a daily one, and beneath the shrewd and wintry eye of Ephraim Ashton, all would drop what they were doing to heave and haul and hoist each horseshoe-shaped rib up, up, up, until a lean and lovely skeleton shaped itself beneath the matchless blue skies, and the tales of its unique beauty drew crowds from as far away as Boston to see it.

Dubbers’ adzes rang out in the crisp mornings before the birds were even up; planking gangs swarmed over her, managing to lay two, sometimes three, streaks of plank over her ribs per day, and it wasn’t long before mallets were ringing against hawsing irons and driving oakum and cotton beneath her skin to make her watertight. Ports were cut along her sides in readiness for the sharp four- and six-pounders she would carry; bulwarks were strengthened, rails fashioned, woodwork sanded and varnished. Day by day she grew, proud and lovely and strong, until at last she was sealed with tar and kissed by the carpenter’s planes in readiness for the paint that would protect her from the bite of salt water.

Her builder dressed her in black, painted a jaunty white stripe between her wales, and paid her bottom with a formidable mixture of tallow, brimstone, and resin. Her deck was varnished, her sleek and spartan stern counter left uncluttered by excessive scrollwork; that which was there was picked out in gold.

She was sleek, she was sultry—and she was the pride of Newburyport.

Her launching day dawned as a frosty, crisp-cold morning that promised frostier, crisper ones to come. It would be many weeks before her masts were in place, her rigging fitted, and she was ready for sea, but that special moment of launching—when the new hull touched water for the very first time—was always cause for a celebration. Giant crowds came from far and wide, gathering along the riverbanks as the sun rose up from the sea and through creamy pink skies filled with cottony puffballs of clouds. The sweet fragrance of autumn leaves perfumed the air, and grass made a last stand of color before winter’s brute desolation would wipe the slate of the earth clean. But everyone came, leaving pumpkins and squash dragging down the vines, apples to be harvested, pies cooling on windowsills, tasks left undone or put aside. Privateers returned early from the sea, their crews toasting the new ship with grog and sweet cherry rum. Children were lifted atop shoulders, adults craned their necks. Dockworkers and deckhands, laborers, merchants, lawyers, and physicians—all crowded into the Ashton Shipyards, pushing and shoving against one another just for a glimpse of the ship that stood atop her ways looking down at them like a queen at her coronation. People took boats out into the harbor for a spot to see; others hung out of second-story windows in a rapidly filling Market Square. Horses and carriages clogged the streets, ships of every size and style filled the harbor, apple cider ran like water, and hot chocolate steamed the air.

And atop her blocks the schooner waited, her rails draped with the flags of her new country, her slick black hull glowing pink, then gold, in the strengthening sunlight. She heard the people’s praise, felt their awe. She endured their reverent hands upon her flanks. She was confident, smug, self-assured, and utterly feminine.

And those who figured they knew better predicted she’d sink before she even settled her sleek shoulders into the water.

The sun rose higher, turning the morning skies to fire. Standing atop an elevated platform, Reverend Edward Bass, pastor of St. Paul’s Church, spoke solemn words of blessing and prayer over her. Beside him Ephraim Ashton, whose business had quadrupled over the past two months, stood gloating and swinging his watch, every so often elbowing his son in the ribs. The crowds milled and surged and grew impatient. They hadn’t come here to see their pastor, nor their suddenly renowned shipbuilder, nor his hotheaded son; they’d come to watch a launching—and see for themselves the real mastermind behind that magnificent schooner: the blithe, handsome young Irishman (Englishman! some insisted) who would command her.

But Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, who for reasons known only to himself had spent the past two months up in Portsmouth, kept to the back of the platform, allowing the reverend to say his blessings, Ephraim to do his bragging, and the schooner to speak for herself.

Finally the pastor shut his Bible and stepped back.

Ephraim cleared his throat, consulted his watch, cleared his throat once again. A final toast was made, a bottle of champagne cracked across the svelte black bow. The tension rose. A thousand spectators held their breaths, milling, murmuring, and waiting.

She’s too sharp through the hull, some whispered.

Too singular in design.

They pressed closer.

She’ll go right to the bottom, just you watch.

And closer.

A cannon boomed out. And then her handsome young captain, impeccably dressed in a blue coat with red facings and gold buttons streaming down his chest, stepped forward to send her on her first journey to the sea. He looked at her long and hard—some would later swear there was mist in his eyes—and then he waved his hand, stood back, and watched as the hammers rose and fell, rose and fell, smashing apart the blocks that bridled her and severing the harnesses that kept her from the sea.

The schooner stirred to life.

The crowd gasped. They held their breaths; and then they shoved forward with a roar. “There she goes!”

She trembled, lurched, began to move. Then she gathered speed, whispering to herself as she slid down the ways, faster and faster and faster, slipping into the river with hardly a splash.

She dipped.

She righted herself.

She moved away, trembling a bit as she got the feel of the water.

But she did not sink.

She did not sink!

The crowd roared and went wild. The air rang with deafening cheers and music and the glorious thunder of exultant cannon. And at that very moment something small and hawklike darted out of the dawn with a keening cry, swooping on the predatory wings of a raptor, touching briefly upon the schooner’s rail before wheeling and skimming back out over the waters of the river.

A kestrel.

And so she’d been named.

Mira, patriotically garbed in a red and white striped gown that matched the flags along the schooner’s rails, watched the launching from Rigel’s back, where she had a perfect vantage point above the great throngs who had come to witness the event.

She was filled with delight as she saw, for the first time, the name carved across the schooner’s counter, and flushed with pleasure as she remembered the snippet of conversation that night, that very late night, in Captain Merrick’s cabin that surely must have inspired it.

“She’s a fine ship, swift and sturdy, but beside her, your schooner would look like—like a kestrel beside a turkey vulture.”

“Kestrel,” he had said softly, his eyes thoughtful.

“Huh?”

“Oh, nothing. Do go on.”

She swallowed, hard. He had not forgotten, then—and had named his ship, his beautiful, beloved, and precious ship, at her unwitting suggestion.

Kestrel. He had named her Kestrel.

As though her poor heart wasn’t already buffeted by myriad feelings. Pride as she watched the schooner slide down the ways and heard the crowd’s roaring appreciation. Excitement at the idea of seeing Captain Merrick again. And nervousness.

Would he remember their kiss? Would he want to repeat it?

But he did not seek Mira out. Indeed, as the minutes stretched into an hour, and she watched him talk with her father, then allow himself to be drawn away by a group of other sea captains and privateers without so much as looking for her, only to disappear into the crowd, she felt stung.

Her temper rising, she tried to back Rigel up, only to hear a howl of pain and a curse from behind her.

“Have a care where you’re riding, wench!” a man shouted.

“Why don’t you have a care where you’re standing?” she shot back.

The stranger grabbed Rigel’s bridle, cruelly pulling his head by the bit. “Don’t you take that tone with me, missy,” he snarled. “That damned animal just stepped on my toe.”

“Let go of that bridle or it’ll be more than your bleedin’ toe that’s hurting!”

The man gave the bit a vicious yank; Rigel reared, a woman screamed, and Mira, furious, slashed the man across the face with the crop. “I said, let go of my horse!”

He made a lunge for her, and at that moment, Matt and Ephraim were suddenly there.

“What the tarnal hell’s going on here?” Ephraim bellowed, taking in Mira’s angry face and the bright red welt across the man’s cheek. “Can’t I leave ye alone for one moment without you startin’ something? You and these damned hosses! Here it is, the crowning moment of my shipbuildin’ career and you have to go an’ spoil it with yer shenanigans! Cripes and guts, Mira, what the bleedin’ hell is the matter with ye?”

“He was abusing Rigel!”

“She backed that damned beast right over my foot!”

Ephraim was relentless. “And what d’ye think Merrick’s gonna think of ye if he sees you acting like a damned hoyden? Damn it, Mira, don’t you have any self-respect? Any pride in yerself? Why can’t ye act like a lady?”

Matt’s eyes began to flash behind his spectacles. “Father—”

“You stay out of it!”

Ephraim turned and stormed back through the throng, the stranger gave her a mocking sneer, and unable to take any more, Mira wheeled Rigel and sent him through Market Square and down the length of High Street at a speed that tore the ribbons from her hair. By the time she thundered up the lawn and into the stable, she was nearly in tears.

Was she that much of an embarrassment? And was Father right? Had she left such a bad impression on Captain Merrick that he wouldn’t even come over to say hello to her?

She tore off the saddle, removed the bridle, and snatching up a brush, began grooming the colt. It had only been a kiss. One little kiss, nothing more. She was a fool for thinking he had actually cared about her. She was a fool for spending all this time anticipating his return to Newburyport, thinking that he’d want to court her, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’d want to kiss her again. To her dismay, she felt tears starting to fall. She swore, and sniffed them back. But they persisted, burning her nose and glistening on her cheeks, running under her jaw, down her neck, and beneath her bodice. With the back of her hand she angrily swiped them away, but they kept coming, faster and faster, again and again, no matter how many times she swiped—

“Hello?”

Her hand froze atop Rigel’s withers, the brush with it.

“Hello? Anyone in there?”

The captain. The last thing she needed was for him to see her crying. Swatting at the tears, she shouted, “Go away!”

“That you, Miss Moyrrra?”

“I said go away, you slimy bucket of bilge water!”

That felt better. Immensely better. But it didn’t stop the tears, flowing even harder now as she attacked Rigel’s coat with an ardor that he, leaning into the brush, clearly enjoyed.

And it didn’t stop the captain from entering the barn. The patch of sunlight that streamed through the open doorway was suddenly blotted out. Straw rustled behind her. Rigel craned his neck around, pricking his ears forward. Hating herself for the tears she was powerless to stop, Mira clenched her jaw, her hand moving faster and faster as she hauled the curry brush across Rigel’s flank. She could sense the captain’s nearness, could feel him looming over her. Her blood began to tingle in response, in memory, and she hated herself for it.

Without looking up, she hollered, “Did ye hear me, you stinking pile of gull’s dung? I said go away!”

And then his hand closed over hers, warm and strong and gentle, sending shock waves up her arm and stilling the frantic movements of the brush.

“Why so angry, Miss Moyrrra?”

She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Rigel’s horsey scent clung to her fingers. “Go away, would you? Just go away.” But he didn’t go away. He moved closer, his fingers dry and warm against her cold, wet ones as he gently tried to pry her hands from her face, and failing, let his palms slide down her wrists, her lower arms, finally grasping her by the shoulders and drawing her stiffly up against his smartly buttoned coat. She caught the clean scents of wool and sea-wind, felt buttons pressing against her lips, her brow, her cheek.

How bloody embarrassing. She wanted to hate his guts—the English ones, the Irish ones, and even the American ones, if he had any. But he was solid and warm and comforting, and she clung to him like a child, her face buried against his chest while he stared down at her with a helpless expression robbing his handsome face of its usual good humor.

Gently, he asked, “Tears, Miss Moyrrra? Might I ask why?”

“It’s none of your bloody business!”

“I see.” Nodding thoughtfully, he set her away from himself and turned away, hands clasped above his coattails, chestnut queue lying between his perfectly straight, perfectly British shoulders. Like many of the other privateer captains, he wore a blue uniform with red facings, fashioned after those of the American Continental navy—but he wore his with the dash and aplomb of a king’s officer.

For some reason, that made her all the more angry.

She eyed him as he leaned against a stall door and poked at the straw with his toe. “But I should think it is my business,” he said logically. “After all, ’twas the launching of my ship that seems to have distressed you so. I might wonder why.”

“I have my own troubles, all right? If I wanted to share ’em with you, I would!”

“You’re a confusing lass, Miss Ashton.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about them!”

“Yes, I heard you. You may think me stupid—er, what was it you called me? A bucket of gull’s droppings?” He grinned, and a teasing light came into his eyes. “But I can assure you I’m not deaf. Besides, gull’s droppings smell quite foul. I don’t smell, do I?”

“What?”

“Buckets of bilge water are quite malodorous, too. Though I admit it’s been a while since I’ve actually bent down and stuck my nose in one. Actually, I prefer to wash with soap and clean water, like most people do. That’s why I’m puzzled.”

“Puzzled?” She stared at him. “Puzzled about what?”

“Why you seem to think I smell, of course.”

“I never said you smelled!”

“But don’t gull’s droppings? And bilge water?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She was about to turn and storm away from him when she saw that one corner of his mouth was twitching, and laughter danced in his gold-flecked eyes.

“You’re teasing me, Captain Merrick, and I don’t like it one bit!”

“Am I? Faith and troth, why would I do that?”

“Because you’re . . . you’re trying to make me feel better!”

“I am?” He cocked his head, eyes bright and deceptively innocent beneath the shadow of his tricorne. “And why would I do that?”

“Blast it all, I don’t know!”

“Hmm. Neither do I. Therefore, I suppose that’s not what I’m trying to do, is it?”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

He looked at her blankly. “Why, I don’t know.”

“You and your damned Irish blarney! You’re toying with me! You’re making me look and feel like a bleeding fool! You came all the way over here just so you could do that, didn’t you? Just so you could—”

“Good God, Miss Ashton, that’s not the reason I came over here at all. Oh, no. I would never do that. Not to a lady. I mean, make you feel like a fool. And if you do feel like a fool, then I’m profusely sorry—”

“Captain Merrick, would you please stop!”

Again he flashed that damned Irishman’s grin that was so at odds with his proper English bearing. “Only,” he said jauntily, “if you will stop addressing me like that. I really prefer to be called Brendán. Or Brendan, if you like. ’Tis me name, ye know,” he said, piling on his brogue, “given t’ me by me ma aft’r th’ patron saint o’ sailors.”

“As long as there’s this—this friction between us, I’ll call you Captain Merrick.”

“Friction? Faith, is there friction between us?”

She was going to kill him. Damn and thunder, she would, she would, she would! Slamming her fist against the stall door, she swore like a sailor and shouted, “Then why the hell did you come here?”

He was looking at her hand, not grinning quite so hard now. Mira jerked away, jamming the hand into the pocket of her skirt to hide it—and keep herself from striking him with it.

“Ah, yes. Why did I come here?” he mused, bending his head down into his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose, as though trying awfully hard to remember. And then he looked up, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “To get a ship built. Your father builds the finest ones this side—”

“Not Newburyport, here! To this barn!”

“Why, to see you, of course.”

Why, to see you, of course.

Instantly, Mira forgot her throbbing hand. “To see . . . me?”

His eyes warmed. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks.”

The earth shifted beneath Mira’s feet and, flustered, she turned away, not quite knowing how to react. She felt suddenly hot, despite the coldness of the day. “What about your new schooner? I’d have thought you’d want to spend time admiring her, not . . . coming here.”

“Ah, my schooner.” And then, grinning: “Do you like her name? I asked your da not to tell you what I’d decided to call her. I wanted it to be a surprise for you.”

Mira bent her head so her hair covered her hot cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.

“But, to answer your question, Miss Moyrrra, I can’t wait to admire her. But it would be far more fun if I had some company when I go aboard her for the first time.” He moved into her line of vision and leaned against Rigel, propping his elbow against the colt’s withers as he regarded her with one brow raised.

“You’re happy with her, then?” Mira asked.

“Delighted. In fact, I’ve given your da some, uh, enticement to get her masts stepped and rigging strung in half the time he’d originally planned.”

“You must be a terribly rich man, Captain.”

“Brendan.”

“Brendan.” She glared at him. “Are you, then?”

“Am I what?”

“Rich, dammit!”

“Oh no, not really. Not anymore. I gave the bulk of my savings to your father so he could build the ship. Of course, ’twas a pity he couldn’t get the copper hull sheathing I wanted, but I suppose if I’d had to pay for that, I could never have afforded her.”

“She’s prettier without it,” Mira allowed.

“You think so?”

“Don’t you? You’re the naval architect.”

Still caressing her with his gentle, laughing gaze, he moved away, plucking a halter from a nail and swinging it by one of its metal rings. “Naval architect? How flattering. I always fancied myself a simple sea captain.”

“You’re nothing like any sea captain I’ve ever known.”

He looked a little hurt. “And why is that?”

“You’re too . . . oh, I don’t know. Besides, whoever heard of a sea captain who doesn’t swear, spit, or drink?”

“How would you know I don’t drink?”

“I saw you take water that night in Annabel’s cabin!”

“Oh.”

“And you don’t spit or swear, either,” she reminded him, trying not to think of the way his assessing, admiring gaze was making her feel.

“Spitting’s a nasty habit, and I do, too, swear.”

“Not very well.”

“That’s true. You’re far better at it.”

“Damn right I am!”

He quirked a brow, teasing her. And then he grinned, and laughed. She flushed, feeling adrift as a rudderless ship in a storm. “So what are you, some religious fanatic or something? Is that why you don’t drink?”

“Oh, no, that’s not the reason a’tall. Although I do hold a shipboard service every Sunday for those who wish to partake of it.”

“Then what is the reason?”

“Why, to worship, of course.”

“That you don’t drink!”

“Oh, that.” He was gazing at her again, his eyes warm. “Do you care?”

“Not really!”

“Then why must you know?”

“Because I—” Her mouth snapped shut and she turned away, fingernails biting into her palms and leaving red crescents in the damp skin as she willed herself not to hit him. “You’re right,” she ground out through clenched teeth. “I don’t need to know. It’s none of my business, is it?”

“No, it’s not, but if it really matters to you—”

“It doesn’t really matter to me, all right?”

“I think it does. Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked. People ask questions because they wish to know the answers. People answer questions because they’ve been asked them. A very logical system, really. So therefore, I think that I should answer your question, simply because you asked it, and must really want an answer despite the fact your pride prevents you from admitting it. Actually, the reason—”

“Damn you, you’re the most irritating, vexing, exasperating—”

“—I don’t drink is because spirits don’t agree with me.”

She came up short, her face as red as the stripes of her gown. “Don’t agree with you? Hah, I’m not surprised! I’m sure there are many things in this world that don’t agree with you! Let’s just hope for your sake, Captain, that your bleedin’ schooner isn’t one of ’em!”

“And why do you say that?”

“With all that sail you intend to pile on her, one gust of wind’ll knock her flat on her side!”

“Well then, we’d better hope I’m as good a captain as you suspect I’m not, and thank the good Lord that I don’t drink, eh?”

She scrunched up one side of her face. “What?”

“I said, we’d better hope—”

“Never mind, Captain, I heard you the first time!”

“Brendan.”

“Brendan!”

Gripping the brush, she turned to Rigel once more, her heavy hair swinging against the horse’s rump, her eyes glittering with temper. The man was a lunatic! Insane! As nonsensical and idiotic as—

“Actually, Miss Moyrrra,” he said quietly, all serious now, “I was hoping I might call on you while I’m here in Newburyport.”

The brush seemed to stop of its own accord. “Call on me?”

“That is, if you don’t mind the blarney of a half-Irishman who finds you hopelessly enchanting.”

She suddenly couldn’t meet his eyes. “Me, enchanting? Father said I’m an embarrassment. That you’d be ashamed of me.”

“Ashamed? Nay, lass. Amused and bedeviled by you, afraid and enamored of you. Never ashamed. What nonsense! Faith, that wasn’t why you were crying, was it?”

“Might’ve been,” she said.

“Oh, lassie,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“I grew up without a mother. All I had was Matt and Father. Nobody ever taught me how to act like a lady, Captain.”

“Brendan,” he said softly, reaching up to cup her cheek.

“Brendan ...” She squeezed her eyes shut, unresisting, as he drew her up against his chest and held her close to his heart. She melted against him, no longer caring about the tears that slid down her cheeks, betraying her. She felt only his knuckles grazing her throat like the brush of a butterfly’s wings . . . his thumbs against her cheeks . . . his warm breath against her face. She lifted her face to his, and then there was only his mouth, gentle and tender, warm and firm and sweet and wonderful. . . .

With slow, languorous tenderness he ended the kiss, leaving her numb and shaken. His finger came up to smooth her lower lip, and dazed, she stared up into his warm, cider-colored eyes, trying in vain to draw air into her lungs.

And then she found her voice.

“Holy sh—”

He laughed, and drove an unsteady hand through his tousled curls. “’Pon my soul, you do funny things to a man’s heart,” he murmured, laying his cheek atop her silky hair. “Best, I think, not to linger here, lest we end up in a situation we’ll both regret. I’d love to go tour my new schooner, and I’d love her builder’s daughter to accompany me. What do you say, Miss Moyrra? Will you do me the honor?”

Chapter 8

“Get your bloody hands off me, you stinking rebel filth!”

His white waistcoat, breeches, and stockings were now gray with grime and his once fine uniform was torn in a dozen places. But the pride and arrogance with which Captain Richard Crichton had worn that uniform were intact—even after three months of confinement in this hellhole of a prison ship anchored in Boston Harbor.

That the British counterparts of this prison ship were supposed to be even worse mattered not to Crichton. He’d been mocked and taunted by his American jailors, fed putrid pork and water so foul that he’d had to strain it through his teeth just to get it down, and moldy biscuit crawling with weevils. But that was nothing compared to the humiliation they’d made him suffer, and in front of his own officers and men, too. They’d torn the buttons from his coat that proclaimed his seniority as captain; they’d ripped the epaulets from his shoulders and the buckles from his shoes; they’d even taken his fine gold-laced hat and paraded up and down the ship, laughing at his rage and damning the king and all who served him.

Bloody bastards.

And it was all the fault of Brendan Jay Merrick.

Today Crichton was being exchanged for American prisoners of war, but he wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones. Oh, he’d get even with Merrick. He’d go back to Sir Geoffrey, get command of another ship, and make Merrick pay for the poor treatment and humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of the Americans.

Angrily he flung off his jailors’ hands as they herded him abovedecks, vowing to get revenge.

Captain Richard Crichton always made good his vows.

If Britannia thought she already had enough troubles with her rebellious colonies—1778 had marked the official French entry into the conflict—she was soon to find that those troubles had only just begun. Forced by the French involvement into what some called a world war, Britain was hard pressed to protect her coasts from a possible invasion by her old enemy; keep up her strength in the West Indies, where both she and France held possessions; and subdue the insubordinate Americans with a fleet that was already spread far too thin to be completely effective.

While the few ships that made up the American Continental navy surpassed those turned out in British yards in both quality and design, they were poorly officered, and the caliber of most of their commanders fell short of that of the ships themselves. Such was not the case, however, with the American privateers. Like clouds of hornets, they swarmed out of their nests—Salem, Beverly, Newburyport, and Portsmouth—hiding in coves and inlets, hunting in “wolf packs,” and preying upon British shipping whenever the opportunity arose. They stole supplies and munitions destined for British troops and rerouted them to Washington’s forces. They armed everything from whaleboats to fishing schooners to fine frigates. They harried and harassed England, created panic around her coasts, and drove insurance on her merchant ships out of control.

Their names were anathema to British shipping and Admiralty alike: the plucky John Paul Jones in his Ranger out of Portsmouth, New Hampshire; Silas Talbot, sailing from Providence, Rhode Island; Hardy in the General Hancock; Haraden in the General Pickering; Nathaniel Tracy and Matthew Ashton from Newburyport. They were men with grit and guts and valor, and their tough little ships were their equal in every way.

And now, swinging proudly at her cable in the ice-choked waters of the Merrimack was a sharp new schooner, with topsails furled on gleaming yards, black hull reflecting on the rippling river, sharply raked masts reaching into a sky that blazed with winter sun.

Kestrel.

On the day her windlass was fitted and the last of her rigging strung, a jubilant Ephraim Ashton sent word to her commander, still up in Portsmouth, that she was ready for sea, and issued an invitation for him and his sister to stay at his home in Newburyport for as long as it pleased them. Mira, trying to be hospitable, issued her own invitation for Brendan’s sister to learn how to ride at Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship. Perhaps, they both added, the good captain would consider making Newburyport his home port?

Exactly one week later, Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, vacating the house he and his sister had rented in Portsmouth, arrived in town, trunk snugged under his arm, ditty bag slung over his shoulder, and a jaunty smile lighting his handsome face.

When the word came that the captain was back, Mira would have been hard pressed to know whether it was Father’s order that she meet the stage, or her own admitted eagerness to see Brendan again—and his expression when he laid eyes on the schooner—that sent her barreling down the frozen High Street on Rigel at a speed that surpassed dangerous. Her intentions were good, really they were.

It was not her fault that she never did get to meet the stagecoach as it came over the ferry. As Rigel thundered down High Street, lopped off the corner of Fish Street, and charged toward the waterfront at breakneck speed, she saw the ferry just coming across the river.

And that wasn’t all she saw.

Merchant ships and privateers tied up at the wharves, their bowsprits stabbing far out over weathered dock planking that was patchy with ice.

A boy crouched in their long shadows, hunched down on his heels cleaning fish and tossing the scraps into the half-frozen river.

And an emaciated gray wharf cat that prowled around him, rubbing against his bent legs and begging for a handout.

All this Mira took in at a full gallop, through the lash of Rigel’s mane and the haze of her own mounting excitement. And it was the boy’s misfortune that he chose that exact moment to tire of the cat’s pestering and, rising, kicked viciously at the hapless creature and sent it sprawling across the wharf.

Poor sixteen-year-old Billy Jacobs never knew what hit him. One moment he was cleaning fish and thinking about one of the wenches who worked at Wolfe Tavern; the next he was flung onto the back and set upon by a fury straight from hell.

Brawling had never been Mira’s forte, but she could certainly hold her own when she had to. In her wrath Mira was heedless of the fact that Billy outweighed her by a good fifty pounds. What mattered was that he outweighed the cat by a hundred forty!

“Kick a defenseless animal, will you? Abuse something smaller than you?” Screaming at the top of her lungs, she pummeled his nose, his lips, his cheek, with merciless fists. “How dare you, you worthless pile of puke! Slinking skin of a maggot! I’ll teach you never to do it again!” She smashed him a good one to the side of his eye, landed another to the bottom of his chin. “You think you’re the only critter God put on this earth?” His nose crumpled under her fist and sprayed blood. “I ever see you hurting an innocent animal again, so help me God I’ll kill you, you heaping pile of moose manure!”

So caught up was she in giving Billy his just desserts that she never saw the gang of shipyard and dock workers, seamen, fishermen—and passengers from the stage—who all dropped what they were doing and came racing headlong down the wharf to see the fight. But she heard them cheering her on, those from the Ashton yards yelling at the tops of their lungs and jumping up and down in wild excitement. “Go, Mira! Go, Mira! Whip ’im good! Bloody his nose s’more! C’mon, Mira! Kill ’im!”

Billy, howling in pain, was now giving as good as he got, slamming his fist into the side of her chin so hard that he nearly dislocated her head from her neck. She swung viciously back and blackened his eye. Again, and she cut her frozen knuckles on his tooth. They were blind punches, for she saw nothing through her tangled hair, heard nothing but the roar of the crowd cheering her on, felt nothing but a haze of red anger and his cowardly tears diluting the blood that ran from her knuckles. And she was barely aware of her own voice, though she was yelling at a volume that would’ve rivaled anything Ephraim could have produced. “And furthermore, if I ever again hear that you’ve been mistreating your horse—”

“Stop,” he sobbed, “oh please, for the love of God, stop—”

“—I’ll make you wish you were never born!”

“Stop!” He was screaming now, terrified. “Mercy! Mercy!”

“Cowardly scum!” she raged, slamming him hard. “Do you think that cat could ask for mercy? Or your horse? Damn you for the sniveling rat you are! Only cowards mistreat helpless animals!”

And as she drew back for another blow, her wrist was seized in a hard and unyielding grip.

Blinded by fury, she spun around, already swinging at the idiot who’d dared pull her off a fight she’d clearly been winning. She saw a blur of cloth and lace as his arm flashed up, catching her fist against his open hand before it could connect with his face. She opened her mouth to fire a stream of choice curses at him—

—and in horror, realized who it was.

Brendan.

He stood holding her by both wrists, looking shocked but not surprised. Behind him the crowd sent up a clamor of protest, some muttering, some yelling, but all quite vocal about their dismay that he’d put an end to their entertainment. He ignored them, looking polished and handsome in an elegant green frock coat trimmed in gold brocade—too polished and handsome to be troubling himself with a one-sided dockyard fight. But his expression was an interesting mix of amusement and admiration as he stared down at her. She drew herself up, shoved her hair out of her face—and not knowing what else to do, grinned sheepishly.

“Hello, Brendan.”

“What was that you were saying,” he said with a meaningful glance at the sobbing Billy, “about picking on poor defenseless creatures, Miss Moyrrra?”

Oh, wounds, she thought, beginning to feel quite awkward. She’d done it again, hadn’t she? The awkwardness progressed into downright embarrassment at being caught in such an unladylike pursuit as fighting.

But damn it all, Billy had deserved it! So what if Brendan disapproved? What did his opinion matter, anyhow?

It mattered quite a bit, otherwise she wouldn’t feel so awkward and uncomfortable, nor would his mere touch make her remember the kisses that had burned themselves into her memory. She cursed, inwardly. No doubt he thought of her as some little street urchin, with her hair a wall of darkness she couldn’t even see through, and her clothes—her brother’s clothes—ripe with horse-scent. Nearby, Billy, his face in his hands, was sobbing, and she could hear the loud grumbles and complaints of the crowd.

She tossed her head, and her hair flung itself out of her eyes and over one shoulder and she could see again. A hundred people were staring at her, those who knew her laughing and jostling one another in the ribs, those who didn’t staring in shocked horror when it became apparent that the scrappy little lad who’d been beating up another twice his size was no scrappy little lad at all. There were a few women, who didn’t look quite so amused or admiring as the men. Especially the chubby one in the pink silk gown and thick cape who stood gaping at her just behind Brendan.

Mira’s wrists were still held in his viselike grip, and she tried to jerk free so that she might reclaim her dignity. “Defenseless?” She attempted a smile and wished she could melt into the cracks between the wharf planking. “Billy is not defenseless. He carries a knife in his belt, and if he’d tried to use it on me, it wouldn’t have been the first time. And would you please—” She renewed her struggles to free herself. “— let go of my wrists? Really, Brendan, I don’t consider you defenseless. I won’t hit you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

He laughed and released her, his expression instantly sobering when Billy, with a strangled sob, lunged to his feet and hurled himself at Mira. Brendan grabbed him before any more damage could be done. “Here now,” he said disapprovingly. “We’ll have none of that. She won the fight fair and square, lad. Go on home now before you two end up bloody well killing each other.”

“I’ll not be bested by a mere woman!”

Mira whirled, her thick hair flashing about her face. “You were bested, Billy, and if you lay one finger on me, so help me God I’ll send you spinning on your arse so hard, you won’t be able to get up in the morning!” She hunched her shoulders and tapped her chin, her angry breaths coming out in frosty puffs. “Come on, try it! Hit me, not a poor little cat! C’mon, I dare you, you frigging pile of cow sh—”

“I said, enough!” Brendan yanked the two apart, his voice sterner than she’d ever heard it. “And that goes for both of you. Young man, take your fish bucket and go. Miss Mira, please tend to your horse. He seems to be eating the adornments on that woman’s hat, and I daresay she’s likely to swoon—”

The crowd exploded in laughter, and when Mira saw whose hat Rigel was chomping on, she did, too. “Rigel!” She placed two frozen fingers into her mouth and whistled, and the colt lifted his head from Miss Lucy Preble’s perfectly outlandish hair arrangement, a few silk daisies caught helplessly in his mouth. Chewing loudly, he stepped away from his victim—who chose that moment to swoon, exactly as Brendan had predicted—and started toward Mira, his shod hooves booming hollowly upon the wharf as he broke into a trot.

The crowd roared, and even Brendan’s russet brows lifted in high amusement. But the sulky girl in pink who stood behind him did not smile. In fact, she didn’t look amused at all.

“Really, Brendan. Can we please go now?” she sniffed.

Mira, catching Rigel’s bridle, felt the grin freeze upon her mouth. The girl had a possessive hand on Brendan’s sleeve now, and she was looking at both Mira and Rigel with a mixture of dislike, disdain, and unfriendliness she made no attempt to hide. She had pale golden hair that was powdered into even more paleness, too much jewelry hanging around what little neck she had, and a very full, pouting mouth that was firmly anchored on both beams. And that wasn’t all she had. A double chin. Short little legs and inflated wrists, also draped with jewelry. Doughy white skin and pudgy hands, one peeping beneath yards of lace, the other tucked into the pocket of her voluminous skirts, as though she was trying to hide it.

There were enough similarities between the two—the same caramel-colored eyes, the same nose, cripes, even the same way one brow was set slightly higher than the other—that there was no doubt in Mira’s mind just who this girl was.

Drawing Rigel close, Mira looked from one to the other and said baldly, “Oh, don’t mind Miss Preble. She’s just mad ’cause my brother dumped her last month. But she really shouldn’t be, ’cause he’s since dumped the girl he dumped her for, and I have a running bet with Father that he’ll dump the present one before the month is out. Besides, anyone could see by the way she was looking at Brendan that the swoon was a calculated attempt to get his attention. There’s nothing wrong with her, believe me.”

Brendan made a strangled sound.

“’Bout time Matt put a new coat of paint on Mistress’s figurehead, seeing’s how he’s made it a tradition to paint it like his lover every time he decides to find himself a new one.” She jerked her head in the direction of the brig standing anchored in the harbor. “Right now, that figurehead has so many layers of paint on it, I figure it’d take ten workers wielding a hundred chisels a year to dig it all off.”

Her attempts at humor, though truthful, brought a sparkle to Brendan’s eye, but only further contempt to his companion’s.

“Brendan,” the girl whined, and tugged at his sleeve.

“Fan go fóill, Eveleen. Just a moment.”

“But Brendan, I’m hungry.”

The crowd, losing interest, began to disperse. “I said, just a moment, Eveleen. I think introductions are in order.”

“Introductions? You mean you’re acquainted with this . . . this creature?”

Mira’s hands tightened on Rigel’s reins, and she drew herself up to her full height. “Are you calling my horse a creature?”

The girl gave her a long, haughty look, the sort a queen might have given a fishwife. There was no warmth in her eyes, just plain, open hostility. “No, I am not. I was referring to you.”

“Oh, dear.” Brendan caught Mira as she lunged forward. “Please, ladies, we’ll have none of this.”

Mira struggled in his grip. “She just insulted me!”

“Brendan, can we please get going? You promised to take me to this Wolfe Tavern for a piece of apple pie.”

“Eveleen, just a moment, please! Eveleen, this is Miss Mi—”

“Brendan, you always think of yourself and not me. How would you like to be starving and hungry? But no, you’re so eager to go see this stupid ship of yours that you’re ignorant of my needs. Can we please go? That animal smells most horribly, my feet are numb with cold, and as I’ve told you two times already, I’m hungry.”

“Smells?” Mira raged. “He does not smell!”

“I think she was referring to you again,” Billy got in.

“You shut your damned mouth, Billy, or I’ll shut it for you!”

“You just try it!”

“Oh, I plan to, so help me God!”

“Brendan, I told you, I’m hungry.”

“Eveleen, wait. Young man, I said go home! Mira, settle down, would you? Faith and troth, this is ridiculous!” He grabbed Mira’s scrawny arm and yanked her away from Billy, hauling Eveleen forward by the elbow at the same time. Mira was a spitting cat, Eveleen an unruffled queen. “Let’s start over. Mira, this is my sister, Eveleen. Eveleen, this young lass is Miss Mira Ashton. She’s the one whose family you’ll be staying with.”

Eveleen’s pale eyebrow, so like her brother’s in shape and set, lifted at Brendan’s reference to Mira’s gender. Her haughty gaze took in the boyish garb, the unbound hair, the clenched and bloody fists. Airily she said, “Let’s just hope, then, that the rest of her family conduct themselves in a more . . . genteel way. And also that they’ve invited us for supper. I would really love some apple pie . . . Brendan, do you think her servants may have made some for dessert tonight?”

“I made dessert for tonight!” Mira bellowed.

Brendan paled and turned his attention toward the vessels in the river instead, seeking her out.

“Did you? Well, I daresay I hope you washed yourself beforehand. I happen to be very particular about my food.”

“I would never have guessed!”

“And what do you mean by that, Miss Ashton?”

“Get a mirror and maybe you’ll see!”

“Brendan? Oh, Brendan? Stop looking at those dumb ships, would you? This . . . this person has just insulted me, and I don’t appreciate it at all. Brendan?”

“Lovely,” he said absently.

“She is not lovely,” Eveleen sniffed. “She is unkempt and unclean and she’s wearing masculine clothes. Foul-smelling masculine clothes, I might add. I can’t believe you’d suffer her to teach me how to ride.”

“Suffer?” Mira railed. “You tell me who’s doing the damned suffering!”

“Brendan . . . Brendan, can we please go now?”

But he was ignoring them both, staring past the brigs, sloops, and ketches and out toward the middle of the river, where Kestrel, at anchor, stood proudly atop her shadow and rocked impatiently with the pull of the river as it merged with the incoming tide.

“Lovely,” he repeated, his eyes soft and dreamy. “Thar cinn. Go hálainn. All, and more than I’d hoped for . . . My God, she’ll fly. . .”

His comment was overheard by a grizzled old seaman who stood biting a hangnail nearby. “Aye, she’ll fly, all right—if she don’t overset herself with the first puff o’ wind.”

“Brendan, please . . . What’s more important, that ship or me?”

“Huh?”

“Brendan, I’ve had it with your fascination with that stupid ship. I’m beginning to think you care more for it than you do for me. And here I am, forced to stand here and suffer this creature’s insults, the cold, and a growling stomach, when you could be taking me to this Wolfe Tavern and buying me a piece of apple pie and a glass of buttermilk to wash it down with, but no, all you want to do is stand here and go all sap-eyed over some silly hunk of wood and cloth.”

Reluctantly he tore his gaze from Kestrel, who beckoned to him with the sweet seduction of a woman who is more than sure of herself. He wanted nothing more than to take her helm and feel her leaping through wind and wave, to just be with her.

But Brendan considered himself a patient man; he’d developed a fair share of it where Eveleen was concerned, following that horrible day on Halcyon’s decks when Crichton had drawn his pistol, shot him in the chest—and left his sister with a hand that would be crippled for life. It saddened him that she didn’t share his excitement over the schooner, but he alone knew why she was the way she was. Drawing and painting had been her passion—and Crichton had robbed her of that precious gift.

“Now, Eveleen.” Stepping forward, he slipped his palm beneath Rigel’s warm and heavy mane and gently stroked the animal’s neck. He felt Mira’s gaze upon him and didn’t trust himself to look at her for fear she’d see the desire burning in his eyes. Rigel, however, had no inhibitions. In happy affection, the colt promptly knocked his head against Brendan’s chest and rubbed up and down, leaving little gray hairs all over his impeccable frock coat and tearing one of the enameled buttons off. “I can understand your not caring about Kestrel, but don’t you like the horse?” He grinned hopefully. “This is the one that you’ll be learning on, isn’t it, Miss Mira?”

Mira nodded reluctantly, realizing in dawning horror just what this venture was going to mean.

“Oh, he’ll do, I suppose . . . A little small, but sort of pretty, I guess. Brendan, the pie? You promised.”

“He’s an Arabian,” Mira said tightly.

“A what?”

“An Arabian. They’re supposed to be small. I can see you don’t know a darned thing about horses!”

“I didn’t know what an Arabian was either,” Brendan confessed, but Mira took it as defense of his whining sister and felt a stab of indignation. She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it with a snap that was almost audible. Thank God she had such a wonderful sibling in Matt. She didn’t envy Brendan one bit for having to put up with this spoiled witch! And then she realized that Brendan, once he took Kestrel out to sea, wouldn’t have to put up with this spoiled witch any longer.

She would.

“What difference does it make what he is? I really don’t care. I never wanted to learn how to ride anyhow, Brendan. Horses smell. They bite. And this one has his tail up. Oh heavens, if he makes a pile, I’m going to swoon.”

“He’s an Arabian!” Mira yelled.

“Does that mean his droppings don’t smell, then?” Brendan asked innocently.

“It means he has a shorter back than other horses! It means his tail is set naturally high! It means that I’m not going to stand here and listen to some spoiled bitch who cares more about apple pie than her brother’s happiness, and a horse that’s the result of centuries of planned and careful breeding!” Tearing free of Brendan’s grip, Mira scooped up the cat, faced Eveleen, and hollered, “And furthermore, if he does leave a pile, I hope it’s smack-dab in the middle of your blasted shoe!”

She vaulted atop Rigel’s back and, with the newly christened Rescue Effort Number Thirty-Seven tucked safely beneath her arm, tore off down the wharf, Rigel’s shod hooves booming against the planking and sending up clods of snow as he hit the street.

Damn it to hell and back! She wasn’t going to sit around town and put up with that spoiled hussy! When Kestrel sailed, she’d be on her!

Chapter 9

“Father won’t allow it,” Matt predicted, shaking his head. He took off his spectacles and swiped at them with a corner of his shirt. “It’s one thing to sneak aboard Proud Mistress, but he’ll not hear of you going aboard Kestrel.”

Mira leaned against the doorframe and stared in disgust at the mess that was Matt’s bedroom. Clothes were thrown here, books there, and the bed was unmade. “You’re absolutely right, he won’t hear of it—right, Matt?”

“Is that a threat?”

“Of course.” She flashed him her sauciest grin.

“You won’t get away with it.”

“Oh? Just you watch. Kestrel makes her maiden voyage tomorrow, and I intend to be on her.”

Matt crossed his arms and shot her a sly glance. “And just why are you so eager to be aboard that schooner, Mira?”

She glared at him. “For the hell of it.”

“Right.” He grinned at her. “I think you’ve got your eye on its captain.”

“Maybe I do.”

“I pity the poor man.”

“Yeah? Well, I pity all those women you keep courting and dumping.”

Matt scowled. Steam appeared in the bottom third of his lenses, and his lips thinned out in a straight line. “Look, Mira, I told you how I really feel about those women—”

“Well, don’t get mad at me, ’cause you’re the one who keeps putting up with ’em! You’re too nice, you know that? Too bloody gallant! You told me you’re looking for a good girl, but you’re sure as hell looking in the wrong place to find the kind of woman you’re after! Yet you keep on buying ’em things, treating ’em like gold . . . When’re you ever gonna realize they’re all the same—nothing but a pack of hussies who only want your money and the prestige of having been your latest lover? No, I don’t pity them, not one bit. I pity you for suffering such nonsense!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m lonely, all right?”

“So you settle for something you don’t want?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Hell, no! I go for exactly what I want, and you know it.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and willed herself to calm down. Matt didn’t need to be reminded of his weakness for love and affection.

“So what do you want, then?” he asked.

“Captain Merrick.”

“Cripes, Mira!”

“Why not? He’s handsome, he’s dashing, and I can’t stop thinking about him. Maybe I’m in love with him. Hell, maybe I’ll even marry him. You know I’ve always vowed that when—I mean, if—I ever marry, it would be to a sea captain. Well, Captain Merrick may do, but first he has to pass my Test. That’s why I have to go aboard his schooner—to make sure he’s a competent sailor. We know he can design a ship, but he has yet to prove to me that he can sail one, and most importantly, command one, as well.”

“Jeez, Mira ...”

But she was already pacing the room, scheming, as usual. “The only way for me to find that out is to go aboard Kestrel and see the captain in action. And as for Father, he’ll never know, ’cause he’ll have his eyes peeled looking for me to go aboard Proud Mistress, just like I’ve always done.”

“And I suppose you think Captain Merrick’s going to allow it, no questions asked?”

“Of course not, you pillock. If he did, he’d fail part one of the Test. No captain in his right mind—except you,of course—” She laughed at his infuriated expression. “—is going to allow a woman aboard his ship, especially as a gunner. But getting away with it will be half the fun. In fact, I’ll have just as much fun pulling the wool over Captain Merrick’s eyes as I will over Father’s!”

Matt grinned, getting caught up in the idea. His eyes began to gleam. “I assume you have a disguise all figured out?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I wish you luck, but you’ll never get away with it. Father’ll catch you at it, guaranteed.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Aye, I’ll bet! What do you want if you win?”

She looked around the room. “Let’s see ...” Her gaze fell upon the musket on the wall. “How ’bout that Brown Bess?”

“Cripes, Mira, that’s my favorite gun!”

“Chicken.”

Matt’s lips tightened. “All right, fine. If you get away with this and win the bet, you can have the gun. But if Father catches you and I win, then I get—”

“—a black eye.”

“What?”

She smirked at his blank look. “Let’s face it, Matt, the only way he’s gonna find out is if you tell him.”

“Forget it! I can’t win either way!”

“Oh? You’ve been bellyaching for ages about me sneaking aboard Proud Mistress and getting in your hair. Well, now that Father’s wise to me, there’s no way that can continue. So you’ve already won . . . You’ll be rid of me, and I’ll be Captain Merrick’s problem instead.”

“I think you already are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ain’t it obvious? The man’s in love with you.”

“Well, half of Newburyport’s in love with you,” Mira flung back. “When are you going to bring home this good girl you keep promising to find, huh, Matthew?”

“Look, just lay off and stay the hell out of my love life, would you?”

“Then stay the hell out of mine.”

“You don’t have one.”

“But I will.”

They stood glaring at each other, neither willing to give any ground. But then they thought of Mira’s scheme, and the outrageous implications of it. Mira’s lips began to twitch, and Matt threw back his head in laughter. They were all in for some rough sailing ahead.

Mira. Ephraim. And especially the unsuspecting Captain Merrick.

Many hours later, when darkness was old, supper had been eaten, and Mira’s apple pie fed to the dog, Eveleen stood in the room that would be hers during her stay in Newburyport—which, if today was any indication, was going to be a miserable one. The shutters were closed against the night; thick gingham curtains with a stenciled pineapple design were further protection against the cold drafts. Wind rattled the windows in their casements, and she could hear snow whispering against the frosty panes.

Shivering, she dug her toes into the hooked rug that covered the wide-boarded floor. Her trunk lay half unpacked at the foot of an elegant Hepplewhite four-poster, and a candle, safe within a hurricane globe, cast a soft and flickering glow over the pillows heaped against the carved headboard. A linsey-woolsey counterpane topped the bed, and a thick cotton patchwork quilt was folded neatly at the foot. But despite the bed’s inviting look, Eveleen was not ready to retire for the night.

She felt bad about being so hateful to Mira Ashton, but she just couldn’t help herself. Now, pale and naked, she stood before a big cheval mirror. The candle’s soft glow was not kind, only emphasizing the weight that she had gained steadily over the past three years. She glared at her reflection, hating it.

Downstairs, she heard hearty male laughter coming from the study, where Brendan and old Captain Ashton and his handsome son with the wild red hair had gone. If only she had something to laugh about. She couldn’t remember a time she’d been happy since the day Richard Crichton had nearly killed her beloved brother and taken away the one thing she’d ever been good at.

Good at? She’d been gifted . . . But Eveleen would never paint again. And now she held her right hand behind her back so she wouldn’t have to see it reflected in the mirror, for it was even more difficult to look at than her thick rolls of fat.

Her heart ached, making her stomach feel hungry and empty. Now she wished she’d grabbed one—or better yet, two—of those chewy molasses cookies left over from supper. They’d certainly make her feel better, as only food could. Not even Brendan, whom she loved more than anyone or anything else in the world, could fill up that emptiness the same way one of those cookies would.

Poor Brendan. He tried so hard to please her—renting that fine house in Portsmouth, buying her all kinds of jewels with his privateering profits that she really didn’t want, and now this silly idea of riding lessons. She curled her lip in despair. What on earth was she supposed to do with a horse? She’d never ridden one in her life, and with only one functional hand, how could she? Obviously Brendan believed this Mira Ashton capable of working miracles.

But then, that was typical of people in love. They thought that the object of their devotion was infallible, incapable of failure, perfect. And the way her brother had been staring at Mira all during supper, barely commenting on the delicious mushroom pasty with its golden, latticed crust, the spit-roasted partridge, the peaches stuffed with spicy mincemeat, even the hot brick-oven bread with the thick slabs of butter and cheese . . . oh, he was obviously smitten with this girl—a girl who went from young boy to fine lady with the same ease with which she vaulted on and off that gray colt’s back.

Maybe Mira could work miracles. Maybe she could teach her how to ride . . . but Eveleen doubted it. For one thing, Mira had not demonstrated a great reserve of patience. And more important, Eveleen had absolutely no desire to learn. Besides, she was a cripple. Even if Brendan couldn’t face that fact, she could.

And there was her body, still reflected in the mirror, reminding her just how big and awkward it really was. Grimacing, Eveleen poked the flesh circling her waist; or rather, what used to be her waist. Like soft bread dough, it sprang slowly back when she removed her finger. Fat. It hung from her upper arms, rippled like ocean swells beneath fishy white skin, stole the space that used to be between her thighs. It stuck out in front of her, catching all the breadcrumbs and sauce and pieces of pie and cookies that weren’t lucky enough to make it into her mouth.

Once, she’d been acclaimed a great beauty. Now, men never looked at her, except with pity. Now they simply acknowledged her presence with a polite nod, a tolerant greeting, and that was it. It was as though she were invisible, now. As though she didn’t count as a woman. As though she didn’t count as anything.

If only she could still draw and paint. . . .

They sure looked at Mira Ashton, though. Every single one of them back on that wharf had been utterly taken with her, and it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d been wearing a dirty sack and a bag over her head, they still would’ve looked at her because Mira Ashton was bold, she was beautiful—and she was thin.

Eveleen poked at a wrist that had once been graceful and elegant. Now she couldn’t even see the bones that defined it, although she could feel them if she pressed her fingers into the flesh hard enough. This she did with cruel hatred, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Her wrist and hand weren’t at all like Mira Ashton’s, which seemed equally suited to pummel a boy’s face or bake what had turned out to be a positively dreadful pie. And speaking of food, Mira Ashton hadn’t made a glutton of herself. Mira hadn’t had three helpings of pasty and roasted partridge, two-thirds of the stuffed peaches, four pieces of bread, and enough milk to feed a hungry calf. She hadn’t drowned herself in a quart of syllabub buried under a froth of whipped egg white and sweet, thick cream. And she hadn’t hidden in her napkin the little pastries the housekeeper had brought out following the failure of the pie, stuffed them in her pocket, and sneaked them upstairs in case she got hungry between suppertime and breakfast.

No, Mira had picked at this, picked at that, and spent most of the evening staring at Brendan when he wasn’t staring at her. Oh, if she could only be like her. Hot-tempered without being vindictive. Soft and impish and slender. As at home in the blue woolen gown and demure mobcap she’d worn to supper as she was astride a galloping horse in a man’s breeches.

Oh, Mira Ashton could have any man she wanted. She didn’t even have to try.

Eveleen’s days of having men hovering about her, her dreams of marriage to a fine and handsome prince, were long gone. Now there were only two males in this entire world who cared that she existed: her beloved brother and that gray dockyard cat, whose gender she’d discovered after finding it curled up on her clean white coverlet.

The cat. There had been quite a violent scene when Mr. Ashton discovered it during supper. Or rather, it had discovered him. The cat had shown the bad sense to come into the dining room while they were eating, of all things, rubbing itself against the old sea captain’s bowed legs and setting off a yelling match between him and his equally vocal daughter that had made the blood drain from Eveleen’s face in terror for her life. From the nature of the argument—and that was a mild word for the shouting that had nearly left her deaf—the gray cat wasn’t the first stray that Mira had brought home. Eveleen felt a twinge of shame for secretly gloating when Ephraim had exploded with wrath against his daughter. That gloating, however, had turned quickly to grudging admiration when Mira had leaped to her feet and hollered back at her father at the top of her lungs until her handsome brother, Matthew, who had let the yelling go on for several minutes, finally chilled the hot tempers by his tactful and timely mention of a rigging detail of Brendan’s dumb schooner.

And Brendan? He’d taken it all in with that patient, quirky grin of his, obviously accustomed to this family’s strange ways and unwilling to let them spoil his own appetite—an appetite that had been quite hearty until he’d come to Mira’s apple pie. . . .

Despite herself, Eveleen grinned, then just as quickly frowned. Mira Ashton could do anything; she was perfect. She could probably bake a good pie, too, if it suited her to do so. But tonight? Obviously she’d left out the sugar and replaced it with salt in a deliberate attempt to be nasty to her, Eveleen, because she was fat. Yes, that was it. But why, then, had Brendan scrunched up his face and grabbed for his napkin? And why had Ephraim and Matthew passed over the pie, as though they’d known better than to try it, and gone for the cookies instead? Had they known that Mira had deliberately sabotaged it? Ephraim, maybe, but she couldn’t believe that Matthew would be a party to such.

Matthew. Eveleen’s eyes went dreamy.

Oh, he didn’t look like a sea captain at all, with that flaming red hair and boyish freckles, those spectacles that kept sliding down his nose and giving him more of a scholarly appearance than a military one. But appearances were deceiving. She had no trouble visualizing him commanding the deck of his ship, no trouble envisioning him plucking her poor, half-dead brother from the ocean and restoring him to life. Matthew was gentle and attentive and kind—to the Ashtons’ staff, to Miss Mira, even to her, Eveleen, as though he really cared about making her stay at his home comfortable. And he had a charming Yankee twang to his speech, a penchant for setting his easily ignited sister off, and wonderful brown eyes that were made all the more wonderful and brown behind the magnification of his spectacles.

Eveleen caught sight of herself in the mirror once more . . . and her dreams of handsome princes fizzled out. She turned away from the mirror, biting the inside of her lip to keep from crying. The candle had burned low and was beginning to flicker. Cold drafts chilled her ankles. Eveleen eyed the bed, its fluted and carved posts supporting a lacy canopy, and its thick patchwork quilt just waiting for her to snuggle under it.

If she retired now, breakfast would come that much sooner.

Shivering, she crossed the cold room to the fireplace, filled the bed warmer with hot coals, and passed it quickly between the crisp sheets to warm them. Unthinkingly, she reached for the coverlet with her right hand—and saw that horrible thing that was attached to her wrist, that ugly, crippled, scarred, and useless thing she kept hidden from the rest of the world.

Half of her thumb was gone . . . and where her fore and middle fingers had been, there were only stumps.

Tears streaming quietly down her broad cheeks, heavy breasts trembling with the effort it took to contain the pent-up sobs so no one else would hear them, Eveleen dug her nightgown out of her chest and yanked it over her head. Already it was too tight beneath her arms, and the material cut into the soft flesh. Angrily she started to slam the lid of the chest down, but as she did, her gaze fell upon a gift that Brendan had given her for her eighteenth birthday.

It was a box of pencils and some paper, now yellow with age, peeking out from under the folded clothing.

She stared for a long time. The sobs caught in her throat, and tremulously, she reached out and touched the paper with the stub of her forefinger. How hopeful Brendan had been when he’d given her that gift, how encouraging he’d been when he’d urged her to try to draw, even if it meant using her left hand, instead.

But she’d never had the courage.

Unbidden, Eveleen thought of Mira Ashton, who could do anything. Mira had the full use of both hands . . . but if she were a cripple, would she allow it to ruin her life?

No. Mira Ashton would’ve made herself draw.

It was no wonder that Brendan was attracted to her. Mira was strong, resourceful, brave. Perhaps she, Eveleen could be brave, too. Maybe if she tried to help herself, the handsome Captain Ashton might pay her a bit of attention. If Brendan admired the trait in Mira, wouldn’t Matthew admire it in her? And if she could turn out a drawing as fine as the ones she’d been capable of before she lost the use of her hand, surely Matthew would notice . . . and perhaps even admire her for it.

She may have lost her figure, but inside, she was still a gifted artist . . . if only she had the means of tapping that gift.

For the first time since Crichton’s shot had taken off her fingers, Eveleen wanted to try.

The paper lay there, seeming to stare up at her. Eveleen stared back. She started to withdraw her hand and then, biting her lip, reached out a final time and awkwardly grasped the paper. It had been years since she’d tried to sketch anything, and just having the paper in her hand bolstered her courage.

Shaking now, she placed it on the nearby desk and reached out to pick up a pencil.

And dropped it.

A tear rolled from her eye, and angrily Eveleen brushed it away. She would not give up. She wouldn’t!

The fire crackled. The pencil lay on the floor. Eveleen choked back another sob, picked it up, and this time managed to hold it between the crook of her half thumb and the stub of her forefinger. It felt stiff . . . familiar . . . terrifying.

Could she do it? Oh, please God. . . .

She bit down on her lower lip in concentration and slowly, fearfully, touched the pencil to the paper. A line appeared, shaky, uneven, faint—

So intent was she that she never heard Mira’s soft knock.

Her brow, furrowed in concentration, became beaded with sweat. Her breathing quickened and she moved her hand, letting her arm do the work, hoping against hope that she could do it, oh please, God, just do it—

The pencil fell from her grasp and rolled away.

It was too much. Angrily Eveleen balled the paper and hurled it across the room, crying bitterly as it slammed against the wall and hit the floor. She never saw it lying there, crumpled. She never saw Mira, who’d come to try to make amends after their initial meeting, standing silently in the doorway with sympathy darkening her eyes.

Throwing herself down on the bed, Eveleen pressed her face into the pillow to muffle her sobs and wished with all her heart she were dead.

Chapter 10

Eveleen wasn’t the only Merrick who had trouble sleeping that night. Three hours later, Brendan lay awake in his room in the Ashton home, watching moonlight glint off the brass telescope at the window and listening to the ticking of all sixteen—it was up to sixteen now; he’d actually counted—clocks that Ephraim had set in strategic places throughout the house. He listened to that ticking, that tocking, while his engineer’s mind calculated how many ticks there were in every hour, if one assumed the clocks—all sixteen of them, that is—ticked every second. Take sixty, multiply it by sixty again, then by sixteen—

Faith, no wonder he couldn’t sleep.

He looked again at the telescope and considered getting up. It had snowed a bit, earlier; now dark clouds were filing out to sea and leaving stars, glittering like chips of blue ice, in their place. His eyes were well adjusted to the darkness, but moonlight would illuminate the distant river well enough that he should be able to see Kestrel waiting down there in the harbor.

Shivering, he got up and went to the window. The great constellation of Orion the Hunter lay high over distant Plum Island and the Atlantic, brandishing his shield at the starry zenith.

Ah, Orion. . . . In the crystalline night, the Hunter’s stars had never seemed brighter: the fiery Betelgeuse, glowing red at his right shoulder; Bellatrix at his left; Saiph and the bluish Rigel at his feet.

Rigel. Brendan grinned to himself. Based on what he knew of the colt, the animal was too much for Eveleen, and it was obvious his sister was terrified of him. Earlier, Mira had suggested that the riding lessons be given on Rigel’s dam, Shaula, whose temperament was quieter than that of either Rigel or the black stallion, El Nath. Brendan hoped she was right. That devil-horse was, at the moment, making one hell of a racket down in his stall, slamming his hooves against the door over and over again.

He wondered if there was a clock in the stable. ’Twould explain the steed’s bad temper.

He sighed, then, shivering, crawled back into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. He was freezing, despite the crackling flames in the big fireplace, the sheet-wrapped brick snugged up against his toes, the coverlet, the wool blankets, and the three thick, heavy quilts.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Something jumped up on the bed. “M-r-r-r-r-r-r-rrrrreow?”

“Oh, go away!”

“M-R-R-R-R-EEEE-O-O-O-O-OOOOW!”

Faith, what a screech! Cursing, he grabbed the animal and put it beneath the covers before it could wake up the whole household, where it promptly curled itself against his leg and set up a purring loud enough to drown out even the shelf clock that ruled the mantel.

At least it was warm.

But as he lay there thinking of tomorrow and counting off the moments—tick, tock, tick, tock—till morning, when he would be rowed out to his new command to take her on her first cruise, he knew why he couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t because of the clocks, though they certainly didn’t help.

It wasn’t because he was cold, though he certainly was.

And it wasn’t because of Kestrel, waiting for him down in the moonlit river, although his heart began to pound every time he thought of her.

It was because of Miss Mira Ashton.

She was in the next room over. Separated from him by naught but a plastered wall. Carefully, so as not to crush the cat, he turned over in bed and stared at the moonlit curtains and the night shadows playing across the floor. Just a plastered wall.

So close. And yet so far.

Shutting his eyes, he imagined her standing in the silver light coming through the window, her thick, unbound hair all but dwarfing her slim body, her nightgown swirling about her bare feet and ankles in a gossamer cloud of white.

He groaned, feeling himself growing hard.

The image sharpened. . . That nightgown would be sheer and ethereal and diaphanous, like the moonlight floating through the curtains. That dark, silken mane of hers would be streaming down her back, tangled with sleep and scented with roses, sweet hay, and the warmth of slumber. Her lips would be soft and parted and inviting . . . Her hands would slip up his torso, his chest, then down his hips and—

He couldn’t take it. Cursing, he got up, crossed the room and, after a brief struggle with the frozen sill, threw open the window. A blast of clean, frigid air drove against his face. Outside, the moon, so bright it hurt his eyes to look at it, threw shadows across the snow-dusted lawn and gleamed upon clusters of dead leaves, still clinging stubbornly to skeletal branches and shaking and rustling in the slight wind.

Teeth chattering, he leaned out, looking off across the frosty rooftops toward the harbor. A few lights glowed from one of the buildings in Market Square, and in the distance he could just hear fading sounds of merriment coming from the direction of Wolfe Tavern. Otherwise the night was quiet, the air clear and cold and crisp. Overhead, clouds glowed with silver light, drifting beneath the stars and leaving them twinkling in a vast and lonely sky.

Stars. They were distant in contrast to the sharp edges of the clouds, yet burned so brightly, he felt he could reach out and touch them.

Distant, yet close. Like Mira in the next room.

Ah, faith.

He heard a slow creak behind him.

“Captain Merrick?”

“Miss Mira!” He got up, horrified and delighted, and fully intending to shoo her out. “This is most inappropriate. Go back to your room.”

“Brendan, I want to talk to you about . . . about your sister.”

“Now?”

“Why not? I heard the window go up, so I knew you were awake.”

She padded into the room and into the moonlight from the window and he groaned, because yes, her thick, unbound hair was all but dwarfing her slim body, her nightgown swirling about her bare feet and ankles in a gossamer cloud of white.

She joined him on the window seat, leaning her back against the left side of the embrasure and pushing her bare toes toward him. Brendan shut the window and stared at her, his thoughts in tumult. Oh, hell. Now what? He was already falling in love with her. He needed no encouragement to fall even harder. He shrank back against the opposite side, trying not to think about how close her toes were to his thigh.

“What happened to her, Brendan?”

He’d known she would ask—and he’d had every intention of explaining the reasons for the anger and bitterness that lay behind Eveleen’s actions. But Mira’s nearness was making mud of his thoughts. “I’m sorry she behaved so badly toward you. Perhaps having her stay here isn’t such a good idea after all—”

“No. I want her to stay.” She pushed her toes toward him. “Cripes, it’s cold in here.”

Pushed them under his thigh.

Oh, faith, lassie, he thought, desperately. Don’t do this to me.

“She’s hurting, Brendan,” he heard her say with some other part of his brain that wasn’t thinking about her toes. “I didn’t realize it this afternoon, so I reacted to her anger. But I shouldn’t have. Your sister’s miserable.”

“What?”

“It’s her hand, isn’t it? That’s why she’s so unhappy. What happened, Brendan?”

“Mira, if your father finds you here—”

“My father’s asleep, and your sister needs our help. She needs a friend. I’ll bet you’re the only person in the world who cares about her, aren’t you?”

He thought about getting up, getting away from the press of her toes, because now he was having trouble controlling not just his thoughts, but his breathing.

“Dammit, Brendan, I’m trying to help. For heaven’s sake, trust me, would you?”

He sighed and leaned his head against his own side of the sill. “You are very persistent, lass.”

She only looked at him and pushed her feet even further beneath his thighs. “Well?”

He took a deep, bracing breath, and looked out the window, away from those searching eyes. “It happened almost four years ago,” he said quietly. “I was in the Royal Navy, and had just been promoted to flag captain for Admiral Sir Geoffrey Lloyd. We were in Boston, and my admiral sent me to investigate a complaint aboard a frigate I’d once commanded. I boarded. There was a commotion . . . an, uh . . . accident. Someone fired a pistol, and the ball caught Eveleen in the hand.” He paused, wondering if he should elaborate, then decided that nothing would come of spreading more bitterness. “She . . . lost most of her thumb and a good part of two fingers.”

“My God, Brendan.”

He stared out into the cold, starlit night. “My sister was a gifted artist,” he said. “Our mother used to say she was born with a paintbrush in her hand. In fact, Eveleen was doing our portraits before she was five years old, those of the London nobility by the time she was fifteen. What a sensation she was. . . They used to pay handsomely just for the chance to sit for her.” He smiled, remembering. “She used to dream of studying with the great masters, of seeing her work hanging in the museums alongside theirs. But Crichton’s shot changed all that.”

“Crichton?” Mira frowned. “Who’s he, the one who accidentally shot her?”

“He was the frigate’s new captain, and yes, he was the one who shot her. But he had not intended to hit her.” Very quietly, he added, “His target was me.”

“You?” Her eyes were wide.

“Aye, Mira. Me.”

“But—”

“What’s done is done. There is no going back.” He turned his head and looked at her. “And now you need to leave. Go back to your own bed.”

“Why?”

“Are you that innocent in the ways of men and women, lass?”

“Not really,” she said, grinning. “But I’m cold. Wait here.” Pulling her toes out from under his thigh, she got up, padded to his bed, and pulled off the top quilt. She returned with it and sat back down on the window seat, this time not against the opposite sill, but right in the middle, close to him.

Too close.

“Here,” she said, offering him half of the quilt.

He took it, and they sat together, the quilt draped over their shoulders.

“Why did you leave the Royal Navy, Brendan? If you were newly promoted, you must’ve been a rising star. Why throw it all away?”

It was a long time before he spoke, and when he did, pain darkened his eyes, robbing them of the good humor she’d come to know and love.

“Crichton did not miss his target. I ended up in Boston Harbor more dead than alive, and while I lay fighting for my life, Crichton reported that I’d incited a mutiny, and then deserted. Politics being what they are at that level, he was believed, especially as I never showed up to defend myself. By the time I’d recovered enough to do just that, the damage was done, and I was so disgusted I no longer cared.”

She frowned, a memory tugging at her. “Crichton—that name’s familiar. I know I’ve heard it before.”

“Yes, you have. It was Crichton whom I led into the river and onto the submerged pier that evening I brought Annabel into Newburyport. We will meet again, I’m sure. He won’t stop until one of us is dead.”

“I don’t want to think of you being dead. And if I’d known that Crichton had done all that, I’d have made sure he was wearing a coat of tar and feathers when we shipped him off to Boston after he and his crew were captured here. Damned Brits!”

“They’re no worse than anyone else. I’ve met my share of evil people across all nationalities, lass.”

“Aye, you’re right, I suppose. I used to have a friend here in town named Amy . . . she fell in love with a Brit who was brought here, near to dyin’, after the battle of Concord. I was prepared to hate him but Lord Charles was a decent man. Treated my friend right and worshipped the ground she walked on. In the end, he took her off to England, married her, and made her a fine lady. We still write to each other. She was one of the few people who accepted me as I am, warts and all.”

“Warts?”

“Aye. It ain’t easy, growing up without a mother. I never had anyone to teach me how to behave like a lady, how to be . . . anythin’ but what I am. The only friends I have, now, are boys. The women in town want nothin’ to do with me.”

“Well, Miss Mira, I think you are perfect, just the way you are.”

“Thank you, Brendan. I think you’re quite perfect, too.”

And with that, she put her hand on his thigh.

He grabbed it, removed it. “Faith, Moyrrra, has anyone ever told you that you’re far too bold for your own good?”

She grinned, enjoying his discomfort. “Many times.”

He stared down at her—but she could see his defenses crumbling like a poorly built fort. He shook his head, as though he didn’t know quite what to do with her, but she saw that his eyes were beginning to warm, drawing her into their laughing depths, then buoying her up like bubbles in a glass of champagne. Her nipples tightened in response, and her stomach gave a little quiver, as though she’d swallowed a dozen fluttery moths; she felt flushed and more than a little breathless.

He was still gazing at her.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you, Brendan?”

“Aye, lass, I do. But I’m not going to. Not here. Not now.”

“Why not?”

“This is your father’s house. You’re an innocent. And I have no wish to become involved with . . . with a woman right now.”

“Why not?”

“Mira, it is time for you to leave.”

“Oh, Brendan, let me stay.” Unconsciously her tongue slipped out to wet her lips, and she saw his eyes darken. “We can . . . watch stars.”

“Faith, how is it that one moment we’re talking about my sister and the Royal Navy, and the next you’ve got me so befuddled, I can’t think straight?”

“I know you’re scared of me, but I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“Faith, Moyrrra, I’m not scared of you.”

“Moyrrra,” she repeated, reaching for his hand, instead. “I love how you say my name.”

“There’s no other way to say your name . . . stóirín.”

“Stor—?”

“Stóirín,” he repeated. “’Tis Irish for darling. Little treasure.”

“Oh.” Her eyes were impish. “Do you think I’m a little treasure, Brendan?”

“Aye, you’re a treasure, all right. What surprises me is that no one has stolen you yet.”

“No one would dare.” She snuggled closer to him, feeling him stiffen. “You see, Father is . . . uh, rather intimidating. And Matt is very protective. Those that get past Matt are frightened off by Father. And those that Father approves of are sent packing by Matt—sometimes with his musket.” She lifted her head and gave him one of her cat-smiles. “Of course, I really don’t need Father and Matt to discourage unwanted attention. Sometimes I think men are more afraid of me than they are of Matt and Father combined, though I certainly don’t know why.”

Brendan said nothing, clenching his teeth in sweet agony, for now her hand was on his thigh again, he had no wish to remove it, and he was growing painfully hard.

“Anyhow, the reality is that I’ve never had a sweetheart, and all the men I know are just friends.”

“Beware, lassie, of men who call themselves friends,” he managed, his voice sounding ragged even to his own ears. “They’re usually the most dangerous of sorts.”

“And what are you, Brendan? Are you a . . . friend?”

“A friend?” Her hand was still on his thigh, only inches from his ever-hardening arousal. He tensed, groaned, set his teeth. “Faith, I can’t take this.” He caught her hand and leaped to his feet, every nerve in his body throbbing. “If you won’t leave, then I will—”

“You are afraid of me, aren’t you?”

“Afraid of you? A wee lassie?” He laughed nervously and took another step back before he could do what his body was screaming for him to do: take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. “Of course I’m not afraid of you—at least, not in the way that you think—”

“So you are afraid of me, just a little bit.”

“No! I mean yes—” Images of Julia flashed through his mind, and panicking, he grabbed her hand and pulled her, resisting, off the window seat. “I think, lassie, ’twas a mistake for me to stay here in this house with you and your family—”

“Mistake?”

“Shh, you’ll wake your da!”

“I ain’t gonna wake my da! Besides, I can’t leave; we . . . we have to look at stars!”

“You look at stars from your room, I’ll look at them from mine, and tomorrow we’ll compare notes over breakfast!”

“But—”

“You’re going back to your room. We’ll both be safer that way!”

“Safer from what?”

He tried to pull her—she planted her feet—and in one swift movement, he slid his arms beneath her legs and hoisted her, easily, up into his arms. Her feet swung as he carried her to the door.

“Brendan, what’s the matter?”

He opened the door, deposited her on her feet in the hall, and shut the door.

Mira was left standing on the cold floor, confused, thwarted, and more than a little angry. She stared at the door, her blood throbbing, her heart pounding, her body needful of something she didn’t understand. Damn him! What the hell was wrong with him? Didn’t most men welcome a woman’s attention?

Did he find her wanting?

Cursing, she stalked back to her own room, her eyes narrowed. Whatever the handsome Captain Merrick was running from, she’d find out what it was. He couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later, he’d kiss her again.

She’d make sure of it.

And in the meantime, she’d make damn sure she was on that schooner’s maiden voyage.

Chapter 11

A strong easterly wind kept Kestrel bottled up in harbor the next day. Mira watched from her window as Brendan, Father, and Matt drove down to the waterfront to inspect the ship, then wasted no time in setting to work on Eveleen Merrick.

If she wanted to sneak aboard Kestrel when she made her maiden cruise—without Brendan’s or Father’s knowledge—she had to win Eveleen’s friendship, and subsequently her promise to keep her presence aboard the schooner a secret. That was, of course, a lot to ask—but Mira had a very attractive bargaining tool in mind.

Matthew.

She’d have to be blind not to realize that Eveleen was totally smitten with her brother.

She laughed to herself, picked up Rescue Effort Number One, and buried her cheek against his soft fur. Of course, winning Eveleen’s friendship had other advantages, too. Mira had been truthful in wanting to help the girl find meaning in her life once more, but she also realized something else—that Eveleen could be quite valuable when it came to securing the interest—and attentions—of her brother, the captain.

Mira stood by the window for a long time, scheming. She’d have to find a way to keep Eveleen occupied while she was out on Kestrel.The girl would be left in the house with just Father, the staff, and sometimes Matt. There was always Abigail, of course, who could take her under her wing when Mira wasn’t there—but Mira was looking for something that would start Eveleen on the path to liking herself, something that would build her confidence, something that would help turn her into a woman they all could live with.

Especially Matt.

Which is where the horses would come in.

Eveleen was terrified of them. But if she taught her the basics, such as feeding and grooming, and Eveleen practiced working around them while she was gone, then she’d be well on her way to gaining self-confidence just by getting over that terror.

Of course, that would mean starting as soon as possible—for Brendan planned to take Kestrel on her maiden voyage tomorrow.

Steeling herself for a fight, she picked up her riding crop, went to Eveleen’s room, and knocked loudly. “Eveleen?”

The girl was still in her nightgown, sitting up in bed with a tray balanced on her legs. On it were two muffins, the remains of several more, and a huge glass of milk. She looked up, saw Mira, and instantly her features took on a sour look.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Mira said. “But I ain’t gonna dwell on it and neither are you. You and I are starting over. Now, get into your old clothes, and make it snappy.” She was going to have to use force and not pamper the girl. “It’s already late and we’ve work to do if you expect to be riding that mare anytime soon.”

Eveleen glared at her from the bed and said haughtily, “I don’t have any old clothes.”

“Fine, then. You can wear what you had on yesterday. That pink dress, without the jewelry.”

“But—”

“First, you’re going to learn how to feed and water a horse. Then you’re going to learn how to groom and take care of her. That includes mucking out stalls and picking manure out of her hooves—”

“Picking manure!” Eveleen gasped, going white with horror.

“Aye, picking manure. Now, hurry up.”

“But I can’t wear my pink dress.”

“Then don’t. But find something, ’cause I’m not waiting all day.”

Eveleen glared at her.

Mira grinned.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Eveleen snarled.

“’Cause your brother asked me to.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” Eveleen said smugly, her smile growing malicious.

“Well, it oughtta be,” Mira snapped, unwilling to back down, “because I happen to know that you fancy my brother.” She smiled as Eveleen paled. “So there.”

Eveleen’s eyes were full of hatred. She said nothing, only slid her maimed hand beneath the covers.

“Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of saying anything to Matthew,” Mira said. “In fact, I would love nothing more than to see him and you together. I think you would be wonderful for him. But he won’t even look at you unless you take charge of your life and stop bein’ so miserable. You can be happy, Eveleen, with a little work. That’s what I’m here for. To make you work.”

“Work?”

“Aye, work. To that end, I have a bargain for you.” She turned and crossed her arms. “You help me net your brother, and I’ll help you net mine.”

“What?”

“Your brother’s a real test of my patience. He’s terrified of me, though God only knows why. But I think I want to marry him . . . provided, of course, he passes the Test.”

“Marry? Test?”

“Aye. I have to see him in action aboard the schooner so I can judge his competence as a mariner . . . and that is where I need your help.”

Eveleen stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Then Mira began to walk the room again, slapping the riding crop against her palm as she outlined her scheme to go aboard Kestrel, and stressing the need for secrecy and cooperation on Eveleen’s part. When she’d finished, distrust warred with wary interest in the other woman’s eyes. “So, what is in this for me?”

“Why, Matthew, of course.”

“I fail to see how.”

“You leave matters up to me, and I promise you my brother’ll be yours before summer’s end.” Mira crossed her arms and gave Eveleen a level look. “But that requires doing everything and anything that I ask of you, no matter how unpleasant you find it.”

It was a challenge, and Eveleen knew it.

Mira watched the suspicion in Eveleen’s eyes become the barest glimmer of hope. The other woman then glanced away, and picked up a muffin.

Mira stepped forward and took it away. “You can have your breakfast later,” she said, ignoring Eveleen’s suddenly mutinous look. “In this house, we take care of the horses first.”

“You take care of them. I can’t hold a bucket or a brush, anyhow.”

“You can, too.”

“I cannot. My hand’s useless. I’m a cripple.”

“You only need one hand to hold a bucket or a brush, or, for that matter, a halter or the reins.”

“I said, I’m a cripple!” Eveleen shouted.

Mira sat down on the bed. She reached out, took the tray, and set it on the table behind her, out of Eveleen’s reach. Tears glittered in the girl’s eyes, bitter tears that she tried to hide by turning away. Gently Mira reached out and touched her arm.

“Eveleen . . . you don’t have to hide your hand from me.”

“It’s hideous.”

“It is not.”

“How do you know? You’ve never seen it!”

“I have, too,” Mira said, softly. “Last night.”

Anger, hatred, and betrayal glittered in Eveleen’s eyes. “You’re a bitch,” she whispered, trying not to cry.

“I’ll tell you something, Eveleen.” Unflinchingly, Mira met the other woman’s accusing stare. “You know how I said I’m doing this for Brendan?”

Eveleen set her jaw, and tears stood poised on the tips of her lashes.

“Well, I lied.” Mira stood up. “I’m doing it for you.” With that, she strode from the room. She felt Eveleen’s gaze boring into her back. She heard her quick sniffle and the catch of her breath.

Don’t disappoint me, Eveleen. Show me what you’re made of.

She’d reached the door when Eveleen’s tremulous voice stopped her. “Mira?”

She paused, and turned.

Eveleen looked down, biting her lip. “Do you think you might have some . . . old clothes for me to borrow?”

“Well now, I believe I just might.” Mira said, grinning, and slapped her crop a final time against her hand. “Come with me, and let’s see what we can find.”

Chapter 12

The following morning, Newburyport awoke to a pink and pewter horizon hiding beneath gray clouds that promised bad weather. The morning grew slowly darker as the clouds piled in. By the time Brendan had shaved, dressed, and bolted down a plate of fried hasty pudding smothered in molasses, it was snowing hard.

Pulling his tricorne low, he stood outside in the falling snow, waiting for Ephraim and glancing up at Mira’s darkened window. She had not appeared at the breakfast table, nor had she come down to see him off, and her absence made him feel strangely empty inside, hollow-hearted and sad. Doubtless she was not only bewildered by his flighty behavior of the other night, but also hurt and downright angry. But faith, didn’t she realize what she was doing to him? How close she’d driven him to succumbing to the sweet temptations of her delightful little body? What was he to do, stay there and make love to her in her father’s own house?

Great white flakes of snow tingled upon his cheeks, caked on his eyelashes, melted in clean, cold rivulets that ran down his face and drove the achy tiredness from his still foggy brain. He tore his gaze from that empty window and dug his boot into the fresh snow. Maybe it was good he was going away for a few days. Maybe it was best that he put some distance between himself and the feisty little hoyden—

“Ye ready there, boy?” Ephraim came out of the barn, leading a fractious, prancing El Nath, who didn’t look happy about being hitched to the smart red sleigh.

Brendan shot a last glance at that darkened window, eyed the unruly black stallion with no small degree of trepidation, and with a fleeting, nervous grin, climbed up into the sleigh beside the old shipbuilder. Fumes of rum hit him in the face. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Well then, let’s be off before we miss the tide. It’s already—” Ephraim tore his mitten off with his teeth, yanked out a watch, and studied it with a scrunched-up scowl. “—half past six, and the crowds’ll be gatherin’ down at the wharf to watch. Don’t wanna be late, eh? Cripes, they’d never let me forgit it down at Davenport’s!” He cracked the air over El Nath’s head with a whip. “Gee-dup there, ye ornery ole nag!”

The sleigh’s runners whispered through fresh snow as they swept down the driveway and into the street. Plumes of steam rose from El Nath’s flared nostrils, snow crusted his flying black mane, and the patriotic red and white ribbons on his harness streamed back in the wind.

Brendan felt a thrill go through him. Today was the day! Down at the waterfront, Kestrel was waiting. He sat a little straighter on the cold, hard seat and drew his cloak around his fine new uniform, fidgeting with excitement.

“Hee, hee, hee, would ye look at the old devil!” Ephraim, his cheeks red with cold, flashed him a yellowish grin. “Acting just like he knows the day’s a special one, eh, Merrick?”

But Brendan wasn’t looking at the stallion. As they passed darkened houses sleeping beneath snowy roofs, the people, already out of their warm beds and stoking up dying fires, came running out on their doorsteps to wave and shout and cheer, some still holding candles and clad in their nightgowns and banyans. He swallowed hard, dreading the reception that no doubt awaited him at the waterfront.

He was not disappointed. The people were there, all right, bundled up in thick woolen coats and scarves, milling about and obviously waiting for him. At sight of the sleigh, they gave a wild, roaring cheer and rushed forward, hauling him out of it, clapping him on the back, and toasting him with mugs of hot buttered rum and steaming black coffee. A group of young lads, their noses red with cold, struck up “Free America” on fife and drum, a cannon banged from somewhere nearby, and then he looked out to the river.

The crowd’s roar dimmed. The music faded away. He heard nothing but the ice floes that drove up against the shore and creaked and groaned like a square rigger in a gale. Felt nothing but the snow melting on his cheeks.

And saw nothing but her.

She stood out in the river, proud, lovely, and impatient, shifting her weight from beam to beam as though she had no use for the land and was quite eager to be free of it. The outgoing tide was so strong, it made a little wake against her bow, and high up, almost lost in the clouds, pennants fluttered from her masthead with joyous abandon. Her deck was crowded with seamen, officers, and the rifle-toting backwoodsmen who would serve as her marines. Someone must have seen him standing there, for there was suddenly a flurry of activity as his crew prepared to receive him.

He was dimly aware of Matthew detaching himself from the arm of a young woman nearby, and hauling him through the parting crowd and down to the wharf, where Kestrel’s boat waited. A small group of seamen, handpicked by Liam himself, rowed him out to her, their oars rising and falling in perfect unison through the ice-clogged water. Their discipline would have done a king’s ship proud. They passed beneath the sharp-eyed little hawk that was the schooner’s figurehead—and then the boat was alongside.

Jamming his tricorne firmly down, Brendan tilted his head back and gazed up through the falling snow. His eyes grew moist and a strange lump filled the back of his throat. It was all the same, poignant and familiar, stirring and bittersweet. The barked orders . . . the bosun’s whistles . . . the marines, presenting arms and snapping to attention, the seamen lined up behind them in perfect rows in readiness to receive him. It was the same glorious salute of a ship welcoming her commander—and it brought back memories of other days, other ships, and of the first time the mighty Dauntless had welcomed him as Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s flag captain. . . .

He shook his head, willing the memories away. And then a fife pierced the air, and drums, too, and to the rousing tune of “Yankee Doodle,” Brendan hauled himself up Kestrel’s sleek sides and stepped onto her deck. He saw the raised swords and shrilling pipes, the officers who saluted him smartly, the crew lining the rails and clinging to tarry shrouds, the little lad who stood with a possessive hand upon an old four-pounder, head thrown back, eyes bright with life, and leading the rest of them in a lusty, full-throated version of “Yankee Doodle” that carried from stem to stern:

“A Band of Brothers let us be, while Adams guides the na-tion, and still our dear bought Freedom guard, in ev’ry situa-tion!”

He grinned.

“Yankee Doodle, guard your coast! Yankee Doodle Dan-dy! Fear not then or threat or boast, Yankee Doodle Dan-dy!”

Saluting smartly and pretending not to notice his captain’s misty eyes, Liam stepped forward. “Welcome aboard, sir!”

Brendan returned the salute, doffed his hat to what would’ve been the quarterdeck if the schooner had one, and surveyed his command.

Forward, her long bowsprit angled up toward the gray sky. Guns, lashed down and waiting, sat upon brilliant red trucks dappled with snow. Lines lay neatly coiled upon tidy decks, and sails were furled upon booms and yards. The scents of fresh paint and tar, sweet hemp and varnish, filled the air, mixing with that of clean, newly fallen snow and the heady, wild hint of winter seas.

Liam was trying his best to contain his great, beamy grin. “Well?”

“Go hálainn. . .” Brendan said simply, for there was nothing else to say. He glanced skyward, blinking, as the snow sifted down out of the heavens and melted upon his cheeks. She was lovely, all right. Tall, raked-back masts, their pennants obscured by snow and mist, traced gently spiraling circles against the heavy clouds. Shrouds were black crosshatches against the pale sky. Snow capped her guns and swivels, pinrails and deck planking, rigging, spars, and booms like frosting on a cake. A fine westerly sang through the rigging, and the tide was going out. He couldn’t have asked for a finer day to put to sea.

And Kestrel was ready. Brendan felt her restlessness beneath his booted feet, the tension thrumming through her stays, her shrouds, even the tiller bar, as he strode aft and gripped it for the first time. Snow melted beneath his palm and his fingers grew numb, but he kept his hand there until the wood grew warm and wet, feeling as if he were touching the schooner’s very heart. It was a long moment before he finally loosened the tiller and mainsheet and turned to face his waiting crew.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the people of Newburyport clogging the wharfs, the decks of other, nearby ships, the little boats bobbing among the ice floes that hovered near shore, all here to see him off with fanfare and glory. Somewhere out there was Mira Ashton. She hadn’t been at breakfast, but he knew she was here, could almost feel those impish green eyes upon him. He swallowed hard and turned his face into the stinging wind to cool his suddenly hot cheeks. Mira Ashton, who thought he could sketch—but not sail—a ship. She would be watching with a very critical eye indeed. . . .

With a sudden grin, he turned to Zachary Wilbur. The boatswain’s protruding potbelly was dusted with snow, his bowed legs spread as though the ship were already plunging through fifteen-foot seas. “Well, laddies, what’re we waiting for? Haul in that anchor, Mr. Wilbur, and let’s be about our business!”

The crew sent up a rousing cheer that rippled from bow to stern and back again on a thunderous wave of sound.

“Get the boat in and signal our pilot, Mr. Wilbur. We’ll head out on jib and rudder alone.” Brendan couldn’t control his excited grin. “And be lively about it, Zach! We have an audience today!”

“Aye, sir!”

The boatswain swung himself forward, his gruff voice cracking the brittle air. “Let’s get this lady under way, you worthless pack of saw-toothed old bangabouts! Lively now, so we can show them folks back yonder how it’s done!”

The mainsail boom lay alongside the tiller and rested atop the stern rail, its triced sail as white as the snow falling atop it. A tingle raced up Brendan’s spine. Soon Kestrel would thrill to the power of that great sail; soon the wind would shove against its hardened belly, and spray would slash his cheeks as the schooner drove through the stormy gray Atlantic. He shook with excitement, finally thrusting his hands behind his back and gripping them hard to still their mad trembling. That excitement rose as he watched the crew hoist the boat in, the water streaming from its little hull. At the windlass, Liam’s fiddle jumped to the tune of an Irish jig. Lines were hauled, and forward, the jib shook itself free and impatiently waved the snow aside.

Kestrel began to drift downriver.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir!”

With a final heave on the windlass, the anchor came swinging up from the river’s black depths in a cloud of silt and mud.

“Anchor’s aweigh!”

Her jib-boom leading the way, Kestrel swung around with the current until she faced the wide-open mouth of the Merrimack.

Beyond, the sea waited.

And behind and alongside, the crowds lined the shore, waiting to see if she would overset herself.

Kestrel was moving now, gathering speed, a study in soundless grace. Wharves and frozen marshlands fell behind them. Water slid along her sides. Just ahead, the pilot vessel that would guide her through the treacherous channels and out to sea fell into place. As they passed the battery at Plum Island, the big field pieces roared out a mighty thirteen-gun salute to Newburyport’s newest, and finest, warrior. Brendan gave a barely perceptible nod and Kestrel’s guns spoke for the first time, returning the salute and the faith of the town that built her.

“A beauty, sir, a real beauty!” At the helm John Keefe beamed with excitement, his eyes sweeping the panorama of shrouds and masts and rising canvas with awed reverence. “She’ll do ye proud, sir! She’ll do her country proud! And judging by the merry look in yer eye, I can tell ye’re in love with her already. Ha ha, Cap’n, we’ll show them Brits the stuff we’re made of! We’ll give ’em what-for! We’ll show ’em we mean business!”

Brendan grinned and pointed through the shrouds. “See that little boat full of spectators off the starboard bow? Hit it, Mr. Keefe, and you won’t think I’m quite so merry!”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

The wind began to pick up as they moved steadily toward the river’s mouth. They’d left the wharves and crowds and marshlands behind, and now sand dunes, patchy with snow and tufts of dead beach grass, slipped past on either beam. It was so quiet that even the hiss of snow falling on deck and whispering through the rigging sounded loud. A gust of wind caught the jib, cracking it like thunder in the stillness. Keefe eased the tiller bar and the schooner answered, swinging slightly to larboard in her escort’s wake.

Brendan gripped his hands behind his back. Soon now, they’d be in open ocean and he could put her though her paces.

And as they passed the northern tip of Plum Island, the wind drove hard against them, Kestrel rose up on her heel in eagerness, and every man aboard caught his breath. There it was, the gray and stormy Atlantic, spread out before them in all its winter splendor.

The pilot boat fell back, her guns rumbling in salute.

“Hands to the sheets and trim for a beam reach on the larboard tack! Hoist foresail and main! Smartly, Mr. Wilbur!”

They were a bit slow, but they’d get the feel of her soon enough. They all would. Brendan went to the after rail and gripped the cold, snowy wood, watching necklaces of foam writhing in their wake, the pewter seas rolling past. In his fingertips he felt the vibrations of wind strumming through shrouds, of mast hoops crawling skyward as the mainsail rose with its boom, higher and higher until snow blurred its outline and the proud pennants that snapped so far above it. “Sheet home!” he called, and Kestrel leaned hard into the sea and driving spray, showing her heels to the land she would soon leave far behind.

And she did not overset herself.

The crew gave a mighty cheer, the huzzahs ringing up to the very clouds themselves. The rum would flow like water tonight. They had the finest ship ever to hail from Newburyport, the luckiest captain this side of Ireland, and an ocean full of British shipping just waiting for them. One by one and in pairs, in groups, they went below to warm up, to sing, and to drink toasts to their future success.

All of them except a skeleton crew and one gunner from Newburyport, a tiny mite in an oversized hat, a tarpaulin coat, and a seaman’s braid that hung like a rope halfway to his trouser-clad rump. Standing beside the cannon he’d dubbed Freedom and already claimed as his own, the little gunner watched his captain claim the helm, seeing the squared shoulders, the queued and snow-encrusted chestnut hair, the smart tricorne, dark coattails, and crimson waistcoat through a wall of driving snowflakes.

Already the footprints of his crewmates were filling with snow, but there would be time to join them later. Time to swap stories with friends from Newburyport, to make new ones among the Irishmen who had yet to find out he wasn’t quite the lad he appeared. But for the moment, Mira, in her disguise, was content to watch that lone figure at the helm as Salisbury, Plum Island, and the land itself fell behind them and Kestrel drove toward a horizon buried in spray, snow, and, it was hoped, glory.

Brendan . . . a captain alone with his ship for the first time. It was a private moment, and she had no right to intrude.

Shivering, she moved across the snowy, plunging deck and made her way toward Kestrel’s unconventional aft-facing hatch. But just before she dropped below the coaming, she turned for a final look at him.

He was still standing there.

And though the distance that separated them was blurred by falling snow, she could see that he was grinning.

After spending the night arguing with Kestrel’s officers—Lieutenant Liam Doherty, in particular—before finally convincing them that her gender had nothing to do with her abilities as a gunner, it was no wonder that Mira slept right through breakfast, which was really just as well; she’d never been overly fond of cold oatmeal anyhow.

They’d finally agreed to let her stay, if only for their own amusement at having a “wee mite” aboard whose identity would remain a delightful secret from their captain. Of course, the emphatic testimony of her abilities from the Newburyporters aboard the schooner who’d sailed with her on her brother’s privateer helped sway things in her favor; after all, the legendary success of Proud Mistress was not only due to the command of Captain Matthew Ashton, but also to the skills of his little sister at her favorite gun.

Brendan was not the only one who was unaware that Miss Mira Ashton was aboard a ship; Ephraim, thumbing to the Marine News section of the Essex Gazette at exactly eight o’clock that morning, was also unaware of it—although when he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his daughter by ten o’clock, he had no delusions as to her whereabouts, and neither did his neighbors, who heard his roaring all the way down to the Beacon Oak and beyond.

Ephraim may have thought she’d sailed with Matt, who’d put to sea an hour after Brendan had, but at ten o’clock aboard Kestrel—or rather, four bells of the forenoon watch, in ship’s time—Mira was sound asleep in a hammock against the curve of the inner hull. Suddenly cries came drifting down from above.

“On deck!”

She opened an eye and groggily pulled her wool blanket up to her chin. It took her a moment to remember where she was; then, upon realizing she was on his ship and he was somewhere nearby, a slow, happy warmth spread through her and she felt as content as a kitten with a full belly. Topside, she could hear wind moaning around the masts, footsteps pounding above her head. She placed a hand against the hull. It was cold to the touch but dry, and on the other side she could feel the sea surging past. The hammock swung with the motion of the ship, and in the gloom around her she saw one or two others, still abed, raise their heads.

Brendan’s musical voice, faint through wind and distance, drifted down. “Report, Mr. Reilly!”

Mira propped herself on an elbow, balancing herself with natural ease against the hammock’s unsteadiness.

“Sail fine off the sta’b’d bows, Cap’n!” A gust of wind hit the schooner, and the rest of the lookout’s words were lost.

Mira bounced out of the hammock, buttoned her long coat up to her chin, stuffed her braid down beneath her collar, and, hastily grabbing her hat and yanking on her boots, went on deck. The wind hit her like an arctic blast, driving snow and salt spray into her eyes. Kestrel’s bow rose and fell, rose and fell, smashing down on long gray swells and sending great sheets of foam hissing past. It was still snowing, but wind had swept the rails and hatches clean. Mira blinked and peered aloft. A man clung to the shrouds, a glass to his eye and his coattails flapping in the wind. She looked again.

It was Brendan.

“Looks like the luck of that fool Irishman’s with us,” said Abadiah Bobbs, a stout, thick-jowled Newburyporter with a mole the size of a musket ball just below the left corner of his mouth. He shook his head and gave her a wry grin. “Out of port not even a day and he’s already found us a prize.” Bracing his feet against the roll of the deck, he squinted and pointed off through the snowy mist. “See there? Fine-lookin’ brig, eh? Surprised her, we did. She’ll not get out of her hidey-hole now.”

Tucking her chin into her coat, Mira peered off to starboard. The world was white, and she couldn’t see a thing.

“There, Mira.” Abadiah pointed again, and this time she saw the fuzzy outline of a ship, barely visible through the swirling snow. Her sails were down, her head was to the wind, and she wallowed heavily in the gray, foamy seas.

Abadiah rubbed his mole and jerked his head toward the ice-encrusted four-pounder, lashed tightly several feet away. “Better station yourself by Freedom, missy. These bloody Irishmen’ll have their eyes on ye, to be sure.”

Not only the Irishmen, she thought wryly, but the half-Irishman, too. The Captain from Connaught, his men called him. Now he was climbing down the stiff shrouds, his boots steady on the icy ropes, his sword belted to his waist. He’d still been topside when she’d sought her hammock last night, yet he didn’t look—or act—tired at all. His eyes were full of mirth, snow frosted his long lashes, and his cheeks were healthy with cold. Mira thought he had never looked more handsome. Landing lightly on the deck, he straightened his coat, thumped his tricorne against his knees to knock the snow off, and made his way toward them.

She quickly yanked her hat down and looked down at her toes.

“You’re right about that brig, Mr. Bobbs,” Brendan said, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet to get his blood moving. “I believe her to be the Caper. Fourteen guns, and launched three years ago in Gloucester.” He shot a curious glance at the small, bundled-up figure standing beside the Newburyporter. It was the same wee lad whose lusty voice had led the singing yesterday, though now he seemed shy and quiet. Brendan frowned. There was something terribly familiar about him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on just what it was. “Pardon me,” he said, bending and peering closer. As though terrified of him—and at that age, most of them were of their commanding officer—the lad drew his face in between hat, lapels, and scarf, reminding him of a turtle going into its shell. “I don’t remember signing you up, Mr. . . .”

“Uh, Starr.”

Liam, casting the lashing from a nearby gun, saw Mira’s predicament immediately. Grabbing the steaming mug of black coffee that Dalby was just bringing to his captain, he all but shoved it into Brendan’s hands. “A shy one, he is! Ye don’t remember him ’cause I signed him up meself, right, bucko?”

Mira nodded, still staring at her toes.

“Well, take off your hat so I can have a look at you,” Brendan said, grinning.

“Can’t,” Mira mumbled.

“Scared o’ ye, he is!” Liam explained, placing a massive hand between her shoulders and shoving her toward the hatch. “Ye know how the wee mites are with their commandin’ officers, Brendan!”

Brendan was persistent. “There’s no need to be afraid of me, Mr. Starr. I ask only your trust, not your life.”

“Can’t take off m’ hat, sir.”

“Faith, why not?”

She thought quickly, wildly. “Because . . . because my skin can’t take the sun, sir. Can’t take the . . . light. I’ll break out in little bumps all over if I take it off.”

“But it’s snowing out, Mr. Starr!” Brendan wrapped his hands around the hot mug and stared at her curiously.

“Don’t matter.” She pointed skyward. “Sun’s still up there.”

Liam made a big show of clearing his throat. “Uh, Brendan,” he said, curving his big, brawny arm around his captain’s shoulders and trying to draw him away, “Mr. Starr’s one o’ those albino people, he is. He can’t take any light.”

Brendan stared at her for a moment longer. But the answer must’ve suited him, for he nodded, shot a final glance at her, and then seemed to dismiss her with no further thought. Over his massive shoulder Liam winked, and Mira caught the conspiring grins of her crewmates. She clapped a hand over her mouth to still her laughter.

Nearby, Bobbs tugged at his mole to hide his own smile and eyed his new captain speculatively. “You sure about that brig, sir? Caper’s American.”

“So she is. And that brig yonder flies Britain’s flag above her true colors, Mr. Bobbs. Here, have another look.” Brendan handed the seaman his glass and sipped his coffee, totally unconcerned. “She’s Caper, all right—and now, an Englishman’s prize.”

Abadiah took the glass, wiped the snow from the lens with his elbow, and raised it to his eye. “What d’ye intend to do with her?”

Brendan downed the rest of his coffee. “Why, make her our prize and send her back into port under her true colors, of course.”

Lowering the glass, Bobbs stared as though his ears had failed him. “Sir?”

Brendan shrugged and gave an innocent grin, his cider-colored eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, America has few enough ships without Britain helping herself to them. Greed, Mr. Bobbs! ’Twill never do anyone any good, remember that.”

“But, sir, Caper mounts fourteen guns—which means that whoever captured her must mount a hell of a lot more. They ain’t gonna be too agreeable about letting a fancy schooner with a mere ten guns and a handful of swivels take her back.”

But Brendan was already striding aft, humming something Irish-sounding and looking about as worried as a fox checking out a henhouse. “Mr. Wilbur!” he called, over his shoulder. “We’ll ease the fore and main and prepare to tack!”

“Aye, sir!”

Seconds later, the commands came from aft, were repeated forward, and carried out with brisk efficiency. “Ease the foresail!”

“Let fly!”

Mira stared, her jaw hanging open in amazement. Then she turned to Liam. Her voice was a fierce whisper. “Is he always like that?”

“Like what, lassie?”

“So . . . cool! So blithe, so totally unconcerned!”

For answer, Liam merely gave a broad grin. Miss Mira Ashton would find out about her captain’s other idiosyncrasies soon enough. Chuckling to himself, he took station near the smart row of starboard four-pounders and waited.

“Stand by on the forward guns!”

Mira grabbed a priming iron and ran forward. Her breath came hard and fast, and the cold air dragged tears from her eyes. Swiping them away, she drew herself up and waited impatiently as Abadiah and several other Newburyporters cast off Freedom’s lashings. She was uncomfortably aware of Brendan’s curious stare upon her. “Hurry up!” she urged. Grunting and cursing, the men hauled the gun inboard for loading. Powder monkeys scurried up from below decks, carrying powder and shot.

They were getting closer. And closer.

Without taking his eyes off their quarry, Brendan yelled, “Mr. Doherty! Choose your best gun captain and have him demonstrate to us how fine his eyesight is! If he can take out that brig’s mizzen, I’ll give him my share of the prize money!”

Someone nudged her shoulder, and Mira looked up into Liam’s twinkling blue eyes. He held a linstock, a forked rod used for holding the match to the cannon’s touchhole; now he shoved it into her hand and jerked his head toward the big gun beside her. “Here’s yer chance, lassie! Don’t waste it!”

She nodded eagerly and laid her hand upon Freedom’s ice-cold breech, brushing the snow away from the Scripture words so faithfully—and appropriately—inscribed there: It is more blessed to give than to receive.

That was for damned sure!

Abadiah sponged out the gun, rammed a cartridge down its bore, and followed it with bar shot and wadding.

“Lively, now!” Brendan yelled, obviously testing her.

Mira shoved a priming rod down Freedom’s touchhole to pierce the flannel powder cartridge. Her hands were shaking in nervous excitement, and she was sweating beneath Matt’s heavy coat.

“Easy,” Abadiah said, touching her shoulder. “Ye can do it.”

She nodded and passed a wrist over her brow. Forward, Brendan strode to the shrouds and raised his speaking trumpet, his feet braced against the roll of the ship, his chestnut hair caught in a piece of ribbon and hanging between his broad and handsome shoulders. “Ahoy! What ship are you and what are your true colors?”

Tension mounted. The crew exchanged glances. Beside her, Abadiah tugged nervously on his mole. Mira pictured what Kestrel must look like to the brig’s crew, sweeping out of the gray mists like a ghost.

The answer floated eerily back through the snow. “Caper’s the ship, and her colors are the king’s own!”

“Well, haul them down, my friend, or I shall do so for you!”

The other ship came alive. A shot banged out in reply, skipping through the waves and hissing into the sea a quarter mile away. Canvas tumbled from her yards, someone cut her anchor cable, and she leaned hard over, showing her belly as she fell away with the wind.

“Very well, then!” Brendan raised his trumpet once more, grinning. So they wanted to play, did they? He glanced at the little mite standing at the gun dubbed Freedom, and felt his jaunty good spirits fade to trepidation. If having the lad there was Liam’s idea of a joke. . . .

“Ease the main a wee bit, Mr. Wilbur! And Mr. Starr! You may run out now!”

Behind him came a protesting squeal as the big gun was moved up to its gunport. The little gunner, his face tight with concentration, flung his braid over his shoulder and crouched down beside Freedom’s ugly snout.

“Point your gun!”

Handspikes, the crowbar-like instruments used to heave and lever a gun into position, lifted Freedom’s mouth. Her heart pounding, Mira gripped her linstock, wiped the snow from her eyes, and sighted along the barrel. The iron was cold against her cheek. With the sea heaving Kestrel up and down and her target a dim shape in the snow, it was going to be hard to hit Caper’s hull, let alone her mizzen.

“Maximum elevation, Mr. Starr!”

She felt every eye upon her. Brendan, resplendently handsome, clinging to the shrouds and watching her intently. Liam, his arms folded confidently across his mighty chest. Dalby, his teeth clamped down on a clawlike hand. And the crew, elbowing one another in the ribs and making bets on whether or not she could do it.

The Irish ones, that was. The Newburyporters knew better.

Catching Bobbs’s eye, Mira sighted one last time along Freedom’s snowy breech, stepped aside to avoid the recoil—and lowered her match to the vent. With a mighty roar the gun flung itself inboard, coughing a cloud of flame and smoke from its angry mouth. The crew rushed to the rail, and a great, awed sigh rose up from their midst.

“Holy Mutherr o’ God.”

It was Liam, white-faced and shocked, and staring at her with a strange, frozen grin on his beamy features. Behind him, Mira saw the brig’s mizzen topple into the sea, dragging a tangle of spars, rigging, and sail with it. There was no need to load up again. That one shot had destroyed the nerve of the brig’s crew. Already the British flag was slinking down in defeat.

Liam’s throat worked as he tried to find words. Beyond him Brendan was staring at her, his mouth hanging open and his speaking trumpet dangling uselessly from his wrist. The crew, turning from the rail as one, had gone mute. At last Liam shook his head. “That was mighty fine shootin’, er, Mr. Starr.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

Brendan was still staring at her.

Kestrel, however, was not impressed, taking her skills for granted and as though they were her due. She came up on the defeated brig, confident and assured, and fretting rather impatiently while her captain sent a prize crew across to man it. The brig was disabled, but with the wreckage of her mizzen cleared away, she could still be sailed. And then both victor and vanquished swung their noses through wind and snow, sails shivering and filling once more.

They were just clearing the point of the cove when the lioness came after her cub: HMS Viper, a frigate with thirty-two guns and a new captain at the helm.

A new captain, hell-bent on revenge.

Richard Crichton.

Chapter 13

It had been two days since the confrontation between Kestrel and HMS Viper, a confrontation that had been disastrous as far as the Royal Navy—and especially Captain Richard Crichton—were concerned.

“Not good, Richard.” Sir Geoffrey Lloyd cleared his throat and turned another page of his frigate captain’s report. “I daresay, not good at all.”

The great cabin of the seventy-four-gun ship of the line Dauntless was drafty and cold, but Captain Richard Crichton was sweating beneath his shirt and fine blue coat. Aside from his pale, milk-colored eyes, his physical attributes were quite unremarkable; his height, his build, even his face, which might have been lost to its own fairness if not for the naturally red-rimmed eyes and lusterless hair that didn’t seem to grow from his head, but rather, to lie atop it like sparse and lifeless thatch. Currently that hair was yanked bank in a severe queue between his blocky, epauletted shoulders, and only his fingers, not resting atop his sword hilt but caressing it as they might a lover, gave any indication of his agitation. His face was a carefully schooled study of acceptance, for he knew better than to respond to Sir Geoffrey’s remark. Instead, he drew himself up a little straighter and stared over the admiral’s sloped shoulder, his eyes cold, his mouth harder than marble and his heart burning with hatred for a certain American privateer.

Sir Geoffrey turned another page, and a trickle of sweat raced down Crichton’s back.

Brendan Jay Merrick. The very name brought a bitter taste to Crichton’s mouth. After the exchange of British and American prisoners that had returned him to Sir Geoffrey’s fleet, Sir Geoffrey had given him a less than enthusiastic welcome when he’d come aboard Dauntless last autumn—and had been skeptical about giving him command of another ship. But Viper’s ex-captain had died in action, and the frigate had needed a new one. Otherwise, Crichton would’ve had to wait months to get another command.

And now Merrick had made him look like a fool once more.

A muscle jumped in Crichton’s jaw. He should’ve made sure the bastard was dead four years ago—

“I say, Richard, this is balderdash, all of it.” The admiral was still bent over the reports, his brows cinched as he tried to read Crichton’s words. The bloody bugger should’ve retired long ago, Crichton thought. Maybe he’d do them all a favor and keel over dead one of these days. But of course, that would put the fleet’s command under Sir Geoffrey’s flag captain, the haughty Hiram Ellsworth—a pompous prig whom Crichton despised.

He far preferred Sir Geoffrey.

The admiral sighed and turned another page. Crichton sweated some more. Across the table, Ellsworth shot him a lofty, condescending grin and reached for his snuff. Crichton ignored him. He’d spent hours rewriting that report, trying to spare himself as much humiliation as possible. It was taking the old goat just as long to read it. Crichton bit the inside of his lip and maintained his stiff poise. Dread tightened his gut. The report was not exactly . . . flattering.

Finally Sir Geoffrey pushed the papers aside with a tired motion, leaned his brow into his hand, and pivoted it in his palm to gaze up at his frigate captain. “What I cannot understand, Richard, is how the devil a thirty-two-gun frigate such as Viper could be outmaneuvered, outfought, and then robbed of her own company! This is a disgrace!”

“Preposterous!” Ellsworth exclaimed.

Crichton’s fingers tightened on the sword hilt. “I told you, sir—it was Merrick.”

That, of course, explained everything. Sir Geoffrey dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbed them tiredly, and stared bleakly down at the report, now pinned beneath his elbows. “Are you sure, Richard?”

“Positive, sir.”

“I’d thought him dead. I suppose I should’ve known better.”

“We all should’ve known better, sir.”

“A fine young man, a credit to the navy that made him. And a disgrace to the country he’s turned against. I daresay I’m glad to hear he’s hale and healthy, but damme, Richard, he is a thorn in our side. God rot it, I’m growing too old for this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What?”

“That is, yes, sir, he is a thorn in our side.”

Sir Geoffrey turned away to stare bleakly out the salt-caked stern windows. A faint smile of remembrance curved his stern mouth. Brendan Jay Merrick. His former flag captain had been a laughing young rake with a mirthful grin and the cleverness of a fox. As a lieutenant, he’d been commendable; as a captain, he’d been the best. God only knew what he would have made of himself had he not incited that mutiny four years ago on Halcyon’s decks before being shot down by a rioting seaman, for ’twas men like Merrick who made the British navy proud. Men like Merrick who became public heroes.

And men like Merrick who made the most dastardly foes.

Sighing, Sir Geoffrey picked up a brass protractor and absently toyed with it. Merrick’s Irish luck, it seemed, was stronger than ever. Any man who could survive a gunshot wound to the chest could certainly survive being swept out to sea on a piece of driftwood, which was what Crichton’s last report had revealed. But intelligence, especially when it concerned events in the colonies, could not always be relied upon. No, he wasn’t surprised to hear that Merrick was alive. He wasn’t surprised to find that the young rake had turned up again when they least expected him.

And he wasn’t surprised to hear about this schooner.

She was a dangerous thing in herself, by the sound of it. But in the hands of Captain Brendan Merrick . . .

His smile faded abruptly. He didn’t need this; he really didn’t. Yanking the reports toward him, he squinted and tried once again to decipher Crichton’s crabbed script, finally shoving the papers away with a sound of disgust and annoyance. “A pox on the written word, Richard! My eyes are killing me. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Of course, sir.” Crichton straightened his shoulders and gave him a pale, flat stare that revealed no emotion whatsoever. “I had taken Caper, an American brig of fourteen guns, and put a prize crew aboard her under the command of Lieutenant Sanderson.” His voice was calm, as though he were discussing politics over tea. “It had been snowing off and on throughout the day, and by nightfall the wind was blowing quite a gale. Near dusk, I brought Viper into open sea to wait it out. Sanderson sought shelter in a cove. Shortly after dawn I heard gunfire, and went to investigate.”

“And?”

“’Twas then that I found the schooner.”

The vice admiral leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes . . . the schooner.”

A muscle twitched in Crichton’s iron-hard jaw. “She was the most singular ship I’ve ever seen. Tall, raked-back masts, a low profile, very little freeboard . . . quite unusual in design. She already had my prize brig, Caper, under her wing and was making off with her when I happened upon them. I went after her, of course, given the fact that she alone was obviously worth far more than Caper and all her cargo.”

“And it was at this point that the brig parted company with the schooner?”

“Yes, sir.”

Ellsworth placed a bit of snuff in each nostril with the precision of a marksman. “I would’ve gone after the brig, it being a prize and all. I say, Crichton, d’you know what became of it?”

“Presumably, it was sent back to an American port,” Crichton said tersely.

“Gentlemen,” Sir Geoffrey warned, noting the mottled flush creeping above Crichton’s neatly tied stock. There was no love lost between these two. “Please continue, Richard.”

Crichton moved his thumb rapidly over his sword hilt. “Sir, this is really most humiliating.”

“I realize that, Richard. It is humiliating to you, to me, to the entire Royal Navy. But the problem must be dealt with in a fitting manner. And Merrick, if not dealt with, will become quite a problem indeed, I’m afraid.”

Crichton drew in his breath. It was all there, right in the report, yet still, the old buzzard wanted him to relate it all over again—and in front of Ellsworth, too. Crichton clenched his back teeth together, hard. Hell would freeze over before he’d give either Sir Geoffrey or the pompous Ellsworth the satisfaction of seeing him react in anything but a professional way. No matter how poor his luck had been, no matter how political the system was that placed men like Merrick, whose father had been an admiral himself, and Ellsworth, whose father was an earl, in coveted positions, there was always a chance for promotion.

Except this time, Merrick might have destroyed his chances for good.

Again, that bitter taste in his mouth, that twist of hatred in his gut. Sir Geoffrey was waiting, his bleary old eyes keen and piercing. Another trickle of sweat raced between Crichton’s shoulder blades, but he managed to keep the uneasiness out of his voice. “So then I crowded on as much canvas as Viper could stand, which, given the strong wind, sir, was not as much as I would’ve liked, and gave chase to the schooner. I thought her most sloppily handled—the rebels had too much sail on her, and it seemed as though she’d overset herself at any moment. At the same time, I found it odd that despite all that cloth, she wasn’t making much headway.” His milky eyes grew hard, their translucency emphasized by the pink-tinged lids. “I know now, of course, that it was all a trick. They’d simply rigged a sea anchor to make it look as though she was faltering.”

“Sounds like Merrick, all right,” Ellsworth sniffed.

Crichton shot him a poisonous glance.

Sir Geoffrey tossed the protractor to his desk. “Go on, Richard.”

“After a turn of the glass, I realized the schooner was no longer faltering, that she was indeed a fast sailer and quite skillfully handled. She’d adopted the ploy to lead me away from the brig, of course. I fired upon her, hoping to cripple her, but barely managed to clip her wings, so swift was her flight once she’d cut loose the sea anchor.”

Sir Geoffrey gazed down at the report to hide his expression. Ah, Merrick, he thought, even now, you don’t disappoint me. He looked up and found Crichton’s gaze upon him, those strange, milky eyes as barren as the Arctic and just as cold. Sir Geoffrey’s smile faded abruptly. “Given what you told me about the schooner, I don’t find it surprising that she led you a merry chase, Richard. But I think you’re avoiding the real issue—the engagement.”

Crichton’s knuckles whitened on the sword hilt. “The schooner was most elusive, sir. And let me remind you it was snowing hard. The wind was a westerly, yet she headed almost into the teeth of it. ’Twas most remarkable—”

“The engagement, Richard?”

“Er, yes, the engagement.” Crichton faltered, and went on. “I chased her into a cove, sir, where she holed up, turned on her heel, and presented her broadside to me. The channel into the cove was too shallow for a vessel of Viper’s draft, so I went in as far as I dared. Had it been deeper, I could’ve brought all of my guns to bear, and that would’ve been the end of it; as it was, I could only use my bow chasers, while the schooner, safely in the cove, could give me her full starboard battery. This, of course, she did.” Crichton willed himself to stay calm, knowing that his story must lead up to the most humiliating part of all. “We stood this abuse for an hour, sir, during which time I lost my fore topmast and received considerable damage to both bowsprit and hull. We couldn’t get in to get her, and she damn well wasn’t about to come out.”

“So you retreated?”

“I, er, left, sir. I don’t wish to think of it as a retreat.”

Ellsworth made a snorting sound.

Crichton’s eyes flashed.

Sir Geoffrey rustled the loose pages of the report. “So it was then that you decided to go in search of the brig instead. Is that correct, Richard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And shortly thereafter you found the schooner trailing you and were forced to engage her once again?”

“Had she not had the element of surprise, sir, I vow that the outcome would’ve been different!”

“I thought you said Merrick was commanding her,” Ellsworth taunted.

“Please mind your tongue, Hiram,” Sir Geoffrey warned. “You’d not have fared any better, I daresay.”

Ellsworth snorted and reached for his snuff.

Sir Geoffrey kneaded his aching brow. “So it was during the following engagement that you lost your main topmast, your rudder, and subsequently, your steering. Merrick must have a damned good gunner aboard to accomplish all that with a vessel whose armament was far inferior to yours.” He looked up and met Crichton’s flat and unblinking stare. “At least I can commend you for not striking your colors. In a sea fight, of course, anything can happen. I shan’t blame you for your conduct, despite the fact that Merrick had fewer than half the guns your Viper did.”

“And they were very well used, I might add. And if that damned schooner hadn’t slipped up like a ghost behind us and crippled us with her first shot, I vow she would’ve been my prize and I’d have had Merrick dancing a jig from his own bloody foremast!”

A heavy silence ensued. Outside, the sea gurgled beneath the rudder, and cries drifted down from above as the first lieutenant gave the order to tack. Sir Geoffrey stared thoughtfully out the huge windows, his eyes distant and maybe even a little sad. Then, remembering himself, he picked up a page of Crichton’s report. “So it was at this point that you anchored Viper to make your repairs.” He set the paper down and shook his head. “This is where I grow confused, Richard. What I can’t fathom is how the devil twenty-five men could just disappear!”

“They didn’t just disappear, sir. They were stolen from me! The bloody bastard did it that night, when Viper was quiet and most of the watch asleep—”

Sir Geoffrey nodded and motioned for him to continue.

“Midshipman Everett had the watch. Being only twelve years old himself, he didn’t see anything amiss about two boys in a fishing dory trying to sell him part of their day’s catch. He let them aboard, the idiot. Apparently, while he was speaking to one of them, the other managed to slip this, er, note to one of the seamen. And that’s all it took. By dawn, twenty-five men, including a good master’s mate, were gone.”

Sir Geoffrey gave him a sharp look.

“Oh, have no fear, sir. The little midshipman has been, er, dealt with.”

Sir Geoffrey looked away, his jaw hard. He had no delusions about Crichton’s manner of “dealing” with people—but as an admiral, and above such things, it was not his place to interfere with the way Crichton ran his ship. That was Ellsworth’s duty, and he would speak with the flag captain about it later; let Ellsworth stress his desire for temperance to Crichton, who was not apt to be very temperate at all.

“This note, Richard. Do you still have it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should like to see it, please.”

Crichton dug in his pocket and handed it over, watching glumly as the admiral, farsighted with advancing age, held the paper at arm’s length so that he could read it.

“Pray, what does it say, sir?” Ellsworth moved closer, trying to look down his nose without lowering his head.

“I shall read it to you, Hiram. And then, perhaps, it will give you a sense of our Captain Merrick’s character.” Sir Geoffrey’s eyesight may have been failing, but the writing was so bold, so sure of itself, that he had no trouble at all reading that elegant, artistic script.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he quoted, “in due respect and understanding of your unhappy situation under the rule of one of the King’s most brutal masters—” Sir Geoffrey paused to glance sideways at Crichton. “I—I invite you to join the crew of the new privateering schooner Kestrel, whose acquaintance you made earlier and whose presence can be found a cable’s length to windward of your current anchorage. Those of you who wish to cast off the yoke of the tyrant King, and become the glorious defenders of Liberty instead, shall be treated and honoured as free citizens of America and shall partake of all prize monies secured by said schooner. Signed—” Sir Geoffrey lowered the paper. “—Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, formerly R.N.”

There was a long moment of silence. Ellsworth smirked and coughed delicately into his hand, Crichton’s pale eyes hardened to ice, and Sir Geoffrey tossed the note aside with a defeated motion. Obviously Merrick had used Crichton’s reputation for cruelty to his advantage; it must have been an easy matter indeed for him to steal seamen from HMS Viper. Hauling himself wearily to his feet, the admiral poured three glasses of Madeira from a crystal decanter.

“Gentlemen,” he said, staring down into the ruby depths, “normally I would not be so concerned about subduing one little privateer. But given the fact that Captain Merrick is her commanding officer—and no doubt her designer, too—I cannot, in all conscience, allow the matter to rest here. Situations such as these, Richard, are most humiliating to our navy as well as upsetting to our people’s morale.” He gave a heavy sigh. “And where Merrick is concerned, I’m afraid they are also likely to happen again.”

Silence. Ellsworth sniffed and reached for his handkerchief.

Sir Geoffrey stared out the windows. A few flakes of snow swirled into view, pirouetting and dancing in the wind. Beneath him, the deck tilted as Dauntless leaned heavily over on the opposite tack. He looked at Crichton, standing there with his milky eyes expressionless and unblinking, his hand resting atop his sword hilt. The task he was about to give Crichton was a damn near impossible one. But Crichton was one of his captains, and though Sir Geoffrey had never cared for him, it was only fair that he be allowed the chance to redeem himself.

“Describe Merrick’s vessel to me, if you please, Richard. You say she was a topsail schooner?”

“Not just a topsail schooner. She also stacked a t'gallant on her fore, and looked like she could’ve rigged studders, too, if her captain desired to fly them. She had a long, slooplike bowsprit strung with at least two jibs, a hull so slick, it hardly rippled the water, and a deck design that, from a distance, barely made a profile. ’Twas obvious she was not built as a fisherman, a blockade runner, nor even a smuggler, sir.” He looked hard at Sir Geoffrey. “She was designed as a predator.”

A predator.

Sir Geoffrey nodded slowly, considering Crichton’s words and staring off into the heaving gray sea beyond Dauntless’s windows. Crichton had been correct in forsaking the brig for the schooner. Admiralty would go to great lengths for the chance to study such a singular vessel. Why, if he could only get his hands on it, he could leave the sea and retire to his home in Kent once and for all, with a fire in the hearth to warm his tired old bones and a sleeping hound at his feet. . . .

“Intelligence tells me that a much-heralded schooner was recently built by Captain Ephraim Ashton of Newburyport,” he said, stressing the town’s name and watching Crichton closely. But that translucent gaze never wavered. “From all accounts, she was quite unlike anything either this, er . . . country or ours has ever seen. A forward-swept stem, narrow beam, extremely raked masts, and a hull so sharp that most predicted she’d sink the moment she touched water. Obviously she did not, but if Merrick designed her—and I am quite confident that he did—it doesn’t surprise me in the least. He was the best, you know. A man ahead of his time.”

Ellsworth reached for his snuff. Crichton’s eyes remained unblinking.

Sir Geoffrey set his glass down. “In any case, ’tis my belief that Merrick collaborated with the senior Captain Ashton to build the schooner for him. You’ve heard of Ashton, have you not, gentlemen?”

“I’ve heard of his son,” Ellsworth said loftily.

“Yes, who hasn’t?” Sir Geoffrey muttered. “An unruly hellion if ever there was one. But young Matthew is not so different from his sire. Ephraim made his fortune in the rum-smuggling trade some years ago before turning his talents to shipbuilding, where I understand he has been moderately successful.” He took a deep breath. “That is, extremely successful, since word got around about this schooner. And Matthew, of course, has become quite infamous as a privateer, and something of a town hero.”

“He’s something of a pain in the arse, if you ask me.”

“He’s nothing compared to what Merrick will be if something is not done about him!” Sir Geoffrey’s voice was hard. Already his cozy Kent home seemed more and more distant, a wistful dream if ever there was one. He sighed and continued, “In any case, both Ashtons are active in town politics, having served on the Committee of Safety, which was, as you well know, instrumental in stirring up sentiments against Britain. In fact, Matthew was only fifteen when those damned radicals, the Sons of Liberty, popped up in Newburyport back in sixty-five, but my sources tell me that he was one of the hotheaded young firebrands who roamed the streets wielding clubs, protesting the Stamp Act, challenging the opinions of passersby on it—God help them if they’d been in favor—and hanging and burning effigies of the local stamp distributor from some damned thing they called the Liberty Tree.”

Ellsworth sniffed, “I say, ’twill be a dire affair indeed if Merrick and the young Ashton have gotten together.”

Crossing the cabin, Sir Geoffrey leaned tiredly against the bulkhead and watched storm clouds filing toward the horizon. His bones ached, a good indication that it would snow again soon. “My sentiments exactly, Hiram.” He sighed heavily and ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “Especially since there’s a convoy of merchantmen sailing from London as we speak, bound for New York. Captain Merrick no doubt will have heard of it, as will every other damned privateer worth his salt.” He drew himself up, seeing his dream of his Kent home resting upon Crichton’s blocky shoulders. “Which is why I think it prudent to stop Merrick before he can do too much damage.

“There are two things I want you to do, Richard. Or shall I say, given the fact that Captain Merrick’s involved, try to do.”

Crichton drew himself up.

“First, I want you to bring me Matthew Ashton. Alive. The Americans will trade most handsomely to have him back, I should think, and there are some things I might learn from him about Newburyport and the inaccessibility of that damned river.”

There was a long pause. “And secondly, sir?”

The sluice of water against the hull and rudder was the only sound.

“Secondly, Richard—” The admiral regarded him over the top of his wineglass, and his bleary old eyes were suddenly sharp. “—I want that schooner.”

Ellsworth lifted his haughty brows.

“Afloat, intact, and before Merrick can use her to inflict any more damage upon our vessels, our shipping, and the morale of our men. If she is truly as magnificent as you—and eyewitness accounts—have described her to be, she’s worth far more to our navy than a hundred ships. Let ourarchitects dissect her, piece by piece. Let them study her as a biologist would a butterfly. Perhaps they will learn something from her.”

Crichton’s eyes were paler than ever, but a smile touched his hard mouth.

“So be it, gentlemen.” Sir Geoffrey sent Ellsworth from the cabin and stared hard at Crichton. “Here’s your chance, Richard, to redeem your name, your honor, and my faith in you. Bring me Matthew Ashton, and Admiralty shall remain ignorant of your misfortunes of last night. But bring me Merrick and his schooner, and I can promise you promotion by the end of the year.”

“P-promotion, sir?”

“Yes, Richard. Promotion. I know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.” He grinned, and guided the younger man toward the door. “Now go, and do not dally. I’m an old man, with little patience and limited time. You have a fortnight to make good your efforts. Don’t waste it.”

Crichton smiled, an evil drawing back of hard lips that sent an involuntary shiver up Sir Geoffrey’s arthritic old spine. “Thank you, sir. I shall not disappoint you.” He touched his hat and strode from the cabin. Moments later, the shrill of pipes drifted down from above as he left the flagship and climbed down into the boat that would return him to Viper.

Sir Geoffrey stood at the windows for a long time. He thought of his home in Kent once again. He thought of Merrick and Ashton, and what Crichton was likely to do to them if he did succeed in capturing them.

And then he thought of the little midshipman, Everett.

Sir Geoffrey was loyal to Britain, first, last, and always.

At least Viper’s abused people would be safe for a while longer.

Chapter 14

Five o’clock and darkness.

Brendan whistled as he trudged through Newburyport’s cold and snowy streets, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his tricorne pulled low, his chin tucked into his stock, and his coattails dragging in the drifts behind him. Anticipation sang in his blood, for in one of those pockets was a dinner invitation from Ephraim. Whether that invitation reflected genuine hospitality on the old sea captain’s part, or an interest in hearing about the eight prizes Kestrel had dragged in from the sea and whose British crews were even now being marched to the Newburyport jail, Brendan didn’t know. Those prizes certainly had something to do with the wild reception he’d received several hours earlier, when Kestrel had brought them all into the river and lined them up, one by one, alongside Ephraim’s wharf!

He grinned wryly to himself, remembering that particular horror . . . the parade of nearly a hundred boats, full of wildly cheering Newburyporters, that had met Kestrel at the river’s mouth to escort her into harbor; the adoring young lassies swooning at his feet once he’d arrived there; the seamen of every age and description pleading, nay, begging to sign aboard the lucky Kestrel. Faith, how did Matthew, who’d returned from his cruise a few hours before, tolerate such abuse? ’Twas a wonder he’d managed to escape with his life!

But as he’d grinned and laughed and pretended to enjoy it, clawing his way through cheering throngs who’d been fighting one another to get his autograph, his attention, and probably the clothes off his back, someone had thrust a paper into his hand and he’d found himself with a personal invitation to supper from Ephraim Ashton himself. The invitation suited him just fine. After a cold, tossing bunk, oatmeal in the morning, and lobscouse with hardtack at night, even thoughts of Miss Ashton’s pudding were almost welcome.

Almost.

More so were thoughts of Miss Mira Ashton herself.

He grinned at the thought and stepped up his pace, forgoing the packed sleigh tracks in favor of the deep drifts bordering the road. Snow yawed into his boot tops and numbed his cold toes, but he forced his legs to work hard, pumping up his heart and generating plenty of warmth. He turned onto High Street. Big, handsome homes rose out of the snow, their many-paned windows glowing with candlelight. Wood smoke lay heavily upon the brittle air, mixing with the tangy scent of the sea and fresh, clean wind. He heard revelry and laughter coming from one home, the faint tinkle of a harpsichord from another.

He kept walking, a little faster now. Snow draped the Beacon Oak’s massive branches, swirled out of the black sky, and whispered against his cold cheeks. From somewhere off in the night, he heard sleigh bells and the distant whicker of a horse.

Mira Ashton, out for a drive with her wee gray colt?

He grinned, and, floundering in a drift, moved a bit closer to the relative safety of the road’s edge. Just in case.

By the time he spotted the anchor, shapeless under a foot of snow, that marked Ephraim’s grand mansion, Brendan’s breeches were damp, his wool stockings soaked, and his coattails caked with snow. But the sight of the elegant Georgian was enough to make him forget his discomfort. The chimney sent up a curl of smoke that appeared silver against the black, low-hanging sky. Snow lay like frosting on the roof, and giant icicles spanned the distance between eaves and ground, sparkling and twinkling like diamonds in the candlelight that shone from every window. It was a breathtaking sight, for the house appeared to rise straight up from a bed of light.

And inside that house was Mira Ashton.

Brendan’s heart began to race, and he trembled with nervous excitement. She was the only one he hoped to impress with Kestrel’s good fortune on her maiden cruise; the devil take the rest of the town!

He hit a seemingly bottomless drift, sank all the way to his hip, and laughing with boyish exuberance, scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it playfully at a darting shadow. He missed, of course. Faith, even if he’d been trying to hit the cat, he would’ve missed. He’d never be as good a marksman as Mr. Starr!

Still chuckling, he watched as the animal fled, bounding through the snow until it reached the front steps, where it reared up on its hind legs and scratched pitifully at the door. It stopped in midclaw to twist its head around and stare at him, tail twitching and ears pasted angrily to its skull.

Haughty creatures, cats! Perhaps a snow-shower would bring this one down to its proper station in life. Grinning, Brendan bent, scooped up another snowball, and aiming for a harmless spot on the door several feet above the cat’s head, drew back his arm and fired his missile hard.

The door opened, and the snowball caught Matthew Ashton full in the face. His spectacles went flying.

“Son of a bitch!” Yelling in Ephraim-like rage, Matt clawed the snow from his eyes, dropped to his knees, and swept his palms over the frozen steps in a desperate search for his spectacles. His fiery hair stood out from his head like a conflagration, and behind him the door yawned wide. The cat darted into the house. “Miserable young scamps! Good-for-nothing brats! Show yourselves, damn you, or so help me God, I’ll give you a licking you’ll never forget!”

“A lickin’?” Brendan folded his arms, threw back his head, and let his laughter split the night. His Irish brogue might be a bit mellowed by years in the Royal Navy, but when he wanted to, he could still pile it on thicker than rocks on a Connemara hillside. “Faith, I’d like t’ see ye try’t! Blind as a bloody bat you are without yer specs, Ashton!”

“Why, you blasted bugger! That you, Merrick?”

Brendan’s peal of mirth was confirmation enough. “Nay, ’tis Saint Nick, come t’ bring ye a present f’r Christmas! ’Ave ye been a good laddie, Maitiú?”

“For what I’ve done or for what I’m about to do?”

“Why, fer what ye’ve done, o’ course. What ye intend t’ do is naught but th’ Lord’s business, an’ not Saint Nick’s. Therefore, ye’d best make yer peace with ’im before ye do anythin’ rash, laddie-o!”

“Oh, I’ll do something rash, all right!” Matt found his spectacles, hastily wiped them clean with his shirttail, and shoved them up the bridge of his nose. His eyes gleamed as he scooped up a handful of snow and molded it into a hard white ball the size of round shot. “And speaking of peace, you’d better make yours, Irishman, ’cause it’s the last damned prayer ye’ll ever pray!”

Brendan laughed, for Matt, eyeing him with a promise of retribution from behind speckled lenses, looked quite ridiculous. Behind him the door swung wide and revealed the house’s brilliantly lit interior, but Matt, standing in the cold in nothing but his vest, his shoes, and a shirt that was half-in, half-out of his breeches, didn’t give a hoot about wasted heat from either the house or himself. The fun of a good snowball fight was paramount. He drew back his arm and slammed the ball into a tree three feet beyond Brendan’s ear, cursing loudly when he saw he’d missed his target.

“Rumor has it that Kestrel tangled with a frigate mounting three times her guns, left her chewing her own bow wake, and made port with some seven prizes. That right, Irishman?”

“Oh no, that isn’t right a’tall.”

“Damned rumors, never can believe ’em!”

“’Twas eight prizes, laddie!”

“Eight prizes!” Matt scooped up another handful of snow.

“Aye, eight prizes. A lad’s got t’ make a livin’, y’ know!” The snowball came singing out of the darkness. Brendan dodged it, clenching his teeth as cold powder sifted down his neck, and came up with one of his own. He hurled it hard. With an Indian-like war whoop, Matt dove into the bushes beside the front door. The snowball missed him by a mile, exploding against the side of the house with a slapping thunk.

A head poked up above the scruff of the bushes. “Bah, I don’t know how you managed to take one prize, let alone eight! Why, you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, let alone a ship!”

“Y’r absolutely right, Maitiú, I couldn’t! But I’ve a fine wee gunner who can take out a ship’s mizzen on the first shot!” A snowball exploded out of the bushes and burst against the tree behind him. “Faith, Yankee, ye talk about my aim?”

“I’m just warming up!”

“Like bloody hell y’ are; y’r aim’s no better than mine!” Matt’s shadowy form darted out into the open, and a snowball whined harmlessly past Brendan’s ear. His fingers were numb and throbbing, but he managed to scoop up more snow and shape it into a good ball. He flung it hard, cringing as it headed toward one of Ephraim’s windows, relaxing as it thwacked harmlessly against the sill. Matt’s next came singing out of the darkness, passing his ear with a silent whoosh and trailing powder like the tail of a comet.

Laughing, Brendan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Methinks ye’d bett’r wipe off y’r specs, Ashton!”

“And methinks you’re the one who needs ’em, not me!”

Brendan bent, grabbed more snow, and straightened up. “Then kindly lend me yours so that—”

Thwack! He staggered backward, landing in an undignified sprawl on his backside in a two-foot drift. Stunned, he looked down, gasping like a fish out of water and cringing at the pain of sucking in great lungfuls of brittle air. Part of a snowball caked his lapels and chest. The rest of it was already sliding down the front of his coat. He shut his eyes for a moment, dizzy beneath the reawakened agony of his old injury.

Matt’s howls of glee split the night and he slapped his thigh, the impact sounding like rifle shots in the frigid stillness. Coughing, Brendan pressed a hand to his chest and looked up. The front door was still open, but it was no longer empty.

Miss Mira Ashton stood there.

And she was making another snowball.

He lunged to his feet, hands outspread and raised in surrender. “Mercy, lass! Quarter! What’re you trying to do, kill me?”

She smiled sweetly, already drawing her arm back. In that demure gown, with her hair caught up beneath a lacy white mobcap, a cameo at her throat, and her slim body backlit by the chandelier, she looked too beautiful, too delicate, to do any damage.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. And as he gingerly brushed the snow from his chest and wondered if she’d cracked a rib, she proved it.

The snowball hit him like a charge of grape, exploding against his collarbone and sending a cold spray of powder into his eyes, his nose, and down his neck. She brought him down once more, to his knees this time, and as he gasped for breath, he heard her laughter pealing like bells in the crystal night air.

Her brother’s last snowball, casually thrown, sent his tricorne flying. “Serves you right, Merrick,” he complained good-naturedly. “Coming into port with eight prizes your first time out. What’re ye trying to do, show me up? Hell, I have a reputation to uphold, you know!”

Brendan forced a grin, his shoulder throbbing and the old gunshot wound a familiar, dull ache in his chest. He ran a finger inside his stock to dig the snow out and retrieved his tricorne. Knocking the snow from it, he set it atop his head, grimacing as a fresh sifting of cold powder found its way beneath his queue and slithered down his nape. “A reputation?”

“Hmph! He has a reputation, all right!” Mira stood in the doorway, beautiful in a sea-green gown shot through with silver. But unlike Eveleen, who’d appeared behind her, there was nothing regal about her; her knuckles rested saucily on her hips, her lips were twitching, and the sides of her nose were crinkled with laughter. That helplessly thick hair, shining and freshly washed, was gathered atop her head, a few dark strands of it tipping her shoulders and falling over her brow.

Brendan’s chest went tight. He stopped breathing and stared at her, transfixed. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who’d run him down in the street, swore like a sailor, and went about town in her brother’s clothes when the urge struck her. He shook his head to clear it, no longer feeling the snow trickling down his throat, his neck.

And faith, she sure had one hell of an arm!

“Aye, a reputation with the ladies!” she called saucily. “He’s afraid that if you replace him as the local hero, they’ll all flock to you instead!” Seeming oblivious to the cold, she gathered up more snow, this time eyeing Matt, who had the good sense to back away. “Isn’t that right,dear Matthew?”

“Absolutely,” he said, gauging the distance between himself and the doorway and wondering if he could make it in time before she brought him down with that deadly missile.

Mira rounded out the snowball, her calculated, planned manner reminding Brendan of the way Mr. Starr had tested each ball before ramming it into his gun. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were red with cold, and behind her he could still see Eveleen, watching Matt with wistful eyes. “Did you see Mistress’s figurehead as you came into port, Captain?” Mira said.

Brendan eyed that deadly snowball, wondering if it was intended for him or her brother. “Her figurehead? Er, no.”

“You really should go and take a look at it. Matt’s painted it again, to resemble his latest lady friend. Currently it has red hair and green eyes, right, Matt?”

“Blue eyes, damn you.”

“Oh. Sorry, I haven’t been as close to Miss Greenleaf as you’ve been, dear brother! So how should I know, hmmm?” Pat, pat. The snowball looked cold, hard—and deadly.

“So help me, Mira, you throw that snowball and I’ll—”

She never gave him the chance to finish. Laughing, she drew back and threw it hard, clapping her hands as it caught him dead center in the chest with an exaggerated thump. Shaking with mirth, she fell against the doorway as Matt let out an enraged howl and violated the crisp, white night with a string of curses so loud that across the street, a window shot open and a stockinged head poked out.

“What the tarnal hell’s goin’ on out there?!”

Laughter greeted his angry query. The man slammed the window down with a sharp crack. “What the tarnal hell’s goin’ on out there?!” Mira mimicked. She looked at Brendan across the snowy lawn, he looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes, hungry and wanting. Her laughter trailed off. She smiled her cat-smile. And Brendan, stuffing his painful thawing hands into his pockets, watched the snow swirling around her lovely face and swallowed hard.

Suddenly the night didn’t seem so cold.

Matt charged onto the steps and grabbed her before she could fashion another snowball. Rubbing his elbow, he hauled her past Eveleen and over the threshold. “You’re going inside,” he muttered, “before you end up killing one of us. Christ, Father’ll have both our hides if you end up taking poor Merrick’s head off with one of your damned snowballs.” He turned, wiping his wet hand on his breeches before extending it in greeting. “Come on in, Merrick! ’Gads, ’tis good to have you back!”

Brendan returned the greeting and together they entered the hall, red-cheeked, dripping, stomping snow from their feet and breathing hard. Inside, it felt steamy and hot after being out in the cold. A brilliant array of candles sputtered and hissed from a chandelier overhead, filling the air with the scent of tallow. As Brendan stood blinking, his eyes unaccustomed to the sudden brightness, a servant took his dripping coat, hat, and sword, and Eveleen thrust a mug of mulled cider into his raw hands. He was barely aware of the attention. His gaze was on Mira, just disappearing into the dining room with a tiger-striped tomcat yowling in her wake.

His chest ached, but it had nothing to do with the snowball. His neck was cold, his stock wet and itchy against his skin, and his breeches were soaked—but he was heedless of these discomforts. And then he heard the sounds of dishes clinking against one another, the pop of a cork, Ephraim’s cursing. He saw the cat come bolting out of the dining room with Luff hot on its heels. He smelled hot turkey, fresh gingerbread, cinnamon, and baking apples—and fleetingly wondered if Mira had done any of the cooking.

He suddenly realized that he didn’t give a damn if she had or hadn’t.

Grinning wolfishly, he followed her into the great dining room.

There was hot turkey and squash baked in maple syrup. Corn pudding, codfish cakes, and skillet cranberries, frosty with sugar. Chestnut flummery with sweet sauce, Abigail’s chewy molasses cookies, gingerbread and eggnog and whipped syllabub. Hot buttered rum and plates of glazed almonds, raisins, cheese. As usual, Abigail had put on a feast, this time using Kestrel’s success as an excuse to engage in her favorite pastime—cooking up a storm for her very appreciative menfolk.

Unlike Eveleen, Mira didn’t do the meal much justice. She was too aware of the man who sat beside her. Brendan. His arm was near enough to lean against, his long thigh was heating up the space next to hers, and he was so close, she could smell his clean, masculine scent: spicy shaving soap, wet wool and damp cotton, fresh air and melted snow. He grinned a lot, complimented Abigail on the meal, caused the housekeeper to blush, and talked with his hands. His laughter was pure as the sea wind and as Irish as that whiskey Liam had nearly poisoned her with last night. He seemed unaware of the fact she sat beside him, never turning her way, never talking to her, and being very, very careful not to let his arm or thigh accidentally brush hers. But his skittish attitude didn’t deter her. Every time she looked at him, she saw him again as he’d been on Kestrel’s decks, laughing and gallant and quite full of himself as he’d put the schooner through her paces.

“You’re in love with him,” Matt had taunted, grinning devilishly as earlier she’d paced the house, eagerly peering out the windows and glancing at the nearest clock as she’d waited for him to arrive.

“Am not.”

“Are, too.” He’d tweaked her nose, and she’d kicked him in the shin. “I know the signs.”

“I ain’t in love with him. The man’s a blasted lunatic. Any captain who stands on his deck and draws pictures of the enemy’s ship during battle’s gotta have rocks in his head!”

“Our Captain from Connaught hasn’t rocks in his head, dear sister, and you know it. But I do think he’s got something in his heart for you.”

“You’re full of crap, you know that, Matt? Full of crap!” To which Matt had responded with hearty laughter and a careless wave of his freckled hand.

Heck, she hoped Matt was right and Brendan did feel something for her. Yet why was he taking pains to avoid her? She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and picked at her food, too tense, too flustered, and far too excited to eat. Her stomach felt as though someone had tied a double reef in it. Her lips were dry and she had to keep wetting them; during one of these times Brendan happened to glance at her, and his eyes had darkened perceptibly, making her lips go drier and her stomach even more jumpy.

And of course, there was the very real danger that he’d find out just where she’d been these past several days . . .

Following Kestrel’s triumphant return to port, she’d darted through the throngs, scooted home, and managed to get halfway up the stairs before she was set upon by Ephraim, who’d spent a good ten minutes bawling at the very top of his lungs.

“I told ye I don’t want ye out on that damned ship of Matt’s! I told ye I want ye to start actin’ like a proper female! And here ye are, defyin’ me again! What’ll Merrick think when he finds out?! He don’t know, does he? Tripes ’n guts, that’s all I need is fer him t’ hear o’ this! You an’ yer unladylike behavior’s gonna be the bleedin’ death of me!”

Of course, it wouldn’t be long before he did know, Mira had flippantly predicted, for not only had the household staff heard every word—but so had every neighbor within a half-mile radius.

It was a good thing that Father didn’t know what ship she’d really been out on!

Brendan’s voice brought her back to the present. “So, Moyrrra, how did the riding lessons go, eh?”

“Riding lessons?”

Surprisingly, it was Eveleen who came to her rescue. “They’ve been going very well, Brendan.”

Mira shot the other woman a look of gratitude, but Eveleen was too busy staring at Matt from above a pile of gravy-soaked turkey some three inches high, averting her eyes only when Matt, who was launching into some plan to attack a convoy of merchant ships on its way to New York, swung his bespectacled face away from Brendan long enough to choke down a spoonful of Mira’s own fish chowder before going at it once more. Before the main dessert was even served—a rich bread pudding dripping maple syrup and brandy and topped with clouds of cream, which Brendan didn’t touch and Eveleen devoured like a starving child—Mira was determined that she would see the two of them together if it was the last thing she did.

Matt wasn’t helping the matter any. Mira cursed him under her breath. As usual, he tended toward exaggeration—sometimes wildly so—when he had an attentive audience. Brendan, who was familiar with the tavern boasts of fellow sea captains, merely raised a brow and reached for a piece of fruit, the little smile playing about his mouth indicating he believed only half of what Matt was saying. Eveleen was another story altogether. She listened with rapt attention, finally abandoning even her dessert and staring at Matt in fascination.

Mira frowned. She needed to get Eveleen’s attention on something other than food and her brother. Very aware of Brendan’s leg, which had drifted slightly toward hers, she dabbed her lips with her napkin and said brightly, “So, Eveleen. Are you looking forward to your riding lesson tomorrow?”

Eveleen’s head jerked up, as though she hadn’t heard Mira’s question. “I’m sorry?”

“Your riding lesson,” Mira chirped, flushing a bit when she felt Brendan’s gaze upon her. “Ten o’clock, remember?”

Eveleen gave her a sour look. “Oh . . . yes. I’d forgotten.” But she remembered her half-finished dessert, and attacked it with renewed vigor. “I do hope it’s after breakfast. I get positively faint if I exert myself before eating.”

“Breakfast’s at precisely eight o’clock,” Ephraim announced, as though it wasn’t already a well-known fact.

“So there, you see?” Mira said cheerfully. “You’ll be full, but not too full to ride—”

“Of course . . . More pudding, please, Captain Ashton?”

Matt, still going on about the convoy, passed it without even glancing at her.

And so the evening went, with Eveleen staring at Matt, and he ignoring her, and Mira staring at Brendan, and he ignoring her, until Mira boldly reached beneath the tablecloth and placed her hand on Brendan’s thigh just as pretty as you please, at which point he shot out of his chair and knocked over the fine bottle of Madeira that Ephraim had just brought out. A red stain raced across the white linen, and Brendan colored with mortification.

“Nervous there, boy?” Ephraim asked, bushy white brows drawn close in a frown.

“Er, no . . . just—”

“Don’t fret, Merrick, happens to the best of us. Sometimes the fear and reya-ly-zay-shun of how close ye come t’ gittin’ yer head blown off in a sea battle don’t hit until yer safely back on land.” He glanced at his prized Willard clock and cleared his throat importantly. “I think it’s about time we go retire fer a swig or two, eh, boys? We don’t want to talk about killin’ and blood and guts in front of the womenfolk. Let’s go to the library and do it there.”

He cackled at his own joke and dragged Matthew up from his chair.

Brendan paused and glanced ruefully at the ruined tablecloth. His thigh seemed to throb where she’d touched it. Pins and needles danced up his leg. And he was tired, dead tired. If only he could get away, get back to Kestrel without offending the old man. They could all discuss this convoy tomorrow. But Ephraim was already headed down the hall, bellowing for a bottle of brandy and more of Abigail’s cookies. Brendan felt Mira’s green-eyed stare on his back, and resigned himself to joining the old sea captain. He’d stay just long enough to be polite, and then he’d leave. Get himself out of this house before Miss Mira’s charms did him in.

Yet despite himself, he happened to glance at her as he pushed in his chair. She was still sitting there, chewing her lip until it was delightfully red and swollen, her little hand stroking that gray dockyard cat, and her eyes glinting with a secretiveness that belied her apparent demureness. He wondered what mischief she was plotting now. And then she happened to glance up, and their eyes met. A current of electricity sizzled between them, one that had been crackling and sparking all night. Brendan’s chest tightened and his heart fluttered and jumped, the way it often did when he’d had too much coffee in the morning.

With a rigid elegance that did his English side proud, he nodded stiffly and followed his host into the library.

Mira, her eyes dreamy, watched him go. A little smile lifted the corner of her mouth, and she sat gazing at the closed door long after the servants arrived and began to clear the table.

Brendan.

Her Captain from Connaught.

She stuck her finger in her mouth and thoughtfully bit off a hangnail. He’d passed the Test with flying colors, proving himself more than competent as a seaman—and a commander.

Matt was right. She was in love with him.

Chapter 15

Mira was so deep in thought that she’d all but forgotten that she wasn’t alone at the table. Eveleen was still there, eating up the last of the bread pudding and maintaining a sulky silence. So quiet was she that Mira jumped when the girl heaved herself out of her chair and ambled off toward the stairs, her step heavy and her eyes, so like Brendan’s but lacking their carefree mirth, downcast and miserable.

Mira’s heart went out to her.

As usual, Eveleen had been wearing a pink silk gown, which did nothing whatsoever to flatter a figure that needed all the flattering it could get. Perhaps tomorrow—after her riding lesson—she’d haul the girl down to Patrick Tracy’s store in Market Square and coerce her into finding a more attractive—and patriotic—fabric from which to sew a new gown. Of course, as one who spent half her time in shirt and trousers, she probably wasn’t the best source of advice, but she did know that pink silk was the last thing that Eveleen Merrick ought to be wearing.

That resolution made, Mira returned to her scheming.

Aye, she was in love with Brendan. And she couldn’t deny it. She should never have sneaked aboard Kestrel and seen the schooner’s dashing captain in action. His courage, his wily cleverness, his competence . . . her heart hadn’t stood a chance. She was hopelessly smitten, and she was determined to do something about it.

She gazed at the library door, idly playing with a lock of hair that had tumbled loose from her coif and winding it absently around her finger. She’d caught him watching her at supper. Seen the way his eyes had warmed when he looked at her. She might be innocent where men were concerned, but given a roving brother, a seaman’s upbringing, and a town full of male friends in whose eyes she could do no wrong, she was far less so than most women of her age and marital status. She recognized desire in a man when she saw it, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Maybe she ought to stop wearing Matt’s clothes altogether and go around dressed in pretty gowns more often.

And, maybe, she thought with a frown, it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to cook, either.

Sighing, she plucked a limp chunk of fish out of her chowder and tossed it to the floor, where no fewer than twelve prowling felines fell upon it like there was no tomorrow.

The library was close enough that she could hear the musical lilt of his voice and his decidedly Irish laughter, if she sat very still and strained her ears. Oh, to be in that room right now, smelling the old books and leather, the beeswax and fine cherry rum that Father would be serving . . . She could picture the flames crackling in the hearth, and Brendan sprawled carelessly in one of the big, overstuffed wing chairs, the firelight gleaming off the gold buttons of his waistcoat, finding the depths of his eyes, bringing out the honey-colored highlights of his rich chestnut hair. . . .

The chowder went cold. The fire in the hearth began to die, taking its light with it. The candles burned low, and shadows danced along the wainscoted walls. Father’s great Willard clock banged out the hour, and the library door blasted open and crashed against the wall.

“Nonsense, Merrick! East room’s all made up fer ye. Fire’s already laid in the hearth, bed’s all turned down, and there’s a brick heatin’ in the flames to warm yer toes. Ain’t no need fer ye to go back to that damned ship; she’ll be there a-waitin’ fer ye in the mornin’.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but honestly, sir, I’d feel far more comfortable back on the schooner,” Brendan protested, remembering the last sleepless night he’d spent in this house. Cats, clocks—and Mira Ashton.

Especially Mira Ashton.

“You young captains and yer blasted ships! Ye think I don’t remember how it is? I told ye, she’ll be there in the mornin’. Now don’t be a-snubbin’ my hos-pit-ality, ye hear?”

Muttering, he stormed into the dining room, grabbed a plate off the table, and seeing his daughter still sitting there, gave her a conspiratorial wink. “Any more lip outta this young Adonis here and I’ll sic Luff after him. Tripes, where the hell is that blasted dog, anyhow? Luff? Luff!” He gave a piercing whistle that almost shattered the window glass and rapped his fork against the plate hard enough to crack it. “Luff? Here, boy! He-e-e-e-e-re, boy!”

A suspicious thump sounded against the ceiling, and it occurred to Brendan that a brick was not the only thing that had been warming his bed.

“C’mon, Luff! Here, boy! Daddy’s got some goodies for ye!”

An avalanche of sound thundered down the stairs, claws skittered madly on hardwood floors, and the setter came skidding into the dining room on his haunches. Cackling with glee, Ephraim set the plate on the floor after a wary glance to ensure Abigail’s absence, and watched as the dog bolted the leftovers.

“Abby’ll have a damned fit if she sees him eatin’ off the plates. Ye don’t mind, do ye, Merrick? They git washed real good. Oh, Matt! Come back here, boy, I almost fergot! Annie Pillsbury dropped by this morn, a-wonderin’ if yer gonna take her to the dance tomorrow night at the Daltons’ house.”

Matt, his cheeks flushed with drink and his red hair rumpled, stared at him, uncomprehending. He pushed his spectacles up with a freckled finger. “Annie?”

“Aye, Annie! Ye know, that pretty little blonde—”

Matt made a dismissing motion with his hand and continued down the hall.

“You git back here! I’m askin’ ye a question, dammit! Are ye takin’ her or aren’t ye?”

Matt was almost to the stairway. “I’m taking Leah Rutherford.”

“That where ye were when Annie came a-callin’? With Leah?”

“None of your damned business!”

“Is, too, my business! Ye were with Leah, weren’t ye. Weren’t ye?”

Matt whirled, his freckles fading into a pre-temper flush, and thin crescents of fog nestling in the bottoms of his lenses. “As a matter of fact, I was not with Leah, nor Annie. I was with Penny Morrill, all right? Now, shear off! Who I see, who I don’t see, who I bed, who I don’t bed, and who I take to the goddamned dance is none of your stinking affair!”

“Penny Morrill?”

“Aye, Penny Morrill!”

“You mean to tell me ye have the likes of Annie Pillsbury and Leah Rutherford a-yappin’ at yer heels and ye prefer some blowsy tart who ain’t nothing but a she-bitch in heat?”

Matt went crimson and slammed his fist into the wall. “Goddammit, just stay out of my life, you cantankerous old goat!”

“Cantankerous old goat? Who you callin’ a cantankerous old goat? Why, I’ll have no cussed son of mine takin’ that tone of voice with me, you hear me? I raised ye to show respect, and I’m damned sick and tired of not gittin’ it! And furthermore—”

Seeing Brendan standing there in helpless confusion, Mira grabbed his arm and hauled him down the hall at a speed that would have done Rigel proud. Behind them, the argument exploded, permeating the walls, sending cats streaming out of the room in every direction, and bringing candlelight to the windows of the previously darkened house across the street. Reaching the relative safety of the kitchen, they skidded to a stop, clutching their sides with laughter.

When he could speak, Brendan gasped, “You display an amazing ability to extricate yourself from these, er, situations, Miss Moyrrra!”

“It comes from many years of practice, Captain!”

Laughter stilled, and he found himself looking down at her, his smile warming as he studied her mischievous eyes, the impish tilt of her nose, the creamy perfection of her skin. It was a striking foil to her dark hair, carelessly upswept and now coming loose from its pins after their headlong flight. How simple it would be to plunge his fingers through that thick mane and free the rest of it. He swallowed, suddenly feeling all tight inside.

“Are you all right, Brendan?”

“All right?”

“Well, you’re breathing hard . . . I didn’t hurt you with that snowball, did I?”

He’d totally forgotten about the snowball. Any more of her innocent flirting and he’d be lost. “No, no, of course not.”

“I wish you’d stay here tonight.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . well—” He gave a little laugh, glanced away, and said hastily, “Because you’re a bonny lass, Moyrrra, that’s why.”

Moyrrra. She loved how his tongue seemed to roll over the r, his lilting voice rising up and down like the notes on a musical scale. He looked down at her, a lost expression in his eyes that was totally at odds with the actions of Kestrel’s blithe and gallant commander. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest, grasping her elbows, with the weird premonition that he was going to kiss her.

And wishing with all her heart that he would.

“What does my being . . . bonny have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with it! Now, please, I must go. Now.”

She touched his arm. “Brendan, I think you’re running from me.”

“I’m not running, I’m fleeing.”

“Why? And from what?”

“From . . . from . . . doing something I’ll regret.”

His blue coat with the red facings had been drying beside the hearth; now he tore it from its peg, shoved his arms into the sleeves, and yanked his shirt cuffs down with quick, jerky motions. It was the same coat he’d worn into battle on Kestrel, and in it, he looked perfectly dashing, perfectly handsome, and every inch the gallant captain he was. Mira watched him with hungry eyes. His wool stockings and breeches defined the hard musculature of his legs, the lean, masculine beauty of his thighs. His neckcloth was loose, his sleeve lace spilling over his hands. He snatched up his sword and buckled it on. She’d seen him wield that sword on Kestrel’s decks with a fencer’s expertise, yet still, those hands—sensitive, fine, and skillful—belonged to an artist.

She wondered what they’d feel like against her skin. Caressing her body.

And if she didn’t stop him now, she might never know. He was running away again. Acting like a damned fish out of water, like so many sea officers who spent too much time aboard ships and not enough in sleazy dockside taverns. Where was that Irish lightheartedness? That weightless grin? That blithe, carefree spirit? Hell, if she wanted him to kiss her, it was clear she’d have to initiate it herself.

She planted herself between him and the door, crossed her arms, and announced, “So, Brendan, are you going to kiss me or not?”

His hand, just reaching for his tricorne, froze. That one higher-than-the-other brow shot high and he stared at her, speechless. Mira was hard-pressed to conceal her grin. After Matt’s philandering ways, Brendan’s reaction was almost comical.

She put her hands on her hips. “Well, are you?”

He looked very flustered. “Am I what?”

“Going to kiss me.” Saucily she tilted her chin and gazed up at him with mischievous eyes. “I loved it when you kissed me before. I promise I’ll like it even more now.”

He opened his mouth, shut it, looked at the wall, looked at her, and began to fidget. “Well, to be truthful, I was considering it, but given the fact that your arsenal ranges from wild horses to snowballs, I think it might be a folly, and therefore—”

“Captain Merrick, please, none of your blarney!”

“Brendan,” he reminded her, slamming his hat down on his head and diving toward the door.

She caught his arm. “If you think you’re going back to that damned ship without giving me a kiss, you will be sorry!”

He let out his breath and stared hopelessly down at her. Then, the corners of his mouth began to twitch, and finally, he grinned . . . and Mira felt as though someone were pouring sweet, hot syrup over her heart and dribbling it right down into the nether regions of her stomach. Softly he said, “I suppose if you don’t do me any bodily damage, I might beg a kiss from you before I leave . . .”

“There’s no need to beg, Brendan.” She smiled up at him, and touched his arm. “You see, before you, I’d never been kissed. Not really kissed. And I’ve decided that I like being kissed by you very, very much, and therefore I want to be kissed again. You don’t mind, do you? My breath’s clean and I know how to kiss back. As for what should follow, I’m uneducated, but I know you can teach me. Honestly, Brendan, don’t look so shocked. You’re on your way to becoming the town’s newest hero, and I want first claim on you.”

“Faith, lass, what has brought all this on?”

Seeing you in action on your ship, she wanted to say. Seeing the man you really are beneath all that badinage.

“I missed you.” She glanced coyly down at the floor and poked at it with her toe. “A lot.”

He was paling beneath his seaman’s tan.

“Of course, if you don’t really want to kiss me, I’ll understand. Maybe you already have a girl in some far-off port. Maybe you have one here. Maybe you don’t like me. After all, the encounters you’ve had with me have been far from, uh, pleasant.”

“Oh no, Miss Mira. Even the most painful ones have been pleasant.”

He said it with such innocent sincerity that she almost burst out laughing. She looked up at him, and he looked down at her and grinned, and something stirred deep within her heart. He stepped closer, so close that she could see the little tawny sunbursts in the darker, amber-colored irises of his eyes. Again she caught the scent of shaving soap and wet wool, fresh air and melted snow.

And the sea. Always the sea. He looked down at her, tall, impossibly handsome—and bending his head down to hers, their foreheads touching, he cradled her jaw in his hands.

Those hands that she wanted all over her.

She felt herself melting like snow in July.

She closed her eyes. His lips grazed her forehead, and she felt his breath fanning her brow and stirring a wisp of loose hair. Anticipation quickened her heartbeat. It became hard to breathe.

Gently, he tipped her jaw up, lifting her face to his like a flower to the morning sun. She felt his thumbs stroking her cheeks, clearing away loose, damp strands of hair; and then his lips were against hers.

As before, she was rocked to her very core. Sensation slammed through her; dizziness and heat, honey and syrup, all whirling through her blood and centering in a bundle of nerve endings somewhere at the junction of her thighs. She clamped her legs together, the strange but wonderful ache intensifying as she reached up to wind her arms around his neck and press herself against him. His lips ground against hers, sweet and demanding, hungry and hot, and she felt his fingers slide into her hair, freeing the last of the pins and sending the thick tresses tumbling down her back. Strength left her body and she clung to his neck by her arms alone. Where her knees had been, there was only water.

The world was swimming by the time he tore his mouth from hers. Dazed and shaken, Mira reached up and placed a trembling hand to her lips. They were still there. Throbbing, tingling, singing. She stared up at him, her eyes huge in her suddenly pale face.

“Now,” he said softly, “I think you realize what I am running from.”

She could not speak. She could not think. And she could not trust her legs to hold her up. She took a step back, her spine coming up against the wall. She was grateful for the support.

“Are you happy now, Moyrrra?”

She nodded, swallowed, and ran her tongue over her lower lip. It felt swollen, and tasted of him.

“Brendan?”

“Yes?”

“Have you . . . kissed many women?”

He grinned. “Enough.”

“Do you ever kiss the same one twice?”

“On occasion.”

“Wh-what occasion?”

“If she’s pretty enough. If I happen to like her. If I think her da won’t come after me with a loaded musket.”

“Am I . . . pretty enough?”

“Aye, mo stóirín, you’re a right bonny lass.”

“And . . . and do you like me?”

“Aye.” He hesitated, then added, “More than I should.”

“And does my father—my da—make you nervous?”

“Nervous?”

“Aye.” She swallowed, and kicked at an imaginary spot on the floor. “He’s scared off plenty of other would-be suitors.”

“Your da doesn’t scare me, Moyrrra.”

“Are you sure?”

He laughed, a rich, melodious sound that brought the heat back to her insides. “I’m positive, lass.”

“Then, Brendan?”

He gazed down at her, thoroughly enchanted.

“Would you please kiss me again?”

“Good God.”

And with that, he pulled her against him once more.

Chapter 16

He insisted upon returning to his ship for the night.

She insisted upon keeping him at her father’s.

And so they argued, until Ephraim caught them at it and threw his considerable volume to Mira’s side, and Brendan, outnumbered, outshouted, but certainly not outwitted, finally said that she could drive him down to the waterfront to pick up his things. Although he’d agreed that he would return to the Ashton house, it was his secret intention to bid her good-bye and spend the night safely aboard Kestrel.

In the stable it was cold and dark. He felt Mira’s lips against his once more, as she reached up and put her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against him for a long moment, and he laid his cheek atop her rose-scented hair and held her tightly. Then she slipped away, laughing, and he heard a horse whickering softly as a stall door opened. He stood there in the chill gloom, his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath sounding hoarse in the darkness. He felt as though he were caught in a sudden squall before he could get his sails reefed.

Helpless.

And at the mercy of elements beyond his control.

Outside, snow fell on bushes and frozen branches with a soft hiss. Above, a mouse scurried in the hayloft, sending a few wisps of straw down atop Brendan’s nose. He sneezed and flicked them away with a cold-numbed finger. His nose was even colder, and he cupped his hand over it and blew into his palm to warm it. He wished the rest of him was as cold. Faith, but he was uncomfortably hard.

Mira was coming out of the stall now, leading Rigel.

“Here, hold him.”

She thrust the lead shank into his hand, her fingers brushing his. Wind drove a swirl of cold snowflakes through the open doorway. She was harnessing the colt now, performing the task with businesslike purpose. Watching her, he wondered if she could see in the dark like one of her cats, so well did she know every buckle, strap, and fastening.

She warmed Rigel’s cold bit in her hand, slipped the bridle over his head, and prying open his jaws with her thumb, gently eased the bit into his mouth. He stood chomping it for a moment, his breath white in the gloom, then she backed the colt into the traces of the sleigh, guiding him with soft words of encouragement and a hand on his chest.

Brendan sensed her nervousness. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I walked over here, I can certainly walk back.”

She tossed a bundle of quilts and furs into the sleigh. “Are you playing scaredy-cat again?”

“No . . . but I think you are.”

“I am not!”

He spread his hands in a gesture of truce, for there was an edge to her voice, tenseness in her stance. “All right, all right. Faith, you’re just like your fathurrr!”

She laughed and led the colt out of the barn and into the wintry night. After the shelter of the stable, the cold struck like an Arctic blast, pasting his nostrils shut and making his eyelids ache. He hauled the big door shut, tugged his tricorne down low, and, briskly rubbing his hands together to restore their warmth, handed her up into the sleigh. Rigel was already fretting, tossing his head and stamping his foot in his eagerness to be off. Brendan vaulted lightly up beside her and, shaking out the heavy quilts and furs, tucked them carefully around her shoulders and spread them over her lap. He felt her shudder as he joined her beneath them, their thighs pressing against each other. With a cluck of her tongue, she sent Rigel down the drive and into the snowy night, the runners of the sleigh whispering silently through the drifts.

Brendan studied her as she drove. “Warm enough?”

She nodded, eyes straight ahead, face very pale against her hood and that absurdly thick fall of dark, snow-flecked hair that concealed most of her face. She looked scared. And, bundled up in wool and fur and quilts, like a little girl. He smiled wryly to himself. She thought merely to drive him down to the wharf so he could go out to Kestrel, pack a few things, and return to the Ashton house, did she? Well, Ephraim could rant and rave and stew in his own juices as far as he was concerned. His daughter was no little girl. There was no way he’d spend another night in that house, where Mira’s not-so-innocent charms could further test his restraint. No, he would stay aboard Kestrel, Mira would stay safe in her own bed, and they’d all be better for it.

Faith, maybe he’d even get some sleep.

As it was, he wondered how the devil he was going to make it as far as the wharf. She was leaning against him, stoking the fire in his heart, his blood, his loins. Swallowing hard, he turned away, watching the houses filing swiftly past, most of them dark and silent at this late hour. Branches bowed beneath snow, and in places the road was indistinguishable. Rigel snorted and pranced. Clumps of snow flew from his hooves, and his tail, streaming in the wind, lashed Brendan’s cheeks.

Beside him, Mira slapped the reins against the colt’s back and sent him into a swifter trot. The night was cold enough to freeze the devil’s breath, but beneath her woolen cloak and the heavy draping of quilts, her skin was moist and hot—feverish, even. This was Brendan beside her, his rock-hard thigh pressed intimately against hers, his shoulder swaying against her with every movement of the sleigh. His nearness made her feel hot and flushed, and brought an ache to places she hadn’t known existed. Would he kiss her again? Oh, would he?

Don’t get your hopes up, she thought.

But he was the one who’d kissed her until her knees had given out.

He was the one who’d kissed her a second time.

And he was the one who now reached beneath the quilt to slide his arm around her waist, pulling her ever closer in a deliciously possessive way. Oh, Brendan, my gallant captain, my Captain from Connaught . . . I think I love you . . . I know I love you . . .

A few kisses, a handsome face, and some daring deeds in a fast sailing ship, and she was hopelessly smitten. Yet he was everything a woman might dream about, and more. Dashing and witty and full of fun. Humble, clever, and best of all, a sea captain. She’d vowed that when and if she ever got married, it would be to a sea captain. But a British one? She frowned. No, he was Irish. . . .

Who cared, as long as he fought for America!

They passed the Beacon Oak, the Liberty Tree, sleeping houses, and white, empty fields that rolled away into darkened woods. At Fish Street, she slowed Rigel so they could make the corner. The Dalton house swept by on the right, smoke pouring from both chimneys, and one upstairs window still glowing with light. Almost across the street, the Tracys’ big brick mansion stood like a leviathan; both Dalton and Tracy had entertained General Benedict Arnold when he’d brought his troops through en route to the Quebec wilderness back in ’75, the expedition to involve Canada in the patriot cause ending in disaster. Now even those memories seemed distant as the snow whispered against her face and the wind blew in off the frozen river, colder, wetter, and harsher now as they neared the ocean.

She slowed Rigel to a walk when they reached the waterfront. The Ashton Shipyards were quiet and dark. Snow covered the roofs of the little smithy, the mast house, even the long ropewalk. Giant masts of spruce and cedar lay locked in the frozen mast pond, and the air was sweet with the scent of cold sawdust. A ship’s skeleton, dark against the night sky, was taking shape on the ways, and a big three-master was snugged up to the wharf, its bowsprit looming high above their heads. Crates lay stacked neatly nearby, buried beneath snow and awaiting loading on the morrow. In the darkness, the wharf creaked with the push-pull of the river against the incoming tide, and ice floes groaned in agony as the current shoved them up against the frozen shore.

But out in the harbor the current ran strong, the water cold and black.

Out in the harbor, Kestrel rode silently at anchor.

Mira drew back on the reins. The moment had come far too soon, and not once had Brendan taken any liberties with her that propriety dictated he shouldn’t—and her hopes dictated he should. She felt strangely cheated, deprived, empty.

“Well, here we are!” she chirped, trying to mask her dismay. “I’ll wait while you go pack a few things.”

He didn’t move, and she sensed that he was struggling with something deep inside.

“Brendan?”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.” He looked steadily down into her eyes, then took her hands. “You’ll go back to your da’s house, Mira, and you’ll go alone.”

It was his captain’s voice, the one that gave orders and expected them to be obeyed.

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“But, Brendan . . . you heard Father—everything’s all ready for you.”

“Mira, I can’t. Please understand.”

“I don’t understand anything!” Coldness swept against her thigh as he stood, then leaped down from the sleigh with easy grace. She stared at him, unconsciously spreading her palm over the seat where he’d been and cherishing the warmth that lingered there beneath the heavy fur.

His warmth.

“Brendan.”

He was walking away from her!

“Brendan!”

He paused only long enough to touch his hat before striding determinedly toward the wharf. And she knew then that he was afraid, that he was putting as much distance between them as possible, probably trying to escape what must be the same temptations he’d spoken of back at the house. Mouth agape, she watched him walk away from her. Toward the river, toward his little boat, and toward the schooner, waiting silently, triumphantly, out in the river for her captain.

Was Kestrel’s call more powerful than her own?

Jealousy, insane and ridiculous, swept through her. Desert her for a ship,would he?! She jumped down from the sleigh, scooped up a handful of snow, and with all her strength, sent it howling through the brittle air. It caught him between those elegant British shoulders with a dull thud.

“Ouch!”

“Where are you going?”

“To get my boat. And then out to my ship, and then to bed for the night.”

“You can’t do that.” She raised her voice. “Father’ll be furious!”

He stopped, his form hazy through the falling snow. “No. I think his daughter will be furious. Now, get back in that sleigh and drive yourself home.”

“I’m not going alone!”

“Well, you’re not going with me, either. Good night, lassie.”

“Brendan!”

He turned, expecting another snowball to come slamming into his back at any moment. She was still standing there, bewildered, hurt, and lost. Faith. Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she realize the inner turmoil she was causing him? He didn’t trust himself around her! Ten minutes pressed against her in that damned sleigh and the agony in his loins was unbearable. Ten more minutes and he’d find himself acting upon it.

But she’d sure managed to get his attention, hadn’t she? And now that she had, she used it to her best advantage. “Fraidy-cat,” she called softly through the falling snow.

“Temptress.”

“Chicken.”

“Waif.”

“I’m going with you, Brendan.”

“Oh no, you’re not.”

“Oh yes, I am!”

She suddenly turned and unhitched the horse from the sleigh, her movements swift and sure. She removed the bridle and tossed it into the sleigh, and before he realized what she was up to and could run forward to stop her, she’d slapped the flat of her hand against Rigel’s backside and sent him galloping away in a cloud of snow, leaving the sleigh standing there, immobile in the drifts.

“You little fool!” he cried, horrified.

Her laughter rang out in the night.

“Guess you have no choice now but to take me out to the ship.” She smiled coyly, folded her arms, and leaned back against the sleigh. He wanted to strangle her. “Unless you want me to walk home alone. Or perhaps you’d like to escort me, hmm?”

He gritted his teeth. “I don’t know how your da puts up with you.”

“He doesn’t. He’d like to see me married off and out of his hair.”

“You’d better not have me in your sights, Mira.”

“Come now, Brendan. You said yourself that you don’t know how Father can put up with me. If he can’t, how could anyone else? Certainly not you. You’re quite safe.” She smiled, the sides of her nose crinkling endearingly. “So take me out to your ship.”

“If I do that, neither one of us’ll be safe.”

“If you do that, neither one of us’ll be cold.”

“If I do that, both of us’ll be sorry.”

“If you don’t do that, I’m going to take your head off with this snowball!”

They stood there in the falling snow, shivering in the sharp wind, neither willing to give an inch. Finally Mira tossed her head. She dropped the snowball and clasped her arms about her. “All right. So I’ll stand here and f-f-freeze to death.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’m testing your qualities as a gentleman.”

“You’re testing my restraint as a gentleman!”

“Maybe we’ll both be lucky and it’ll break soon.”

He made a frustrated sound and clenched his fists at his sides. “You’re impossible, d’you know that?”

“No. Just very good at getting what I want. It comes from long years of practice, Brendan. Sorry.”

“And what do you want, Moyrrra?”

She touched her cold lips. “For you to kiss me again. And then for you to take me out to Kestrel for the grand tour you’ve never given me. As her builder’s daughter, I deserve one, don’t I?” He began to fidget, and she knew he was wavering. And then she played her ace. “She’s awfully pretty sitting out there in the snow, isn’t she?”

She hid a secret smile as his expression softened at the mention of his beloved ship. It was easy to find the holes in Brendan’s defenses.

“Faith,” he began.

“And then I want you to walk home with me, sleep in the room next to mine, and have breakfast with us. Just like Father asked you to.”

“He didn’t ask, he ordered.”

“Orders are meant to be followed.”

“I follow no one’s orders but my own, and half the time not even then. I owe your da nothing!”

“But you owe me. After all, I’m the one who’ll be standing here freezing to death if you don’t —”

“Damn you, Mira Ashton!”

“And damn you, Captain Merrick! You take one step toward that ship without me and I’ll lay you so low with this here snowball, you won’t get up for a week!”

Their eyes met, spunky challenge in hers, frustration in his that was helpless against her impish charm. As he’d said, he didn’t always follow orders, even his own. Impulse and desire won out over control and wisdom.

There’d be time for regrets later.

He jammed his hat down over his brow. Then he strode back to her as purposefully as he’d left her, yanking her into his arms and stilling her triumphant laughter. Wet hair clung to her cheeks. Snow melted on her face, running between their lips as his mouth slammed down on hers, relentless, driving, almost punishing. She tasted of fresh air and melted snow, smelled of roses, sweet hay, and the promise of springtime. He dragged her hood off, plunged his hands into her thick, warm hair, and kissed her hard. And still the snow fell, frosting their shoulders, her hair, his hat.

Out in the river, Kestrel watched, and waited.

He tore away, breathing hard, before falling back against the sleigh and throwing a hand over his eyes.

She ran her tongue over her lips. There was an unspoken invitation in her eyes, a challenge.

And Brendan had never been able to resist a challenge. Nor, when one threw herself at him, a wee bonny lass. Faith, why was she doing this to him? So innocent, and yet, so totally, utterly woman—

She came forward and, catlike, rubbed herself against his chest, causing white-hot flame to explode in his loins.

“Show me your ship, Brendan.”

“Mira—”

“I’ll even help you row out to her.”

“D’anam don diabhal!” he swore. Faith. Faith and damnation. Faith and hell and damnation.

He turned and slammed off down the wharf, defeated.

And Mira, who had to run to keep up with him, stared up at his proud back, saw the grim, desperate set of his jaw—

And smiled.

Chapter 17

Kestrel lay like a nesting hawk, her sides as black as the river. Her gunwales were lost beneath a mantle of snow, her sharply raked masts spiraled with the tide, and her blocks and rigging creaked and knocked. The sounds were loud in the frozen stillness of the night, and louder still as Brendan rowed their boat closer and closer.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

His tone was no longer frustrated but reverent. Again Mira felt that quick stab of jealousy. “Aye,” she agreed.

“You ought to see her under full sail. She’d take your breath away.”

I have seen her under full sail, she thought. Plunging through trough and crest alike, wreathed in the smoke of her own guns, and skimming the sea with fore and main set wing and wing.

Instead she said, “I’ll bet she’s gorgeous.”

“More than gorgeous. Sometime I’ll take you out for a short cruise. You don’t get seasick, do you?”

“Once in a while,” she lied.

“Well, we’ll go out on a calm day. Maybe I’ll even let you take the helm for a bit.”

He looked quite pleased with himself, as though taking the tiller of a fine and dancing ship would be a new experience for her. If he only knew. She’d taken Proud Mistress’s helm more times than she could remember—in battle, in calm, in stormy seas and in gentle ones. She’d brought prizes into harbor, guiding them through the tricky bars, sunken piers, shifting winds, and dangerous currents at the Merrimack’s mouth. She’d learned to sail before she could walk, tie knots before she could talk, and had been in and out of boats her entire life.

But what Brendan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Especially if it might later be used to her own advantage.

“That would be nice,” she agreed. “Maybe in the springtime when the seas are calmer.”

As they passed beneath the schooner’s bow, she saw him gaze up at the little hawk that was her figurehead. Snow capped his shoulders like twin epaulets, and a gust of wind tugged at his queue, dark beneath his tricorne. Mira thought of him in command of this fine ship, calm, carefree, and dashing, and again flushed with sudden heat. Newburyport’s newest hero, the townspeople had proclaimed. The Captain from Connaught, the Irishmen aboard Kestrel called him. She sighed happily. Is this what love felt like? This feeling that the world could crumble to dust and it wouldn’t matter one bit as long as she was with him?

Fighting the pull of the tide, Brendan maneuvered the boat close to the schooner and secured it to her chains. Mira could have easily made the climb up Kestrel’s icy sides with no assistance, but she dared not reveal her seagoing skills. Besides, it was much more fun to tuck her hand in Brendan’s and allow him to help her.

Up the side they went, Brendan carrying the quilts and furs, still warm with their body heat, over his arm. The schooner’s decks were bare, her hatches, ringbolts, and guns looking distorted beneath the thick blanket of snow. There were no footprints. Kestrel was deserted.

They stood there for a moment, neither saying a word as the wind blew snow into their hair and faces. A tense expectancy built between them. “Well, you wanted to see her, and so you shall,” Brendan said. “Watch your step. I wouldn’t want you to trip and fall over anything.”

“Maybe you’d better take my hand so I don’t slip,” she suggested, though she had no need of such assistance.

He complied, and Mira grinned to herself.

They shuffled through six inches of snow, heading aft and leaving dark trails across the deck. Beneath their feet, Kestrel rocked easily; above their heads, shrouds whined and blocks banged, as though the schooner were begging her captain to take her back to sea. Mira watched him lay a fond hand atop her gunwale and gently brush the snow aside, heard him murmur something beneath his breath; and then he cleared the snow from the hatch, tugged it open, and led her down into the cold, dark depths of the ship.

Onshore, he’d been reluctant to have anything to do with her. Now, the decision made to bring her aboard, he was determined, almost resolute. Or maybe he’d just given up trying to resist her. Either way, Mira marveled at the way a ship could change a man, and felt a twinge of resentment.

Around her, Kestrel seemed to laugh softly to herself.

It was drier below deck without the wind, but the cold hung about them like a block of ice, still and heavy and silent. Their footsteps echoed on varnished planking. Their breathing sounded unnaturally loud. And surrounding them, Mira felt Kestrel’s own presence; watching her, assessing her, sizing her up as a rival for the attentions of her captain. It was an unnerving feeling, one that a landsman would never have recognized. But Mira was no landsman. She was well aware of the almost mystical affection that ships and captains had for each other—and knew that if she wanted to win this handsome sea officer from his lady love, she’d have her work cut out for her.

Kestrel would not make an easy rival. Sweet and demure in one moment, sleek and siren-like the next, a predator, a courtesan, a lady all in one. Mira smiled wryly in the darkness, her hand still folded in Brendan’s as he pushed open his cabin door. I can be sweet and demure, too, she thought, silently transmitting her thoughts to the listening bulkheads, the gently rocking deck, the creaking masts that sounded unnaturally loud down here in the still quiet. And I will fight you for him as long as I live.

I met him first, the schooner seemed to whisper, and I will no more give him up than you will.

“We shall see,” Mira said aloud.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said hastily as Brendan turned, his face pale in the darkness. Around her, the bulkheads seemed to shake with frivolous laughter.

She wondered if she was coming unhinged.

She waited silently, shivering, as Brendan rooted in the gloom for a flint. Moments later, a lantern’s soft glow warmed the little cabin. It was the first time that Mira had been in here since Brendan had taken up residence, and she was pleased, very pleased, with what he had done.

A table, carefully rubbed down with oil, was snugged up against the bulkhead. A mahogany lap desk, an inkwell, a goose quill, a set of brass navigational instruments, and the schooner’s leather-bound log were neatly arranged atop it. A braided rug covered the deck planking, and a pile of wood was carefully stacked beside a tiny stove. A sword hung on the bulkhead, and the neatly made bunk was spread with a thick blue-and-white checkered quilt whose workmanship looked suspiciously like Abigail’s—and probably was, given the housekeeper’s fondness for “Captain Brendan.” Above it, a small cabinet was built into the bulkhead, and beneath it were several drawers, all neatly closed with no clothing hanging out of them, as was the case in Matt’s cabin aboard Proud Mistress. And unlike that other cabin, there was no liquor cabinet, no decanter of brandy on the table, no assortment of glasses scattered about in various stages of emptiness—nothing but a porcelain bowl and pitcher that probably contained water, no doubt frozen solid by now.

“You’ve done a fine decorating job,” she said earnestly, as he took off his tricorne and placed it on the table.

“Think so?”

“I do.”

The silence hung between them, heavy and awkward. Mira wondered if he, too, was thinking about kissing. Kissing . . . and other things. He was fidgeting again. She watched him for a moment, cursing his shyness, loving it. Finally she looked at the tiny wood stove and said, “I think you should light a fire.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cold. It would take the chill out.”

He stared at her, frustrated, confused, and defenseless.

“Good heavens, Brendan. You did say you’re going to sleep here tonight, didn’t you? You might as well make yourself comfortable.” She picked up a piece of kindling and tossed it to him. “Here. What are you waiting for?”

He looked trapped. “Don’t you want a tour of the ship?”

She groaned silently. “Later. Just get the stove going, Brendan. I’m freezing.”

She watched as he piled kindling and a pair of logs into the tiny stove and lit it from the tinderbox. With his back toward her, he couldn’t see her impish, triumphant grin. Of course, once the fire was burning, he couldn’t leave the ship to escort her back home. He would be staying aboard Kestrel tonight.

And so, she vowed to herself with sudden recklessness, would she.

Now he was squatting down on his heels and feeding more kindling to the crackling flames, the scent of burning wood mingling with that of tallow, melted snow, oil, and new varnish. His hands were spread toward the heat; snow melted from his boots and puddled beneath them. From behind the little glass door the flames glowed against his face, making him look like a sun god. Adonis, Father had called him.

She stood there drinking in the sight of him. Wanting him but not very sure how to go about getting him. She was bold, but terrified. Determined, but worried about crossing the line between playfulness and offense. She chewed her lip, her gaze roving over his artist’s hands with their long, tapered fingers, his boyishly tousled hair, now coming free of its queue and curling damply over his forehead, his ears, his collar. She had a sudden urge to loosen it from the black ribbon at his nape and run her fingers through it.

She noticed then that he was shivering, too.

She squatted beside him and poked another piece of kindling into the growing flames. “You should’ve told me you were so cold.”

“I’m not c-cold.” He looked over at her with a helpless grin, his teeth chattering. “I’m freezing.”

A trickle of melted snow ran down his temple.

Wickedly, she had a sudden desire to lean forward and catch it on her tongue.

The snow might be melting on him, but the ice that lay between them had a long way to go before it was thawed. And suddenly Mira knew what she had to do. They were here, alone, in this cozy little cabin with a warm fire, a safe harbor, and the snow swirling just outside the stern windows. She had cleverly manipulated him into bringing her here. She sensed his desire for her, and her own for him surged and pounded through her blood like a fever left unchecked. And it would stay unchecked if she didn’t take the initiative.

Taking a deep breath, she picked up one of the furs and tossed it down before the stove. He stiffened and a muscle tensed in his jaw. Kicking off her boots, Mira removed her cloak, tossed it over a chair, and stretched out beside him.

He edged away, warily. “What are you doing?”

“Getting comfortable.”

He turned back to the stove, pointedly refusing to look at her. Mira sidled closer to him. “Take your coat off,” she said.

“I’d rather not.”

“Look, it’s soaked. No wonder you’re freezing! Here, I’ll help you.”

He didn’t move. The silence, punctuated by the snapping hiss of burning wood, waited, as though Kestrel herself were testing her. That challenge did it. Without further deliberation Mira sat up, found the buttons of his lapel, and one by one, undid them. He endured her touch, his shoulders stiff as she drew off the heavy coat and tossed it over the chair back to dry, but made no move to stop her.

“For being Newburyport’s newest hero, you’re more jittery than a schoolboy with his first girl,” she said, softly.

He shut his eyes. “This is wrong.”

She sat back down beside him. Another drop of water, reflecting the firelight, trickled down his temple. Impulsively, Mira pressed her lips there, and put her tongue against his skin.

He groaned, his eyes opened, and her heart melted beneath that mellifluous stare.

“Why are you doing this, Moyrrra?” he said, in an agonized whisper.

“Doing what?”

“Driving me insane. I can’t take much more of this and still behave like a gentleman.”

“I do wish you’d stop behaving like a gentleman. I’m beginning to find it quite boring.”

“Faith.” He shut his eyes once more.

“The world is full of gentlemen and rakes. You’ve already proven to me that you can be a gentleman. Prove to me now that you can be a rake.”

“A rake?”

“Well, you are an Irishman, aren’t you?”

“Only half.”

“Well, then start acting like one. I want you to kiss me again.”

“No, Moyrrra.”

“Yes, Brendan.”

“’Tisn’t safe, lass!”

“What, do I have some sort of disease or something?”

“You know very well what I mean!”

She slid her hand beneath his shirt and touched his chest. The muscle there was tough and hard and sinewy, just as she’d known it would be. Softly, she ran her palm over the skin with its soft, wiry hair, over and over until he sighed and began to relax. His breathing quickened. Her fingers found an odd, puckered scar, but before she had time to wonder at it, his hand had caught hers.

“I missed you, Brendan,” she murmured.

She buried her face against his neck, sidling closer to him, thankful for Kestrel’s slight rocking motion. And then, in defeat, his arm came up to wind around her back, holding her tightly against himself.

“I missed you, too, Moyrrra. I couldn’t wait to get back.”

Slowly, and ever so gently, he eased her down to the thick furs. She shut her eyes, feeling her bones turn to butter as he swept her throat with hot kisses and his hand roved out over her hip, exploring its gentle rise. At last, she thought, all but purring as a delicious warmth bloomed somewhere deep in the pit of her belly and spread out through her blood. His lips found hers, and there was nothing shy about them, nothing jittery, and nothing hesitant. She reached up to embrace him, feeling drops of melted snow trickling from his queued hair down the back of her hands as she wound her arms behind his neck. The kiss deepened, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to taste her own, and she groaned in delight as his hand roved up the curve of her ribs to cup and caress one breast, making her all the more grateful that she hadn't bothered to wear stays.

The warmth in her blood centered itself between her thighs and she writhed in need.

He broke the kiss, dragging his mouth down the side of her jaw, into the curve of her neck, and she moaned as his thumb brushed across her nipple, the sensation exquisite through the thin layers of fabric.

“Ohhh,” she sighed. She’d never known that anything could feel so good.

“You were all I thought of when I was away,” he murmured, his lips now grazing the quickening pulse at her throat, brushing over the rise of her breast. “Faith, lass, you make me mad for wanting you.”

And still, that rhythmic, delicious rubbing of his thumb over her nipple, over and over again, until it began to ache and harden. She pressed herself down against the decking, solid beneath the fur on which she lay. It was getting difficult to breathe. More difficult, still, to think, especially when he unbuttoned and parted her short jacket, loosened and pulled down the neckline of her chemise, and she felt the scratchy bristle of his jaw against the tender flesh there.

Against her breast.

And against the nipple, his breath warm and moist upon her skin.

The burning ache between her thighs intensified, and as though sensing it, he slowly pushed her skirts up, running his palm up the inside of her leg, and gently began stroking her in that hot, damp area that had become the center of her existence. She gasped and clamped her legs together, unsure, her eyes suddenly wide; he looked up, then, and she saw the golden starbursts in his honey-colored eyes, the desire—and yes, maybe even love mirrored in their gentle depths. He gave her a slow, teasing smile—and then he bent his head once more, his rich chestnut locks tumbling over his brow and his tongue swirling around the engorged nipple with a lazy, teasing motion that made the breath catch in her throat.

And then he drew it into his mouth.

She gasped and dug her elbows into the deck beneath her.

“Oh . . . oh, Brendan—”

Soft suckling noises. Exquisite sensation. She shut her eyes, burying her fingers in his soft, loosely curling locks and dragging them free from the ribbon that queued them, until his damp hair spilled over her hand. His tongue was circling her nipple now, flicking over it, drawing it tautly into the hot cavern of his mouth. She whimpered deep in her throat. Her heels dug into the deck, and she arched her body upward, trying, needing, desperate to get closer to him. Again, she felt the blade of his hand parting the damp folds of her legs, coaxing them gently apart, felt his fingers delving into the soft triangle of damp curls between her thighs, until the sweet ache there began to build into something fierce and delicious and strange.

“Kiss me, Mira,” he said raggedly, and as he drove his mouth against hers, hard, he slid his fingers deep inside her and pushed his thumb against a part of her she hadn’t known existed. She cried out with the sheer, sweet agony of it, and as he gently massaged her there, still kissing her, she felt the unbearable ache peak and explode within her, her cries lost to his mouth and her fingers anchoring, knotting, in the damp hair at the base of his skull as her body bucked and writhed beneath his.

He broke the kiss, his brow bent, his hair hanging over his forehead and tickling her breast. “Damn you, Mira Ashton . . . d’anam don diabhal, grá mo chroí ...”

It was the furthest thing from damnation for either of them, yet it was all that, and more. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside, then unbuttoned his breeches and peeled them off while she gazed up at him through a strand of damp hair with dazed eyes. Boldly, she let her gaze drift down—down his chest, down the arrow of chestnut hair below his navel, down to his arousal, rearing up from its bed of chestnut hair.

There was nothing shy about him now, nothing at all.

“See what you’ve brought me to, lass,” he murmured softly.

She gave him her impish grin. “It’s about time.”

With a curse, he drove an arm beneath her back and lifted her up, freeing her from the short jacket, its buttons briefly tangling in her thick hair. He pulled the tapes at her hips until her petticoats lay open, then dragged her shift over her head until she was as naked as he.

A log popped in the little stove, and beneath them, the schooner rolled a bit as the tide began to turn.

“Lie with me, Brendan,” she whispered, and reaching up, she pulled him down atop her and sought his mouth. They lay there together, skin to skin, hot despite the chill of the air around them. The fullness of his erection stabbed against her belly, and Mira felt the burn between her thighs, wet now with her own passion, beginning to build once more.

She reached down, seeking him, wanting to see what he felt like.

“Easy, Moyrrra. . . ”

“I want to touch you, Brendan—”

“You are welcome to, but slow down, lass. Slow down.”

She did as he asked, and her questing fingers found him, hard, rigid, steel beneath velvet, pulsing and jumping with the feathery touch of her fingers.

He sucked in his breath and raised himself on his arms, looking down at her. “I would like to make love to you, Moyrrra.”

“I want you to make love to me, Brendan.”

“Will you marry me, lass?”

“Marry you?”

“Marry me. You have bewitched me. I think I’m in love with you . . . I’m done for.”

Her heart sang. “I will marry you, Brendan. But first . . . make love to me.”

He eased himself down, burying his lips against the curve of her neck, his breath stirring the hair there, warming her flesh.

“We don’t have to do this, you know . . . just say the word and I’ll stop.”

“You stop, and I’ll send you back to sea with a black eye and a broken nose to go with it.”

He might have laughed, she wasn’t sure, for his lips were drifting toward hers again. “’Twill hurt, though, mo stóirín. . . . ”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“But only for a wee moment.”

“For God’s sake, Brendan, just do it! Nothing could hurt as much as what you’re putting me through right now.”

“I’ll do my best to be gentle with you, Moyrrra.” His hands cradled her face, and he looked down at her, then kissed her fluttering lashes, her dewy cheeks. She felt pressure between her thighs, felt their slick, subtle protest as he gently eased himself down, down—and into her.

Sweet, sliding, stretching fullness.

Wet heat.

She moaned, sobbed, and drove herself recklessly upward.

Pain exploded deep inside her and she thrust herself higher, into it, into him, welcoming it. He lay still within her for a moment, poised on his forearms and letting her get used to the feel of him inside her; then, the pain faded and a sweet languor washed in to replace it, surging over her like a rising tide, leaving her helpless to do anything but merely drift upon it, with it, in it. And then she realized that he was causing that tide, he was the tide, his powerful, hard thrusts beginning to rock her body, building that sweet languor into a fiery agony between her thighs that was threatening to carry her away once more.

“Brendan. . . .”

He silenced her with his mouth, his hot breath fanning her cheeks, his hands moving down her sides once more to lift her up to him. The fur pelt slid beneath her back, against the decking, bunching up beneath her with each strong thrust. And now the rhythm built, his movements coming faster and faster, harder and harder, and Mira hooked her legs around his hips and began to meet him with every one.

With a hoarse cry, he exploded into her, his hot seed pulsing against the walls of her very being and the flood of warmth within sending her own senses spinning out of control. Sobbing, she drove herself against him and clung there, convulsing, her damp hair pinned between their chests, his mouth, her lips. She held on long after the spasms passed, unwilling to let him go, unwilling to end this euphoric, blissful thing that they’d shared.

Kestrel moved gently beneath them, rocking them like a lullaby.

At last, reality returned. Mira saw the firelight dancing against Brendan’s bare shoulder, his richly colored hair. She felt its warm, drugging heat against her skin. Reaching out, she groped along the deck flooring until she found one of the quilts. With her other arm still locked around Brendan’s back, she pulled the quilt over his shoulders, cuddling him, nuzzling him, loving him.

“Faith,” he mumbled, into the damp, hot curve of her neck.

She merely smiled and tightened her arms around his shoulders. “Still cold?” she teased.

He pushed himself up on his forearms and gazed down at her, and the depth of love in his eyes was of such a magnitude that Mira suddenly couldn’t breathe. Tears gathered behind her eyelids. He reached down to touch her face, one finger smoothing the little cat-wrinkles at the side of her nose.

“No,” he said softly. He lowered his head and kissed her, so gently, so tenderly, she felt herself melting like spun sugar.

“Were you serious about wanting to marry me?” she asked in a little voice.

He kissed her forehead. “More serious than I’ve ever been about anything, mo stóirín.”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. I don’t want to wait. We’ll gather your family and Eveleen together and make the announcement as soon as you’re willing.”

“I love you, Brendan. And I swear, I’ll be a good wife . . . I’ll learn how to cook, how to act like a lady, how to—”

“Shhh,” he said, his lips against her temple, and against her hair, she felt his kisses, heard him murmuring strange Gaelic words that she didn’t understand and didn’t need to understand to know what he was saying. Outside, the wind howled. A log shifted in the little stove and sent up a shower of sparks, and the ship creaked gently around them. He slid his hands beneath her head, pillowing it against the decking, cupping the back of it in his palms and threading his fingers through her hair, and held her close. And when he became too heavy, he sensed it and reluctantly moved away, settling on his back on the thick fur pelts beside her.

Moments passed. Long moments.

“We should go now, Moyrrra.”

She sidled closer and rested her head atop his chest. “We don’t have to.”

“No, but you do.”

“No, I don’t. I can stay here all night and no one will be the wiser.”

“Your da—”

“Doesn’t rise until five forty-five.”

“Matthew—”

“Is probably warming Alice Little’s bed.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes, his hair falling over his knuckles. “But think of what they’ll say when Rigel returns to the stable without the sleigh. . . .”

“And his bridle.” She, too, sat up, leaned her back against the table leg, and pulled him close, coaxing him to lean heavily against her as she wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes, unprotesting. She brought the quilt up and covered him with it.

“Without his bridle. . . . ?”

She stroked his hair, loving its crisp softness between her fingers. “Yes. You see, when he returns to the barn without it, they’ll know I intentionally set him free.”

A long moment went by before he answered, as though he was having trouble collecting his thoughts. She pulled her fingers through his hair, over and over again. He rested his brow against the cup of her shoulder, his head grew heavy, and within moments he fell still in her arms.

Mira bent her cheek to his hair, watching the flames dance in the little stove, smiling as Kestrel gently rocked her captain to sleep.

She was happier than she had ever been in her life.

Chapter 18

Brendan awoke very late the next morning, to the sound of water gurgling past the rudder and the feel of a hard deck beneath his back. He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented. Above, the river’s reflection danced on the deckhead beams; at least the sun was shining today. But a chill permeated the cabin, for the little fire in the stove had long since gone out. He shivered, and pulled the heavy quilt up over his bare shoulders.

Faith, what was he doing on the deck?

And then he remembered. Mira.

He sat up with a start, his body stiff and sore but filled with a languid satisfaction that could only have come from a night of lovemaking. Faith. Where was she? Had he actually fallen asleep in her arms?

He grabbed his shirt, hopped into his breeches and boots, swept up his tricorne, and ran from the cabin.

Topside, the deck was white with snow, catching the sun’s glare and reflecting it back with such blinding brightness, it hurt to look at it. Huge ice floes drifted down the river, sparkling in the sun. Brendan stood there, blinking, listening to the drip and trickle of running water as snow melted on shrouds and sheets, furled canvas and spars. Giant clumps of it slid down the masts, dropped from the lofty yards, left depressions in the pristine whiteness at his feet. There, a faint set of footprints led to the rail and stopped. They were hours old.

Then he noticed that one of Kestrel’s boats was gone.

Mira.

Raw terror struck him. What if she’d slipped and fallen into the ice-choked river? She would have been swept out to sea with no one the wiser!

Ten minutes later, Newburyport’s newest hero was racing headlong down High Street, coattails flapping behind him, legs pumping madly, and the demons of hell on his tail. From a tavern window Liam, wiping the frost from the panes with the heel of his big hand, looked out, saw his captain’s flying form, and threw back his head in hearty laughter.

“You dare to laugh! I’m sitting here, coming down with something horrible this time—oh, Liam, it’s smallpox, I just know it is—and you have the gall to sit there and laugh!” Dalby, sitting miserably on his bed, had his hand clamped to its usual place over his gut. His face was wretched. “Come feel my forehead, Liam. I know I’ve caught something, and this time I just know it’s something bad—”

Liam turned from the window. “I think, Dalby m’ friend, that our cap’n’s caught somethin’ far more deadly than the smallpox!”

Dalby went white, his own imagined illness forgotten. “Oh, Liam. . . .”

But the lieutenant was clutching his sides, his great peals of laughter booming out against the low-beamed ceiling. “Aye, he’s caught somethin’, all right! ’Tis called love, Dalby! An’ unless I miss me guess, the one who got him infected is none other than the Ashton lassie herself!”

“Good heavens, Captain Brendan! Whatever on earth is wrong?”

Abigail stood in her kitchen with her hands plunged wrist-deep in a bowl of bread dough, flour dusting her apron, and her cheeks as red as apples from the heat of the fire. Surrounding her was a collection of black iron stew pots, caldrons, and frying pans, some hanging on nails from the walls, others from cranes above the fire.

Brendan yanked off his tricorne and clapped it to his chest. He was breathing hard, sweating as if it were mid-July, and his face, unshaven, was the color of Matt’s hair. “Mira! My God, where is she?”

Never had Abigail seen the normally blithe, laughing Captain Brendan in such a wild-eyed panic. “Calm down, young man! Miss Mira’s just fine. Why, she’s off in the back pasture, giving your sister a riding lesson.”

Brendan reeled back against the cupboard, flinging his arm over his eyes. “Thank God.”

She eyed him curiously. “Captain?”

“Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

“Yes, I’m sure He heard you the first time. You all right, young man?”

He let his arm fall to his side, tipped his head back, and sucked in great gulps of air before letting them out in bursts of hysterical laughter.

“Sit down, Captain, before you collapse. How ’bout a slice of hot buttered toast? You have your breakfast yet?” He sank into a chair, wiping his brow with the back of his sleeve and shaking his head. But she was already cutting a chunk of freshly baked bread from the loaf cooling on the little drop-leaf table, putting it in a wire-framed toaster beside the hearth, and humming to herself as she placed jam, butter, and a knife before him. His mouth was watering by the time she added a slab of cheese, a steaming cup of black coffee, and a piece of ham the size of a dinner plate.

“That’s it, eat up, young man!” she chirped happily. “We’ll get some meat on those bones of yours in no time!” But Brendan was wolfing the food down as fast as she could set it before him, oblivious to both her fond smile and the admiration in her bird-bright eyes. Abigail loved to cook; she loved to see a vigorous young man enjoying her fare even more. She refreshed his coffee, set a bowl of fried hasty pudding and maple syrup before him, and watching him approvingly, went back to kneading the bread.

“I’ll wager you didn’t know you’re the talk of the town this morning, did you, young man?”

He almost choked on the hasty pudding. Was it already common knowledge that he and Mira had been out last night, alone and unchaperoned? Good God, did everyone know she’d spent the better part of it aboard Kestrel?

Or had she shared the news that he’d asked for her hand in marriage?

Abigail’s bright eyes didn’t miss a thing. “You’re far too humble for your own good,” she scolded, mistaking the reason for his high color and clucking like a mother hen. “Look at you! Why, everyone’s talking about how you stole the crew right off that frigate. And all those prizes you brought in! Why, they just love to hear of such audacity, you know. Britain needs that haughty nose of hers tweaked, and fellows like you—”

“More butter, please?”

“—are the ones to do it! Imagine, eight prizes.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head in admiration. “And on that schooner’s maiden voyage, too! Matt hasn’t stopped talking about it.” She flipped the dough over and punched it down, missing his expression of relief. “And of course, Ephraim was just beside himself with glee. Can’t wait to get down to Wolfe Tavern and do his share of bragging about you. He’s like that, whenever one of his ships does well for herself.” She dumped the dough onto a floured board. “In fact, he tells me that the man who captained this ship you, uh, robbed was none other than a fellow named Crichton.”

He wiped the crumbs from his mouth with a linen napkin and reached for more hasty pudding.

Abigail peered at him slyly. “This Crichton fellow wouldn’t happen to be the same one you tricked at the river’s mouth last year, would it?”

“Could be,” he said, with a mirthful, crooked grin.

Abigail wagged a flour-caked finger at him, her bright eyes shining. “I knew it! And I’ll bet he didn’t take kindly to your recruiting his men!”

“Don’t know.” Brendan scraped the last of the crumbs off his plate. “I didn’t stop to ask him.”

She managed to stop staring at him long enough to look down at his empty plate. “Gracious, Captain, you still hungry after all that?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. It was amazing how much he could eat and still maintain that lean, sinewy form of his. Heavens, if she were thirty years younger. . . .

“So how is Miss Mira this morning?” Brendan asked suddenly.

Abigail grinned, and her eyes grew brighter than ever. So, she thought, the handsome young captain is taken with our little Mira, huh? She turned away to hide her pleasure, and decided against teasing him about it. “Why she’s as chipper as a spring robin. If she keeps up like this, who knows? Maybe she and that sister of yours might actually get along.”

“Get along?”

“Oh, they’ve been caterwauling all morning. I’ve never heard the like.”

Brendan put down his fork. “What are they, er, caterwauling about?”

“Heavens, you name it.” Abigail shaped the dough in smooth, precise movements. “The cat your sister found in her bed this morning. The riding lesson. The apple tart Eveleen had for breakfast—”

“Apple tart?”

“Most of the time they get along quite well . . . but Mira, you see, has a short fuse. It doesn’t take much to set her off.”

That’s for sure, Brendan thought, with a wry grin.

“Anyhow,” Abigail continued, sighing, “Mira figured your sister might like an apple tart with some fresh cream for breakfast this morning. Found her in the kitchen here before the sun was even up! Did it all by herself, too. Rolled out the dough and everything. Unfortunately, though, Miss Eveleen thought Mira deliberately left out the sugar.”

“Did she?”

“Leave out the sugar? Oh, probably, but I’m sure she didn’t mean to. Mira can be a real handful, but there’s not a mean bone in her body. And she doesn’t like being accused of something she didn’t do . . . Young man, now where are you going?”

Brendan slapped his tricorne onto his head, pausing long enough to lean down and kiss her matronly, flour-scented cheek. She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Seems to me I hear some, er . . . caterwauling going on right now. Think it warrants some investigation?”

“It most certainly does.” She saw the eagerness in his laughing eyes, and knew that he was just itching to get out there and see his little sweetheart. “You just mind yourself, though, and stay out of the line of fire. Those two aren’t likely to show mercy to anyone unlucky enough to get between them.”

He went out the back door, landing knee-deep in snowdrifts and almost falling on his face. The sound of angry shouting drew him around the back of the house, through a stand of oak and maple and pine, and into a big field ringed by a fence, atop which sat no fewer than three cats in various stages of repose. One of them was eating something. He shut out the crunching sounds and tried not to imagine what it was—or had been.

And then he looked toward the center of the field.

There was Mira, sitting astride that wee gray colt, her back toward him, her impossibly thick, straight hair caught in a red ribbon and hanging all the way to Rigel’s back. She looked very small and very angry, her shoulders stiff and her crop thwacking repeatedly against her thigh in vexation. As he watched, she stood in her stirrups, her little rump shockingly revealed by a pair of breeches that fit her like a glove. Dropping her reins, she cupped her hands around her mouth and began hollering in a voice that would have had no trouble at all carrying the length of Kestrel’s decks in a raging gale.

“I said, head up! Heels down! And for God’s sake, make her move! You ain’t gonna learn a damned thing just letting her stand there like that.”

And there was Eveleen, glaring down at her instructor from her lofty perch atop the elegant white mare. She was splendidly garbed in a pink—faith, he wished she’d stop wearing that color—riding habit that did nothing to flatter her. Her golden hair was stuffed beneath a little hat, one hand clenching the reins and the other carefully hidden beneath the closure of her jacket. Although she was trying her best to look regal, Brendan knew her well enough to know she was terrified.

Mira was pitiless, unwilling to let Eveleen back down no matter how scared she was. “For one thing,” she snapped, “the horse ain’t going to move if you just sit there like a bump on a log. For another thing, she is not bucking, she’s merely swishing her tail! You are not going to fall off by making her walk around the field, and if you do, there’s enough snow on the ground, you damn well won’t hurt yourself! Now, make her do it! I am not asking you to take that fence yonder, I am merely asking you to press your legs gently to her sides and make her walk!”

Beneath the yards of voluminous pink skirts, it was impossible to tell if Eveleen moved her legs or not. Spellbound, his heart aching for his sister, and his desire for her instructor beginning to swell painfully against his breeches, Brendan watched. He tried not to think of his arousal, a condition that worsened every time she stood up in those stirrups and presented that little rump. Instead, he forced his mind to focus on the drama before him. Please, he thought, have patience with her, Mira.

“Well?”

Eveleen raised her fleshy chin. “I did. She doesn’t like me. She’s not going to do it and I want to get off. Now. My legs hurt and my back’s starting to ache—”

“You can dismount after you make her walk around that field in one—full—circle!” The crop began to slap rhythmically against Mira’s thigh. Brendan swallowed tightly and drew his coat over the front of his breeches.

Leaving the reins looped loosely atop Rigel’s dappled withers, Mira folded her arms. “Now try it again.”

“I can’t.”

“Do it, Eveleen.”

“You’re just making me do it because you know I’m afraid! Because I’m fa—”

“I’m making you do it because this mare is going to be yours, and you are going to learn how to care for, handle, and ride her! That means getting your hands dirty, taking a few falls, and shoveling manure! Now, press your calves to her sides, damn it, and try it again! She’s not going to respect you if you don’t make her do it!”

Eveleen’s face was white beneath her hat brim. Her hand clenched the reins as though they were a lifeline. They came up a single inch, her body made a slight jerking motion, and the fabric below her knee rippled slightly. But Shaula, grinning if horses actually could, simply batted an ear, craned her elegant neck around to stare at Eveleen’s foot, and lowered her head to sniff at the snow. Eveleen shrieked and dropped the reins. Shaula’s head shot up, Eveleen screamed in terror, and vaulted to the ground with a speed and agility that Brendan wouldn’t have believed her capable of had he not seen it with his own eyes.

Mira raised her face to the sky as though seeking help from above. Admittedly, Brendan couldn’t blame her.

“You hate me!” Eveleen wailed at the top of her lungs. “You’ve hated me since the moment you first saw me, and I did nothing at all to deserve it! You hate me because you don’t want me to ride this horse! You hate me because I have jewels and you don’t! You hate me because I have my brother’s love and you don’t! You hate me because I’m fat—”

“Get back on the horse. Or I’ll have your brother pick you up and put you on her, as he’s been standing there watching you for the past ten minutes!”

Eveleen froze, her mouth a perfect O. Instantly her tears stopped, her face regained its composure, and she adopted that whining voice that so grated on Brendan’s nerves. “Brendan! Oh, thank goodness, I just knew you’d come. She’s trying to make me ride this smelly, horrible creature! She knows it’s going to buck and rear and end up killing me! Oh, Brendan, do make her stop! I don’t want to ride!”

He bit his lip, glancing from his sister to Mira’s strained face. She’d stopped slapping her crop against her thigh, but her body was stiff with tension. She looked angry and fiery and beautiful, her eyes flashing and a determined set to her jaw. He thought of her thighs against the saddle, and remembered them against his own. Faith, he thought, and plunged his hands into his coat pockets, anchoring the coat over his breeches to keep his arousal well hidden.

Arching his neck, Rigel stamped and snorted, his nostrils flaring red. Brendan stepped forward and, sliding his fingers beneath the colt’s heavy mane, gripped Mira’s cold hand, stroking her fingers for a long moment. She closed her eyes, and some of the tension left her face. Looking up at his sister, he said gently, “Now, Eveleen. Miss Mira’s a very accomplished horsewoman and she’s just trying to help you. In fact, I’ll bet she’s taught many young ladies how to ride, haven’t you, Moyrrra?”

“Er . . . yes.”

“Young thin ladies,” Eveleen sobbed. “Not like me.”

Mira ignited. “Well, if you’d stop eating so damned much, you wouldn’t have that problem!”

“You continue with your apple pies and tarts and I won’t!”

“And what the hell is wrong with my apple pies and tarts?”

“Try using sugar instead of vinegar and maybe there’d be nothing wrong with them!”

“I didn’t use vinegar, I used lemon juice! Now, get back on that horse, dammit, before I lose my bleeding temper! You can fight me till kingdom come, but I’ll see you take that mare around the field once by your own power if it damn well kills me!”

“Good, I hope it does!”

Deciding it was a timely moment to intervene, Brendan took the white mare’s sagging reins, looped them around his elbow, and bending down, cupped his hands for his sister to step into. “Here, Eveleen. I’ll help you up, all right? I’ll be right here if anything should happen.”

“And what good are you? You can’t ride either!”

“Come on, let’s go,” he said patiently, keenly aware that one of Mira’s dark brows had shot up in sudden interest.

Eveleen glared at him as though he were a traitor, gave Mira a look of pure venom, and favoring her crippled hand, grasped the pommel and allowed Brendan to boost her up into the saddle. There she sat, mutinous and angry. “And furthermore,” she sniffed, “this is not a proper sidesaddle, it’s a man’s saddle. She’s insulting me by making me use it, and she knows it. She wants to ridicule me because I’m fat—”

“By the bleeding Christ!” In one quick, fluid motion Mira was off Rigel and stamping through the snow. “I gave you that saddle because I thought you’d find it easier to use! Another blasted word out of your trap about being fat and I’ll yank the damned thing off and make you ride her bareback! But ride her you will, dammit, and I don’t care if you sit out here and freeze your butt off before you do! Now, close your legs against her sides and make her move!”

“I won’t!”

“You will!”

“No! No, no, no—”

Cursing, Mira slapped her crop hard against the mare’s white rump.

Eveleen screeched, and Shaula’s head jerked up in surprise.

“If you don’t make her move, Eveleen, I’m going to go get El Nath and put you on him instead! And while I’m at it, I’ll go get Matt so he can see how well you’re doing!”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I damn well would!”

Brendan crossed his arms and nodded. “She would.”

“Just shut up, Brendan! Whose side are you on, anyhow?” Eveleen howled.

Her brother’s brows shot right up to his tricorne in surprise, and even Eveleen gasped at what she’d just said. Were some of Mira’s ways rubbing off on her? And Mira . . . She knew her hot-tempered instructor well enough by now to know that bluster and intimidation were her favorite weapons in her arsenal of persuasion. Still, Eveleen wouldn’t put it past her to drag Matt out here to witness her complete and total humiliation. “You really would, wouldn’t you, Mira?”

Mira gave one of her cat grins. “You can bet on it.” She got back on Rigel and gestured with her crop. “Now, make her move.”

“Do I have to?”

“Let it go, Mira,” Brendan suggested.

Mira whirled on him. No wonder Eveleen was such a spoiled brat, with her own brother letting her get away with murder! “Look, one more word out of you, and you’re going to be next; is that clear?”

His eyes widened and he backed up. “Oh, dear heavens—”

Eveleen seized upon the opportunity. “Make him do it, Mira; he can’t ride, either.”

“Eveleen!” Brendan warned, growing nervous.

“Make him do it! Make him!” Eveleen cried, pitching forward over the mare’s neck in laughter at Brendan’s horror. “Make him—”

“Careful, Eveleen!” Mira yelled.

But it was too late. Mira cringed as the girl lost her balance and, making a wild grab for the mare’s mane, landed on her rump in the snow.

Mira leaped off Rigel’s back and ran to her, fully expecting to find the tears rolling down Eveleen’s cheeks. She wasn’t disappointed. Raising her head, Mira yelled, “Dammit, Brendan, do you know how much work you’ve just shot to hell? It’s taken me a long time to get to this point—”

But Eveleen’s hand was on her arm, and as Mira looked down, she saw that the girl’s tears were not from hurt and humiliation—but laughter.

“Mira?” she asked, getting to her feet and brushing the snow from her skirts. “We really did make progress today. I fell off for the first time, and it wasn’t anything to be afraid of, after all.” Still laughing, she looked at her astonished brother. “Now I think it’s time for Brendan to have his turn . . . don’t you?”

Two pairs of conniving female eyes fastened on him, and Brendan felt the blood rushing from his face. “Now, wait just a moment—”

Mira caught him before he’d gained ten steps. He protested. He fought. But in the end, both she and Eveleen succeeded in dragging him to the white mare, and Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship saw its second, unwilling student.

Chapter 19

“All right, ye can go.”

Ephraim Ashton stood planted on the wharf, swinging his watch and scrutinizing each and every lad who passed beneath his nose. The present one gulped and bolted, flying down the wharf toward the boat that would take him out to Matthew’s Proud Mistress.

“Next,” Ephraim grunted. Scowling, he ripped the cap off the next boy, scowled some more when he saw it wasn’this daughter, and gruffly waved the boy through.

“Next . . . .”

With each hapless soul who wasn’t Mira, Ephraim’s impatience and annoyance grew. If she’d found a way to sneak aboard Matt’s ship again, he was gonna strangle her.

He never thought to look behind him at the line of men filing past him and into Kestrel’s boats.

If he had, he would have found the lad he sought, smirking and jostling with her crewmates, thumbing her nose at him—and cradling the Brown Bess musket that had once been her brother’s.

That had been two days ago; now Kestrel had got her wish and was at sea again, this time prowling the waters off Sandy Hook in company with Proud Mistress.

Her captain stood at the helm, casually balancing a sketchpad against his forearm and working on a drawing of Matt’s ship, which ghosted along a cable’s length to windward. The tiller bar lay alongside his leg, seemingly forgotten; every so often he nudged it with his thigh, and the schooner would turn her nose a half point into the wind, floating gently on a beam reach on the starboard tack.

The wind was little more than a breeze. Gulls drifted quietly on the gray sea, and Kestrel’s wake was a lazy, meandering ruffle that trailed far behind her. Nevertheless, there was a lookout aloft, another sitting out on the bowsprit, and both were scanning the horizon for a prize. So far, they’d turned up nothing but a few skittish fishing boats that had fled inshore at sight of the tall, majestic schooner and the battle-scarred brig that accompanied her.

Brendan wasn’t worried, though. Rumor had it that a storm had blown the New York–bound convoy off course, and he was more than certain that royals and topsails would show above the horizon before too long. And when they did? He grinned to himself as he sketched in the intricate network of shrouds that supported Proud Mistress’s masts. He had an experienced crew, an eager ship, and Mr. Starr on his favorite gun, a trusty old four-pounder inscribed with a biblical verse and affectionately dubbed Freedom. Except now Mr. Starr happened to be some forty or fifty feet above the deck, clinging like a squirrel to the weather shrouds, a telescope to his eye, and his clothing—loose linen trousers, baggy shirt, and a tarpaulin coat that all but swallowed up his small body—fluttering in the breeze like a poorly set jib.

“Deck there!”

Brendan lowered his drawing and stared up into the misty pyramid of shrouds that pinnacled high, high above his head. How the lad could see anything through the fog was beyond him. “Report, Mr. Starr!”

“Make three sail off the larboard quarter, sir! Hull up and bearing away to the north’ard!”

“Flying any colors, Mr. Starr?”

At the rail the crew gathered, excitedly passing telescopes and straining to see off into the choking mists. In these waters, the ships were probably Tories, or better yet, British—either fat merchantmen or strays from the overdue London convoy. A prize either way, and ones that would bring a hefty sum once auctioned off back in Newburyport.

“Can’t tell yet, sir!”

Grinning, Brendan looked back down at his drawing, already envisioning his fiancee’s reaction when he and Matt brought three fat prizes back to Newburyport. She’d come galloping down to the waterfront on that wee gray colt, fight her way through the crowds, and fling herself into his arms. She’d be all soft and warm, her kisses sweet and eager, her hair silky against his hands. . . .

His pencil moved over the paper, but he wasn’t really thinking about the drawing, not really thinking about Kestrel even, which he guided by simple, unconscious movements of his leg against the tiller. Liam, however, noted how he played the schooner on the faint breeze as he might his own fiddle, making her sing, making her dance . . . except that Brendan sailed his ship without even looking up from his sketch. Liam folded his huge arms across his chest and watched his captain with fond admiration in his twinkling blue eyes. He’d known Brendan for some twenty-five-odd years—yet still his friend never failed to amaze him.

Despite appearances to the contrary, however, Brendan was keenly aware of Liam’s presence. He tossed his sketchbook onto the deckhouse and grinned. “Faith, Liam, what’re you just standing there for? Signal Captain Ashton before he tries to claim the honor of seeing those ships first! D’ar m’anam, I have a bet riding on this, you know.”

They laughed like a couple of conspirators, and seconds later, balled flags rose to Kestrel’s sharply raked mast and broke to the whispering wind.

Mr. Starr’s voice caught his attention again, fainter now with height and distance. Brendan clapped a hand over his tricorne, tilted his head back, and looked up. High above, where the gaff and its tackle angled out from the mast, the lad had climbed, balancing fearlessly with one foot on the big spar, the other on a block, his arm laced around a line. It was a precarious position; had there been a strong wind, Brendan would have forbidden it.

“Looks like one’s a cutter, sir, with two ship-rigged tubs in her lee!”

“Probably a Brit with her prizes,” Liam commented, eagerly rubbing his hands together.

Brendan grinned and pulled out his spyglass. “Or a Tory shepherd guarding his flock from wolves like us.” He strode to the weather shrouds, the glass under his arm. “Either way, they’re ours, and so is she!”

The shrouds were stiff with ice and frozen spray, but he climbed dauntlessly, his boots slipping here and there, his hands numb and red with cold before he’d even reached the level of the foresail’s throat. There, he paused and looked up. The fore topmast drove skyward above him, its sail fading into the gray mist. Mr. Starr was nowhere to be seen. Looping an elbow through the shrouds, Brendan briskly rubbed his hands together to restore their warmth, blew on them, and continued his climb.

He found the lad near the topgallant yard, felt hat clamped down over his eyes, and face turned toward the distant ships. His hair, dull with mist, was braided in a seaman’s queue, the tip of it wafting in the breeze. Brendan tried not to think of the eighty some-odd feet between the end of that braid and the deck below.

“Brits, sir,” the boy mumbled, yanking the hat even lower until Brendan wondered how he could see at all.

“You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, seeing the ships quite clearly up here above the mist and fog. He decided to test the lad. “But tell me how you know that, Mr. Starr. They’re not flying any colors.”

“That cutter’s lighter built than a Frenchie or one of our’n.”

“Very good, Mr. Starr.” He steadied himself against the slick topgallant yard, the dizzying sway of the mast below him. “Also, an American would have more deadrise, more rounded curves, more rake to her bow, and a bit less depth and freeboard than that one yonder.”

“Ayuh.”

As usual, Mr. Starr was not a man of many words. Brendan grinned and said, “I feel the wind starting to freshen. What d’you say to shaking out the topsail and going after them, laddie?”

The boy, wearing strange little spectacles with bottle-green lenses, kept his face averted, although his captain’s mood was as light, his grin as infectious, as ever. But no matter how friendly Brendan tried to be, Mr. Starr never met his gaze and avoided him as much as possible. Obviously he was terrified of his captain, and probably had a complex about his sensitive skin as well—yet Brendan didn’t press him about it. No doubt the lad got harassed enough about it below deck, despite the popularity he seemed to enjoy with his shipmates.

Still squinting off toward the distant ships, Mr. Starr mumbled, “Maybe we oughta set the t’gallant and fly the studders, too. Might get a couple more knots outta her, at least, ’specially if we get the wind dead abaft.”

Brendan stared. For Mr. Starr, that had been a speech. He lifted a brow. “Think so?” he asked, testing him once again.

“Ayuh. Oughta be able t’ run ’em down before dusk.”

“Very well then, Mr. Starr. Provided you can stand the cold, you may remain here until we come up on them, at which time I’d like you to come down and renew your acquaintance with Freedom.” He tucked his glass into his pocket. “Carry on, then.”

Back on deck, Liam stood at the tiller, his brows knit in concentration as he peered at the compass. The fog was starting to lift, and watery sunlight managed to put enough glare on the water to throw a few diamonds back in his eyes. A seal bobbed just off the starboard bows, watched them for a while, then dived beneath the waves. The splash it made was loud, almost eerie in the heavy stillness. Brendan stamped his feet, trying to restore the circulation to his frozen toes.

Dalby, bless his heart, had read his mind, and hustled toward him with coffee steaming in a dented pewter mug. Gratefully accepting it, Brendan wrapped his hands around the mug, letting the heat thaw his fingers and scald a path all the way to his stomach. “Ah, Dalby . . . you’re ever the thoughtful one, aren’t you?”

“Just thought you might appreciate something hot and bracing, sir.” But Dalby himself was shivering.

Brendan frowned. “And how are you feeling today, Dalby?”

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he could’ve shot himself.

“Oh, not so good today, sir, not so good. I got up with a runny nose, and my head’s all stuffed up.” He pressed gnarled fingers to either side of his nose. “Right here, way down deep. Getting a cold, I think. Throat’s scratchy, too. And I suspect I’ve got a fever.” He held out one wizened hand. “See? I’ve got the shivers already—”

“That’s ’cause it’s cold, ye bonehead,” Liam joked.

“Cold? I’ve a knit shirt, a waistcoat, a greatcoat, and a cloak on! Don’t tell me I’m cold! I’m coming down with something, and that’s all there is to it!”

From several feet away, Fergus McDermott, ex-atheist, ex-Christian, and now emphatic embracer of some Eastern religion Brendan had never heard of, nodded sagely. “I told ye, Dalb. It’s reincarnation.”

Liam snorted. “Reincarnation, me arse! Ye’ve been listenin’ to that bloody furriner too much!” He threw a sharp glance forward, where a cloaked figure stood in the bows with a lead line in his hand. They’d picked him up out of one of Kestrel’s first prizes, and Liam rued the day they had. The man was an Easterner, with crystals hanging from his neck, the moon in his eyes, and strange ideas of where people came from. Real strange. The British were probably well rid of him, Liam thought. Anyone who went around proclaiming that Brendan had been a fox in his past life—past life! he snorted—deserved to have his head examined. It had been bad enough when Fergus had seen the light. But this reincarnation stuff? God Almighty. . . .

Brendan went back to his sketch, hiding a grin.

“Well, he’s right,” Dalby sniffed. “Why else would I be sick all the time? Rama says it’s because I’m paying for my sins in a past life. That my poor health is the price for the bad things I’ve done before.”

“God Almighty, we’re all a-payin’ the price, havin’ to listen to such bloody nonsense! Get up there an’ make sure that dingbat calls out the fathoms correctly!”

Dalby looked crushed, but he went anyway.

“Now, Liam, don’t you think that was rather harsh?” Brendan said reprovingly, but with a faint grin.

“I’ve never heard such a crock o’ nonsense in me life! Next he’ll be a-sayin’ that Kestrel was a bird in her former life!”

“Is that so?” Brendan allowed himself to look serious for once. “Why, I’d have thought she spent it as a pine in the forests of Maine.”

They both laughed.

“Deck there!”

“Report, Mr. Starr!”

“Another sail, fine on the larboard beam! A brig—nay, it's a snow, sir, flying British colors!”

“Faith, this is getting interesting!” Brendan said, mirth dancing in his eyes. “Four to two. Wonderrrful odds, eh, Liam?”

“Aye, but we ’ave Kestrel. They don’t.”

“Nor will they.” Brendan picked up his speaking trumpet. The metal was cold against his lips. “Hands to the sheets! Topmen aloft! Shake out the t’gallant and up with jib fores’l! Lively now, laddies!”

Whooping and hollering, men flew to halyards and sheets. Grommets rattled, canvas thundered, swayed, and rose. Kestrel quivered in eagerness, swinging her bowsprit around, her sleek sides following. Beneath her the sea whispered and began to cream as she heeled over and found speed. Wallowing clumsily, Proud Mistress followed suit, her crew scampering up the shrouds to set her topsails. Brendan pulled out his spyglass and trained it on her quarterdeck. Sure enough, there was Matt, his red hair standing out in all directions beneath his floppy hat, his coat half-unbuttoned, his canvas breeches ragged and stained. He looked up, caught sight of Brendan, and touched his temple in a disgusted salute.

“Bet Ashton’s steamin’ about us seein’ the prizes first!” Liam cried, rubbing his giant hands together in glee, for prize sighting had become a friendly contest between the two captains.

Brendan adjusted his sketchbook over his arm. “Think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, I should think he’s steaming more over the fact that Kestrel’s showing her heels to that ridiculously caked-up figurehead of his.” He tipped his head back and yelled, “Mr. Starr! Come on down and prepare your gun for battle! We’ll be upon them by eight bells!”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

High above, the topgallant snapped to attention, swelled mightily, and strained against its yards. Kestrel lifted her nose and pulled herself up in the water, higher and higher and higher. Beneath her sharp bows, the sea began to roar and fall away in great snowy blankets of white.

Brendan grinned.

“Tack on studding sails!”

Spray was driving over the rail now, freezing on shrouds and deck alike.

One of the Newburyporters muttered, “Jesus! There ain’t even any wind and she’s movin’ like the hounds of hell are on her tail!”

“Aye, and I’d like to know how the blazes she’s doing it! Gawd, we must be makin’ six knots!”

“Seven when those studders go on!”

“But there ain’t no wind!”

But Brendan, staring forward, paid no heed to the reverent looks the Newburyporters were throwing his way. The cutter was now speared on Kestrel’s bowsprit, the two merchantmen fleeing like sheep. . . .

And then the studding sails were on. Like the swift raptor she was, Kestrel folded her wings, dove through the mists, and swooped in for the kill.

A bucket of sand by her leg and a slow match in her hand, Mira stood beside Freedom, her heart racing, her mouth dry, and her chest tight with that strange, nervous anticipation she always felt before battle. Just aft, Brendan clung to the shrouds, looking resplendent and handsome in his fine blue coat with its rows of gold buttons. His waistcoat was as red as a cardinal’s breast, his boots gleamed in the gray light, and his tricorne was perched jauntily atop his chestnut curls. From his wrist dangled his speaking trumpet, which he was swinging with uncontained excitement—and in his hand was his sketchbook.

She forced herself to look away.

The wind had backed, and Kestrel, close-hauled, was catching it over her starboard bows. Her lofty bowsprit rose up, down, up, down, in perfect rhythm, each downward plunge smashing the waves and sending big, hissing blankets of snowy foam out and away from either beam. The cutter, a Royal Mail packet with one tall mast stepped well forward, was dead ahead now. Sporting a straight-running bowsprit and carrying a cloud of sail, she would be a fast sailer and armed to the teeth. She would also be carrying the king’s messages and cash, probably to the British troops in New York. Mira imagined the guffaws from her decks at the audacity of the Yankee schooner sweeping down on them out of the fog.

Soon they wouldn’t be laughing.

“Mr. Wilbur! Ease the fore and main and prepare to tack!”

Nope, they wouldn’t be laughing at all. She smiled smugly and blew on her slow match, her eyes still on the cutter.

“Sheet in fore stays’l, fore and main!”

“Stand by the heads’ls!”

“Hard alee!” Brendan’s pencil was flying over the page. “And let fly!” The schooner paced herself, gathered her wings, and swung her bows neatly through the wind. The great boom of the mainsail passed over their heads. Sails filled on the opposite tack, and the deck heeled over.

“Pass jib and foresail!”

“Close haul for larboard tack!”

Up until that last moment, the cutter never expected the schooner to attack. Surprise was with them, and taking full advantage of it, Brendan sent Kestrel swooping around the cutter’s stern, and a broadside slamming through her windows that cut down everything in its path. Before Kestrel was even to windward of her, the cutter had lost her topmast, and with it, a good deal of her speed and agility.

Brendan wasted no time. “Run out your guns, laddies! Again!”

Cupping the match with her hand, Mira lowered it to Freedom’s vent and quickly stepped aside. A puff of flame, a thunderous roar, and the cannon flung itself inboard against the breeching, its sharp bark lost beneath the angry, sporadic roar of the cutter’s guns, which, in her crew’s confusion, seemed to be hitting everything but her target. Or perhaps it was just that Kestrel was blessed with an Irishman’s luck, for she moved like a dancer, teasing and flirtatious in one moment, flitting away on her heel the next.

And now Brendan was sending her right across the cutter’s bows.

A voice, sharp with indignation and rage, roared out from her deck, sounding tinny and artificial through a speaking trumpet. “Damn you for an impudent dog! This is a king’s ship! How dare you fire on us? Show your colors or I’ll sink you where you stand!”

Brendan leaned out from the shrouds that supported Kestrel’s foremast, lifted his own speaking trumpet to his lips, and called back, “I invite you to try it!”

Those who had telescopes to their eyes saw the British commander go an angry red beneath his carefully powdered hair. “By God, what ship are you?!” he demanded.

For answer, Kestrel ran her huge, thirteen-striped flag up the halyard and poured a broadside of chain shot into the cutter’s rigging. The crew sent up a mighty cheer.

“Take that, ye bloody bunch o’ British buggers!”

“Damn ye and yer prig-faced king!”

“Get a real ship! Ha, ha, ha!”

“Huzzah f’r Kestrel! Huzzah f’r Kestrel!”

Their raucous voices drowned out the sounds of cracking wood as the cutter’s mast teetered and came down in a hopeless tangle of cordage and spars.

“Think he knows who we are now, Cap’n?”

“Aye, Liam, I think that gave him a good idea.”

“But he ’asn’t struck t’ us yet!”

“Nor do I expect him to. That’s young Oliver Heathmore who commands her.”

Brendan would know, of course, Liam thought. He remembered his acquaintances from his Royal Navy days well. “Not young Oliver Heathmore!” he said, jaw agape.

Brendan grinned. “An ambitious young pup if ever there was one. Oh well, we shall try not to do him too grave an injury. I want his dispatches and his money, not his ship.”

“She’d make a nice prize, though.”

“Not when Mr. Starr finishes with her!”

The little gunner and his team were already swabbing out Freedom’s bore with a wet sheepskin sponge attached to a flexible rammer. Seconds later, both charge and shot were rammed home and the gun run swiftly out on a squeal of tackle.

“As you bear!” Brendan called to each gun crew.

Handspikes flashed, and Kestrel, now running down the cutter’s beam and circling her stern, took dead aim on her. The wind took her, leaning her over. Farther.

And farther.

“Fire!”

The cutter disappeared in a wreath of smoke.

“Captain Heathmore! I invite you to strike while you’re still afloat!” Brendan called, hanging out from the shrouds by his elbow, the sea sweeping beneath his feet. “If you do not, I shall sink you where you stand!”

The Briton’s voice came madly through the trumpet. “Damn you to hell for this, you blasted rebel! I’ll see you pay, so help me God!”

Brendan turned to Liam, his expression full of mock hurt. “Did you hear that? He called me a blasted rebel! Why, to think he doesn’t even recognize me!”

“If ’e did, he’d strike fer sure,” Liam joked.

Gunfire was echoing across the water now as somewhere off to starboard, Proud Mistress engaged the other ship, a two-masted snow. Coughing and choking on the smoke, Mira strained her ears for her captain’s next order. The smoke began to clear, and she anxiously peered through it, seized by a momentary panic that he’d been hit by the sporadic fire coming from the cutter.

And then she saw him.

He was still clinging to the shrouds, his speaking trumpet dangling from his wrist, his drawing pad balanced on his arm. He was sketching wildly.

The man was insane.

At that moment he looked up. “Don’t just stand there, Mr. Starr!”

She didn’t—and the last shot did it. Dismasted and listing badly, the cutter was all but dead in the water. On her deck, her young commander squinted through the acrid haze and saw a handsome brig rounding up the two merchantmen who’d fallen in with him the day before, as well as the defeated snow. And then the smoke cleared, drifting away with the mists.

Captain Oliver Heathmore and his crew caught a collective breath.

There stood the schooner.

She was like nothing they’d ever seen. Graceful but deadly. Beautifully deadly, like a sultry woman who knows her own power and wields it with ruthless purpose. She wore her sails like a queen would her robes. Her two masts were sharply raked, as though swept backward by the pass of a giant hand. Her bows were keener than a butcher’s knife, her bowsprit lean and long and haughty, her profile so low in the water, she seemed to be born of it, rather than to it.

Heathmore looked at the sea reflecting along her trim black sides, the giltwork picked out in red and gold at her stern.

Kestrel, he read. And beneath that, Newburyport.

And then he looked up and saw a tall figure, immaculate in the blue coat of an American privateer, standing near the helm. He was holding up a book of some sort, his speaking trumpet hung from his wrist, and he was grinning.

Bringing his telescope to his eye for a better view, Captain Oliver Heathmore peered at that book and saw that it was a drawing of a sea fight—and not just any sea fight, but the one he’d just lost.

The man raised the speaking trumpet to his lips. “Well, what d’you think, Ollie? Do you like it?”

And then Heathmore recognized the mirthful eyes beneath the jaunty tricorne of the American.

There was no mistaking that weightless grin, the Irish cadences in that lilting voice.

“The devil take me,” he swore silently.

The devil had.

Chapter 20

Marine News

On Sunday last, the privateers Proud Mistress and Kestrel, Captains Ashton and Merrick, of this port, returned from a very successful cruise against the Enemy after sailing together in consort in the vicinity of Sandy Hook.

From a reliable source we learn that the schooner Kestrel, Merrick commanding, ran down and overtook the fast-sailing Royal Mail packet Sussex, bound from London to New York and carrying specie and dispatches to the Enemy which is stationed there. In company with said packet were two merchantmen, the one carrying sugar, cotton, molasses, and some coffee, the other laden with 1,000 muskets and bayonets, 12 tons of musket shot, 100 rounds of grape shot, and several barrels of powder, all destined for His Majesty’s forces, and a snow carrying 12 guns and 10 swivels, which Ashton engaged, the firing, by all accounts, lasting less than an hour. While the Royal Navy packet certainly gave a good account of herself before striking her colours to the schooner, her master hauling them down with his own hand, we have been told that the damage she incurred was so grave that Captains Merrick and Ashton deemed her unfit for sea and were thus forced to sink her. By all accounts, Captains Merrick and Ashton conducted themselves in a commendable, daring, but gentlemanly manner with the merchantmen, the latter even returning the private money and belongings of a lady passenger who was aboard one of the merchantmen.

Ephraim Ashton cackled to himself and put down the newspaper. He’d read the account eight times; certainly enough to memorize it by now—which, of course, he’d done. From across the breakfast table Eveleen Merrick watched him, but so caught up was he in his private gloating, he was totally unaware of her perusal. Shoving a one-eyed tabby cat off his lap, Ephraim continued reading, his bushy eyebrows curling out over his nose.

With their three prizes in tow, Captains Merrick and Ashton, while in the latitude of the shoals of Nantucket, but many miles to eastward of them, spied a large British vessel having the appearance of a merchantman, and made towards her; but to their astonishment found her to be a frigate disguised. A light breeze prevailing, Captains Merrick and Ashton hauled off in different directions—one only could be pursued—and the frigate gained rapidly upon Merrick. Finding he could not run away, the wind favoring the frigate’s square rig, Captain Merrick had recourse to stratagem—on a sudden he hauled down every sail, and had all hands on deck employed with setting poles, as if shoving the schooner off a bank! The people on board the frigate were amazed at the danger they had run, and to save themselves from being grounded, immediately clawed off and left the clever and more knowing Merrick “to make himself scarce,” as soon as darkness rendered it prudent for him to hoist sail in a sea two hundred fathoms deep!

Ephraim threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Kestrel and Proud Mistress were welcomed into our port amid much celebration and rejoicing, the both receiving a 13-gun salute by ships in our harbour and the field guns on Plum Island. We have a fear that they have brought in so many prizes that there is not room for them in the river. For those who wish to view these two privateers who have done so much to aid the cause of Liberty, they are tied up at the wharf of Capt. Ephraim Ashton, where the gallant Captain Merrick informs us his ship is open to any who wish to go aboard her and count the shot-holes in her sails.

Ephraim slapped the paper down on the table and whooped until the tears ran from his eyes. Tripes ’n’ bloody guts, what more could he ask? A son who brought him more and more glory every time he sailed, and now a future son-in-law whose cleverness and daring eclipsed even Matt’s.

No sooner had that future son-in-law brought his victorious Kestrel into port and fought his way through the cheering throng than he’d shown up right here on the doorstep, hat in hand, cheeks flushed with excitement, and looking every inch the valiant young sea captain that he was. It had been the perfect opportunity to force him down in a chair, force some good hot cooking down his throat, and force him to relate every last, glorious, delicious detail of the cruise.

There was no need for anyone to know, of course, that the newspaper’s informant—that reliable source—was none other than Ephraim himself.

Ephraim gave a private hoot of laughter. With such triumphs, he could even overlook Matt’s philandering (his son was presently holed up at Wolfe Tavern, paying court to that lady passenger he’d found aboard the merchantman) and pretend it didn’t exist. Merrick, at least, was no rake. In fact, Newburyport’s newest hero was upstairs in the east room, where Ephraim had dragged him following supper last night. That he was sleeping soundly, he had no doubt; he hadn’t heard a sound from up there all morning.

Still cackling over his own shrewdness, Ephraim leaned back in his chair and folded his arms behind his head. “Ah, Eveleen, that brother of yers is one helluva sea officer, ain’t he? Never would’ve guessed it, that first day I met him. Looked like somethin’ the cat brought in, by God.”

She glanced up from behind a plate of johnnycakes, ham, and a slab of cheese that would’ve kept a nest of mice in good spirits for a year. “Brendan learned to sail before he could walk. At least, that was what our da always told us.”

“Yer papa must’ve been a seaman himself, teaching his son such things when he was just a babe.”

“He was.” Eveleen stared down at her plate, lips curved in a winsome smile that made her look almost pretty. Especially since Ephraim had rarely seen her smile. She picked up a corn muffin and pasted an inch-thick cap of butter and strawberry jam atop it.

And then she put the muffin aside and looked at Ephraim. The smile was gone, her eyes sad. “He was an admiral in the Royal Navy when he was cut down on the decks of his own flagship.”

Ephraim’s jaw dropped. “An admiral? Ye mean to tell me yer daddy was an admiral? In the Royal Navy?”

“Yes.”

Ephraim’s throat worked. He was having a hard time digesting this. “Holy hell!” he expostulated, rising to his feet. “Don’t that beat all. Abigail! Abigail!” he roared, his voice shaking the very timbers of the house. “C’mon in here; I got something to tell ye!”

He couldn’t wait to spread this around!

Upstairs, it was still quiet. Obviously that admiral’s son could sleep through anything.

Abigail bustled into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. “Honestly, Ephraim, all that bellowing! You’re going to wake the captain.”

He seized her by the shoulders. “Did you know that Merrick’s papa was an admiral? An admiral, Ab! How the Brits must be nettled to know that we have his son on our side now!”

“They have always been nettled,” Eveleen said, her eyes downcast. “Even when he was in their navy.”

“What?”

The girl was rising, her long golden hair fanning out over her shoulders. “Jealousy,” she said quietly. “It has brought down many a man. My father included—and my brother, if he’d have allowed it.”

She turned on her heel and shuffled out of the dining room, leaving Ephraim and Abigail to stare after her in disbelief.

Their gazes met. The johnnycakes, the ham, the cheese—and yes, even the muffin—were untouched.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ephraim said.

Things were quiet indeed up in the east room, for Brendan wasn’t in it.

He’d allowed Ephraim to all but drag him in there last night, but he hadn’t stayed long. Instead, he’d paced the floor and finished up one of his sketches while he waited for the old sea captain to retire, an event that had occurred at precisely a quarter to one and not a second later, judging by the loud snoring coming from that area of the house. Before the nineteen clocks (it was up to that now) could finish tolling out the hour, Brendan had pried open the frozen sill of his window, hung out of it by his fingers, and dropped two stories into several feet of snow.

It had taken only thirty minutes to make his way back to Kestrel.

He felt guilty about deceiving the old man, but Mira had been in the next room, and he no longer trusted himself around her. He’d seen the hungry looks she’d given him over supper, felt her dainty foot rubbing up and down his leg beneath the table, burning it even through his wool stockings. Thank God for the tablecloth that had hidden the evidence of his desire for her. If he’d stayed at the Ashton house last night, they would have ended up in Mira’s bed or his. He had too much respect for the old man to make love to his daughter right under his own roof . . . even if they’d already announced their betrothal.

He awoke aboard the gently rocking schooner, long after the sun had heaved itself above the tip of Plum Island and shone lemon and gold upon the harbor. The cabin still smelled faintly of gun smoke; he could almost imagine the glorious thunder of the guns above, pounding away in fury, hear the shouts of battle-crazed men, feel Kestrel moving silently under his feet and gliding through the sea. . . .

He folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the deckhead, his lips curved in a faint grin. Footsteps sounded above him; Liam must already be escorting the first reverent visitors aboard. Abruptly his grin faded. They’d made him a celebrity, just as they had poor Matt.

Poor Matt? Ashton, at least, loved every minute of it.

The footsteps were moving toward the hatch now, too light to be Liam’s, too solitary to be the throng he expected—and dreaded.

Dalby.

He shut his eyes. No. Not Dalby. Please God, not this morning . . . .

The door creaked open and he let his jaw relax, pretending sleep.

Silence. Then footsteps coming slowly across the cabin, a hand touching his shoulder.

“Captain?”

His eyes shot open. It was Mira.

“I’m sorry to wake you.” Her eyes were bright, and there was a healthy glow to her cheeks from being out in the cold. “I didn’t think you’d be sleeping.”

“Er, actually, I wasn’t.”

She smiled saucily and folded her arms. “Sure looked it to me.”

“I’ve grown very good at pretending. You see, I thought you were Dalby. . . .”

“Ah yes, that little man with the constant stomachache?”

“The very one.”

She sat beside him, her eyes softening with humor, then love. Contrary to his words, he looked like a man who’d just awakened; his rich chestnut hair was pleasantly rumpled, his face relaxed, his eyelids heavy. He smelled sweetly of the warm scents of sleep, and his nightshirt, looking as if it had seen better days, gaped open at his throat, revealing a wedge of golden skin and a light mat of auburn hair. A delicious warmth spread through her belly and radiated into her thighs. He was handsome and desirable, and that delicious warmth soon became a delicious ache. Unconsciously, Mira licked her lips and reached out to touch his unshaven jaw.

His own eyes darkened. “You look as good as breakfast after a three-day fast, lass.”

“Do I?” Her fingers traced the shape of his mouth. “Why don’t you kiss me and see if I taste as good, too?”

He laughed and hooked an arm around her neck, pulling her down and kissing her long and hard. Then he released her, sank back against his pillow, and gazed lazily up at her in a way that quickened her heartbeat and sent tremors pounding through her blood. She took his hand and reverently kissed each finger, each knuckle, even the calluses that hardened his palm, before curling his fingers into a fist, placing it against her face, and rubbing it up and down her cheek. Presently that hand unfolded itself and pushed beneath the thick warmth of her unbound hair and pulled her close. Mira sighed and closed her eyes.

“I missed you, Moyrrra.”

Brief pictures flickered through her mind. Of Brendan, hanging out of the shrouds and sketching madly as the cannonballs and musket shot shrieked around him. Brendan, cleverly tricking the big frigate into believing they’d gone aground when they’d been in water over a thousand feet deep. Brendan, fidgeting madly as he’d brought Kestrel into port, dreading the fuss that Newburyport would—and did—make over him. She had seen his haunted eyes, conspicuously absent of mirth, and known it was all he could do not to flee when the townspeople had set upon him in a frenzy of joy and admiration. And the look of misery on his face as they’d hoisted him up on their shoulders and paraded him through Market Square with all the fanfare due their most gallant hero. . . .

Ah, Brendan. Her poor, humble captain!

She glanced outside, hiding a private smile. Sunlight gilded the cold river that flowed just beyond Kestrel’s stern windows, and she could see the hulls of the new prizes reflecting black and brown and white against the water. Once again she remembered the sea fight, the English captain’s indignation, and the cheers of Newburyport as Kestrel and Proud Mistress herded those prizes through the river’s mouth and into the harbor. . . .

“And I missed you, too, Brendan. That was quite a haul you and Matt made. I hear you were very clever and brave.”

He made a dismissive sound. “And from whom did you hear that?”

“Mr. Starr told me,” she said, with an impish glint in her eye.

“Oh? Are you two friends?”

“We . . . know each other.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me. You with your cats and Mr. Starr with his chickens.”

“Chickens?” She cocked one dainty brow.

“Aye, chickens. Can you believe it? I caught him talking to one of the roosters we’d taken aboard as fare for the soup pot. Had the thing perched on his shoulder like a pirate with a parrot. A chicken!”

“Well, we animal lovers have to stick together,” she chirped, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

He smiled and closed his eyes. “Ah, you’re good to come home to.”

“Let me sail with you and we’ll never be apart.”

“Good God, Moyrra, that is out of the question!”

“Why?”

“You could get hurt! You’d be a distraction! It would be unseemly!”

“So is sneaking off in the middle of the night, Brendan. Do you think I didn’t see the marks in the snow where you landed after jumping out the window? Or the tracks leading off across the lawn? ’Tis a wonder you didn’t break your fool neck! And here Father thinks you’re still abed.”

“I am.” He was grinning. “Join me.”

She crawled in beside him, trembling with delight as his arms went around her. They lay there for a moment, listening to the water against the rudder just below.

“I love you, Mira.”

“As much as you love Kestrel?”

He pulled back. “What?”

“Be truthful now, Brendan. Tell me that you love me as much as you do her.”

He missed the flippant, teasing note in her voice. Truthfully he said, “In a different way.”

“How different?”

“Faith, lassie, you can’t compare a woman to a ship! They’re two different things.”

“Are they?”

She stared at him, her eyes challenging, her chin high. He couldn’t fool her. She was a shipbuilder’s daughter—faith, what did he expect?

Quietly she repeated, “Are they?”

“Moyrra, mo bhourneen . . . my love . . . A ship is made of wood and wind and canvas, a woman of flesh and blood. But both have a heart, both have a soul. Both sing when they are pleased, cry when they are not. Both call to a man’s heart, draw him into their spell, bewitch him. Both are lassies, sultry and sweet and—”

“Brendan.”

“—gentle, lovely and—”

“Brendan.”

He paused, wondering why he felt suddenly panicky.

“You don’t have to explain. I know how it is with seamen.”

“Do you?”

“Brendan, what is the matter? You seem most agitated.”

He reached up and drew her down atop him, wanting to prove that she occupied as big a place in his heart as Kestrel did—it was just a different one. But would she be content with that part of his heart? Or, like Julia, would she want all of it?

Julia.

Fear drove through him, cold, raw terror that froze his throat and made him want to jump up and flee. But Mira’s hands were gentle and soft as she stroked his hair, his roughly stubbled chin, and kissing her fingers, touched them to his lips. Finally he relaxed, reminding himself that Mira was not Julia, that Mira would never be Julia, and that he had nothing to fear.

And then her hand found his arousal beneath the blanket, and he stopped thinking of Julia, the past, even of Kestrel herself.

Chapter 21

Ephraim caught her just as she was slipping out the door a fortnight later, garbed in her brother’s clothes, carrying a trunk with a few belongings, and heading for Kestrel.

Obviously it hadn’t taken him long to put two and two together, and all her screaming, yelling, and carrying on hadn’t done a bit of good. Ephraim was adamant about keeping her off the sea, especially now that Captain Merrick had offered for her. Furious and outmaneuvered, Mira found herself land-bound at last—and a spectator to Kestrel’s glorious departure instead of a participant.

Sitting astride Rigel, she watched angrily from Plum Island’s northernmost shore as the surf curled around his hooves and the wind, heavy and wet with the tang of the sea, blew her hair into her eyes, across her mouth, and around her shoulders.

In the distance, Kestrel was approaching, making her way downriver toward the open sea.

It was impossible to maintain her anger in the face of such beauty. Reaching up, Mira cleared the hair out of her suddenly misty eyes and beheld the majestic sight. The schooner was parading toward her, her sails blossoming like a rose seeking spring. Water sparkled at her bows, and Mira caught bits and pieces of sound that only made her heart ache more as she came close, passed, and moved through the channel and toward open sea: Zachary Wilbur calling for more sail, orders being passed, Liam’s fiddle—and Brendan’s laughter. Where was he? And then she saw him, one hand on the tiller, the other waving to her before blowing her a kiss. Sadness swept over her, then admiration. Sadness because Brendan was there and she was here; admiration because there wasn’t anything else a person could feel at sight of Kestrel.

The schooner rode high in her own bow wake, dancing upon a sheet of white froth. She was a sight to steal one’s breath away as she swung her nose toward the wind and showed her heels to the land. She was beautiful. Glorious. And for this cruise, she would have her captain all to herself.

Mira shoved her hair out of her face and tried not to think about it.

They’d be back soon. Brendan had promised.

Proud Mistress, sporting a freshly painted figurehead, was passing through the channel now, gliding in the schooner’s wake like an attendant on a queen. Mira fished in her pocket, found her spyglass, and raised it. The brig’s decks teemed with high-spirited Newburyporters, all waving wildly to her. So many years she’d sailed with these men. So many times Matt had led them into battle and glory, and still their excitement for a cruise made oldsters into boys, boys into hellions, men into heroes. And there was Matt, standing on the quarterdeck, coattails flapping in the wind, red hair whipping, scanning the shoreline and obviously looking for her. And then their eyes met, brother and sister, and she saw his teasing grin as he raised his hand in farewell.

Then the brig’s courses filled with healthy wind and she leaned her shoulder into the waves, carrying Matt away from her. Far ahead and well into open ocean now, Kestrel spread her topsails and topgallant, and Mira watched her until even the spyglass couldn’t pick out the details on her deck any longer. Then Kestrel fell below the horizon. Sunlight glinted on those lofty sails, once, twice; then she was gone.

Around her, the cold wind sounded like a dirge, and Mira trembled without knowing why.

And as she turned Rigel into the wind and headed back toward town, she realized she was more her father’s daughter than even she’d thought.

In her hand was a watch, and she was studying it.

Counting the hours until Kestrel would bring the man they both loved back to her.

“That’s it, Eveleen. Keep her going now, nice and steady. A little faster and we’ll quit for the day.”

Eveleen, clad in a plum-colored riding habit and wearing a hat with a feather sticking out of it, gave her instructor a sour look. But a combination of exercising her horse, mucking the stall, and, at Abigail’s gentle suggestion, limiting her desserts to only the treats that Mira had made, was beginning to have an effect on her figure. Eveleen no longer got winded when she walked Shaula around the field, the pink dresses were getting baggy on her, and the times when Mira would have to yell and scream and threaten just to get her to do something were growing few and far between. With every bit of ground she gained, Eveleen’s confidence grew, and these days, there was something in her eyes that couldn’t quite be hidden—the triumph of accomplishment. Today, however, was one of her biggest achievements to date: Shaula was actually trotting around the field. Trotting!

“But it hurts, and my stomach’s starting to growl—”

Ignoring her halfhearted whining, Mira threw back her head in laughter. “Eveleen, if you can keep that mare at a trot for three more times around the field, I’ll personally take you down to Wolfe Tavern and buy you a piece of pie big enough to feed Washington’s army.”

The girl was jolted up and down in the saddle with every step the white mare took. But even Eveleen Merrick couldn’t maintain an air of glumness when she’d just accomplished so much, and through knocking teeth, she managed a smile. In it, Mira saw something of Brendan, and her heart gave a little lurch, for he and Matt had been gone for nearly two months now and she missed him, terribly. “You’re doing well,” she coaxed. “We’re almost done.”

“But by then my stomach’s going to be so jarred and jostled, I won’t want pie.”

“Then post. Up and down, up and down. Let the mare’s rhythm guide you. Watch her outside leg, and when it reaches out, rise in your stirrups.” Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Mira sent Rigel ahead to demonstrate, thrilling, as she always did, to the raw, unleashed power of the colt beneath her. “Like this.” Up and down, up and down. “Just a little, enough to take the jostle out of it.”

“Like this?” Eveleen rose out of the saddle so much that Mira could have flown a kite between her rump and the cantle.

“Not so much. You’re working too hard. Let the horse do it for you.”

They trotted side by side, instructor and student, so involved in their mutual triumph that neither heard the bang of guns down in the harbor as a ship was welcomed into the river.

Not two ships, but one.

A privateer had returned.

Alone.

Mira heard the uproar all the way from Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship and knew that Matt must be back, for the late spring winds carried Ephraim’s angry bellowing all the way across the paddocks, through the woods, and into the field where she and Eveleen quietly walked their horses.

Eveleen, her face going white, pulled her mount up short. Obviously she’d never witnessed the stormy reunion between father and son when Matt returned from a cruise. But Mira knew what all that hollering was about! With a shout of glee, she gathered her reins and drove her heels into Rigel’s flanks. “Eveleen, c’mon! Matt’s home! Brendan’s home!”

She sent Rigel tearing toward the house, Shaula—with Eveleen clinging to her mane, the reins, and her courage—right behind. And as the two tore out of the woods, raced past the paddocks, and charged into the front yard, Mira’s joy faded and apprehension swept in to take its place.

For there, filling the lawn, pouring up the driveway, and racing in from the street, was an immense throng of people. They were shouting. They were yelling. And where the women were concerned, they were openly sobbing.

And on the doorstep stood Ephraim, his face as white as his hair, his features so twisted with agony that Mira felt the icy fingers of dread crawling up her spine before she’d even thrown herself from Rigel’s back and raced toward him. Tears streamed down his craggy cheeks, and behind him, Abigail slumped against the doorframe, sobbing into her hands.

“Damn ye for a yellow-livered coward! How the bloody hell could you let it happen? Goddamned British bastard!” Father’s anguished roar carried over the din of the crowd. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on ye! I rue the day I met ye and curse the day ye sailed into this town, ye miserable, rotten coward!”

Mira came up short. Her chest tightened and her heart stopped cold. She followed Father’s gaze, and the blood drained from her face.

It wasn’t Matt who stood there, but Brendan.

And he was alone.

He stood like a man on trial, the crowd behind him the jury, Ephraim, before him, the judge. He had his tricorne in his hands, and his eyes were filled with such anguish that for a moment, Mira thought he was someone else, so different did it make him look, so much did the absence of the good humor that was so much a part of him rob him of who he was. Mira shook her head. No. Surely Father wouldn’t be sobbing and raging at Brendan! Surely there’d be mirth in those tragic, haunted eyes if it truly were he—

And then it hit her like a savage kick in the gut. Her brother was nowhere in sight. It was Brendan at whom Father was raging.

Blind panic seized her. Matt. And then, in a guttural scream of pure terror, his name was torn from her throat. “Matt!”

There was the thunder of hooves as Shaula came galloping up behind them, Eveleen still clinging, white-faced, to her back . . . Ephraim’s bellowing, going on and on and on . . . the women crying, the young men shouting accusations, the angry faces, the curses—

And Brendan.

At that moment he turned toward her, and there was such a plea for understanding in his grief-stricken eyes that her heart constricted painfully in her chest. She ran to him, flung herself into his arms, and felt them go around her. Then she drew back. “Brendan, where’s Matt?”

A muscle worked in his throat and he took a deep, measured breath. His eyes had an odd sheen, and blinking, he looked up at the clouds above. Then he took her hands in his own and squeezed them so hard, she felt pain in her fingers. His hands were freezing cold, as though the blood had ceased to move in his veins.

“Brendan, where’s my brother?”

He looked down at her, and she saw tears in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath and gently set her away from him. And then he reached up to knuckle his eye. “Moyrrra, lassie—”

Panic seized her. “Where is he?”

“Moyrrra, he’s—”

Ephraim’s grief-stricken roar pierced the din. “Dead! He’s dead, and it’s all the fault of this goddamned cowardly son of a bitch I should never’ve trusted in the first place!”

Brendan shut his eyes, and his fierce grip on her hands tightened, but he did not lower his head.

“I knew I should never’ve trusted ye, ye confounded spawn of the devil! Stinkin’ deceitful, yellow-bellied traitor! The devil take ye, ye slinkin’ dog! Traitor! Bastard! Brit!”

Mira reeled backward, overcome with dizziness. From a great distance she heard the crowd’s angry din, saw Brendan’s stricken face. And then Abigail’s keening wails began to close in on her, louder and louder and—

She pressed her hands to her ears. “No! Stop it, stop it, all of you!”

“But it’s true. Oh, Lord, it’s true, Mira!” Abigail wailed, wringing a cloth covered with flour, dough, and the stains of her own tears. “Every last bit of it! There was a battle . . . they found the convoy from London . . . your brother stayed to fight, and this—this—snake slunk off and left him to do it alone!” Her sobs grew to hysteria, raising the hair on Mira’s nape. Screaming, the housekeeper flung the wet cloth at Brendan. It hit him squarely in the chest, but he didn’t move, merely stood there with flour marring the handsome perfection of his blue coat. “Alone, Mira! Your poor dead brother alone, all by himself, to face the might of the British navy while this slinking dog crawled back here with not a scratch on his beloved, cursed ship! That cursed ship! That’s what started it all in the first place! Would that we’d sunk it by the might of our own guns! Would that those drafts had never been resurrected! Would that her creator had died with them! Oh, Matthew . . . Oh, my poor, sweet Matthew....”

She collapsed, wailing, and someone managed to get her into the house, where her hysterical cries flowed out the open door, over the lawns, the increasing crowd, and Mira’s heart, until it began to vibrate, to tremble, and then to rock wildly within her breast.

“Not Matt. . . ” she whispered, never hearing Rigel come up behind her to comfort her, as his kind had done for centuries. And though Brendan reached out to steady her, it was Rigel against whom she fell. “Not my brother. . .” Hair tangled in her suddenly wet lashes and she clawed it free, shaking her head in denial and backing away from Brendan as he took a step toward her. “He was a good captain . . . the best. He’s not dead, Brendan! I’d know it if he was. He was my brother. He’s not dead! He’s not! It’s not true! It cannot be!”

Lucy Preble clawed her way to the front of the crowd. “It is true, Mira. You go down to the river and you’ll see only one ship—that cursed schooner!”

“With nary a mark on it!” someone shouted.

“Hauled himself off and let our poor Matt do the fighting! Didn’t want to see his precious schooner harmed!”

“Newburyport’s newest hero, eh?”

“Traitor!”

“Coward!”

“Judas!”

It became a chant. Louder. Stronger. Full of hatred and betrayal and a thirst for vengeance.

“Judas! Judas! Judas!”

An egg slammed through the air, just missing Brendan’s shoulder and exploding against the side of the house.

“Judas! You killed him!”

And Brendan, just standing there, admitting nothing, denying nothing, and no one ever considered that maybe he couldn’t, for his own throat was working and he was fighting a losing battle to repress his own emotion. But the fact that he didn’t defend himself condemned him in the eyes of the townspeople, of Ephraim—and of the woman he loved.

She was looking at him as though he were a stranger, the tears sliding down her cheeks, one thick spill of hair tumbling over her eye. She pushed it away with a strange, jerky motion, and when she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

“Did you?” Her lip trembled, and she pushed a hand against it. “You didn’t . . . didn’t leave him to die. . . Did you, B-Brendan?”

“Moyrra—”

“Did you?”

She didn’t see his throat working as he tried to gain control. She didn’t see the agony in his eyes as he fought to find the right words. And she never gave him the chance to explain. All she felt was a horrible, choking lump in her throat—and all she saw was Kestrel, glorious and proud and dancing, flitting away while Proud Mistress fought a valiant battle to her death. . . .

Sobbing, Mira turned blindly away from Brendan and leaped on Rigel’s back, kicking him through the crowd and thundering down High Street before anyone could stop her. Seeking escape in the mad pounding of hooves and sleek muscles beneath her, of wind in her face, her eyes, her head, her heart.

Run away. Run far away. From the truth, from the grief, from the reality, from—from—

“Matt!” she wailed, tears flooding her eyes as she tried to hold, tried to banish, the memory of that freckled face, that crimson hair, the spectacles that were always sliding down his nose—

Oh, God, Matt. “Please, God, not my brother!”

And then Rigel’s thundering hooves hit a depression in the road and he stumbled, his forelegs crumpling beneath him. Mira pitched headlong over his neck, her body hurtling through space until it was finally stopped by the Beacon Oak itself, there to lie crumpled like a broken doll at its base.

It was Brendan who found her. And as he picked her up, gently, reverently, his strong arms cradling her to his shot-scarred chest, his own tears ran at last, flowing like blood from the pieces of his own broken heart.

Chapter 22

Mira opened her eyes to silence as deep and dark and ugly as the tomb. She was in her bed, the linsey-woolsey counterpane drawn up to her chin, the fine lace canopy above merging with the darkening ceiling. Twilight shone hauntingly through the window; beyond it, night approached.

Silence.

There was something alien in it, something strange, something not quite right. And then she realized what was wrong. What was terribly wrong. Not a clock in the house was ticking.

It was as though time itself had stopped.

Father? Father, forget to wind his clocks?

She came awake with a start.

Matt. Her choked whisper pierced the still silence of the darkening room. “Oh, Matt. . .” And then the tears came, slipping soundlessly down her cheeks to dampen the counterpane beneath her chin. She stared up at the familiar canopy and felt them stream from the corners of her eyes. Down her face. Tickling the hair at her temples, her ears, wetting the pillow beneath her head.

“Oh . . . Oh, Matt . . .”

She was not alone. In a chair drawn up to the bed, a man with eyes that no longer laughed had kept a silent, tortured vigil, his long legs stiff and cramped from sitting there for so many hours, his unshaven jaw dark with stubble. He heard her anguished weeping and thanked the blessed God that she was awake, that she would be all right; he heard her weeping grow louder and reached for her hand in the darkness, never stopping to stretch his aching legs, never thinking of his own pain, only hers. He was there for her. He vowed he would always be there for her. And he reached for her now as her sobs grew gut-wrenching and awful, shaking her little body to the very depths of its being.

And Mira, feeling those arms go around her, those hands stroking her hair, knew who that man was. “Don’t touch me!” she cried, and viciously slammed her elbow into his ribs, his grunt of pain bringing her a savage satisfaction as she flung herself down and buried her face in the depths of the pillow, the thick tumble of her own tangled hair, and the memories of a brother she would never see again.

Yet still those hands, those damned artist’s hands. Hands that drove beneath her shaking shoulders, hands that pulled her up against a hard chest and a coat that was uncharacteristically rumpled.

Newburyport’s newest hero.

Brendan.

She drove her palms against that chest and shoved herself backward, out of the warmth of those caring arms, away from the tortured heart that needed her as much as she needed him.

“Judas!” she spat, her voice low and terrible and ugly. “Get away from me.”

The room had grown too dark for her to see the stricken pain on his face, the grief in his eyes, but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had—for at that moment Mira had never hated anyone more than she did Captain Brendan Jay Merrick.

He swallowed hard and tried to take her hand.

“I said, get away from me!” She bit back the hysteria, shrinking away from him with great racking sobs rising in her chest. “Don’t touch me, you slime-sucking son of a bitch—”

“Mira.”

She lay rigidly on her back, staring up at him through the darkness. “Slinking coward, gutless, wretched—”

“Moyrrra.”

She clawed the hair out of her eyes, and sickened by the sight of him, turned her face into the pillow, its feathery down muffling her sobs. Her shoulders shook, and she drew her legs up to her chest, as though she could curl herself around her grief, her very heart, and hold herself together with it. The tears came, a horrible sound in the stillness of the room, choking her with their intensity, robbing her of breath.

“Moyrrra, please . . . please listen to me.”

“Where’s my father?” she sobbed, into the depths of the pillow. “I . . . want my . . . papa.”

Brendan took a deep and bracing breath. And then he rose, went to the window, and stood gazing out over the street, the treetops, and toward the river. Ships drove their masts against a fading sunset sky. The ships of Newburyport. Except that one of them would never be coming home again.

Outside, a robin called good night to its mate, the sound lonely and sad in the twilight.

Quietly he said, “Your da is down at Wolfe Tavern, Moyrrra, where he has been for the past three and a half hours.”

Father. Losing himself in tipple, just as he’d done when Mama had died. Oh, God, help me, she thought, huddling closer to herself, oh God, please help me . . . It hurts, God. It hurts so much . . . Please, God, make the pain go away . . . Make him go away. . . .

But he would not, his words coming quietly from across the room. “Lassie, please . . . before you judge me, listen to me. I beg of you. Give me a fair trial, at least.”

She sobbed harder into the pillow, gripping its corners in white-knuckled, fish-cold fists and squeezing it about her head as though it could muffle the pain and block out his voice.

He stood by the window, his body silhouetted against the last of that lonely light. “We had a strategy, your brother and I,” he began, quietly, not wanting to tell her because of the pain it would cause, yet desperately needing to, just to relieve his own grief, his own guilt, unjustified though it might be. And as he began to speak, he reached into his coat pocket and drew something out, though Mira, her face buried in the pillow, never saw what it was.

“It was a strategy we agreed to try upon the convoy from London.” Swallowing hard, he closed his fingers around the object in his hand. “I suppose I shall always wonder if maybe it was all planned. That maybe someone knew we would be there. You see, there were other American privateers waiting to pluck prizes out of that convoy, too. Yet none of them were touched. They wanted Matt, and they wanted me.”

She sobbed something into the pillow, her voice incomprehensible.

“What was that, mo stóirín?”

“I said, I wish the bloody hell it had been you instead of my . . . instead of my . . . b-brother!”

He turned back to the window. He looked down at the object in his hand, biting his lip, thankful that she couldn’t see the pain, the tears in his own eyes. But the lilting, musical tone of his voice was gone, like an instrument out of tune, and through her misery, she noticed it, and it broke her heart even more.

“We found the convoy ten leagues off Sandy Hook—a huge convoy, Mira, of fat merchantmen and wallowing ships, ripe for the plucking—and pluck them we did. It was so easy. Too easy. We’d stand off during the day, and when night fell, we’d take turns. One of us would distract the guard ships, and the other would dash in and cut out a prize. Because it was dark, they dared not separate, and the guard ships couldn’t be everywhere at once. Oh, they tried to escape, but with so many ships and only a few to protect them, there were many stragglers. . . . We had our pick of them. It was so easy. . . .”

He leaned his forehead against the sill of the window. The sunset was just a gray glimmer now. Fading.

“We were fools. Too bold, too cocky, too confident—and too greedy. We took so many prizes, we barely had enough men to sail our own ships, let alone fight them. And still we didn’t stop. It went to our heads, lassie. We grew drunk on it. And you know that old tradition, about not returning to port until you have a prize to show for each of your guns. . . . And here Kestrel has ten, and Mistress had fourteen.” He didn’t tell her that returning to Newburyport with twenty-four prizes had been Matt’s determined goal, not his. “It was an insane thing to attempt, even for a couple of daredevils like us.” He looked down at the object in his hand, feeling his eyes burning with unshed tears. “On the third morning, we anchored in the lee of an island to wait out a squall—”

He swallowed hard, steeling himself against the horrible memory, while his hands tightened around the fragile object. “We woke to fog and rain, and a frigate bearing down on us from around the point. A British frigate, with every sail set and a bone in her teeth. She caught us unprepared. I know now that she was waiting for us. Waiting until we didn’t have the men to properly crew our vessels, having sent them off in groups on our prizes. Waiting until success blurred our caution. Matt and I signaled to each other—we’d worked out an elaborate flag code—and he asked me to use Kestrel as a lure, to try to lead the frigate away from himself and the prizes.”

He saw no need to tell her that the frigate had been HMS Viper and that its captain was a man named Richard Crichton. Instead, he told her how he’d tried to lead that frigate away, for he’d been so secure in the knowledge that Crichton had wanted him that he didn’t believe his old enemy would give Matt a second thought.

But no. It hadn’t happened that way. It was supposed to happen that way, but it hadn’t. And as he’d hauled off to leeward and sent Kestrel on a smooth run, her sails set wing and wing and the American colors streaming saucily from her gaff like a flag tempting an enraged bull, Viper had chased her only long enough to ensure she would be safely out of the fight and then dashed back toward the solitary brig and her covey of prizes, quickly overtaking them and brutally opening fire with every gun. Matt had fought valiantly, with everything he had. But Mistress had been undermanned, with an island at her back and no room to maneuver. And fast as Kestrel was, she hadn’t been able to tack back to her sister ship in time.

“If only I’d known, lassie.” His voice was flat and dead and emotionless. She heard him take a great, tremulous sigh. “If only I’d known. And if only Matt had a gunner like my own Mr. Starr....”

He winced as Mira curled herself up into a tighter ball and let out one long, keening cry of sheer agony.

“But the frigate had a skilled gunner. Or maybe just a lucky one.” His hand tightened on the object in his hands. “His shot hit Mistress’s powder magazine, and she went up like a torch.”

On the bed, Mira sobbed harder, the tears soaking into the very heart of the pillow, the pit of her soul. Horrible, wretched cries that showed no mercy, flooded the room with agony, caused Brendan to turn from the window and take a step toward her, two—

She raised her head and screamed, “Don’t come near me! You should’ve been there for him! You should’ve stayed and fought! You bastard! Don’t you ever come near me again, do you hear me? I hate you! Hate you!”

He stopped.

“I don’t ever want to see you again! Ever!” She struck out, blindly, and her hand found something in the gathering gloom. A blue and white bowl, commemorating the launch of the fine topsail schooner Kestrel, kept on her bedside table where it would always be near when she woke up in her lonely bed in the depths of the night, when she opened her eyes in the morning—

Her hand closed around it and she flung it with all her strength toward his voice, the piercing, agonized crash of china against the far wall shattering the stillness.

“Get away from me, you coward!”

She fell back into the pillow, sobbing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath, feeling as if she were suffocating in its wet softness, its damp heat, and drowning in the choking awfulness of her own grief.

“I hate you. . . . God, I hate you. . . .”

But it was really herself she hated, for if she hadn’t fallen in love with this—this Brit, she would have been out on Proud Mistress and helping her brother, and none of this would have happened.

“I hate you, hate you, hate you.”

Silently Brendan moved across the darkened room. The object in his hand, found as he’d combed the beach of the island that had shuddered to the thunder of Mistress’s guns, and later, her death, was now warm in his hand. He ran his thumb over it one last time.

He thought of the broken bowl. Shattered, like Mistress. Like Mira’s trust in him, and the love they’d shared.

Like Kestrel’s honor itself.

Quietly he reached out through the darkness and put the object on the table where that bowl had stood, and left the room.

There, alone, staring unseeingly up into the darkness, the metal growing cold once more, lay the spectacles of a dead privateer.

They had no body to bury, but Captain Matthew Ashton’s memory was laid to rest with full honors just the same, on a cloudy day with a mournful wind and an oppressive rain that soaked through cloak and coat alike. Gray sky and gray river, gray faces and tears that mixed with the rain and went unnoticed. And a tombstone of granite, on which was painstakingly carved the likeness of a brig with the figurehead of a woman; a tombstone that reflected the mood of the sky, of the day, of the people.

It was a sad day for Newburyport.

The American flag flew at half-mast from the fort at Plum Island, and aboard every vessel in the rain-soaked harbor. A black coach carried the dead hero’s family to St. Paul’s Church on High Street, followed by a funeral procession and mourners of keening women, silent sea captains, weeping children, and a seventy-man detachment from the Newburyport militia. When the sad ceremony was all over, the ships in the river fired their guns in solemn salute to one of their own, lost in the name of Liberty. Drums rolled, church bells tolled in lonely sorrow. And at the granite marker, and its reign of unbroken ground, the militiamen lifted their muskets and fired three volleys as the dead captain’s sister tossed a single, blooming tulip to the earth and turned away to sob into her father’s arms.

Apart from the group a lone figure stood, wearing his best uniform and clasping his tricorne to his heart. That uniform was dark with rain, and water streamed from his curling russet hair. He watched the girl in helpless misery, and when she lifted her face from the comfort of her father’s chest, their gazes met across the rainy distance.

Brendan swallowed, and took a hopeful step forward.

The crowd huddled protectively around her.

And Mira turned her face away.

His heart broke. And as the ceremony ended and the townspeople looked up and saw him standing there, they cursed him and turned away as well, leaving him to face alone the river that had brought him here—and the schooner whose name had become anathema.

Newburyport’s newest hero.

Named by his Irish mother for a long-dead sea explorer, the patron saint of sailors.

In grief, the truth is often crushed.

Chapter 23

Being a man who viewed the use of excessive force as a necessary means of getting information, Captain Richard Crichton saw no reason not to defy Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s demands for temperance and even less reason not to exercise such methods on his three Yankee prisoners of war.

They were a bedraggled, sorry-looking lot. With such ill-bred rabble to represent them, he wondered how the colonies could ever expect to win a war they were stupid enough to start in the first place. One, a salty old bloke with steady gray eyes and the honest face of a fisherman, had proved his Yankee idiocy by spitting in Crichton’s face; now he was getting a taste of the lash he’d not soon forget. The second prisoner, also picked up from the wreckage of the privateer Proud Mistress, was a youth named Jake who wasn’t old enough to put a razor to his face. Even at such a tender age the boy refused to divulge any information about Captain Merrick, even under Crichton’s most persuasive methods, and insisted he didn’t know a thing about him or the schooner that had been wreaking such havoc upon British shipping.

And the third—semiconscious, blinded by shrapnel, and lying slumped against the bulkhead in Crichton’s fine cabin—was no help at all.

Captain Matthew Ashton.

No help at all, Crichton thought, with a cold grin. Yet.

With controlled savagery, he drew back and kicked the blind man hard in the ribs. The Yankee captain doubled up in agony, his face paling beneath a spray of freckles that, coupled with his unruly shock of red hair and naked, owlish eyes, made him look boyish and defenseless.

Hard to believe this was the same man who’d fought his Proud Mistress with such doughty valor.

Crichton kicked him again.

“So, the brave Captain Ashton shows the same loyalty to his friends as he does his country, eh?” Crichton’s milky eyes hardened, emphasizing their red-tinged lids and fair lashes, and his mouth tightened in a smile thinner than prison gruel. His blue uniform was freshly brushed, his shoes shone, his epaulets gleamed on his blocky shoulders, and the gold braid on his hat was almost decadent—yet his fine image was wasted on his blinded captive. But the Yankee’s mind was lucid enough, and Crichton made full use of that fact.

“What, no answer, Captain Ashton? Do you think your silence will save you? Do you think it will save Merrick when I catch up to him?” He gave a short, brittle laugh. “The fox can only outrun the hounds for so long, you know. Sooner or later that fox, clever as he may be, will have to come out of his lair—and when he does, I’ll be waiting for him.”

“You’re . . . wasting your time. You’ll never catch . . . that schooner. . . .”

Crichton’s laughter was evil, awful and humorless. Chills snaked up Matt’s bruised spine, but he was in too much pain to bring on more by shuddering. Instead, he simply lay there in his own private darkness, gritting his teeth to steady himself as the laughter faded and the silky voice flowed over him like acid.

“Do you think me foolish enough to waste my time even trying? That schooner has given me ample demonstration of her speed. One does not try to outfly a kestrel, my good captain. But a kestrel can be netted—and a fox can be shot.”

“Captain Merrick is no fool.”

“Precisely. He’s a former officer of His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and our navy does not breed fools, Ashton. Nor does it allow them to command our ships.” Matt heard liquid sloshing into a glass, and felt Crichton staring down at him as he sipped his wine.

“Merrick entered the navy as a midshipman at age twelve, quickly proving himself and passing his lieutenant’s exam at age seventeen. By his twentieth year he was commanding his first ship, by his twenty-third, a forty-four-gun frigate, and by his twenty-fifth, was put in charge of Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s fleet as flag captain, a post that he deserted not a month after his appointment to it. Some time later, he showed up in the service of the rebels, commanding a privateer named Annabel. A ship familiar to you, eh, Captain Ashton?”

Matt’s lips thinned, and Crichton kicked him again.

“I asked you a question!”

“The devil take you,” Matt wheezed, clutching his ribs. Another kick, and the breath roared between his clenched teeth with a harsh whistle.

Tiring of the game, Crichton went on, his voice calm and controlled. “In any case, there were those of us who felt that young Merrick’s appointment to such a high post was politically based and largely undeserved—a favor on Sir Geoffrey’s part. The old windbag was close friends with Merrick’s father, you see. And Sir Trevor Merrick was an admiral himself, an autocratic old firebreather with a stiff upper lip, but well respected and a particular favorite of the king. He moved in high places and intended his mongrel son to do the same. Of course, there are those who insist it was Brendan’s own abilities that snared him the post of flag captain, but we all know the world doesn’t work that way. Oh, no, Ashton, ’twas the influence of his sire and the luck of that damned Irish hussy he married, luck that Brendan seems to have inherited, God rot his bloody soul.” A glass slammed down on a hard surface, and Matt heard the bitterness in Crichton’s voice. “And that’s all it was, Ashton. Luck. I should’ve had that position. I should’ve been promoted, not Merrick. Dammit, I deserved it!”

Matt looked blindly up toward that hate-filled voice. “It seems that you are wrong after all, sir,” he said, with a trace of his old fire.

“Wrong about what?”

“Wrong about your navy employing fools to command their ships. You did say you’re a captain, didn’t you?” He waited for another kick, but his brazen words seemed to have rendered his tormenter speechless. “And furthermore, any man who thinks that Captain Merrick obtained recognition simply by being born the son of a British admiral—and not by his own intelligence, compassion, courage, and charisma, traits that I’ve yet to see reflected in you—is not only a fool, but a bleeding idiot besides.”

“You dare insult me so?”

“I’ll dare anything I damn well please, you treacherous whelp of a she-bitch.” Matt glared sightlessly up toward that flat, emotionless voice, but inside he winced, waiting for another kick. It wasn’t the blow itself he feared, nor even the pain; it was the fact that he couldn’t see it coming.

And couldn’t see his enemy.

And perhaps that was best, for his last memory of the British captain was very clear indeed: that of Crichton standing on the decks of this frigate moments before she’d reduced Proud Mistress to a floundering wreck. One of the balls had hit a gun, cut down its crew, and the exploding fragments of metal and wood had struck him in the face and left him in a world darker than the hide of Mira’s black stallion.

Richard Crichton. Arrogant and stout-shouldered, with a mouth hewn from stone and stamped with cruelty. Thatch-colored hair and a purposeful jaw. Young Jake had told him that Crichton had been smiling as that last broadside had struck Mistress’s magazine and done her in, and Matt didn’t have to look upon that cold and emotionless face to know that he was smiling now. The thought chilled him, and again he fought a shudder. Not for himself. Not for whatever remained of his crew.

But for Brendan.

Crichton chose to ignore his last remark. “No, Ashton, I’m not a fool, nor am I an idiot. I’ll prove that to you soon enough, when I shoot myself a fox and bring him home for my admiral to skin. And as for that schooner, she’s the swiftest thing afloat for her size. Nothing but teeth and wings and claws. A most singular vessel, you’ll agree, which is precisely the reason my admiral, and his peers back in London, want her. To study, to examine, to use her as a model so that our navy may improve upon its own designs.” Matt heard the deck creak as Crichton moved slowly across the cabin, then back again. “And you must agree, ’tis only right that she ends up in our hands. I told you I’m no fool, Ashton—I know who designed her. And given that fact, I do believe that makes her British property.”

Pain was shooting through Matt’s ribs, sharp, lancing pain that made it hard to breathe, let alone talk. He clamped his jaws shut and ground his back teeth together to keep from moaning, and said nothing.

“No, the fox must be outsmarted,” Crichton continued, as matter-of-factly as if he were moving pieces around on a chess board. “Outwitted. And you, Captain, are going to help me draw him out.”

Gasping, Matt raised his head and stared sightlessly into the blackness. “Never, you son of a bitch . . . Nev—”

This time the kick did come.

Savagely Crichton drove his boot into Matt’s temple and sent him into senseless oblivion. Bloody rebel, he thought, and drew back to kick him again. But at that moment Myles, his trusty first lieutenant, entered. There was a smile on his face and his beady eyes glinted.

“I delivered that missive to the Tory you asked me to find.” Myles stepped over the sprawled body as though it carried the plague. “He’ll see that it reaches Merrick, one way or another.”

“Good.” Crichton sipped his wine and stared disdainfully, then thoughtfully, down at the unconscious Yankee lying at his feet. Useless, he thought angrily. No help at all. But he would be.

He smiled thinly and met Myles’s expectant gaze. “Douse our good captain with water—salt water, please, as it tends to sting more and I don’t want to waste our fresh water on such vermin—and when he awakens, haul him up on deck. Blinded he may be, but he’s not deaf. I want him to hear the screams of his men when I wring out of them what he won’t reveal.”

“And that is?”

“Every last bloody detail of that schooner. Ashton’s father built her, and Ashton knows more than he’s telling me. I want to know precisely what I’m up against, Myles.”

Myles smiled, drawing his lips back from crooked teeth.

Crichton took another sip of his wine and prodded the lolling red head with the toe of his boot. “And when you get him up there, string him up to the grating. Young Midshipman Rothfield shows promise of making a fine officer someday. I should like him to witness the proper technique of stripping the flesh from a man’s back.”

“Yes, sir,” Myles said, eagerly.

“Oh, and Myles?”

The lieutenant turned.

“Mind that you haul an extra bucket of that seawater up and save it for after the lashing. The good captain’s back will probably need to be . . . washed.” He returned Myles’s sly grin. “These Yankees are a stubborn lot, you know. I have a feeling that if the boatswain’s cat doesn’t do this one in, the saltwater might.”

Myles gave a slow, measured salute, thinking that if he hauled not one but several buckets up, his captain would be even more pleased. “As you wish, sir.”

And as his faithful hound went off to do his bidding, the hunt master, still sipping his wine, looked down at his captive and smiled.

Tomorrow the scent would be laid.

In due time, the fox would sniff the wind and come running.

And when he did, that fox would be shot.

Eveleen was in the middle of packing her trunk when Mira came in.

“What are you doing?”

Eveleen put down the skirt she’d been folding and looked down at her feet. Misery cloaked her features; not only had she lost her beloved Matthew, but now her adopted family as well. With Mira and her father so bitter toward Brendan, there was no way she could expect to stay here in the Ashton house. “I’m packing,” she whispered, reaching for a plate that stood beside her bed. On it was a stack of cookies.

“Why?”

Eveleen looked up, her eyes tragic and filled with tears. Mira, usually so perky and full of spunk, seemed no better; her features were pale and drawn, and there was a pinched look about her mouth. The two women looked at each other for a long moment; then Eveleen put down the cookies, and they flew into each other’s arms, hugging each other and crying brokenly.

“You can’t leave, Eveleen,” Mira sobbed into the other girl’s hair. She clutched her desperately, unwilling to let her go. “You just can’t!”

“But I’m not welcome here any longer.”

“That’s not true; you’ll always be welcome here! You’re the only real friend I have, and I need you. Oh, Eveleen, we need each other!”

Eveleen drew back, and looked into Mira’s tortured features. Her fingers were cold and bloodless, and in her eyes was something Eveleen had never seen before—terror.

You’re the only real friend I have, and I need you.

Mira, need her? Mira, who had never been squeamish about her crippled hand, had never made an issue out of it nor allowed her to use it as an excuse to be miserable and full of self-pity. Mira, who had taught her that she didn’t need food to assuage the pain, a lesson that Eveleen, in her misery, was having a hard time remembering. What sort of friend would she, Eveleen, be if she walked out on Mira now? Mira needed her as much as she needed Mira—but nevertheless, she didn’t feel that she should stay in the Ashton house. “But I have to leave, don’t you see? You all believe the worst of Brendan and—”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” Mira sat on the bed and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. Then she looked up, the tears spiking her lashes and spilling down her cheeks. “Please don’t leave me, Eveleen. I’m begging you. Please.”

Eveleen wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stared miserably at her trunk, her lower lip trembling with the effort it took to contain her own sobs.

“Eveleen, please? Can’t you understand, I need you.”

Eveleen met her gaze. “I need you, too, Mira,” she whispered. They hugged each other again, their friendship the only shield they had against the pain.

Reverting back to her old ways and burying the pain of the handsome Captain Ashton’s death beneath apple pies, Indian pudding, tarts, scones, and any other confection she could get her hands on, Eveleen found the house strangely silent. Ephraim spent his days—and nights—locked in his library with his grief, a bottle, and a painting of his dead wife.

Mira had gone into an unreachable depression. Eveleen’s riding lessons stopped, and the muddy field that was Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship grew thick and green with spring grasses that heard only the footfalls of cats traveling on the silent paws of hunters. Inside the big Georgian the furniture grew dusty, and the rooms echoed with emptiness. Mira spent her days locked in the stable, and Ephraim spent his locked in the library, both emerging only to scream and shout at each other. At last, dejection overwhelmed them both. The fighting stopped. The neighbors across the street could sleep again. Abigail, miserable with grief, stopped cooking, and Mira started. But nobody ate.

And still the clocks remained unwound.

A week after Matt’s funeral, Eveleen, lying awake in her bed with a piece of molasses cake balanced on her chest and crumbs sprinkling the sheets, heard Mira’s muffled weeping coming from the big, empty room that had been her brother’s. Putting aside the cake—and her own misery—she’d scooped up the gray cat from her bed and silently deposited it just inside the door, hoping that the little creature could help ease Mira’s suffering.

Hoping for a miracle, she’d gone back to her room to wait for that wretched sobbing to stop.

It hadn’t.

Hours later, Eveleen had finally crawled out of bed, gone to the window, folded both good hand and maimed one beneath her chin as she knelt in the moonlight—and prayed with all her heart for Brendan to come back from the sea to which he’d retreated.

The fox wasn’t so easily found.

It took some weeks before Crichton’s note made its way to Kestrel, holed up in the privateering port of Salem, Massachusetts.

Almost as if in answer to her prayers, Liam and Dalby, toting that note, showed up at the Ashton house several days after Eveleen had knelt at her window. Brendan, knowing he was unwelcome, despised, even, had refused to leave his ship and go into Newburyport, but under the pretense that he’d left his fiddle at Wolfe Tavern, Liam had managed to coerce his captain into bringing Kestrel far enough into the river that he and Dalby, at least, could take a boat to the pier and from there, make their way into town.

Ephraim, who would have been furious had he known that Kestrel’s crewmen were in his house, was drinking the afternoon away at Wolfe Tavern when Liam and Dalby arrived. But the big lieutenant had not come to talk to the crusty old shipbuilder.

He’d come to talk to Mira. To beg her, if he had to, to make one last cruise aboard Kestrel.

Eveleen showed them into the parlor, read the note, discounted its contents as nothing but a ploy on Crichton’s part to draw out her brother, and told Liam that Mira was not at home, but out riding the barren beaches of Plum Island, which was about all she’d been doing lately.

“I’ll wait fer the lassie, then,” Liam vowed, adding that he’d stay here all day if he had to—even if he had to end up dragging Mira back aboard Kestrel in the guise of Mr. Starr.

“Why do you need her so badly, anyhow?” Eveleen asked, suspicious.

Liam eased his great body down onto the sofa. “Because we’re desperate,” he said, spreading his hands. “Yer brother’s hurtin’, lassie. He’s not ’imself. If he expects to go after Crichton, an’ deal with him without gettin’ himself killed in the process, he has to get his head on straight. And Miss Mira’s love and forgiveness is the only thing t’ do it.”

Eveleen’s own Irish temper flared. “What do you mean, go after Crichton?” She commanded the Ashtons’ parlor like a ruffled queen, her cloud of gold hair swirling about her shoulders, her eyes flashing, and a plate of gingerbread waiting on the tea table before her. “That boneheaded idiot! I wish he’d just straighten out Mira Ashton, not go chasing after Crichton! Doesn’t he realize there’s probably not a bit of truth to this note? Damn it all, sometimes I’d just like to strangle him!”

Liam spread his hands helplessly, grinned his great beamy grin, and glanced at Dalby, who sat in a fine Queen Anne style chair with his hand, as usual, clamped over his gut. A piece of half-eaten gingerbread was set before him.

“Well, what d’ye think, Dalb?” Liam asked, folding his big arms across his chest.

Dalby eyed the gingerbread distrustfully. “I think, Liam, that there’s something in that gingerbread that’s upset my stomach. “

“Nonsense. Miss Mira made it herself,” said Liam, who’d never eaten at the Ashtons’ house before. “Ferget about yer gut fer once, would ye, Dalb? ’Tis a serious matter.”

“So is my stomach. And my head, which is beginning to ache. I think I’m coming down with something. And I don’t think it’s a cold this time, Liam. I think it’s something far worse—”

“Dalby, if ye don’t shut up about yer ailments, I’m goin’ t’ remove both yer bloody gut and yer head and then we won’t have t’ be hearin’ ye complainin’ about either one of ’em!” His blue eyes narrowed as the little seaman pouted, fingering a strange ornament buried in the lacings of his shirt. “And what the bleedin’ hell is that ye’re wearin’ around yer neck?”

“A crystal,” Dalby said sullenly. “Rama said it’ll bring me good luck.”

Liam screwed up his face. “What?”

“Good luck. I brought it because I think we could all use some right now,” Dalby said, thinking of his captain’s disgrace, Kestrel’s fall from favor, and the spunky little Mira Ashton, whose skills at Freedom would be sorely missed if Kestrel made another cruise without her. And if Brendan went after Crichton without his most capable gunner, he’d be asking for suicide. They all would.

Liam made a snort of disgust. “I want ye t’ stop listenin’ to that Easterner, Dalby! He’s already made a disciple out o’ Fergus; the last thing we need is fer him to be makin’ one out o’ you!”

“But, Liam, it makes sense—Fergus told me just today that the reason my stomach always hurts is because I was shot in the belly in a former life—”

Liam lunged from his chair, his hands outstretched and going for Dalby’s scrawny neck.

“Gentlemen.” Eveleen raised her haughty head and glared at the two of them. “As much as I despise the fact that Brendan is going after Crichton, I suppose it’s inevitable. Therefore, I think that we should all be considering what Richard Crichton will be in his next life after my brother catches up to him.”

“Yer brother ain’t goin’ to catch up to him if he doesn’t get his head on straight and make peace with the lassie.”

“That’s for sure.” Eveleen took a bite of her gingerbread with regal elegance and just as quickly choked it out into her napkin.

“Well, ye know yer brother,” Liam said, frowning in puzzlement as she wrapped up the gingerbread in her napkin and put it down, her unmaimed hand, like Dalby’s, going to her stomach. “Brendan never does anythin’ by halves. And when it comes to lovin’ a woman, he does it with every shred of his soul, his heart, his bein’. As he does with Kestrel.” His voice grew hard. “As he did with Julia.”

The silence hung heavily between them.

“As he’s done with Mira,” Eveleen said quietly.

The silence deepened. Liam was right; not only did Kestrel need the skills of her best gunner if she was going to face HMS Viper, but her captain needed the love and forgiveness of Mira Ashton if he expected to be on his toes when it came to dealing with Crichton’s treachery. It didn’t matter if Mira revealed herself as Mr. Starr or not; what mattered was that she forgave Brendan as herself.

And if he couldn’t get the two of them together, that just wouldn’t happen.

Eveleen thought of her brother’s pain when the people of Newburyport had turned against him at Matt’s funeral. Not only had they turned against him—the man they’d hailed as their new hero—but also against the magnificent schooner they’d built with their own hands, sent off with their blessings and prayers, and welcomed back as a heroine, then a traitor. Pride had become shame. Admiration, disgust. No one in town mentioned the schooner’s name anymore; indeed, they went to great lengths not to. She was an embarrassment. She was anathema.

And, as Liam, Dalby, and everyone else had so vehemently declared, she was innocent.

It wasn’t fair.

As much as she disliked the ship for the attention Brendan lavished on it, Eveleen loved her brother too much to allow him to suffer such undeserved treatment. She was not alone in her defense of him; Kestrel’s faithful core crew of Irishmen was so incensed that the lot of them were planning to storm Wolfe Tavern with balled fists and fury on the morrow if apologies were not made to their captain.

God help the town if that happened.

But there was still Crichton to be dealt with. Always Crichton, Eveleen thought bitterly. And who more capable of doing it than her own beloved brother? No Yankee knew Crichton as Brendan did. No American knew the British navy as he did. And no ship could run down Viper as Kestrel could.

Crichton must be dealt with.

And Mira Ashton must be in place on Freedom, must be made to believe the truth, must find it in her hot little heart to forgive Brendan so he could get his damned head on straight and get on with the business that had to be done.

In Liam’s hand was a missive, dirty and crumpled and stained from being passed through so many hands during its journey here from Viper.

A missive from Crichton, which some might’ve said was a ransom note—for a Yankee captain who was not dead at all—and an invitation for the Captain from Connaught to come and get him.

Chapter 24

Crichton was right. The British Royal Navy didn’t breed fools.

And it had bred Captain Brendan Jay Merrick.

The wily half-Irishman was not about to put much hope in the claim of his nemesis that Matt was alive, nor was he rash enough to endanger his ship and crew by honoring Crichton’s request to meet at a time scheduled by the Englishman at a small island off Machias, that lonely Maine outpost where the first naval engagement between Britain and her rebellious colonies had, ironically, taken place several years before.

If anyone was a fool, it was Crichton for believing that he would.

No, Brendan had shaken the proverbial dust of Newburyport from his shoes, buried his heartache over Mira Ashton beneath a vow to avenge her brother’s death, and gathering his surly Irish crew, had let the tide carry Kestrel downriver and into the Atlantic. With a warm breeze filling her sails, she’d leapt through racing seas with the spray hissing and breaking high over her beakhead, arriving silently in the waters off Machias a full day and a half before Crichton’s scheduled meeting.

Such a premature arrival was no coincidence, for Brendan was taking no chances and had no intention of letting himself be drawn into a trap. With keen-eyed Mr. Starr perched in the crosstrees, silhouetted against the clouds and ready to call the alarm should Viper, anchored unsuspectingly in the bay on the other side of the island, notice them, he’d again relied on the element of surprise. And surprise had been a mild word to describe the reaction of the British landing party as they came trudging out of the woods where they’d been foraging for fresh water and seen the rakish schooner sweeping around the island’s rocky headland.

Astonishment and awe were more like it. And terror, for Kestrel had effectively cut off their escape route back to the frigate.

They paled as they saw the schooner’s yawning gunports. A young lieutenant shouted and pointed. Seamen dropped their water casks and fled back into the woods. But Mira was oblivious to their panic, to Brendan’s triumphant grin, to the fact that she was some eighty feet or so above a rolling deck.

For there, standing on the beach and surrounded by a group of red-coated marines, were Jake Pillsbury and old Hezekiah Simmons, friends of hers since she’d been old enough to know how to coil a line.

She swayed and almost fell off her comfortable perch.

They had been part of Mistress’s crew—a crew that had all supposedly perished.

Their shirts were torn and stained with soot, their faces gaunt and unshaven, their eyes haunted. Yet when they looked up and saw Kestrel sweeping around the headland with the spray bursting from her bows and the sea foaming beneath her keel, the look in their eyes was worth every hour Mira had stayed up here in the biting wind, every doubt she’d had about letting Liam talk her into coming aboard Kestrel once again. She leaned her face against the mast and bit her suddenly trembling lip. And as her chest heaved in a single sob of relief, of hope that her brother might also live, she saw Brendan standing on the deck far, far below.

His lean form blurred behind sudden tears. To Jake and Hezekiah, he must look like a hero. At the moment he sure looked like one to her, achingly handsome in a tailored blue coat that spanned his shoulders and showed off his crimson waistcoat with its rows of gold buttons glittering in the sun. His hair was neatly queued with a black bow and hung beneath the shadow of his jaunty tricorne, his stock was pristine and white. And he was swinging his speaking trumpet by a lanyard looped around his wrist, grinning rakishly, and taking it all in with an air of humble triumph that made her sinuses burn with unshed emotion.

Single-handedly he was bringing his little schooner to face the might of one of the king’s frigates and the hatred of a man who, Liam insisted, was bent on killing him. Oh God, she thought, feeling something huge and painful welling up in her chest. Was I wrong about him? Did I, in my terrible shock and grief, misjudge him after all? Was he truly innocent, as his crew, and even Eveleen, so vehemently proclaimed? Her throat constricted, her chest tightened. Was he?

She drove her hand into her pocket and touched Matt’s spectacles. She’d kept them close since finding them beside her bed that awful, ugly night. Now they were no longer cold, but warm with the heat of her body.

“Oh, Brendan . . .” she murmured. And then, oh, Matt. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, Matt, dare I hope that you’re alive, too?”

But Brendan, despite appearances, was far from relaxed or triumphant as Kestrel glided through the shallows with confident majesty, folded her wings, and turned her nose into the wind. He wore a grin, yes—but beneath it his jaw was clenched, his throat dry, his nerves shroud-tight. For bringing up the rear of the landing party was Lieutenant Andrew Myles, whose weaselly face Brendan remembered, and cared not to, from his sailing days with these very men—and Crichton himself.

Something twisted in his gut, and he recognized it for what it was. Fear.

He put the speaking trumpet to his lips to hide his strained grin. “Ahoy, Captain Crichton! Fine day to be at sea, isn’t it? I’m surprised that you’re not!”

The Englishman looked up. And then he saw Kestrel perched in her reflection, her great sails luffing in the wind, her gunports all open, and every one of her larboard guns run out and trained on him. His jaw hardened and his eyes went flinty.

“Forgive me for being so early for our meeting, Crichton, but I do believe you denied me the opportunity to agree to a time that was convenient for me!”

“Damn you, Merrick!” Whirling, Crichton grabbed young Jake and drove his pistol into the youngster’s ribs.

The boy managed to scream, “Captain Merrick! You gotta help us! He’s got Cap—” before Crichton cuffed him sharply across the face.

“Shear off, Merrick! You’ll not make a mockery of me again!”

“God Almighty,” said Liam, standing faithfully beside his captain and gripping the rail. “Now what, Brendan?”

Brendan stared at the drama unfolding on the beach. He took a deep, steadying breath, and when he spoke, his voice was very quiet. “Liam, please call Mr. Starr down and put him on the swivel gun at the after rail.”

He felt his chest knotting, as though the old gunshot wound itself were aching, and unconsciously pressed his fingers to the scar hidden beneath his clothing. There was Crichton, angry, desperate, and yes, afraid. One blast from Kestrel’s guns and the nightmares would end. One blast and the evil in those translucent, milky eyes would be no more. He had Crichton right where he wanted him, right where he’d wanted him for the past four years, and his men were as eager as Kestrel herself to avenge Matthew Ashton, his crew, and the brig he’d been so proud of.

But Brendan could not fire. Not only would that one blast kill Crichton, it would kill the Yankees, too—and Crichton knew it as well as he did. Yanking Jake’s head back, Crichton jabbed his pistol into the underside of the boy’s jaw and faced Brendan across the short gulf of breaking waves. “Bring that ship in any closer and this brat’s a dead one, Merrick! Shear off now or I’ll shoot him where he stands!”

“He won’t do it.” Liam’s huge hands gripped the rail, his knuckles showing white. “He’s bluffin’, Brendan! The lad’s his insurance against us!”

But Brendan wasn’t so sure. “Faith,” he muttered, all but slamming the speaking trumpet against his lips. He felt the eyes of his crew weighing heavily on him, the restless surge of Kestrel beneath his feet. “Crichton!” he called genially. “Come aboard my schooner and let us discuss this like gentlemen! You’d like to see her up close, wouldn’t you?” He walked to the rail and stood there, shoulders thrown back and the wind lifting his coattails, his queue, the lace at his wrist. “Well, here’s your chance!”

High above him, Mira, already descending the shrouds, shut her eyes and took a deep and steadying breath. Wind sang in her ears, but her heart was hammering so loudly, she was aware of nothing else. She wondered if she was going to faint. If she did, they’d be scraping her off the deck with a shovel.

But the controlled rage in the British captain’s face steadied her. This was the man who’d commanded the frigate that Brendan had tricked onto the bars at the river’s mouth last summer. This was the man who seemed determined to avenge that humiliation. This was the man who, Liam had told her, had crippled Eveleen and tried to kill Brendan—and this was the man who had murdered her brother.

Yet Brendan was determined to face Crichton with nothing but his wits, his men, and the little Kestrel.

In that moment, Mira knew for sure that she had misjudged him.

Terribly.

The knowledge, raw and awful, robbed her of breath, and she had to pause in her descent as the horror of it nearly overcame her. She leaned her forehead against the tarry ropes, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. Oh, what had she done? Had her faith in Brendan been so shallow that she’d actually believed what the rest of Newburyport had? That the schooner had come out of her engagement with Crichton’s ship unscathed because Brendan didn’t want her to get marked up by an enemy’s guns?

A sob caught in her throat and she gripped the shroud to keep from falling.

Oh, dear God, Brendan . . . forgive me. . . .

“I’ll not bargain with the likes of you, Merrick!” Crichton was shouting. “Nor will I come aboard that schooner till my flag streams from her gaff! Do you hear me, Merrick? Now, haul off or so help me God, this boy’s death will be on your conscience!”

Brendan’s resolute stance never wavered, though he was swinging the speaking trumpet around his wrist a bit faster. Again he brought the instrument up. “Now, Crichton—”

“I said I won’t bargain! Shear off, now, Merrick!”

Brendan took a deep and steadying breath, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. Gravely he turned to Liam. “Do as he says.”

“By the count of three!” Crichton shouted.

Young Jake began to sob.

“Now, Liam,” Brendan said tensely.

“But, Cap’n, ’twill take more’n three seconds just to—”

“I said do it!”

Too late. A shot rang out in the tense stillness. Birds rose shrieking from the trees, and a great cry of horror went up from Kestrel’s deck as the boy collapsed at Crichton’s feet, his body twitching once, twice, before going still.

Silence. Someone breathed a curse. Brendan shut his eyes, and Liam saw his lips moving, as though in prayer.

“Brendan—”

“Go ahead, Merrick!” Crichton grabbed Hezekiah, drew another pistol, and shoved it against the seaman’s temple. Tears streamed down the old man’s leathery cheeks as he stared at the dead boy, and in his eyes was the quiet acceptance of a man with no hope. “Stay here as long as you like! This one’s next, and then it’ll be Ashton!”

No one except Abadiah Bobbs, standing near Freedom, heard Mr. Starr’s cry from high above.

Brendan raised the speaking trumpet, slowly, as though it were of great weight. He was no longer swinging it. His eyes were hard, his shoulders rigid with fury. “I don’t believe you have Ashton any more than you believe I’ll be content to let the matter rest here! I’ll haul off, but only to spare the life of Mr. Simmons. Yours, Crichton, I will not spare when next we meet!” Only Liam, standing beside him, saw his captain’s hand trembling as he brought his speaking trumpet down, the savage anger with which he thrust it into his pocket to hide its shaking from his crew.

“Mr. Wilbur!” he called loudly, so that Crichton could hear him. “Let her fall off, then trim for close haul on the larboard tack!”

“I’ll kill him, Brendan,” Liam swore, slamming his meaty fist into his palm. “By God an’ the devil, I’ll see him in the hell where he belongs—”

But Brendan had already turned away.

Onshore, a triumphant Crichton breathed a sigh of relief, watching with awed fascination as sails blossomed on the schooner’s nose and her great mainsail began to fill. She turned gracefully away, her sleek underside showing and her guns pointing toward the clouds as she heeled. She was beautiful. Magnificent. Crichton’s hands grew sweaty on the pistol and his heart hammered in his chest. Sweat broke out beneath his arms and he stared at her as a starving man would a wedding feast. And then he remembered Sir Geoffrey’s promise of promotion, and saw that promise fading to dust as the schooner drew away. . . .

“Merrick!”

Another few moments and the breeze would push her around the headland, send her out of reach—

“Merrick!”

Her captain turned, every inch the capable commander he’d been four years ago, except now the stamp of experience had replaced the recklessness of youth. No longer mirth in those Irish eyes; now nothing but the steely determination and hard anger of a man who’d been pushed too far.

Crichton yelled into his speaking trumpet. “I’ve changed my mind! I’ll make a deal with you, Merrick, on my terms! You don’t believe I have Ashton? Let me show you aboard my ship and I’ll prove to you that I do!”

Brendan raised a hand, as though to control the schooner’s moves, and her crew, in the midst of hauling the jib sheet over, paused.

“Don’t listen to him, Brendan!” Liam warned, desperately gripping his captain’s sleeve.

Challenge burned in Crichton’s milky eyes. Triumph. “Come aboard Viper and speak with Ashton yourself! He’s been asking about you! And after you’ve seen that he still lives, I’ll return him in exchange for one of your own. A prisoner of war for a prisoner of war, Merrick!”

“Brendan, don’t!” Liam cried, for he knew whom Crichton wanted.

Thirty feet away, Mr. Starr jumped to the deck and was caught by Abadiah Bobbs who fought to keep the little gunner from racing to the captain. But Brendan was oblivious to the struggle. He thought of his friend and fellow captain, helpless in the hands of this evil monster. He thought of the woman he loved back in Newburyport, the woman who believed the worst of him, the woman who had turned her heart against him. He looked at Crichton, standing there on the beach with a pistol against a Yankee’s head and a dead boy at his feet, and saw the only way to save that friend . . . and redeem himself in that woman’s eyes.

What did he have to lose, besides his life? A life that would be meaningless without Mira Ashton.

He turned back to the rail. Even Kestrel seemed to have guessed his intent; now, she protested violently, trying to take the wind in her teeth and run with it before he could respond to Crichton’s invitation.

“Your decision, Merrick!”

Kestrel was moving farther away, as though on her own. Brendan stared hard into those translucent eyes. Then he grinned and turned jauntily to his lieutenant, his hands steady now as he unbuckled his sword belt, removed his pistols, and handed them to his horrified friend. “You always wanted a ship of your own, Liam,” he joked. “Well, here you go. Take good care of her for me.”

“Brendan, I beg o’ ye, don’t do it!”

“She’s a bit spirited with the wind across the beam. Mind you don’t set the topgallant when it shifts or she’ll give you a devil of a time—”

“Brendan, don’t!”

“Jesus,” someone muttered.

“What is he, insane?!”

Forward, Dalby collapsed in a dead faint.

But Kestrel’s captain was already striding past the helm, past his horrified crew, past the guns that could have sent Crichton to the hell where he belonged. Beneath the shadow of the schooner’s great mainsail, he paused. “Ready the boat and dress it out with full ceremony. I’m going across to the frigate.”

A silence like the tomb fell over the ship.

Woodenly the men did as they were asked. Not because they wanted to, but because their captain commanded it.

Mira, desperate to free herself and stop Brendan from sacrificing himself to such madness, struggled against Abadiah’s grip. “Let him go, Mira!” he said hoarsely. “The man has his pride! You go and reveal yourself, you’ll strip him of the last shreds of it!”

They watched as the boat was swung over the rail, lowered to the skipping waves.

Sickened, Liam slammed below and, in the privacy of his cabin, buried his face in his great, hamlike hands while the tears leaked between his fingers. Mira, standing helplessly beside Abadiah, cried bitter tears of agony.

In the depths of her keel, in the song the wind made as it whined mournfully through her shrouds, the beautiful Kestrel wept.

And many miles away, the great Willard clock in the Ashtons’ front hall stood silent.

Chapter 25

What Kestrel’s anguished crew saw as their captain left the schooner’s deck was a tall and handsome man, laughing and confident and unafraid, who made a joke or two as he walked to the gunwales, and stopped there, briefly, to doff his hat to them, the ship, and her second-in-command for what all of them knew to be the last time. By trading himself for Captain Ashton, he was going to his death, and every man aboard the schooner knew it. Dalby, huddled in the bows and clutching his chest, was retching uncontrollably; Kestrel’s marines grouped around the rail as though determined not to let him pass; and Kestrel herself bucked and writhed on the choppy seas, fighting John Keefe’s hand as he forced her closer and closer to where Viper stood anchored a scant mile away.

Mira, standing miserably on deck with a chicken that had been destined for the soup pot in her arms, stroked the rooster’s sleek, iridescent feathers and choked back the tears as Brendan turned his back on them and resigned himself to his fate. Stop him! her mind screamed. To hell with his damned pride! Stop him now, before it’s too late! She started to run forward—and was snared once again by Abadiah’s firm hand. Her friend shook his head. The captain had his pride. If she stopped him, she’d not only make him look like a coward in front of Crichton, she’d deny him the chance to redeem Kestrel’s name in Newburyport’s eyes.

It never occurred to her that he was doing this to redeem himself in her eyes.

And so she pushed her fist against her mouth and watched him climb down the Jacob’s ladder, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Pain made it hard to breathe, and nausea filled her stomach. Yet she also knew that no one was more capable of rescuing Matt, if indeed her brother still lived, than this gallant captain with the winsome Irish grin. No one knew Crichton as he did. He was the only chance Matt had.

A group of seamen waited in the boat below, their faces long and solemn; as one, they took up the oars and rowed him away. From his silent crew. From his ship, still fighting the helmsman’s hand. From her.

“God bless you,” she whispered brokenly as she stood alone at the rail. The wind caught her braid and ruffled the thick tuft at the end. “Oh, Godspeed, Brendan. . . . I—” Her voice caught on a sob. “—I love you.”

Liam joined her, his eyes hopeless and haunted as he watched the little boat carry his friend and captain farther and farther away. He reached out, silently took her hand, and gripped it hard.

“Crichton’ll kill him, ye know,” he said quietly, his throat working and his gaze fastened on the departing boat. Brendan never looked back, and Mira swallowed hard to keep from crying. Oh, God, why, oh why, hadn’t she apologized for the way she’d doubted him? Treated him? Rejected him? Would she ever feel those sinewy arms around her again, look up into those laughing Irish eyes, hear sweet Gaelic endearments whispered in her ear?

Would she ever see him alive again?

“Oh, Liam ...” She looked up at him, the tears magnifying her eyes in her pale face. “Why is he doing this?” She gripped his hand. “Why?”

Above, a yard creaked in protest. The deck moved restlessly beneath her feet. And the big Irishman just stared once more at the now distant figure in the boat.

“Because yer brother was his friend, lassie.” He turned then, looked down at her. “And friends don’t leave friends to bastards like Crichton.”

She bit down hard on her lower lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and turned her streaming face skyward. And then, unable to hold back the emotion any longer, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenly.

Clouds rolled in from the west on a freshening wind, promising rain by nightfall. Kestrel, restless and uneasy, began to drift toward a neighboring island as though she sought to dash herself against the shoals that girded it. With a curse, Liam ran aft, bawling orders to the boatswain. It didn’t sound quite right to hear him doing it when it should have been Brendan.

“Hands aloft to loose the tops’ls! Right lively now, here comes the wind! Hold her steady, Mr. Keefe!”

Kestrel moved uneasily, reluctantly answering her helm and fighting them every step of the way.

“I said steady, John! God Almighty. . . .”

Mira raised her head. She could almost sense the schooner staring after her creator and captain like a faithful dog, trying desperately to swing her bowsprit on the now distant boat. She heard John Keefe swearing, then Liam, as he pounded forward to take the tiller himself; she heard the angry slatting of lines above, the protesting creak of spars and masts. Head bowed, Mira gripped the rail in trembling hands, and felt her soul, her own agony, traveling down through her fingers and merging with that of the schooner.

And for the first time, she felt a strange kinship with this other female of Brendan’s—this other female of wood and canvas and wind. The tears stopped, and bewildered, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel the presence, the soul, of the ship around her.

His ship.

“Kestrel,” she said softly. “Oh, Kestrel. . . .”

Above, the wind hummed, caught the topsails, and sang a poem through lines, shrouds, and stays.

“We can’t let this happen,” she whispered, staring off in the direction Brendan had gone. “You see, he’s . . . my captain, too. And I . . . I love him.”

High overhead, the wind whined through stays and shrouds.

But you doubted him. Rejected him. Were faithless when I remained true.

Mira froze.

He’s going to his death. Not because of me. Because of you. . . .

Because of you . . . you . . . you . . .

With a sob, Mira jerked her hands from the rail and fled below.

The welcome that HMS Viper gave the Royal Navy’s long-lost flag captain was a mocking one, and Brendan, emerging through the entry port and stepping onto her deck as the sun sank into the sea, knew it. Marines with immaculate red coats, blue-and-white-clad officers, pigtailed seamen; all regarded him with awe, for he was something of a legend. The thought merely increased his uneasiness. Through long habit he almost doffed his hat to the quarterdeck, turned, and faced Captain Richard Crichton as his old enemy came forward, his hard smile triumphant, his eyes glowing with a strange light.

“Captain Merrick.” Crichton hadn’t changed much over the past several years; he was a bit broader through the waist, perhaps, but that was all. “How nice of you to join us.” His eyes gleamed as he glanced off toward where Kestrel’s lights glimmered on the waves. “And how bloody noble, too. Imagine, sacrificing yourself to save a friend. My, my, what is this world coming to?” Again that hard grin. “Myles! Please see to it that my steward brings a pot of tea down to us in my cabin . . . My former flag captain and I have much to discuss.”

“And Captain Ashton?” Brendan said tightly, gripping his hands together behind his back.

“Oh, I’ll have him brought up shortly. He’s been a spot of trouble, you know. Typical Yankee. Hotheaded and quite difficult to handle. But I have my methods for dealing with recalcitrants, Captain Merrick. Just as I have them for dealing with deserters.”

Brendan tensed, but remained the picture of calm.

“Myles? Please bring the Yankee up and send him back to the schooner. Both of them, in fact. The old one isn’t worth the time it takes to restrain him. Captain Merrick and I shall be in my cabin. Please see that we’re not disturbed.”

With an elaborate flourish, Crichton swept his hand before him. “After you, sir.” He gave a humorless grin, and when Brendan hesitated, drove his pistol brutally into his spine. “Oh, and Myles? One last thing. Please rig up a halter to the foreyard, would you? I feel that a lesson in the punishment of deserters is long overdue.”

Myles, ever protective of his captain’s image in the admiral’s eyes, protested, “But, sir? I thought Sir Geoffrey wanted Captain Merrick delivered to him alive.”

“Just do as I say, damn you. You know I don’t like to be kept waiting.” He smiled coldly, eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his hat, and turned to Brendan. “As you have kept me waiting for four long years, Merrick.”

Wordlessly Brendan glanced a final time at Kestrel, anchored so close, yet so far. Desperate fear rose up in him. Then Crichton’s pistol was jabbing into his spine again and they were moving. Down the hatchway. Down into the depths of the ship.

Down, he knew, into hell.

With grim resolution, Liam had carried out his captain’s last order and brought the schooner to windward of the anchored frigate, where her chances of escape were far greater than if she’d lain helplessly to leeward of the swift square-rigger. Not that Liam had any intention of fleeing if it came down to a fight—and neither did Kestrel, who showed him her sweet side as she glided to a new anchorage a quarter mile away from the bigger ship and settled down for the night to wait.

But if a fight ensued, nothing short of Brendan’s absent Irish luck would save them, for Viper, built of solid Sussex oak and boasting thirty-two guns on her deck and twin nines mounted in her forecastle as chasers, was the schooner’s superior in both stoutness and firepower.

But not spirit.

Dusk came, and the last light of the day glowed red on the horizon. Waves slapped endlessly against the hull, and timbers, masts, and yards creaked uneasily. Someone started a chanty to try and raise the gloomy spirits, but one sharp glance from Liam and the voice went dead.

And so the decks lay quiet, the glow from a pipe here and there the only spot of light in the gloom. Another hour passed. Two.

And still they waited.

The watch changed. Fergus carried a lantern aloft and hung it in the shrouds; Liam ordered the gunports silently opened and Kestrel’s armament run out. The schooner fidgeted uneasily. Then, from across the water, they heard sounds. Oars biting into waves, lifting, dripping, biting again. Grunts and curses and voices. As one, the crew ran to the rail and stared out into the darkness.

“Boat ahoy!” Liam called, his voice tight with apprehension.

“Kestrel!” came the reply. “Stand by for Captain Ashton!”

Mira collapsed against Abadiah Bobbs and would have fallen if not for his steadying hand beneath her elbow. “Matt,” she cried, the night wind cooling her wet cheeks. “Matt!”

The Jacob’s ladder was lowered amid frantic activity and excited voices. Muffled curses drifted up to them, and groans as someone wrestled with a great weight down there by the feeble glow of a lantern. Mira pressed her fingers to her mouth and tried to see.

“We’re bringing him up!”

“Matt!” Desperately she tried to get past Liam’s brawny arm. “Let me go, dammit! He’s my brother!”

“Stay back, lassie, till we get him aboard,” the big Irishman said, not wanting Ashton’s little sister to see the possible extent of Crichton’s cruelties firsthand.

As they hauled Matt over the rail, it took both Liam and Abadiah to restrain her, for the limp, lifeless form they laid out on Kestrel’s lantern-lit deck bore no resemblance to the brother she’d known and loved.

“Matt!” she shrieked.

He’d been harshly beaten, his face so battered, bruised, and swollen that she almost didn’t recognize him. By the lantern’s glow his freckles stood out on his pale cheeks like shot on parchment. Blood matted his hair and crusted his upper lip. Someone thrust the lantern closer, its soft glow falling over his face, and as he turned his head, she saw that his eyes were sightless, staring, and dead.

“Matt!”

“Mira? That you, Sis?”

“Catch her, she’s goin’ to fall,” Liam said tonelessly, his face like stone as he stared off beyond the black spiderweb of Kestrel’s shrouds to where Viper’s distant lights glowed upon the water. And Mira, taking her brother’s hand and sobbing over it, thought of the laughing man who’d gone to that devil-ship to trade himself for him.

Crichton had nothing against Matt, and look what he’d done to him.

But Crichton hated Brendan.

Liam’s words echoed over and over through her mind: “Crichton’ll kill him, ye know.”

“No!” She lunged to her feet and ran toward the rail, toward that distant ship, hearing her own screams coming from farther and farther away. Dalby caught her before she went over, and the sight of Viper’s lights was her last before her world went black.

The wind freshened and backed a few points during the night, and by the wee hours of the morning, waves were glinting white in the darkness and breaking over Kestrel’s plunging bows in great sheets of hissing spray.

High, high above the surging deck, standing in the crosstrees of the foremast, Mira turned her face into the teeth of the wind and stared off into the night, where Viper’s lights shone like a beacon as she tacked on a southwesterly course. By the faint glow of the moon Mira could just make out her yards braced hard around and hear the occasional voices of the men on her deck. And the only reason she could hear them was that Kestrel, in silent pursuit, glided as soundlessly as a nighthawk on the hunt.

Liam, of course, was right. Friends didn’t leave friends to bastards like Crichton.

She curled an arm around the mast. This time she felt no animosity from her jealous rival, just an overwhelming sense of camaraderie. They had made their peace. They were united, she and Kestrel. United in a single, desperate cause.

To save the man they both loved.

Far below, the crew conversed in hushed tones, and even the sea spoke in whispers as it creamed back from Kestrel’s sharp bows and fell away in a long, swirling wake of moonlight behind them.

The rain had held off all night; now low-hanging clouds raced past the masthead, letting the moon shine through here, a scattering of stars there. Looking up, it seemed that the tip of that lonely spire was all that held the storm clouds at bay. But now they were gathering in force, filing in from the west, snuffing out the stars and casting an eerie, blackened pall over the rising waves. The storm would be upon them soon, Dalby had predicted with his usual doom and gloom. But they were desperate men in a desperate ship, and Mira, thinking of her blind, semiconscious brother lying in Brendan’s cabin below, dared not imagine the fate of the man who had sacrificed so much to get him there.

When I see you, Brendan, I’ll tell you. She swallowed hard and set her jaw, resolute and determined as she stared ahead. I’ll tell you all—beginning with how much I love you.

A gust of wind caught the pennant high above her head and snapped it like a whip-crack. Dauntless, Kestrel added another knot to her swift pace, driving her shoulder into the waves as she kept her plunging bowsprit trained on the frigate’s lights.

Her hand against the mast, Mira felt the schooner’s nose come up, heard the sea’s song rise in pitch as Kestrel’s speed increased and the wind drove her through the building seas.

Plunge and dip . . . plunge and dip . . . ever forward. Ever faster.

“Pray that we’re not too late,” she whispered.

Beneath her, Kestrel lifted her bows in answer and found more speed.

"Enemy in sight!”

Brendan, stumbling painfully out of Viper’s hold early the next morning under heavy guard, would never forget the glorious sight of his schooner rising up from the waves and filling the horizon behind them, stacking a mountain of sail that glowed white against black storm clouds, the sea parting beneath her bows, and her colors streaming in the wind.

And neither would the hastily-summoned Crichton. He took one look, dropped his telescope, and roared, “Man the braces! Stand by to wear ship! Wear ship!”

The British, staring in openmouthed awe at the magnificent vessel bearing down on them with her rail awash, were slow to react. When they did, there was only frantic activity, panic, and confusion.

And Kestrel, coming on like a glorious, winged angel of vengeance.

For Brendan, time and place slipped away. The horrors of the last hours faded . . . of seeing what Crichton had done to poor Matthew. Of Crichton stringing him up to the gratings and laying his back open with the whip in front of the frigate’s assembled company, then tearing him down and furiously kicking him in the ribs because he’d refused to cry out. Of the noose that had been strung from Viper’s foreyard sometime overnight, and which now swung ominously in the wind, waiting for him. There was only Kestrel—and nothing else. His heart sang, and despite the agony in his back and ribs, he laughed out loud—and gauged the distance between himself and the rail.

“Wear ship!” Crichton yelled, seizing the boatswain’s rattan and laying it across a seaman’s straining back.

Men ran to the braces, and slowly, ponderously, the frigate began to respond. And Brendan, left alone in the confusion, limped calmly to the gunwales, gave Crichton a mocking salute as he whirled around, and dove over the rail.

His bloodied back screaming in agony, he struck out through the icy seas, blinded by waves and choking on seawater so cold, it sapped his breath and left him numb and gasping. But his Irishman’s luck was with him. Or maybe one of Mira’s many cats had donated a life or two. One moment the waves were closing over his head; the next, Kestrel was coming on, faster and faster, passing—

He managed to grab a line that someone threw, and clung to it with all his strength. The bow wake thrust him down and back, but he held on, desperately. And then Liam was throwing the Jacob’s ladder down.

He caught it and clung there, the heavy seas battering him and breaking against his face. With the last of his strength he hauled himself upward, his hands bleeding, his limbs frozen, his back on fire and every rib blazing in pain. He was almost to the rail of his beloved schooner. Water rushed from his clothing. Hands seized his arms, grasped his shoulders, and hauled him aboard. Someone tore off his coat; someone else wrapped a blanket around him while cheers thundered in his ears. The rain began to hit the deck in fat, angry droplets. He heard himself shout a desperate order to shorten sail. And then he was running to take the tiller, hoping no one would see him stumble and almost fall as agony brought a blackness that came and went.

“Faith, these decks are slippery!” he managed, hoarsely, to cover his weakness.

His hand closed around the tiller, and the schooner’s life sang up through keel and rudder, suffusing him with its vitality, restoring him. The wind began to strengthen and back with the mad approach of the storm, and from the rigging came an ominous keening whistle—

“Get the topsails and fore in, now!”

Viper had completed her turn and, with the wind behind her, was coming on like a charging bull.

“Sir, she’s runnin’ out her broadside!”

“Then run out ours, Mr. Wilbur! Starboard side, and be quick about it!”

Viper, approaching fast, gunfire already booming from her bow chasers. . . .

And Kestrel, bravely swooping in to meet her. . . .

“Stand by to come about!”

Bowsprits aligning, swinging around . . .

He shoved the tiller hard, hard, hard. Jib-booms crossed, passed, and nearly touched as Kestrel swung across Viper’s path and up her other, unprepared side. Musketfire began to rain down on them from the marines in her tops. Somewhere a cannon cracked out, then another, and the schooner yelped in surprise.

And then she was past, showing her heels to her enemy as the rain began a mad tattoo on the deck.

“Huzzah! Huzzah!”

“Three cheers for the Captain from Connaught!”

Aft, Viper was staggering, hauling her yards around, unwilling to give up.

“Mr. Keefe!” He had to get aloft, where Crichton could see him, where his men could see him. He coughed, the effort of yelling too much for him, and grabbed the speaking trumpet from Liam. “John, take the helm, now!”

He shed the blanket and leapt for the shrouds, the pain ripping a silent cry of agony from his throat, his feet finding a toehold, his hands pulling him aloft.

“Sir, are you all right?”

Higher and higher he climbed.

“Sir!”

The rain slashed against his face and the wind rose, thundering in his ears, keening in the rigging as he climbed higher . . . and higher. . . .

Thirty feet above the heeling deck he paused, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes, the rain lashing his cheeks. He saw Crichton standing angrily on his own deck. He saw that the frigate would never catch them. Laughing in triumph, he lifted the speaking trumpet to his lips.

“Mr. Doherty, run out Freedom and put Mr. Starr—”

The dizziness struck, dark speckles dancing across his vision as he swayed sideways and the speaking trumpet fell from his hand, down, down, down to the plunging deck so far below “—on it. . . .”

Blindly, Brendan grabbed for the shrouds—and found nothing but empty space.

He’d misjudged it. Misjudged his own ship.

The luck of the Irishman had finally run out.

And then he felt himself falling, heard the shouts of the men below, felt only empty space as he tumbled down and down and down. He heard a woman’s voice, screaming . . . and then he knew he was fading, because it sounded like Mira’s. . . .

Mercifully, he was out before he hit the deck some thirty feet below.

“Captain!”

“Jesus!”

“By God and Mary—”

Shouts, screams, cries—

“Here comes Crichton!”

And then the storm struck with savage wrath. Leaderless, Kestrel was left to face it—and Crichton—alone.

Chapter 26

Mira would never forget it. The crew fighting to shorten sail as the storm roared down on them in full fury; chaos, as she’d raced to the helm to get Kestrel out from beneath Viper’s guns after John Keefe took a ball to his thigh; Liam, sobbing as he’d picked up Brendan’s broken body and cradled it in his huge arms—and the long journey home.

They had outrun Crichton, but it had taken Kestrel a good three days to reach Newburyport. She’d had to beat against angry, shifting winds left over from the storm, her sails reefed and her bowsprit buried under foam. Giant combers had lifted her high, rolled beneath her keel, and left her staggering in the troughs, where she barely had time to catch her breath before having to lift her bows and crest the next mountain of water. Perhaps if her captain had been at the helm, they might’ve made the journey in two days; with a distraught Liam standing in his place, it was a wonder they even made it back to port at all. But Brendan had never regained consciousness after that terrible fall, and Kestrel’s escape from Viper without his leadership, her survival of the storm without him at the helm, had been nothing short of miraculous. Yet somehow, some way, she had done both, solemnly bringing both fallen warriors back home to Newburyport.

Dr. Plummer, a gruff, competent man who’d served the town well for years, came often. Matt would recover, the physician said, especially with such a capable and attentive nurse as Eveleen Merrick tending to his every need. Bruises faded, cuts mended, and swelling went down. And his eyesight? Only time would tell.

But Brendan was another story, and Dr. Plummer did not smile as he examined his inert body and straightened up from the big four-poster where he lay. “There’s nothing I can do for him, Miss Ashton,” he said sadly. “He is in God’s hands.”

And he was. God’s—and Mira Ashton’s.

She refused to accept that he was dying, that the likelihood of his regaining consciousness dwindled with every passing day, that his lilting, musical brogue would never put goose bumps on her arms, tingles up her spine, laughter in her heart, again. About the only thing she could accept was that it was her fault that he lay dying in this big bed.

All her fault.

If only you’d forgiven him—and told him who you really were . . . maybe you could’ve stopped him.

But she hadn’t. God help her, she hadn’t.

She shut her eyes in silent agony, remembering their horror as they’d stripped off his clothing after Liam had gently laid him out in his bunk. There, terrible to behold, had been the evidence of Crichton’s brutality. . . .

Now the bruises on his torso had faded, his bound and broken ribs were healing, and the angry lash-welts on his back no longer oozed blood.

But he had not woken.

A tear slipped from Mira’s eye. With laughter and a grin, he’d mustered his crew and got Kestrel to safety as best he could; yet the pain he’d silently suffered had been so intense, he’d misjudged the layout of a ship that he had designed. And now it was too late. If only she’d had faith in him. If only she’d believed in him.

If only she’d told him.

But no. She hadn’t. She’d allowed him to seek Crichton out, allowed him to go to his death thinking she hated him. He’d proclaimed his love for her and in return, she’d refused forgiveness and given him only rejection. What was there in this world for him to come back to, except a lonely schooner down in the harbor and a crew who thought he could walk on water?

That crew visited often. The people of Newburyport, however, stayed away, too ashamed over their earlier treatment of him to even make an appearance, though in his state, he would never have known whether they were there or not. One or two made brief visits to put their consciences at ease, and Abadiah Bobbs’s five-year-old daughter, eager to visit the tall captain who’d grinned, teased her, and given her a drawing of her father standing with Mr. Starr at Freedom, brought him a cluster of wildflowers; but when she approached his bed with them clenched in her little fist and he did not awaken, did not thank her for them—and did not laugh and grin and lift her up high—her face puckered and she began to cry, frightened and confused.

After that, she did not come again.

Mira spent her nights sleeping in the chair beside Brendan’s bed, where the heavy silence was broken only by his shallow breathing. She spent her days reading to him from naval books borrowed from Ephraim’s library. She held his hand and talked to him, praying that her words would get through to him—though he never moved a muscle, never made a sound, and his hand lay heavy and lifeless in her own. She cared for him, flexing his arms and legs so they wouldn’t stiffen, washing his face, and tenderly kissing the now-faded laugh lines around his lax mouth. She had Eveleen help her turn him on his side so his back could heal; she combed his hair and queued it with a neat black bow.

And one night when it grew too hard to hope, too hard to pretend to hope any longer, she went to the waterfront and boarded the silent Kestrel. There, she sobbed out her anguish to the schooner, who listened quietly and shared her grief; there, she lifted her face to the stars perched above the dark, crossed yards and learned how to pray again; there, when she could cry no more, she lowered the huge, shot-torn, red-and-white striped American flag with her own hands and, with it filling her arms, brought it home and hung it on the wall so that if he awakened—when he awakened—that proud, glorious banner would be the first thing he’d see when he opened his eyes, and he would know he was a hero again.

But he didn’t awaken.

Days and nights passed, and became a week. Grass grew tall and sweet in the meadows, on the lawn, in Miss Mira Ashton’s School of Fine Horsemanship. Pink and red roses burst upon picket fences, wildflowers spread perfume to the sea wind, robins stole the hair that Eveleen combed from Shaula’s mane and tail and threaded it through their nests.

Down in the harbor, the weed began to grow on Kestrel’s tallowed bottom.

Up in Maine, the British invaded a little peninsula called Bagaduce.

And in a quiet bedroom in a morgue-silent house, the Captain from Connaught lay silent and still.

Guilt and tension took its toll on everyone. Purple shadows bloomed beneath Mira’s haunted eyes and she stopped eating. Abigail, who’d taken Eveleen under her wing when Mira had sneaked off aboard Kestrel, got into a squall with the girl over who would cook and care for Matt, a squall that Eveleen eventually won—and only by the persistence and loyalty she’d shown in nursing her patient. Ephraim, with his son laid up, his daughter a ghost of her old self, and no one to fight with, grew so bored and irritable that he wound every clock in the house tighter and tighter until the big Willard piece in the front hall finally broke a spring and the clockmaker had to be hastily summoned to fix it.

Mira was indifferent to it all. In the room across the hall, Eveleen had set up her own vigil at Matt’s sickbed, and her brother seemed to be enjoying all the attention the girl heaped upon him. By the way that Eveleen blushed when Matt paid her a compliment, and the way Matt grinned and preened when Eveleen was near, it was obvious that things were finally heating up between the two. Maybe Matt didn’t need his eyesight to see that Brendan’s sister was a more beautiful person than any of the women who’d wanted him for his money and status alone. But Mira’s heart wasn’t into encouraging their relationship.

It wasn’t into anything.

The mutual frustration and helplessness they both felt as Brendan faded before their eyes, and Mira’s spirit died with him, only strengthened the growing bond between Matt and Eveleen, for it brought them together out of necessity, as well as need.

On a day when Eveleen sat spooning clam chowder into Matt as the two of them lamented the situation, Eveleen finally decided she’d had enough of Mira’s self-pity and despair. Her friend had pulled her out of the misery that had been hers since Crichton had left her a cripple; now it was time to do the same for her. Eveleen waited just long enough for Matt to finish his supper, carried the bowl back to the kitchen, where, oddly, she was able to pass by a plate of Abigail’s sugared almonds without taking any, and marched back up the imposing mahogany staircase and into Brendan’s room.

And there was Mira, still glued to the chair, head bent, Brendan’s hand clenched in her own, and the Essex Gazette spread across her lap. Her voice was muffled through her thick hair, and her words were strained, hoarse, and ragged.

Eveleen frowned.

Sunlight slanted through the window, backlighting Mira’s rumpled muslin gown; her hair fell down over her eyes and across the page from which she was reading. Doggedly she put the newspaper down, shoved the hair over her shoulder, and never relinquishing her hold on Brendan’s hand, continued on, forcing a cheery note to her voice that, combined with the choking brokenness of it, was absolutely pitiful to hear.

“‘Yesterday—’” Sniff. “‘— the privateering sloop Yankee Lady defeated the British brig-of-war Worcester in a brief but intense exchange in the waters of Nantucket Sound, where the enemy hauled down his colors to the sloop after losing his main topmast.’” Sniff. She passed a knuckle under her eye, shoved her hair back again, and turned the page. “‘By the intelligence of well-placed informants, we learn of a plan by the British to fortify Penobscot Bay—’ Penobscot, Brendan, that’s in Maine! ‘—and establish a haven for loyalists who’ve been driven from their homes. It is feared that the Enemy may construct a fort here, and talk abounds as to the best way to drive them out before they do. . . .’” She paused, for that was not good news, and she’d given the order herself that nothing but good news must reach Brendan, whether he appeared to hear it or not. Hastily she flipped to the front page. “And here, Brendan, listen to this—‘ Spain has now allied itself with France, who’s agreeing to help her recover the Bay of Honduras, Florida, Minorca, and Gibraltar from the Brits in return for military and naval aid.’ Spain is in the war! Now, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

He didn’t move.

She wiped another tear away, drying her fingers against skirts that were already damp. Another tear trickled down her cheek. Another.

The skirt grew damper.

“And here, something about General Washington. And wait! Look at this, Brendan.” The page was dog-eared and worn, for Ephraim had had the newspaper first. “This is about you! It says, and I quote, ‘And the people of Newburyport continue to pray for the brave and gallant Captain Brendan Merrick, who was treated most shamefully at our hands before setting out to rescue Captain Matthew Ashton from the hideous brutalities of Captain Crichton of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.’” She paused, the tears filling her eyes, her nose, her throat, and making it impossible to read the blurry print. With a sob, she set the paper across her lap and buried her face in her wet hands.

And then she jerked her head up and viciously clawed the hair out of her eyes. “Dammit, Brendan, did you hear me? I said they’ve forgiven you.”

He didn’t move.

Heartache swelled her chest, threatening to burst it. “Forgiven you! What more do you want? Patrick Tracy and Mr. Johnson were here this morning, and Michael Dalton’s penning a letter to General Washington commending you, telling him all you did—” She gulped back the tears, her voice catching on sobs. “N-next thing you know, the general will be b-b-begging you to lend Kestrel to the Continental navy—” Sniff. “Next thing you know, he’ll—” Sob. “—be asking you t-to give up privateering and join the n-navy instead.” Sniff. Sob. Sniff. “N-next thing you know, they’ll be making you a c-commodore. A . . . f-flag captain.”

Bursting into tears, she hurled the newspaper to the floor and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t know if the American navy had flag captains or not—but she did know that Brendan would never be one.

And that he’d never be a commodore.

And that he’d never be a privateer again, either, for he wasn’t going to be doing any more sailing. Not today. Not tomorrow.

Maybe not ever.

In the open doorway, Eveleen, regal in pink and gold silk, set her jaw and put her hands on her hips as Mira’s voice, barely discernible through fingers, tears, and hair, shattered the quiet of the room.

“Oh, Brendan . . . you never cared what Newburyport thought, you only cared what I thought. If I’d believed in you from the very start, maybe you’d still have set out to rescue Matt, but at least you’d have done so knowing that I’d forgiven you. That I loved you. But no, I was too busy wallowing in my own grief, looking for someone to blame Matt’s death on, never realizing that you carried more hurt and pain than any of us because you had to bear our condemnation, our accusations, our hatred.” Her voice broke and her anguished sobs drowned out the chirps of baby sparrows just outside the open window as she took his hand once more. “Oh, Brendan . . . I know you love Matt as a brother! I know you’re not a coward, not a traitor, not a . . . not a Brit!” She raised a red and puffy face, clawed the tears from her cheeks, and screamed, “You’re a goddamned . . . Irishman! You’re an American! You’re a cussed, bloody, stupid, gallant fool!”

Angrily she flung his hand back across his chest, her muffled sobs wracking her body and making her chair creak as she rocked miserably back and forth, her head in her hands. “Stupid, bloody fool! You’ve had your revenge on us, now, wake up, damn you . . . Damn, damn, damn. . . .

Huddled there with her arms wrapped around her knees, she missed it: the twitch of his finger; the shift in the rhythm of his breathing; the slight roll of his eyes beneath lax lids.

And Eveleen, standing in the doorway. “Really, Mira. You disappoint me.”

Mira raised her head, glared at her, and let her face fall back to her wet palms again. “Go away.”

“He needs your fighting spirit right now. Not your self-pity.”

“Get out!”

Eveleen was not intimidated. With regal grace she swept into the room, shoved the window open as wide as it would go, and pulled up a chair, where she faced Mira from across the bed. Their gazes clashed; calm gold against angry green. Serenity against rage.

Faith against despair.

“Well?” Mira shouted, swiping at falling tears and glaring at the other woman over Brendan’s blanketed chest. “You came here to say something, so say it and then leave me alone!”

Eveleen looked thoughtfully down at her brother’s still face and adjusted her gown, which kept sliding down her shoulder. She frowned and, forgoing hauteur, finally yanked it back up and said something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse before facing Mira with an apologetic smile. Mira did not smile back.

“When I first met you,” Eveleen began quietly, “I admired you because you had everything I didn’t, everything I wanted—and yet you never struck me as a selfish person. But lately I’ve begun to wonder otherwise.”

Mira’s eyes hardened, and she clenched her fists at the sides of her chair.

Dauntlessly Eveleen continued, “What gives you the right to sit here and hate yourself for what my brother made the choice to do?” Reaching out, she brushed her fingers against Brendan’s pale and sunken cheek. “Do you honestly think he could have let what Crichton did to Matthew go unavenged? What Crichton did to me?” She thrust her maimed hand toward Mira for emphasis. “This has been going on for four years, Mira. Four years. And it isn’t finished yet. Oh, no, not by any means. When my brother recovers, he’ll go back out there and he won’t stop until he finds Crichton and puts an end to his cruelties.”

Mira sniffed back angry sobs. “Your brother isn’t going anywhere, Eveleen, except to a plot behind St. Paul’s Church!”

“I beg to differ, Mira. And so does John Keefe, and Fergus McDermott, and even Liam Doherty—”

“Liam Doherty!” Mira leapt to her feet, slamming her tiny fist into the wall so hard that outside, the sparrows stopped chirping. “What the bloody hell does he know? And Fergus waving crystals around like a sachet of perfume every time he comes here. He and Liam and the rest of those bloody Irishmen are making me sick! ‘He’ll be just fine, Mira; you wait and see,’” she mimicked. “None of you can face reality! None of you see him wasting away before your eyes as I do! Or maybe you don’t bloody well care! Damn you, damn all of you, he’s dying, Eveleen!”

Shoulders shaking with the force of her tears, she turned her damp face to the wall and beat against it with tiny palms, making a pastel drawing of a brigantine tremble on its hook. The artist’s signature mirrored the one affixed to Kestrel’s drafts, framed and hanging in a place of honor in Ephraim’s library.

Brendan’s.

“Dying, Eveleen,” she sobbed, brokenly. “Dying. . . .”

Eveleen shrugged and picked up her brother’s hand. “I’ve seen him worse,” she said.

Mira whirled. “Any worse and he’d be dead. Dead!”

“Mira, there are a few things you don’t know about my brother. You see, he’s cursed with our mother’s Irish luck. I say cursed, because there have been times he’s wished himself dead, times he should’ve been dead—but no.” She leaned across the bed, lifted the blanket, and gently drew it back from Brendan’s chest. “Come here, please.”

Sniffling, her face pale and angry and wet, Mira did.

“See this scar?” Eveleen indicated the circle of toughened white skin. “Brendan got it the first time he and Crichton came to blows. I know Liam told you about what Crichton did to me, but I’ll bet neither he nor Brendan told you about what Crichton did to my brother.” Eveleen looked up, her eyes level, her voice hard. “Crichton shot him when he was trying to save an innocent man—Dalby, incidentally—from the lash.”

Mira stared at her.

The silence hung heavily in the room.

Outside the window, the baby sparrows shrilled as their parents returned with food.

“Luckily, my brother turned at the instant Crichton fired, otherwise the ball would have gone straight through his heart—as that fiend intended. As it was, it passed through muscle and nicked his breastbone, and left him with this reminder of that awful day.” Eveleen ran her thumb over the ridge of scar tissue, her mouth tight with pain. “Another shot struck him near his hip. That one should’ve killed him, but it hit Brendan’s sword and the force of it drove him over the rail.” She gently drew the coverlet up, her eyes filled with the pain of remembrance. “My brother got lucky that day, and Crichton wasn’t able to kill him. But I’ll tell you what almost did.”

Mira sniffled and wiped a tear from her eye.

“Julia,” Eveleen said quietly.

“Julia?”

Eveleen gazed out the window, her eyes distant. “She was the daughter of an American army officer in Boston. She was also the one who found Brendan washed up in the surf there after he fell overboard from Halcyon. A pretty young thing, with dark hair like yours and violet eyes that looked deceptively innocent. Like you, she cared for my brother and nursed him back to health in her father’s own house. The Americans used to come and go; it was somewhat of a gathering spot, and Brendan heard enough of their political opinions, saw enough of their suffering, that eventually he came to believe he’d been fighting for the wrong side, the wrong cause—especially after he learned that his own navy had declared him a deserter and a traitor. Crichton, you see, made up a story that he’d incited a mutiny aboard Halcyon and, supported by his officers, that story was widely accepted.” She squeezed his limp hand. “Of course, my brother always was something of a rebel. Our mother’s Irish blood, Da used to say. . . .”

The door swung open and shut in the breeze, and Rescue Effort Number Twenty pattered in, glanced around, and jumped up on the bed. Purring loudly, he rubbed himself against Eveleen’s wrist and finally nestled against Brendan’s blanketed ankle.

“In any case, to make a long story short, Brendan fell in love with Julia, and he fell hard. They were going to get married, and all the time, my brother was entertaining this idea of designing a schooner to combine the best of American craftsmanship and British standards of perfection. He was a gifted naval architect, you know. But it never occurred to him that his precious Julia couldn’t have cared less about his dreams, would only see the ship as something to take his attention away from her . . . something to compete with. He thought she’d love it as much as he did. He thought she’d be proud of him, as he intended it to be a privateer in the service of his newly adopted country. But no. He didn’t see that Julia was nothing but a spoiled, selfish little brat. Love is blind, they say. Julia wasn’t about to share him with the sea, a navy, and certainly not a ship, no matter how lovely it would be, no matter how heralded, no matter how much General Washington himself praised its design. . . .

“Well, one day Brendan came back from an appointment with the general and found a note from Julia, propped up against the drafts. Choose the ship or choose me, the note said. But Julia never gave him a choice. She left him, and ended up marrying some army major not three months later.” Eveleen ran her thumb over the back of her brother’s lax hand, and looked up. “She broke his heart, Mira.”

The silence in the room grew oppressive. Mira felt like something was standing on her chest and squeezing her heart up through her throat. Quietly she said, “So that is why he was always running from me.”

“Yes. That is why.” Eveleen gazed down into her brother’s face. “You see, Mira, Brendan has been in love with you, I think, from the moment he first met you. He came to me in Portsmouth and told me about this girl he’d met who’d run him down on a horse and went around dressed in breeches. And when I met you, and saw you pounding the pudding out of that scruffy hooligan down on the docks—and the admiration in my brother’s eyes as you were doing it—I knew in my heart it was true. That he loved you. And while he loved you, at first I hated you—not only because you were thin and pretty when I wasn’t, but because I saw you as another Julia. I love my brother, too, Mira. And I didn’t want his heart to be broken again.”

Eveleen was the image of serenity as the sunshine streamed in through the window and gilded her pale hair. “You’ve always wondered why I didn’t tell Brendan who Mr. Starr really was, haven’t you? Well, it had nothing to do with your promise to get Matthew interested in me, because honestly, I had no faith that would ever really happen. No, I had a very different reason for keeping your secret. That very first time you defied your father and stole aboard Kestrel, I realized you were night and day from Julia. I saw that you loved the sea and loved ships, as much as Brendan did. That he could have with you what he’d tried so hard to have with Julia. Love. Happiness. Someone to share his passions with. And so I held my tongue. You see, Mira, when Brendan loves a woman, be it a person or a ship—” She smiled and folded his loose fingers in her own. “—he does so with every bit of his heart. Every bit of his Irish heart, Liam would say. And he loves you.”

Silence. Eveleen squeezed her brother’s hand a final time, and gently placed it over the scar on his chest. She looked at Mira and smiled. “He’s not going to die, Mira, because you’re going to tell him how much you love him. Somehow, some way, he’ll hear you. He’ll know. And death itself won’t be able to hold him once he realizes that you’re here waiting for him.”

She rose, yanked up the loose shoulder of her gown a final time, and turned toward the door.

“Eveleen, wait! We have to talk!”

But the other woman was eager to get back to her own patient.

“Eveleen, please! I want to know more! About Crichton. About Julia. About Brendan! I’ll even have Abigail bring up a pot of tea and some of those cookies she baked earlier—”

But Eveleen was shaking her head, smiling. As she paused in the doorway, wrinkles fell from the silk at her waist—wrinkles that hadn’t been there when Mira had last seen her in the dress. “Know something, Mira?”

“Eveleen!”

“Between you and me, I’m glad Brendan’s here with you and not aboard that schooner.” She winked, never looking as much like her brother as she did in that moment. And then, from behind the side of her hand: “I hate ships as much as Julia did.”

Brit.

Damned Irishman!

She was shouting at him, swearing at him, her voice ringing through his head, fading in and out on giant, rolling combers of sound—

Bloody, stupid, gallant fool!

That hurt.

“Faith, lassie,” he said, but she didn’t seem to hear him, only going on with that awful yelling.

His back hurt. His chest hurt. His head hurt.

He hurt.

And Eveleen . . . Was that her voice? What was she doing on Kestrel? She hated ships. He was on Kestrel, wasn’t he? Yet that sounded like Ephraim’s big Willard clock, and heaven help him if they’d dragged that aboard his schooner. And why was the ship rocking so? He hadn’t designed her to wallow like a tub. Didn’t remember the bunk being so soft. Didn’t think birds chirped out in the middle of the ocean. He was in a bunk, wasn’t he? Or had they dragged a bed into his cabin? But that didn’t explain the sparrows. They were sparrows, weren’t they? Sparrow hawks? Kestrels? Good heavens—

“Faith,” he said, and opened his eyes.

Beyond his feet, Kestrel’s huge red-and-white-striped flag, torn and blackened with shot, filled his entire field of vision. There was a tabby cat nestled against his ankle and staring at him in alarm.

He blinked, wondering what it was doing on his ship.

The cat fled. He looked up.

And saw her.

A wall of thick, tumbledown hair that was in desperate need of a combing. Green eyes, wet with tears, peeping out between and beneath it. Freckles peppering an impish nose—and a jaw that had come unhinged.

“Moyrra?”

Faith, why was she staring at him so?

“Eveleen!” she screamed.

And Eveleen, just coming into the room—faith, had she actually lost weight?

She merely grinned and hurried away, heading down a hall he recognized as Ashton’s, her steps in time with clocks he knew were Ephraim’s, two cats in her wake he identified as Mira’s.

And Mira?

“Brendan!” she was screaming, at the very top of her lungs. “Oh God, Brendan! Brendan!”

He shut his eyes. She was smothering him with thick hair and the scent of roses. Silky locks and kisses, raining over his face, his eyelids, his scarred chest. Arms that wound beneath him and hauled him up against her, tears that wet his chest and ran down the little grooves between his ribs and tickled his armpits. She was squeezing the life out of him. Pain lanced through his ribs. Squeeze any harder, lassie, and I’m going to pass out, he thought.

She drew back only long enough to shout, “You’re awake! Awake!” and then she was giggling and crying and shouting all at once, her wall of hair suffocating him, her kisses and laughter filling his soul as she rocked him from side to side and told him over and over again how much she loved him.

“Mira! What the goddamned bleedin’ tarnation’s goin’ on in—”

She paused. Drew back. Swept her hair aside and gave him an unhampered view of a doorway that was quickly filling with people. Matt, staring sightlessly at the wall behind him, but grinning as he leaned heavily against Eveleen; Abigail, wiping floured hands on her skirts; Liam, John Keefe, Amos Reilly, Abadiah Bobbs. Dalby, clutching his chest. Fergus, clutching his crystal.

And at the forefront of that formidable pack, Ephraim—clutching his watch.

“The British have invaded Maine,” the old sea captain snapped. “Kestrel sits rotting in the harbor. And yer lyin’ here taking a goddamned nap!”

He snapped open the watch and shoved it in Brendan’s face.

“It’s about bloody TIME ye woke up!”

Chapter 27

Early the next morning, Eveleen climbed from her bed and, from her window seat, watched the sun come up over the harbor. Above the buildings of Market Square, she could see ships’ masts silhouetted against the pink and gold sky; the distinctive backward rake of a pair of them marked them as Brendan’s schooner. Mist rose from the river, and down in the harbor a cloud of seagulls raised their raucous voices, no doubt fighting over some fishy morsel washed up by the overnight tide.

Eveleen closed her eyes, treasuring these early dawn moments before the rest of the household awakened. Formerly a late riser, she’d never appreciated the beauty of the sunrise, the songs of warblers, cardinals, and sparrows.

The birds would not have been enough to drag Eveleen from her bed. But Matthew Ashton, who got up with the sun, most certainly was. Now she awakened when the morning was still gray and shadowy; now she perched herself here on the window seat and eagerly waited for him to pass beneath her window as he took his morning walk. She hugged herself. Oh, what would it be like to be kissed by his handsome mouth, to be enfolded in his strong arms, to lay her cheek against his leather vest and listen to the beat of his heart?

She carefully pushed the curtain aside. He was out there now, returning from his walk, his shoes leaving darker trails through the silvery morning dew. Sunlight glinted off the spectacles he no longer needed and turned his brilliant red hair to flame. In his hand was a long stick, which he used to carefully chart his course. But his steps were sure and confident. She wondered if he’d lived his life as a privateer the same way: daring, fearless, and unafraid to take risks.

Craning her neck, Eveleen strained to catch a last glimpse of him as he passed beneath her window. She heard the front door open, then slam shut, making the floor tremble beneath her feet. Ephraim shouted something, Matt shouted something back. And then every clock in the house chimed the hour in perfect synchronicity and the door slammed again as Ephraim, clad in a fashionable brown coat, left for his shipyard.

Downstairs, she heard Matt moving about, then a loud crash as he walked into something. His good-natured curses wafted up to her. Oh, Matt, she thought, you’re so brave, so noble, never complaining about your blindness, never bitter. Yet how well he’d tried to hide his sorrow when the news about the British invasion of Penobscot had swept Newburyport. The town had been so eager to take part in the Expedition to rout the enemy that some thirty sea captains had volunteered to go to Maine as common seamen. But Eveleen had seen the raw, naked pain on Matt’s beloved face that he couldn’t go, too. Not so long ago he’d been Newburyport’s most celebrated hero. Now he was left behind, a forgotten invalid, when his country needed him most.

A forgotten invalid. Just like her.

Except that Matt had never drowned himself in self-pity, as she’d done. Matt had risen above it.

The stairs were creaking now as he came upstairs. Eveleen’s heart began to race, and her stomach filled with butterflies in anticipation. Soon Abigail would be sending a servant up with a breakfast tray, and Eveleen, as she did every morning, would be there to take it from the girl and bring it in to Matt herself. Lately he’d been asking her to stay and talk to him while he ate, listening with rapt attention while she’d relayed developments about the Expedition and the war itself.

Tiptoeing across the room, she went to the door and put her ear to the paneling. Matt had reached the top of the stairs; she could hear him murmuring to Luff, and the happy thump, thump, thump of the dog’s tail.

Eveleen closed her eyes and smiled. She could just picture Matt scratching the dog’s ears, perhaps offering him something he’d filched from the kitchen earlier. Then the floor creaked, and the door across from her banged shut.

She stood there, chewing her lip and leaning against the wall, her heart thumping madly in her chest. Blind or not, in her eyes he was perfect. Wonderful. But while he’d probably ask her to stay and talk to him again, did he truly enjoy her company as much as it appeared he did?

No one, aside from Brendan, had ever really cared about her—but as she and Matt had gotten to know each other during his convalescence, he’d begun to ask her questions, encouraging her to talk about herself. He’d asked her what her life had been like in England, and later, Ireland. Last night he’d wanted to know what sort of pictures she used to paint, and why she no longer painted. And when she’d told him, the unseen tears slipping down her cheeks, that it was because of her crippled hand, he’d merely taken a bite out of his cornbread and casually asked why she just didn’t paint with the other one.

How easy he made it all seem. And how much he cared, sensing her tears when he couldn’t see them. She could still hear his quiet voice, soft with compassion and understanding as she’d stood by the window last night and hugged that awful, ugly thing that used to be her hand to her breast.

“Tears, little Evvie?”

“Oh, Matthew, don’t pretend you’ve never noticed my hand. You were just too polite to ever call attention to it. I’m a cripple.”

“So am I. We make a good pair, huh?”

“But my hand’s no longer good for anything,” she whispered, shoving it as far down into her pocket as it would go when he’d moved to stand behind her.

“Give it to me, Evvie.”

She’d panicked. “No, Matthew . . . I—I can’t. It’s hideous! It’s awful—”

“It’s part of you. Give it to me, Evvie.”

His arms had gone around her, and she’d felt the lanky, hard length of him pressing against her shoulders, her spine, her bottom. Fearful tears had slid down her cheeks, tears that, upon such close scrutiny, he’d find her disfigurement so repellent, he’d turn away. Shivering, she’d bitten her lip to contain the tears as he’d gently touched her shoulder and followed the length of her arm, roving lower and lower until he’d found the scarred, shattered hand at the end of her wrist and, ignoring her struggles to pull away, brought it up to his lips.

He’d gently turned her around to face him then, holding her gaze with a sightless one of his own. Then, tenderly, lovingly, he’d kissed her hand again and told her how beautiful she was. How brave she was for standing up to Crichton. And then he’d brought her hand up to his cheek and closed his eyes, and Eveleen had cried for all she was worth.

Matthew had not found it hideous. Matthew did not find her hideous.

And Matthew, despite the brave front he presented to his family, his friends, and the town itself, needed her as much as she needed him.

Oh, if only she were as bold and brassy as Mira; she’d go into his room and tell him that she loved him, had always loved him. But no. Although she had Matt’s friendship, she dared not ruin even that precious bit of him that she could claim. What if he, like every man since that awful day upon Halcyon’s decks, rejected her? Matthew Ashton, Newburyport’s favorite son, had been the hotheaded rake who could have had—and probably had had—any woman he chose. Friends were one thing; lovers, another. Why would he want her, fat old Eveleen Merrick who only had one good hand and a closet full of pink dresses? What would he see in her?

She walked past that hated cheval mirror and stuck out her tongue.

And then she stopped short, stared, and took a hesitant step closer.

“What?” she said aloud.

The image reflected there seemed to belong to someone else. Swallowing hard, Eveleen stepped closer to it. There were bone-points in her elbows and knees, cheekbones had surfaced from out of the roundness of her face, and the figure beneath the now-sagging pink dress had begun to gain a few inward curves instead of outward ones. Her breasts had shrunk, no longer able to hold up the pearl-encrusted bodice of her pink gown, and one of her chins had melted away to nothing.

Transfixed, she stared at the mirror, seeing the changes in her body for the very first time. Slowly, as though the image might fade, she ran her hands down over her belly, her waist, her hips, where she could just feel bones coming up through the flesh.

She swallowed the thick lump of emotion in her throat. What had happened to her? How had she lost weight? Had it been her involvement with the horses while Mira had been away on Kestrel? Mucking stalls and grooming their hides until they shone?

No. The horses had started the process—but they weren’t the real reason she was thinner.

Suddenly she knew what was.

She’d been so intent upon helping Matt that she’d barely thought about the food growing cold on her own plate. Indeed, she’d been so concerned about someone else’s welfare instead of her own that she’d not even thought about filling her own stomach and satisfying the emptiness in her heart, for with Matt around, there was no emptiness in her heart. There was no reason to eat until she was stuffed, and then go back for more and more. . . .

There was no emptiness.

The woman who looked out of that mirror was really she, Eveleen Merrick. Not a stranger, not a fairy image that was going to vanish in the blink of an eye. It was the girl she’d been before Crichton’s shot, and the woman that girl had become. It was a woman who had learned how to stop feeling sorry for herself, thanks to a hoyden who talked like a sailor and dressed in breeches. It was a woman who, in caring for someone else, had thrown off the protective cloak of obesity to become someone capable of giving, and receiving, love. A woman who was capable—and deserving—of the very best.

Matthew Ashton.

Slowly Eveleen ran her fingers through her hair, shaking her head until it spilled down her back in a glorious display that shone with the beauty of the morning sun. She stared at that cloud of gold floating around her shoulders and framing her shrinking waist, until it was all she could do not to run to the window and shout out her joy for all the world to hear.

“I’m here!” she wanted to sing. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!”

Hugging her arms to her breasts, she glanced at the mirror once more. Oh, she still had a ways to go, but the woman who looked back at her was no longer fat.

She was no longer bitter.

And she was no longer angry.

That summer morning was the last time Eveleen Merrick ever wore a pink gown. She pulled every one from her closet and packed them all away. Then she slipped into the simple homespun dress that Mira had made for her last winter, a dress that was too big for her now but was far more flattering than pink silk would ever be. She tore off her jewelry and tossed it to the bed, shook out her curls a final time. There were no pockets to tuck her hand in, but suddenly she didn’t care if anyone saw it or not. There was nothing left to hide.

Grinning triumphantly at the mirror as she passed it, Eveleen swept from her room.

The reflection in the mirror grinned back.

And so did the red-haired man across the hall when his door opened and she slipped inside.

Brendan groaned and threw his arm over his forehead.

Traffic moved smartly on the street below: handsome coaches belonging to wealthy merchants, farm carts pulled by plodding horses, an older couple out taking the air. It was that time of day when the shadows were long, the sunlight rusty and orange, the heat, left over from the hot summer day, oppressive.

That heat seemed to have concentrated on the second floor of the Ashton house, although every window was open in an attempt to relieve it. Brendan lay propped up in a stack of fluffy pillows, the sheets no longer crisp but now wilted against his damp skin. A glass of water freshened with a slice of lemon stood in a circle of condensation on the table beside the bed; a supper tray was balanced across his legs. He had no appetite, though the fare itself was not to blame: lobster chowder, accompanied by chunks of crusty bread still piping hot from the bake oven, a dish of peas and carrots, and a golden square of gingerbread smothered in fresh cream. For lunch, Abigail—whom he suspected was trying to make amends for the way she’d behaved toward him that awful day he’d brought news of Proud Mistress’s demise back to Newburyport—had sent up codfish cakes, clam fritters, and sour milk biscuits generously spread with wild strawberry jam. He hadn’t touched that, either.

He’d been awake—if one could call his state of dizzy weakness that—for a week now. His memory of the time was hazy at best; he had dim recollections of Mira spooning clear broth into his mouth those first few days after he’d woken from the coma, her arm beneath his back and head to support him. By the third day he’d been eating oatmeal, and more broth, thickened with finely chopped meat and vegetables. He’d struggled to sit up in bed and had fallen back in a faint; but that hadn’t stopped him from trying again, and again.

Now he could sit up in bed, swing his legs out, and, if he took several deep breaths and clutched the bedpost, he could actually stand for a few short moments without feeling as if he might pass out.

That accomplishment, however, did little to lift his spirits.

He stared dejectedly out the window, his heart heavy and his soul sad. No, he didn’t remember much of this past week, and even less of those few moments just before he’d fallen from Kestrel’s rigging, though Dr. Plummer assured him that his short-term memory would be a while in returning. Now, however, he was beginning to wish he’d never woken up, if only to have spared Mira this latest distress.

Last night he’d made the decision to take Kestrel to Maine to join the Penobscot Expedition.

“Penobscot?!” She’d nearly deafened him with her reaction. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You’ve just come out of a bleedin’ coma; you can’t go traipsing up to Maine—”

“Moyrrra—”

“I won’t have it, Brendan, you hear me? I just won’t have it!” she’d cried, bursting into uncharacteristic tears. “I’ve come so close to losing you, and now you want to go and endanger your life all over again! Damn Father for putting this idea into your head!”

“Lassie, you have to understand—”

“You can’t go; you’re not well enough!”

He’d pulled her down on the bed, hugging her and stroking her hair while she’d soaked his nightshirt with her tears. “Massachusetts needs every privateer it can get, stóirín,” he’d explained as gently as he could. “I built Kestrel for a reason. It would be shameful to have her laid up in harbor when she could be of use to America in the most ambitious naval effort we’ve ever undertaken.”

Mira had cried even harder, the sobs wracking her little body until he’d thought his own heart would break.

“Moyrrra, lassie, I didn’t build her just to look good.”

She’d raised her head, flung the hair out of her eyes, and yelled, “You and your bleedin’ honor! Sometimes you’re so damned noble, I want to choke you! I don’t care about Kestrel, I care about you! If you go up to Penobscot in your condition, you’re going to end up getting yourself killed!”

She’d fled the room then, and all day he’d waited for her to return so that they could talk the matter over—but she was obviously too upset to want to see or speak to him, and he was too weak to get up and seek her out.

His spirits had been on a downward slide ever since. He shut his eyes. Maybe she’d been right—perhaps he was too honorable for his own good. But how could he live with himself if he just lay here in bed, when his new country needed both him and Kestrel?

He broke off a piece of the bread and tried to eat it. It had gone cold and tasteless, but he forced himself to swallow that one token bite for the sake of sparing Abigail’s feelings, before putting it back on the tray.

Mira . . . please come back, lassie . . . I never wanted to hurt you.

Shifting position in the bed, he winced as the pain stretching across his back reminded him of the awful night of interrogation at Crichton’s hands after he’d traded himself for Matt. Frustrated by his blithe responses, Crichton had become a bit . . . overzealous in his attempts to force information from him about everything from the Americans’ movements to the particulars of Kestrel’s design. The whipping at the grating had been just the start of what Crichton had planned for him. Again, the sight of the noose swinging from the foreyard rose up in his mind, and the sweat that sheened his body turned cold.

Thank God Kestrel had come when she had. He would never forget the sight of his valiant little ship, sweeping down on Viper under a cloud of sail, every flag streaming, every gun run out, and the sea bursting over her bows. She’d been magnificent. She’d been glorious. And, he thought with a sudden frown, she’d come about a hairsbreadth from oversetting herself in her determination to reach him.

He would have to speak to Liam about that. Such recklessness at the helm would not be tolerated.

But even thoughts of Kestrel, waiting for him down in the harbor, could not ease the pain of hurting his beloved Mira. There’d been a time when Kestrel was all that he’d needed; or all he’d thought he’d needed. What a fool he’d been. He needed Mira. Not only her love, but her acceptance of all that made him the man that he was.

He had to go to Penobscot—not just because Massachusetts had asked him to go, not just because of his desire to see Kestrel in the glorious role for which he’d designed her, but because he was determined to restore Newburyport’s faith in him . . . and in his schooner.

The shadow of Proud Mistress still hung over his head.

He owed it to this town to go.

He owed it to himself.

He stared dejectedly at Kestrel’s shot-torn, magnificent red-and-white-striped flag, dominating the entire wall beyond the footboard. He knew it had been hung there to make him feel like a hero. But he was no hero. He’d failed to save Mistress, her crew, and her captain from Crichton’s cruelties.

He placed the tray on the bedside table, peeled the sheets from his damp skin, and taking a deep breath, rose from the bed. His limbs felt as though the bones had been removed and water poured in their place, and the room spun around him with such force that he had to grab the bedpost just to keep his balance. He was in no condition for heroics, no condition to command a warship.

Not yet, anyhow.

But he would be. Soon.

He stood there for a moment on shaky, unsteady legs, praying that no one would come in and see how weak he really was. Leaning his head into the curve of his elbow, he shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness that came and went. Tunnel vision closed in and his body trembled violently. Determined not to pass out, he took several deep breaths, his fingers tightening around the bedpost. Finally the room stopped swimming and he could stand upright once again. And as he did so, he heard Mira’s soft weeping coming from outside, from the direction of the stables.

“Ah, mo stóirín,” he whispered, his heart going out to her. He staggered to the window, but he could only see the darkened barn and the shadowy outline of the fenced paddock. He tipped his head back and stared miserably up at the plastered ceiling, listening to the distant weeping until he could take it no longer. And then, his legs buckling, he let his back slide down the wall until he sat on the floor, his head bent, his hands over his ears, and his eyes shut against the visions that sad weeping evoked.

Go to her.

He couldn’t.

Faith, laddie, go down there and take her in your arms. She needs you.

Needed him, yes . . . but couldn’t accept his need to do what he had to do in order to live with himself.

He could face the might of a man-of-war from Kestrel’s decks. He could face battle with a sketchpad in his hands as the iron flew around and above his head. He could even face Crichton’s calculated cruelties.

But he couldn’t face his own failure to save Matt and his crew.

He sat there huddled on the floor, head buried in his hands, his hair falling over his elbows as he tried to block that awful sobbing.

In the end, he couldn’t take it anymore. Without a word to anyone, he got up, tore the flag from the wall, and very, very carefully, stumbled out the door and downstairs.

Sea-ready or not, Kestrel was leaving Newburyport.

Chapter 28

“God Almighty, Brendan, ye can’t be serious! What d’ye mean, ye want to go join the Penobscot Expedition? Are ye out o’ yer bloody mind?!”

Brendan swayed and braced his shoulder against the wall, hoping that Liam wouldn’t notice how much difficulty he was having just standing up. But the dizziness didn’t go away. He was in Wolfe Tavern—or at least he thought he was—though how he’d managed to get there, he didn’t know. He remembered leaving the Ashton house, had recollections of lurching drunkenly down the street. Dirt smudged his knee breeches, and his palms were scuffed and angry. He must have fallen, though he didn’t remember it.

“Out of my mind?” He managed a faint grin, noting how Liam’s bright blue eyes were assessing him with blatant disapproval. “I don’t think so. What’s wrong with wanting to lend Kestrel’s support to a patriotic cause, eh?”

“Patriotic me arse!” Liam snorted. “Ye took a thirty-foot fall, fer God’s sake; ye can’t be expectin’ to go commandin’ a warship. In fact, I wouldn’t be trustin’ ye to take out a toy sailboat with the way yer lookin’ now!”

Brendan shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. If he looked as bad as he felt, it must be terrible indeed. He had the shakes. He was sweating fiercely. His legs felt like jelly, and the room was spinning around him. And worst of all, the other patrons of the tavern were all staring at him. He clawed at his stock, his fingers fumbling. A dark tunnel began to snuff out his vision, and a roaring started in his ears. Faith, he had to get out of here before he passed out—

“Easy there, lad.” He felt Liam’s hand beneath his elbow, the strength of his massive arms holding him up. “I’ve got ye.”

Shakily, Brendan allowed Liam to ease him down into a chair.

Faith.

He was aware of something hard and wet on his forehead and realized he’d slumped forward, his brow resting in a puddle of moisture from Liam’s mug. Cursing, Liam dragged him back up. The chair pressed against his spine, and the room swayed sickeningly as his head fell back over the top rung. He opened his eyes and saw the weathered beams of the ceiling, spinning above.

“Fer God’s sake, Brendan—”

“You all right, Captain Merrick?”

It was the tavern’s owner. “He’s fine, Moses!” Liam declared, holding Brendan upright by his lapels. “Just a bit too much t’ drink, eh, Cap’n?”

He shut his eyes, nodding weakly.

“Fetch him up a cup o’ hard cider,” Liam said. “He’ll not be thankin’ me fer it in the mornin,’ but he could sure use it now.”

The innkeeper hurried off, frowning, for he’d never known Captain Merrick to be a drinking man.

“Now, ye listen to me.” Liam yanked him forward, snapping his neck, until his blue eyes bored into his captain’s hazy sienna ones. “I’ll not have ye makin’ a spectacle of yerself. Yer not takin’ Kestrel t’ Maine fer the sake o’ helpin’ the Americans drive the British out—yer runnin’ from somethin’. What is it this time, huh? Or need I ask?”

He took a moment to answer. “Mira Ashton.”

“God Almighty, when’re ye goin’ to stop runnin,’ Brendan, and let the wee lassie catch ye? She loves ye, she does, and the sooner you two tie the knot the better!”

“She’s angry with me, Liam, for wanting to go up to Penobscot.”

“Well, I don’t blame ’er! She loves ye, can’t ye get that through yer thick skull? The lassie stuck by yer bed fer the entire time ye were lyin’ in it. She took care of ye, bathed ye an’ washed yer hair, and fixed ye up real handsome-like when ye had visitors—”

“Visitors?” he gasped, mortified.

“Aye, visitors! Some o’ the townsfolk dropped by to pray fer yer recovery.”

Brendan made a dismissive motion with his hand. “If they were dropping by, it was probably to see Matt. Poor, blind Matt . . .” He shut his eyes, reliving the pain of Proud Mistress’s death all over again.

“Poor blind Matt, eh? Huh! Well, let me tell ye, Brendan, he can see well enough to note just how pretty yer sister is of late! Those two have become thicker than peas in a pod since ye brought him home. Maybe his eyesight’s a bit hampered, but I bet he could take a ship t’ sea if he had to. But nooo! He’s too busy feigning how blind he is so yer sister can dote on him! I’ve seen the way his eyes follow her when her back is turned, and there ain’t no trace o’ blindness a’tall. This mornin’ he asked her to paint his picture, and unless I miss me guess, the next thing he’ll be a-doin’ is askin’ ye to design a ship fer him with a figurehead that looks like our Eveleen.”

“Faith,” Brendan murmured, stunned. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Matthew? And Eveleen?

“So if our fine Cap’n Ashton can let yer sister get her claws into him, well, ye can let Miss Mira get hers into you. Just marry the lass, Brendan, and be done with it. Ye don’t need to go to Penobscot. Ye’ve got nothin’ left to prove—ye’ve done enough. More than enough.”

Brendan looked away. “I must go to Penobscot,” he insisted. “Massachusetts is calling on every privateer . . . Newburyport has already sent four other ships, and a wee bit of dizziness shan’t stop me from going, too. I’m an American now, aren’t I?” He grinned. “Besides, Matthew tells me that Paul Revere himself is up there, in charge of the artillery for the land forces. I’ve always wanted to meet the lad.”

“Brendan—”

“It is an amphibious effort. Why, I could get Kestrel to Penobscot in less than two days. . . .”

“Brendan—”

“Well, I’m not much good here, mopping the table with my forehead!”

“Ye go to Maine and the Brits’ll be moppin’ you up off o’ Kestrel’s deck!”

Moses was coming back, carrying a tray with two pewter mugs balanced on it. Liam quickly exchanged his empty mug for Brendan’s full one, so that to all appearances his captain had consumed the beverage. Then he gripped his sleeve and stared desperately into his eyes. “Listen, Brendan. The Americans ’ave been up there fer weeks and still haven’t made a move to rout the British, thanks to some bloody impasse between the general in charge o’ the land forces and the commodore commandin’ the sea forces. That commodore is Dudley Saltonstall, Brendan, and ye know as well as I do that ’e ain’t a pleasant person to serve under, let alone deal with.”

“But, Liam, I have to go.” The dizziness was returning. Desperately Brendan bent his head to his arms and gripped the edge of the table. “Don’t you understand? I have to. To restore Mira’s faith in me. To restore this town’s faith in me—”

“Fer God’s sake, Brendan—”

“To restore my own faith in me!”

He stood up, staggered, and almost fell.

“Brendan!”

His knee hit the chair, toppled it. He reeled off the table, drew the stares of a group of seamen. Two men looked up from their game of backgammon, their brows raised.

“Brendan!”

It took every bit of his strength to walk through that smoky, crowded room, but he did it, pulling his tricorne low over his eyes so no one would see how pale and sick he really was.

And then he felt Liam’s hand on his arm.

“God Almighty, Brendan, ye can’t be goin’ off—”

Brendan raised his head, squared his shoulders, and slowly turned. For a moment he once again personified the hauteur of the British Royal Navy, from the braid on his tricorne to the buckles on his shoes to the very way in which he stood. “In future, Mr. Doherty, I’ll thank you to remember yourself. I am your captain. Please address me as such!” Then he pushed open the door and stumbled off into the night.

Wolfe Tavern was abuzz; to think that after a nearly fatal injury, the Captain from Connaught could come in here, drink with the rest of them, put the big, strapping lieutenant in his place, and then saunter off to war, as right as rain!

Except that no one but Liam knew that his captain wasn’t as right as rain.

No one but the captain himself knew that he passed out three times on his way to the waterfront.

And no one but Kestrel knew that he never made it to his cabin, but collapsed upon a neatly coiled pile of rope on the foredeck, and there, spent the night.

The Penobscot Expedition.

It was on everyone’s minds, everyone’s tongues. News filtered down from Maine, trickled up from Boston. The redcoats had entrenched themselves on the little peninsula of Bagaduce, and undaunted by the huge American fleet sent to rout them from their stronghold, merely swapped their shovels and picks for muskets and prepared to defend their little fort. Captain Henry Mowat, that hated Briton who’d laid waste to Falmouth several years past, had drawn his three sloops-of-war up around the fort to protect it, and according to reports, the most action the Maine woods had seen was some minimal gunfire between the British and the American fleet. A bit of territory had been gained on nearby Nautilus Island, assisted by fire from Newburyport’s own Pallas, but that was all. Despite the Americans’ superior forces, the British were still in Maine.

And expecting reinforcements any day.

In Massachusetts, tempers were strained. In the Ashton household, where those tempers usually ran rampant, the explosion came as Mira went down to breakfast.

Unfortunately, it was set off by an innocent-looking blueberry betty that she’d made in the hopes of showing Brendan just how well she was learning to cook—and therefore, keeping him home. But Brendan, unfortunately, was still upstairs, and so it was Ephraim who had the misfortune to take the first bite.

“Jesus—bloody—Christ!”

Pieces of blueberry, topping, and other unspeakable ingredients shot across the table like grapeshot from a cannon. Blackened dough hit Eveleen’s cheek. Cream spattered Matt’s spectacles. Tears streamed down Ephraim’s face; and then, reddening with fury, he picked up his plate and flung it, food and all, across the room, where it smashed against the elegant wainscoted wall and left a sticky, dripping mess of blueberries that slid in great, ugly chunks toward the floor.

Luff, who’d been quietly begging two feet away from where the plate hit, fled the room with his tail between his legs.

“Tripes an’ guts, this godawful shit is gonna put me in my grave! Man can’t eat a decent meal without it bein’ booby-trapped! What the bloody hell did ye put in it, Mira, a whole goddamned lemon?!”

Mira slammed down her own fork. Across from her, Matt, his lips twitching, removed his spectacles and wiped them with his shirttails, smearing cream all over the lenses and only making the mess worse. He put them back on, his kind brown eyes blank and sightless as he stared at the wall and the shapeless purple mess oozing down it. Beside him, Eveleen wordlessly dished up a plate of fried eggs and ham and set it before him, her hand lingering on his as she placed a fork in his hand and guided it to the plate.

“As a matter of fact,” Mira snapped, hurt that her father found fault with a treat that had taken her all morning to make, “I put two lemons in it. And a cup of vinegar and a cup of sour milk, and—”

“Sour milk?! You put sour milk in it?!”

“I couldn’t find any butter!”

“What the hell does butter have to do with sour milk?! Any woman worth her salt’d know not to put sour milk in a blueberry betty, let alone two friggin’ lemons—”

“I thought the sugar would balance out the sourness!”

“What sugar? There ain’t no sugar in this crap!”

“I think she forgot to put it in,” Matt speculated, trying not to laugh.

“I didn’t either! I just didn’t have enough, so I substituted something else!”

“What?”

“The extra lemon!”

“I ain’t bloody surprised! Ye’ll never make a good wife fer anyone, ye hear me? No man’ll have a woman who can’t cook, can’t bake, an’ brings home enough bloody animals to start a bleedin’ zoo! He won’t put up with it! I won’t put up with it! Thank God ye’ll be getting married soon and I can git ye out of my hair and my kitchen!”

Mira lunged to her feet and flung her own plate. Ephraim ducked just in time, but a shower of blackened crust fell like rain into his snowy hair. Enraged, he, too jumped up.

“Merrick!” he roared, at the top of his lungs.

Matt leaped up from his chair. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down; the poor fellow’s sleeping!”

“He ain’t sleepin’ no more! I want him down here and eatin’ and gainin’ his strength back so he can take that cussed schooner up to Maine with the rest of the fleet!”

Matt slammed his fork down. “That’s what’s really eating you, isn’t it?” he raged, his spectacles fogging up behind flecks of cream and smeared blueberries. “The fact that you have nothing to brag about to your old cronies down at Davenport’s!”

“Two privateersmen under my roof and the finest ship the Commonwealth has ever seen, and none of ’em are in Penobscot! Damned right I have nothin’ to brag about! Cripes, I ain’t never been so humiliated in my whole life!”

“You lower your voice before you wake Merrick!” Matt shouted.

“I’ll raise it till he gits himself down here and takes that schooner outta here!”

Eveleen grabbed Matt’s arm, hoping to prevent a fight. But it was too late. Mira, green eyes blazing, had leapt onto a chair and was screeching down at her father in a voice that would not only wake Brendan, but half of Newburyport as well. “Matt’s right! You just want Kestrel in that Expedition so you’ll have something to read about in that stupid newspaper! Something to brag about to your stupid friends in that stupid tavern!”

“Don’t you talk like that to yer father, ye hear me?!”

“You just want to impress everyone with that schooner! You want everyone to know you built her! You don’t care about kicking the British out of Maine, you don’t care about Brendan—”

“I do, too, and it don’t matter to me who takes her, long’s she’s a part of that Expedition!”

“Which you see as nothing more than a damned showground for your masterpiece!”

“Kestrel speaks for herself; she don’t need me to brag about ’er!”

“She’s not asking you to! And I’ll tell you this, neither Liam Doherty nor me nor God himself are going to take that schooner anywhere! She’s Brendan’s, do you hear me? Brendan’s! He is her captain! And no one, I repeat, no one, is going to take her anywhere!”

“She oughtta take her rightful place in that Expedition!”

“She will when her captain is well enough to command her!”

“She’ll take it if I have to go and command her myself!”

“That’ll be the bloody day!” Mira leapt from the chair, let loose a string of curses, and stormed from the room, trailed by Rescue Effort Number Twenty-Eight and Ephraim’s loud bellowing. No wonder Brendan felt obliged to go to Maine! Damn Father and his stiff-necked pride! She was sick of it! Furious, she raced up the stairs, tore down the hall, and flung open the door to Brendan’s room.

She came up short, her mouth hanging open. The bed was made as neatly as a seaman’s berth, and the room was empty.

She clenched her fists at her sides. No. . . .

And then she saw that Kestrel’s huge red-and-white-striped flag was gone.

Damn him! She was too late! Mira raced from the room. If she wanted to be aboard Kestrel before she sailed, there was no time to lose.

Chapter 29

“Oh, there was a proud schooner, her name was Kestrel, and no Brit could catch her when she spread her tops’ls! Sharp-hulled and lovely, a lady she be, she’s sweet and she’s pretty, she’s queen of the sea! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

Drifting along under shortened sail, Kestrel left a long, lazy wake of foam winding back among pine-studded islands and coves. She had left Newburyport several hours before, in the dead of night; now morning light burst over the ocean, touched upon streaming pennants some ninety feet above deck, raced out along topsail yards, and dragged brilliant orange fingers down the length of her masts to flood the decks below. It glinted on sleepy guns, turned varnished woodwork to gold, sharpened stays and ratlines against the bright blue sky, and painted the deck in myriad variations of color, light, and shadow.

“Oh, her decks are of white oak, her masts of Maine spruce, for the might of the Brits, oh, we don’t give a deuce! Be it gale or dead calm, the sweet Kestrel will fly! For freedom from tyranny we’re willin’ to die! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

The smell of fresh coffee and frying fat drifted on the air. Galley smoke crept from the foredeck area and was snatched away by the wind. Men, throwing long shadows across the deck, were coming topside now, carrying their breakfasts. Some took one look at the barefoot figure standing atop Freedom’s homely old barrel and dropped their plates of biscuit and fried pork; others shot apprehensive glances toward the hatch—where any moment now, the captain would be coming topside.

Mr. Starr wasn’t wearing his tarpaulin hat. He wasn’t wearing his odd little “sun” glasses. And he wasn’t wearing trousers.

He was wearing skirts.

And these were tucked up into his waistband over a short pair of breeches and showing a very fine, very pretty pair of curvy, well-shaped legs.

The guise was over, then. The day of reckoning had come.

“Well, her captain’s a man bred from old Cornwall way, but the luck of the Irish goes with him this day! Not afraid of the Brits, oh, he’s brave and he’s bold! And under his hand, Kestrel’s wings’ll not fold! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

And now a black tricorne was coming up through the hatch.

Liam put down his fiddle.

Fergus produced a crystal.

And Dalby clutched his stomach.

As immaculate as ever, the captain, walking with the assistance of a cane, made a fine sight as he emerged on deck. He wore a red waistcoat over a bright white shirt, and his breeches, trimmed with gold embroidery, were molded to his long, handsome thighs. Sunlight glinted from his sword hilt and shoe buckles, and his tricorne sat jauntily atop his rich chestnut hair, boyishly tousled from sleep and caught in a loose queue. Spying Liam, who stood at the helm with a very pale-looking Dalby, he snapped off a brisk salute. “Dia dhuit ar maidin, Liam!”

“Good mornin’ y’rself, Cap’n!”

“Fine day to be at sea, eh? If the wind kicks up, we’ll raise Penobscot Bay by sundown, I should think.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” There was a suspicious twinkle in Liam’s eye, but Brendan, preoccupied, missed it. Crossing the deck, he wandered to the rail and gazed out over the sparkling sea, watching Kestrel’s frothy wake as though he could follow it all the way back to Newburyport.

“He doesn’t see her,” John Keefe whispered.

“Give ’im a moment,” Liam predicted.

Dalby clutched his stomach, his voice full of doom. “Well, if he doesn’t see her, he’ll certainly hear her. . . .”

“Well, a Brit boxed us in b’tween island and shore, and our bold Captain Merrick said, ‘Fear ye no more! Hoist out those old oars even though it is deep, we’ll fool that old Briton and Kestrel we’ll keep!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

But Brendan, deep in thought, was oblivious to the singing. Propping his elbows on the rail, he sipped his coffee and watched a gull wheeling high above. The sea rolled before him. Spray hissed at Kestrel’s bows, cooled his cheeks, made his coffee mug sticky and damp in his hands. He felt pretty good this morning. A bit weak, but at least he could see straight. Think straight.

Mira.

What had her reaction been when she’d arisen this morn and discovered him gone?

Maybe when he reached Penobscot he could convince Commodore Saltonstall to lift the siege and make the long overdue attack on the British; maybe in doing so, he could give Kestrel back her glory; and maybe, just maybe, he could return to Newburyport and finally make Mira his wife.

Make her his wife.

He smiled and shut his eyes, envisioning it. . . .

The wind began to freshen, whipping up froth on the azure sea, driving over Kestrel’s stern and sending wave-chop slapping against her hull. Thousands of little pockmarks dotted the ocean’s surface. Above, blocks and tackle swung, wind hummed through taut shrouds, and masts creaked as the schooner rolled on the long swells.

Forward, the wind caught the end of Mr. Starr’s braid and made it dance.

“Well, the Briton was fooled by our captain’s bold plan, figured it was too shallow, so off they did stand! No sooner had they borne off and away, Kestrel spread her great wings and we laugh till this day! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Odd, that voice . . . strange, but familiar. Shrugging, he fished his sketchbook and a pencil out of his pocket and studied the gull hovering just beyond the tip of the fore topsail yard. But he couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. Kept remembering soft, rose-scented hair tumbling down around him. Green eyes alight with joy, salty tears washing his face. . . .

“Well, the Kestrel, she’s huntin’ those Britishers down, she’s a thorn in the side of His Majesty’s crown! But our captain’s a sly one, a bold one he be! Sails Kestrel on a course marked Li-i-ber-ty! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

He leaned the sketchpad against the rail and kneaded his temples. The sunlight hurt his eyes. The sea reflected against the ship's boat, vibrated against shimmering waves, and hurt his eyes even more. Faith, maybe he ought to get some of those—what were they called?—ah yes, “sun” glasses that Mr. Starr had. Irritated, but not knowing why, he turned from the rail.

And saw his men staring at him as though he’d grown a third arm.

“For heaven’s sake, string up that mainsail and let’s make some time!” he snapped. Faith, what the devil was wrong with everyone this morning?

Seamen ran to the sheets. Up went the gaff on its bridle, like a sacrifice to the blinding sun above. Inch by inch it climbed, the proud mainsail rising with it, and finally the boom, swinging gently in the wind. Canvas shook itself out, fluttered, and hardened in a tight curve of brightness against the sky. Brendan’s momentary irritation dissipated instantly, and a thrill went through him at the sheer majesty of the moment. Laughing out loud, he wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and called, “Maith go leor, laddies! Good enough! Now look lively and get the topsails on her!”

Kestrel kicked up her heels like a spring filly, and the water beneath her began to sing. Eyes watering in the intense sunlight, Brendan gazed up at the giant mainsail, watching its reef points dancing in the wind. And then, blinking away the sunspots, he turned his head, suddenly realizing what was making him feel so devilishly irritated.

That godawful singing.

He lowered his pencil, looking for its source. And then he saw a figure standing atop Freedom, head thrown back, bare feet braced on the cannon’s long breech, rooster perched on his scrawny shoulder.

It was Mr. Starr.

Brendan dropped his coffee cup.

“And so we head seaward with a stiff wind a-beam, hanging fores’l and main and our heels kicking clean! With Doodle as music and guns as our sting, as we headed to sea all the bells they did ring! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

“Up staysails and jibs . . .” Brendan heard himself say. And then—faith, what the devil was Mr. Starr wearing?

“With a gale blowin’ hard through our shrouds and our stays, Cap’n Merrick he said, ‘Lads, now don’t ye belay! There’s a Brit lurkin’ well off our starboard bow—and we’ll ne-e-ver catch him if we stay here and row!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

Skirts.

His mouth opened and closed.

Skirts!

And beneath them, long, curvy legs and bare, pretty feet. A doll-sized waist, and a shirt that did nothing to conceal the sweet valley between her even sweeter breasts. He stared into her eyes. She stared back. And then she saluted, smiled, and a fan of lines crinkled the sides of her impudent little nose like cat whiskers.

“Well, the Kestrel, being such a right fine la-dy, she opened her wings and she took to the sea! With the spray in her teeth and her guns aim-ed low, our captain he shouted, ‘Fire on the uproll!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

He dropped his pencil. The sketchbook slid from his fingers and fell to the deck.

“Liam!”

He reeled and caught the rail for support.

“Liam!”

And then she threw back her head, laughed, and in a loud, ringing voice, belted out, “Well, a broadside like that you just ne’er did see, on the Britisher’s decks there was death and melee! Our Cap’n he nodded and then he did grin, ‘Now let’s see ye load up, lads, and do it again!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

Liam appeared, his mouth twitching with laughter.

“Aye, Cap’n?”

They were all staring at him, even the rooster. They’d known all along, every last one of them! Brendan took a deep, steadying breath, and pulling out his speaking trumpet, rapped it against his thigh in agitation. He never took his eyes off his little gunner. “Tell me, Mr. Doherty, just who was at Kestrel’s helm the day you rescued me from Crichton?”

Liam stared at him blankly, pretending ignorance. “The helm, sir?”

“Yes, Liam, the helm! H-E-L-M, helm! Tá ainm diobhal, what are you, deaf?! It wasn’t Mr. Keefe, it wasn’t Mr. Reilly, and it most certainly wasn’t you! What I want to know is, who the devil almost overset my ship?!”

“Er . . . uh, why, th’ gunner, sir, but he ’ad th’ ship well under control—”

“The gunner!” He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. It could’ve been a controlled grin. It could’ve been anger. It was neither. “You mean Mr. Starr?!”

“Aye. Ye see, Brendan, there was really no one else t’ do it. Keefe, well, he ’ad three sheets t’ th’ wind, ’n’ Dalby was complainin’ about his stomach—Mr. Starr made supper that night, ye see—’n’ poor Reilly, er . . .”

“Mr. Reilly what, Liam?!”

“Got his eye blackened by Mr. Starr, sir . . .” Liam said, lamely.

“And why, pray tell, did Mr. Starr blacken his eye, Liam?!”

“Well, uh, he was threatenin’ t’ ’ave his rooster fer supper, sir.”

“I see.” Brendan shut his eyes. And then he grinned, a hard, exasperated grin mixed with grudging admiration. He almost wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and strangle her! “Sun” glasses, eh? Albino?

“Where ye goin’, Brendan?”

“Below.” He removed his tricorne, raked an unsteady hand through his hair, and set the hat back on his head. “I think I need to . . . to lie down for a spell.”

“You all right, Cap’n?”

He kept walking, his back stiff and straight, his shoulders thrown back. But no one saw that those shoulders were shaking with mirth.

She had followed him. Followed him! And, by the looks of it, forgiven him.

“Cap’n?”

Brendan paused, turned, and met his lieutenant’s questioning gaze. “Liam—” He grinned and swung his speaking trumpet once around his wrist. “—I’ve never felt better. Please see that Kestrel doesn’t get into any mischief, would you? And then send Mr. Starr down to me so that I can put an end to his!”

Liam’s eyes lit up. Slyly he said, “But, Cap’n, I thought ye were goin’ t’ be lyin’ down. . . .”

Brendan shoved his tricorne back. His eyes glowed like honey in the morning light, and his smile was dazzling, bright, and completely roguish.

“I intend to be, Liam,” he said.

Still grinning, he turned, and went below.

He did not expect her to appear looking sheepish, worried, or contrite, and indeed, she didn’t disappoint him. The door banged open and she swaggered in, the rooster perched insolently on her shoulder with its iridescent feathers shining. Still humming that awful tune, she shoved her fist beneath the bird’s breast until it climbed up on it. Then she walked to one of the chairs around the table and deposited it on the top rung.

The rooster stood there, looking discomfited.

It cocked its head, looking at the shiny buttons of Brendan’s waistcoat.

And then it tensed, shuddered, and squirted out a wet dropping that splattered the varnished deck.

The gunner snapped off a crisp salute. “Mr. Starr, sir, reporting for duty!”

“Please sit down, Mr. Starr.”

She shrugged, sauntered to the window seat, and draped herself atop the cushion, idly lying back and playing with the end of her long braid while she let her bold gaze rake appreciatively over his face, his chest, and the front of his breeches. He felt the fabric begin to tighten across his loins. Carefully sidestepping the rooster’s mess, he pulled out a chair and tried to regard her thoughtfully. Laughter bubbled up in his throat, threatening to wreck his composure. The little imp!

His lips twitched. “Mr. Starr,” he said calmly, “please tell me what you know of our role in this so-called Penobscot Expedition.”

“Aye, sir. To lend our assistance to Commodore Saltonstall’s fleet and kick the damned Brits out of the Penobscot.”

He gazed at the tantalizing display of flesh blatantly revealed by her loose shirt. “Very good, Mr. Starr.”

“But it’s all a big secret, because we don’t want the British to find out and send for reinforcements.”

“That’s right, it is a big secret. You’re very good at keeping secrets, aren’t you, Mr. Starr?”

“Oh, aye, Cap’n.” Her eyes gleamed. “Very good.”

“Have you one you’d like to share with me, Mr. Starr?”

She twisted her glossy braid around her wrist, never taking her eyes off him. “Only if ye’d like to hear it.”

His gaze traveled over her body, her gently flaring hips, her skirts, and the shapely calves beneath them. “I think I should very much like to hear it.”

“Ye sure?”

He smiled, leaned back, and crossed his arms behind his head, waiting. “Very sure, Mr. Starr.”

She jerked her thumb toward her pet. “See that there rooster? He always shits in threes.”

Slumping forward, Brendan leaned his brow into the heel of his hand to hide his laughter.

“Sir, you all right? I can come back another time when you’re feeling better.”

“I’m feeling just fine—Mr. Starr.”

“Are you sure, now? We wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself after that injury and all.”

He looked up, his eyes mirthful, his lips twitching. “Mr. Starr, please get up off that window seat, come over here, and take your shirt off.”

“Sir?”

“And your breeches, too.”

“I’d rather not, sir.”

“And why is that, Mr. Starr?”

“I find the window seat quite comfortable. Why don’t you come over here and let me take your shirt off?”

His brows shot up.

“And your breeches, too,” she mimicked.

They stared at each other. Her nose wrinkled with humor; he grinned and got to his feet. Then they both burst into helpless laughter.

“I ought to have you keelhauled for your deceit, Mr. Starr! To think, all this time that I’ve been missing my wee Newburyport lassie, here she is, manning a gun right under my very nose!”

Laughing, she folded her arms behind her head, feeling the thrum of tiller and rudder vibrating against her spine. He moved toward her. She reached up, undid her braid, pulled her fingers through her long dark hair, spreading it over her shoulders, and let her gaze travel down the handsome length of him until it rested on the telltale bulge at the front of his breeches. “Missing me, huh? You mean you’re not going to run this time, Cap’n?”

“Run?” His warm gaze slid over her body, caressing her. “I wouldn’t dream of it . . . Mr. Starr.”

“You dreamt of it last night.”

He leaned over her, unlatched the stern windows, and threw them open. Sea wind, salty and full of tang, danced into the cabin and shivered over her skin, mixing with the deliciously clean scent of his shaving soap. Instead of straightening up, he rested his forearms against the sill, hung his head between them, and gazed lovingly down at her. “I had a reason for running.”

“And what was that, Cap’n?”

“I couldn’t stand to see how upset I’d made you.”

“And you thought that running off and getting yourself killed at Penobscot wouldn’t make me upset?”

“You should know me well enough by now to realize I’m not so easy to kill.”

“Well, when a person loves someone, they worry. And worry a lot.”

“And do you love me, Moyrrra?”

“Aye. But I don’t think I’ve done a very good job of convincing you of it,” she lamented, holding his gaze as she reached up and touched his cheek. “I wish I could take back all the awful things I said to you, Brendan, that day you came back to Newburyport alone, without Matt. I’m so sorry.”

“Grief causes us all to think and act in odd ways, mo bhourneen.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” He remained leaning over her, blotting out the light from the window. “Do you still want to marry me?”

“I’d marry you right now, Brendan, if there was someone on board who could perform the ceremony.”

“Then we’ll do it when we get back from Penobscot.”

“Yes, when we get back from Penobscot.”

“And not a moment later.”

“Not one.”

They remained like that for a moment more, she lying on the window seat looking invitingly up at him, and he resting his weight on his forearms and, braced against the slight roll of the ship, gazing down at her. And then her eyes lit with mischief, and she put her finger to her tongue and licked it, still holding his gaze. His eyes darkened and his breathing quickened. The cabin grew quiet. Then, slowly, she withdrew her finger and touched it to his lips, gently tracing their shape, painting them with her own moisture.

“You should know that Kestrel and I have settled our differences. I’m quite willing to share you with her—under one condition.”

He caught her hand and pulled her fingertip into his mouth, gently sucking on it and causing sensation to flare deep in the pit of her belly. “Anything, stóirín.”

“You must share her—with me.”

“That’s a lot to ask. You nearly let her broach to.”

“Like hell I did.”

He smiled, and slowly withdrawing her finger from his mouth, began to kiss each finger in turn. “All right. You had her well in hand. Why should I have doubted you?”

“You shouldn’t. I’ve been sailing as long as Matt has. Besides, Kestrel and I had a common goal that day—saving your life. We were depending on each other. She wouldn’t have let me down. She wouldn’t have let you down.”

“I know that.”

“So are you going to let me take her out once in a while?”

“Uh . . . well, maybe.”

He was leaning heavily against the sill, his forearms supporting his weight. Above his head a tin lantern swung with the roll of the ship.

“If you want me to prove how much I love you, Brendan, you’ll have to do better than a ‘well, maybe.’” She reached up and began undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, one by one. Her other hand drifted downward, grazing his arousal through his breeches. His eyes slipped shut and still braced against the window, he leaned his forehead on one arm, allowing her the pleasure of seducing him. “You’ll have to say yes.”

“Yes to what?” he asked, distantly.

“To taking Kestrel out.” She circled him with her palm, rubbing hard, watching him swell up against her hand. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“No . . . Yes . . . Faith, I don’t care. . . .”

“Is this too much for you?”

“No, take her out . . . I really don’t care.”

“No, Brendan, I’m talking about this now.” She squeezed him through the breeches and ran her fingernail along the hard ridge. “Am I pushing you too far? Can you withstand a rigorous afternoon of making love to me without fainting in my lap?”

He managed a grin. “The day I cannot love my wee lassie is the day I’m dead and buried.”

She stared up into his mirthful eyes. Then, playfully, she reached up and in one quick motion, jerked his arms down, squealing with delight as he fell atop her. They both tumbled to the deck, laughing.

“And to think, Mr. Starr, we could have been doing this all along, on every cruise,” he said, his eyes dancing. “Oh, you have done a fine job deceiving your captain!”

“Face it, Brendan, if you’d known who I was you’d have made me stay home.”

“I am not so sure of that,” he murmured, groaning as she found him again and rubbed him, hard, through the breeches. “I could get used to this. Oh! Very used to it. . . .”

She reached up and pulled a cushion from the window seat. “Here. Don’t put your back against the decking, Brendan, it’ll hurt. Use this, instead.”

He smiled at her thoughtfulness, and sat up a bit so she could put it under his shoulders. And then she stood up just long enough to yank off the breeches from under the skirt before throwing her leg over him and gently easing herself down atop his belly, her mischievous gaze holding his own the whole time.

“God almighty,” he gasped, as her weight came down atop his hardening arousal.

She was stark naked beneath the skirts. He suddenly couldn’t breathe.

“What are you doing to me, lass?”

“Seducing you. Something I’ve been wanting to do for a long, long time. Now lie back and enjoy it.”

She leaned forward, every little movement of her body, each subtle change of position, sending him deeper into agony as she parted his waistcoat, pulled his shirt from his breeches, and plunged her hands deep beneath his shirt, her palms roving over his chest as his heart began to thump madly beneath them. In moments, she had his shirt off, and his chest was bare to her hands. She slid her fingers into the sparse hair there and let her fingers, ever so gentle, linger on the little pucker of scar tissue. Slowly she leaned down, put her lips against the scar, and kissed it with infinite tenderness. Brendan shut his eyes, struggling for control, unable to think of anything but the fact that she was naked beneath her skirts and she was sitting on him.

Moving herself against him.

Naked.

And she was worried about him surviving Penobscot? He had to get through this, first!

He sucked in his breath as she reached behind herself and gently stroked his testicles. “Am I proving my love for you well enough, Brendan?”

He couldn’t answer. He’d forgotten how to breathe. Dizziness was swirling behind his eyes now, and he shut them, trying desperately to hold on to consciousness as well as control.

“Brendan?”

“I’m dizzy,” he managed. “But it will pass . . . don’t stop . . . I don’t want you to stop.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking down into his eyes, unfocused now, as she continued to explore him through his breeches.

“I’m . . . fine. . . .”

She moved off him, unbuttoned the drop-front of his breeches and then her hands were on him, all over him and no, he was not fine, he was not fine at all, and that was just perfect as far as he was concerned. She began rubbing the tip of him with her thumb, smearing the tiny wet pearl of seed there over the head, gently putting a hand on his chest to hold him down when he tried, weakly, to move, her hair brushing his skin, tickling his belly, catching in the bed of hair in which his erection was rooted. She leaned down and his skin went drum-tight as her tongue flicked against his shaft, once, twice. A moment later he felt her lips closing around him, sealing him in hot, delicious warmth and drawing him deeply up inside her mouth. His vision blurred and began to spin and he shut his eyes, one arm coming out to grip the leg of the nearby table in a last desperate attempt to anchor himself in consciousness. Sweat broke out on his brow, and beneath his back.

“Moyrrra . ..”

She circled her tongue around the tip, sucking him hard, harder, until he thought he would die with the sheer agony of it. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore she pulled back, straddled him once more with her weight on her knees, and gently lowered herself down atop him, until her sex, hot and wet and more than ready for him, was just touching the tip of his erection, still held firmly in her hand.

He shuddered, breathing hard. She held him there against her entrance, slowly rubbing the tip of him against herself until he lost the ability to think, to even remember what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning.

“Is this too much for you, Brendan?” she asked with mock innocence.

He’d sooner die than admit that perhaps it was, for his heart was pounding, the blood rushing through his head, and her image was fading in and out behind a wall of dark speckles and spinning lights. But strangely, the dizzying effect only heightened the agony of pleasure. And as for her taunting, teasing ways . . . well, he’d had enough of that! Fitting his hands around her waist, he lifted her slightly, then lowered her, slowly sliding her down, down, down atop himself, filling her, stretching her, sinking so deeply into her that her triumphant smile faded and her lips parted in a surprised and delighted O.

For a long moment he just held her there, drinking in the sight of her flushed cheeks, her thick, board-straight hair falling over her breasts. He twitched, involuntarily, and felt her inner muscles tightening around him in response. She took a deep, unsteady breath, then her head fell back, her hair spilling down her back and tickling his thighs, and her hips began to move atop him. Impatiently he slid his hands beneath her shirt, finally pulling it over her head until her breasts were bared to his palms. He gazed at the pale, sweet globes, so perfectly formed, like twin melons capped by dusky little rosebuds, and with his thumbs, gently tweaked the nipples until she was whimpering and writhing atop him.

“So . . . is this my punishment, Captain?” she breathed, squirming uncontrollably.

“I think it’s mine,” he said, feeling himself being pushed closer and closer to release with every movement of her hips.

“I like being punished.”

“No one deceives the captain and gets away with it.”

“Then I must deceive you more often . . . oh, Brendan, please . . . take me.”

“Not yet, mo bhourneen,” he murmured, as she leaned forward and ground herself against him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips finding his with desperate, hungry abandon.

He kissed her hard, unable to get enough of her, and then she began to move in earnest atop him, building a rhythm, driving him closer and closer to the edge. His head was swimming, his vision darkening, and he wondered if he could stay conscious long enough to complete the act. His hands roved out over the curve of her bottom, pulling her closer, pressing her further down atop himself with each upward thrust of his hips.

“Brendan. . . .”

“Hold tight, Moyrrra. . . .”

“Brendan, oh, oh, Brendan!”

She gave a sudden cry, her muscles contracting gloriously all around him, and he thrust himself once, twice, three more times deeply up and into her, causing her to stiffen and cry out once again as she climaxed a second time. And then he, too, was carried away, and maybe he lost both control and consciousness, because when he opened his eyes she lay atop him, blanketing his face with her hot damp hair, her arms wrapped around him and her muscles still spasming all around him.

They lay together, breathing hard, slowly drifting down from the heights. Brendan curved an arm around her damp shoulders, clasping her to him as though to never let her go, and it took a long time for either of them to realize that there was a voice coming from high, high above.

“Deck there!”

Brendan raised his head.

“Brendan!” Liam was there, over the skylight, his body cutting off the sunlight streaming down from above. “Come topside, laddie! There’s a strange sail in the lee of one o’ these here islands! She’s flyin’ British colors and runnin’ with her tail between her legs!”

Brendan sighed and lay back, staring up at the deck beams above. He let the silence stretch on, his hand absently stroking Mira’s hair. “Well?”

“Well what?” she asked, cuddling up against him and kissing the underside of his chin.

“Shall we take her, Mr. Starr?”

Their eyes met. Hers gleamed; his danced; and beneath them, Kestrel whispered softly to herself.

Take her.

The tension built. Then, Mira leapt up. She grabbed her breeches and raced across the cabin, hopping into them as she went. Laughing, she snatched Brendan’s sword from the bulkhead, and pirouetting on bare fairy feet, raced from the cabin.

He, hastily buttoning his breeches and waistcoat, was not far behind.

And when they emerged on deck, no one noticed that their wee gunner’s hair was loose and unbound, her lips swollen, her eyes gleaming with feline contentment. No one noticed that their captain didn’t look quite so immaculate, his coat half-unbuttoned, his tricorne slapped atop curls that were rather tousled.

And neither did Kestrel.

For there, speared like a moth just beyond her surging bowsprit, was a schooner, flying British colors.

Brendan took one look and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Trim for a broad reach! Crack on that last jib and t'gallant, Mr. Wilbur! Faith, d’you expect to catch her with Kestrel half-dressed? Better yet, rig the studders, and be quick about it!”

Topmen raced up the shrouds, out along the yards. Sails spilled down and were sheeted smartly home. Kestrel rose on her tiptoes, the pitch of the sea against her bows rising as she found more speed.

Brendan took the helm, thrilling to the feel of the wind driving against that giant canvas and sending its raw power thrumming down the masts, through the deck, and right up into the soles of his feet. He let the schooner fall off a point, and Kestrel swung her jib-boom past a rock-rimmed islet well off her bow, until the wind was coming over their larboard quarter and sending her plunging toward the other vessel.

He felt a sadness that their quarry was a schooner, but quickly drove the feeling from his mind. The British ship and Kestrel were night and day, one short and stubby, bluff-bowed and unwieldy, the other sleek and dark, dangerous and beautiful.

“To stations, gunners!”

He saw Mira race past on her way to Freedom, and groaned inwardly.

Kestrel was closing in now, swallowing her prey’s foamy wake as she changed tack and tried to dart behind an island. In moments, they were overtaking her. Unconsciously Brendan slid his hand into his pocket and found his sketchbook missing. He swore beneath his breath and grabbed the speaking trumpet that Dalby, wheezing, thrust toward him. “Will you strike?” he yelled.

A solitary gun boomed out in reply, slapped through Kestrel’s jib, and hissed into the sea.

“Very well, then.” Shrugging, Brendan raised the trumpet once more, and caught Mira’s gaze from where she stood waiting at Freedom, her gun crew holding rammers and sponges.

“Gunners, cast off tackles and breechings!” he called.

One by one, the commands were fired off with swift precision and obeyed with equal smartness. At last, every gun captain and every crew stared aft, awaiting the word—

“Run out!”

He saw Mira fling her hair over her shoulder and crouch down beside Freedom’s ugly snout.

“Point your guns ...fire!”

Kestrel shuddered beneath the force of the broadside. Blindly she drove on through thick, billowing gray smoke, bursting free of it and into open sea once more.

Guns were sponged out, loaded. Again Kestrel's guns spoke, and a great cheer went up as the other schooner’s fore topmast shuddered, leaned, and fell in a tangle of rigging and sail to her decks below.

It was enough to send the British captain racing aft to haul down the colors with his own hand, for the identity of his attacker was no mystery to him. There was only one schooner in these waters—indeed, anywhere—that looked like this one did. Lean, rakish, and lithe, she could only be the Americans’ legendary Kestrel; and that blue-coated figure, framed against the great, undulating backdrop of the glorious red-and-white flag of the privateer, could only be Brendan Merrick.

Captain Edward Sorrington was no fool. Let Kestrel have his schooner. It would probably be the last prize she’d ever take.

For Sorrington was on his way to Penobscot himself, and he knew information that might have saved the American forces had they been privy to it.

Just one day’s sail behind him were the reinforcements that the British general Francis McLean in the Penobscot was expecting, a powerful fleet of British warships led by Sir George Collier in the sixty-four-gun Raisonnable.

But Merrick didn’t need to know that. He’d find out soon enough.

Let him go to Penobscot. Let his legendary vessel join the other American ships already there. Let him, and the cocky Americans, think they could reclaim Penobscot Bay.

They were in for a big surprise.

And so was Merrick, he thought wryly, for in company with the British fleet was HMS Viper, with Captain Richard Crichton in command.

Chapter 30

“That seat of Science, Athens, and Earth’s proud mistress Rome! Where now are all their glories? We scarce can find a tomb! Then guard your rights, Americans! Nor stoop to lawless swa-a-y! Oppose, oppose, oppose, oppose, for North A-mer-i-kay!”

Mira, clad in a blousy, white cotton shirt, tucked her skirts up into her waistband and, laughing off the crew’s lewd comments about her bare legs, danced barefoot atop Freedom’s barrel to the rollicking tune of Liam’s fiddle. It was a new day, a glorious morning, and they were here in Maine on their way to join the American fleet!

A brisk wind pushed Kestrel steadily up the bay. Her prize schooner, with just enough Americans aboard to sail her, followed, its crew locked in Kestrel’s hold. Islands slid past, densely wooded with pine and cedar, their shores rimmed with pebbled beaches strewn with green, purple, and brown seaweed. Sapphire blue water surrounded them, and Kestrel’s streaming wake glittered foamy and white in the sun. High overhead, an osprey circled her proud mainmast and played chase with the streaming pennants.

“We led fair Freedom hi-ther, and lo, the desert smiled! A paradise of plea-sure was opened in the wild! Your harvest, bold Americans, no pow’r shall snatch a-wa-a-y, preserve, preserve, preserve your rights, and free A-mer-i-kay!”

“And free A-mer-i-kay!” the crew echoed.

At the helm, the captain grinned and moved the tiller to compensate for a slight shift in wind. Amidships, Dalby, clutching his ribs and complaining about a stitch in his side, worked to repair the hole in one of the jibs, now laid out on the deck around him. At the rail, the crew eagerly crowded for their first glimpse of the mighty American squadron.

Even Kestrel seemed to lift her bows and dance.

“Torn from a world of ty-rants, beneath this western sky! We formed a new do-min-ion, a land of liberty! The world shall own we’re free men here and such we’ll ever be-e-e, huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, huzzah, for love and liberty!”

They rounded an island, caught the breeze in their faces, and saw, in glorious, magnificent array, the American fleet spread out before them.

Mira’s first glimpse of it filled her with awe. There they were, so many vessels she could’ve played leapfrog from deck to deck. Nearly a score of armed warships drawn up in a crescent, with the storeships and transports tucked safely behind them. The pride of America. The might of their new country!

“Brendan, look!” she cried, hopping up and down atop the cannon’s sun-warmed barrel.

But her breath caught in her throat. Tall and handsome, the buttons of his blue uniform gleaming in the sun, he captured her heart in a way the glorious American fleet could never do. Her chest swelled with emotion, and she thought her ribs would burst.

He was her captain.

Kestrel was her ship.

And they would do what they had to do for their proud young country.

Now she fully understood how Brendan felt, why it was so important to him to be a part of this glorious effort. Filled with an overwhelming sense of unity and joyous elation, Mira curled her fingers around the fore-shrouds and felt her heart sing with pride. And the crew felt it, too. They laid fond, possessive hands on their ship, touched her gunwales, raised her magnificent red-and-white flag for all to see. The fleet was mighty, but Kestrel was their ship and they were her crew. And as they sailed boldly into the midst of that immense gathering, a thunderous welcoming cheer echoed across the water and filled their ears.

Liam put down his fiddle. “God Almighty, would ye look at that,” he said hoarsely, his blue eyes strangely moist.

Abadiah Bobbs was staring in awe. “Aye, a fine, purty sight, ain’t it?”

“They’re cheering us,” Dalby said, glancing aft at his captain.

But Brendan saw only the stubborn British flag that still flew from the fort—and Captain Henry Mowat’s three sloops-of-war snugged pugnaciously in the harbor’s entrance. Catching Dalby’s eye, he leaned on his cane and raised his speaking trumpet. “Mr. Wilbur! Get the t'gallant and topsails in lest we end up in Bangor! Mr. Doherty! Have your gun captains give the fleet the traditional thirteen-gun salute! And Mr. Starr! I mean, Miss Ashton!” Laughter greeted his momentary error. “Let Freedom lead it off!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” She leapt down from the gun, the wind lifting her skirts and tempting him with a view of suntanned legs and bare feet. A moment later, she was lowering a slow match to the gun’s touchhole. One by one, Kestrel’s guns shattered the peaceful stillness. Deep reverberations rang out across the bay and echoed around heavily wooded islands and mainland alike. Seabirds winged away, screaming. Smoke billowed across the water.

Drawing his spyglass, Brendan trained it on the fleet. There was Commodore Saltonstall’s handsome Continental flagship Warren, her thirty-two guns making her the most powerful vessel here. Nearby lay the Continental sloop Providence, formerly commanded by the plucky John Paul Jones, and now the capable, no-nonsense Captain Hoysted Hacker. The Massachusetts brigs Hazard and Tyrannicide, both of sixteen guns, were anchored off the flagship’s stern, and Connecticut’s General Putnam was visible just beyond her network of spars and shrouds. New Hampshire’s contribution, the twenty-gun Hampden, lay nearer shore, her tall masts almost indistinguishable from the spruce, cedar, and white pine of a nearby island.

Good God, he thought, moving the glass and recognizing others by the shape of their bows, the cut of their sails, the number of guns they carried. And then he saw the privateers. They were the ones who had the most to lose should this heroic expedition fail. Ships like the beautiful Black Prince, Salisbury-built and Salem-owned, one of the finest of her class and commanded by Captain Nathaniel West. And there, swinging at their anchor cables, three Newburyport vessels that had been among the first to volunteer for the Expedition: the sixteen-gun Sky Rocket and the ships Vengeance and Monmouth, both mounting twenty guns. Their crews were thick at the rails, wildly waving to Kestrel’s crew and yelling greetings across the water. He lowered the glass. There were just too many to recognize, too many to count.

Gunfire boomed out over the water, and he realized that Warren herself was firing her cannon in thunderous salute to Kestrel. Signal flags soared to her masthead and broke to the wind.

“Orders from Commodore Saltonstall, sir.” John Keefe craned his neck, his silver hair roiling about his face as he tried to see above the heads of his shipmates. “He wants you to repair aboard the flagship with all possible haste.”

Brendan grinned, sighed, and thrust his hand though the lanyard of his speaking trumpet. He swung the instrument once around his wrist. “Just as I expected.” He saw Mira watching him from where she stood beside Freedom, her green eyes shining with love and pride. What was she thinking? What did she expect of him? He nodded to her and turned smartly to his lieutenant. “Liam, I’m leaving you in command. See that you take good care of both our fine lassies. Hopefully the commodore will be merciful and not detain me for too long.”

Liam, who knew his captain was a restless man not inclined to waste time in a social call, predicted, “Well, he’ll probably be expectin’ ye to join him fer supper. He’ll detain ye, all right, if ye let him.”

But Brendan was grinning his rakehell’s grin and rubbing his hands together. “Well then, I shall have to make certain he does not, eh?”

Liam raised his brows. “And why don’t ye be a-tellin’ me how ye plan to do that?”

“Certainly.” Brendan’s eyes were deceptively innocent, like a wayward youngster playing a prank on his schoolmaster. “I shall bring him a . . . contribution. Something for supper, I think. Mr. Starr! I mean, Miss Ashton!”

“Captain!”

“Do you have any more of those blueberry pies you, er, baked and brought aboard last night?”

“Sure do! Got a whole bunch of ’em!”

“Ah, wonderrrful!” Liam and Brendan exchanged knowing grins. “Please fetch one and bring it to me immediately!”

Beaming with pleasure, Mira raced across the deck and ducked below.

Liam’s face went dark with foreboding. “Ye’re askin’ fer it this time, Brendan. This ain’t the way to get on Saltonstall’s good side, ye know.”

But Brendan only laughed and tossed him his speaking trumpet. He had his own worries—and Saltonstall’s reaction to Mira’s blueberry pie wasn’t one of them.

Seated in Warren’s great cabin amidst the other captains of the fleet, Brendan read the urgent letter that anxious members of the Navy Board in Boston, some one hundred seventy miles away, had rushed off to the commodore urging him to either capture or destroy the three English sloops-of-war—immediately.

“But I can’t send in my ships until Lovell’s forces reduce the fort!” Saltonstall protested, his face reddening as he faced the Providence’s pugnacious captain, Hoysted Hacker, from across a table laid with silver and crystal.

“If we do not stop procrastinating and destroy those ships, the British reinforcements that General Washington warned us about are going to arrive and take care of us!” Hacker barked.

“Would ye have me risk yer vessels at the guns of that fort?”

“I’d rather take my chances with the fort than with British men-of-war! They come up that bay and trap us in, and it’s all over for us!”

“I think we should go in,” Brendan said, piling a sizable helping of roast chicken on his plate. “From what you’ve told me, you’ve been having these councils of war nearly every night, and still haven’t taken any action. Either you or General Lovell must make a move. Hoysted’s right. I’ve read his proposal of attack, and find it sound. If you do not do something, and do it soon, those reinforcements will arrive and trap all of us in the bay.”

“Ah, what do you know, you’re just a bloody Irishman,” Saltsonstall growled.

“Who made quite a name for himself in His Majesty’s navy before defecting to our side!” Hoysted roared, in Brendan’s defense.

Captain William Burke of the Newburyport ship Sky Rocket leapt to his feet. “Aye, that schooner of his holds a record all of us envy and none of us can match!”

“You ought to be right proud of him!” snarled Captain John Edmonds, of the Defense. “We’re lucky to have him, and so soon after that bloody knave Crichton nearly killed him!”

“Aye, it ought to be Merrick leading this farce!” Hoysted snapped, gripping his fork.

Brendan, uncomfortable, cleared his throat and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Here, now,” he said, holding up his hand. “We’ll not accomplish anything if we fight amongst ourselves.” He poured himself a glass of buttermilk to wash down a bit of ship’s biscuit. Normally the bread was almost inedible, but after Mira’s cooking, it was like ambrosia. He eyed the as yet untouched pie that sat ominously on the far end of the table. “And think of it. Lovell’s militia is ill trained and skittish. They were lucky to take the western part of Bagaduce as it is, what with those banks being so steep. Give Revere credit, ’twas no easy task. Now morale is dropping and men are deserting. We, on the other hand, are experienced naval officers and capable commanders. Let us go in and take out Mowat’s three sloops. ’Twill hearten Lovell’s militia and give them courage.”

“He’s right. Listen to him, sir!” said Titus Salter, commander of the Hampden.

“Aye, the bloody Irishman knows what he’s talkin’ about!”

“Englishman,” Burke said, grinning.

Saltonstall’s face darkened and he set his jaw. Even his own captains were against him. Lovell ought to attack first, not him! Let him and his precious Paul Revere go in and take the fort, then he’d send his ship captains in!

Benjamin West, captain of the Black Prince, poured himself a glass of claret and spoke for all of them. “Sir, we depend upon the swiftness of our vessels and miles of open ocean for our very survival. Read the blasted letter from Boston,” he pleaded. “Consider Washington’s warning. We’re sitting ducks up here. Hacker’s right, Merrick’s right, everyone’s right. Let’s just get in there, destroy those three ships, and hightail it out of here. I’ve no desire to be penned into this bay, twenty-five miles from the ocean, like a cat treed by hounds with nowhere to go but up. And if those British reinforcements arrive—”

“That’s just what’ll happen!” Hacker barked.

“Aye!”

“Do something now!”

“Get on with it!”

They fought. They quarreled. Lovell and his officers were called in, and after much discussion, the general accepted Captain Hacker’s plan on how his ragtag militia could occupy and hold a position behind the British fort. The ship captains agreed to force their way into the harbor; after all, their vessels were superior to those of the British, and destruction of Mowat’s three sloops was essential. Without their protection, all aid and provisions going into the British fort would be stopped—and the British General McLean would have no choice but to surrender.

On the third day of August, eight ships under the command of Vice Admiral Sir George Collier had left port, turned their prows north, and headed toward Penobscot to relieve the besieged General Francis McLean and Captain Henry Mowat. British spirits were high, confidence strong. In the vanguard was the vice admiral’s powerful sixty-four-gun flagship Raisonnable; in the midst were several large men-of-war; and in the rear was a sullen frigate named Viper.

The squadron, hampered by fog, rendezvoused off the entrance to the great Penobscot Bay on the evening of August 13, where their presence sent a panicky American vessel on picket duty fleeing upriver to warn the American commodore Saltonstall and his fleet. But Sir George Collier, in command of His Majesty’s naval forces in American waters, was not worried. Although the rebels had more ships than he did, his men-of-war could withstand far more abuse than the fragile privateers, or even Saltonstall’s thirty-two-gun Warren. The American militia was raw and ill trained; he, on the other hand, had more than two hundred guns and some fifteen hundred well-trained and enthusiastic men.

He went to bed that night confident of victory. He had heavy, powerful ships manned by the finest navy in the world. He had the element of surprise. And he had one of Sir Geoffrey Lloyd’s—since retired to his fine home in Kent—most ambitious captains, a man he bore no liking for, but a man who was desperate enough to go to any lengths to prove himself after several past disgraces.

Captain Richard Crichton of the frigate Viper.

That Friday, Brendan paced his cabin, going over the agreement that had finally been reached between Lovell and Saltonstall. Upon a favorable tide in the afternoon, they would make a coordinated attack. Lovell himself would lead some four hundred of his men to a position behind the British fort, where his presence would sever contact between McLean and Mowat. Once that had been done, Saltonstall would send in his ships and destroy the three sloops-of-war.

Five of Saltonstall’s ships were anchored at the harbor entrance, waiting for high tide. Above, Brendan could hear the crew quickly readying Kestrel for impending battle. His fingers tightened on his cane and he tried in vain to shake the heavy, overwhelming feeling of doom. Just beyond the stern windows the sea swelled and surged and danced in the noon sunlight; beneath him, Kestrel rolled at her anchor cable, unhappy that she was not one of the lucky ones being sent in against Mowat’s sloops. He really should go topside; by now, Lovell would be in position and ready. Any moment now they’d get the signal that the American forces had taken position at the rear of the fort.

But this waiting. . . .

His hands were sweating.

He was dizzy, light-headed, faint. Was it the heat? His lingering weakness? The tedium of waiting? As Ephraim might’ve done, he drew his watch, shoved it restlessly back into his pocket, and tried to keep his mind off his poor health by recalling Saltonstall’s reaction to Mira’s pie. His mouth curved in amusement. Pleading a stomachache that had “hit him in the gut like a ball from a six-pounder,” the surly commodore had cut short last night’s council of war and sent them all back to their ships with curses ringing in their ears.

So much for blueberry pie. And, he thought wryly, lengthy meetings where nothing got accomplished. He was back aboard Kestrel by six bells.

But as he’d held Mira in his arms last night, staring into the darkness and listening to the owls hooting off in the Maine woods, the ominous feeling of impending disaster had grown so strong, he’d finally had to rise from bed and go topside. There, he’d spent the rest of the long night watching the lights from the fleet glowing upon the silent waters, his Irish heart filled with dread. He’d thought of Saltonstall’s incompetence and unpopularity. He’d thought of the poorly trained militia. He’d thought of the British reinforcements they all feared—and then he’d thought of Mira’s blueberry pie.

Tired and sad, he’d forced a grin as he gently shook her awake early this morning.

“Moyrrra, lassie! Wake up, grá mo chroí! I’ve a task to occupy you while we suffer another day of waiting.”

He, of course, knew that today there’d be no waiting. Today they would attack, and he wanted her off the ship and safe. Stretching like one of her Rescue Efforts, Mira opened her eyes. She looked up at Brendan through a tangled curtain of thick, silky hair, smiling as he reached down and cleared it from her cheek.

“Dia dhuit ar maidin,” he said, grinning to cover his own sadness, his apprehension.

“Good morning to you, too, Captain,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her shirt gaping enticingly open, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed his cheeks, his nose, his lips, until hot desire flared in his loins. “And what is this task that’s so urgent you can’t let me sleep?”

He smiled down at her, hiding his hands behind his back so she wouldn’t see them shaking. “The commodore was quite impressed with your blueberry pie,” he said, hating himself for lying. “I think it would please him if you baked him another. Would you like to go ashore and gather some more blueberries, mo stóirín?”

Her eyes lit up like a little girl’s. “You mean the commodore liked my pie? He actually liked it?”

“Oh, he was just, er, raving about it!”

She was out of bed in a flash. He caught her up in his arms and managed to swing her around without collapsing, his heart lurching painfully in his chest. Her feet hit the table and spilled a bottle of ink all over the drafts he’d been working on of Matt’s new ship. Her hair swirled around her shoulders and scented the air with the sweetness of roses. But by midmorning, she was safely off the ship and accompanied by two well-armed backwoodsmen who served as Kestrel’s marines, and her ever-protective friend, Abadiah Bobbs.

With a heavy heart, Brendan watched her go.

And then he joined Liam on deck and waited.

It was afternoon when the first warning shots thundered up the bay.

Liam, munching a handful of wild raspberries, wiped the back of his juice-stained hand across his mouth and stared to the south. “What the bloody divil was that?”

Brendan, squinting in the bright sunlight, had been making notes in the log. Now he calmly put his pencil in his pocket, shut the book, and handed it to Zachary Wilbur. He allowed none of the trepidation he felt to show in his eyes as he clasped his hands behind his back and gazed nonchalantly past their prize schooner, anchored nearby, out across miles of shimmering water, to the south.

“God Almighty, Brendan, that sounded like—”

“Shh!”

He cocked his head, listening. A strange silence had settled over the bay, and he pictured the other captains grabbing their spyglasses, training them in the direction of the distant gunfire, fighting back these same butterflies of sudden dread.

There, it came again. A far-off noise like thunder.

Except he knew in his heart that it wasn’t.

“Gunfire, Liam,” he finished. He forced a grin, hoping to bolster the men’s confidence. They’d need every bit of it, and then some. “I believe the enemy has finally arrived.”

Liam passed a huge, shaky hand through his spice-colored curls, leaving them stained with berry juice. And then he glanced at the commodore’s flagship. Moments ago, signals had risen to her mast, telling them that Lovell was in place at the rear of the British fort and the attack could begin; now flags streamed aloft once more.

“Message from Warren, sir,” said John Keefe quietly. “He has Diligent in sight. She reports eight strange sail coming up the bay.”

“Go hálainn,” Brendan said, already reaching for his sketchpad. “Lovely.”

“Think it’s really the British relief forces?” Liam asked.

“Oh, no doubt about that. Certainly not American relief forces, my friend.”

Liam looked at his captain, and the two gazed at each other in silent communication, one thick and brawny and solid, the other tall and elegant and left leaner than he’d ever been by all that he’d recently been through. They had shared many trials together. They had come through many a storm. And they both knew that this would be the worst one yet.

The gunfire came again, closer this time.

“Are ye up to it, Cap’n?” Liam eyed his friend’s pale, drawn features, the arms that had yet to regain all of their sinewy strength.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Liam.”

“Is she up to it, d’ye think?”

“Kestrel?”

“No, the wee lassie. Miss Mira.”

Brendan took off his tricorne and stared down at its gold braid. “I don’t know, Liam. Nor shall I find out.”

“What?”

“I sent her ashore—to pick blueberries.”

“Blue—” Liam’s mouth dropped open. And suddenly he understood. They didn’t need blueberries. They didn’t need another pie that no one dared to touch. Brendan had sent the lassie ashore for her own protection, knowing intuitively that today something huge and significant would happen. Liam shook his head. “Ye’re a clever one, y’know. Always said it and always will.”

“Not so clever, Liam. Would that I could protect all of you like I can my Mira.” He eyed the forlorn and empty Freedom. “I may well regret my decision to send away my best gunner.”

“And ye may well regret yer refusal to tell ol’ Sir Geoffrey the real reason ye switched loyalties. About what Crichton did to ye so long ago—”

“Enough of that, Liam. Let bygones be bygones. And let Sir Geoffrey enjoy his retirement in Kent without the blemishes of the past to haunt him. He’s earned it. Besides, there are other matters that demand my attention right now.”

Liam knew he was still worrying about Mira—and what her absence might cost them. “At least ye have yer other fine lassie,” he said, stroking Kestrel’s sleek rail.

“Aye. Would that I could protect her, too.”

The distant ship’s guns thundered again, followed by others that weren’t her own.

“Well, Liam, shall we ready our lassie for whatever fate holds in store for us?”

“Aye, Brendan. I’ll take care of it. You go down and have yerself a bit o’ refreshment.” He eyed his captain’s pale features, worrying about the glazed look in his eyes that seemed to come and go like a foggy mist. Their leader was not well, and every man on the ship knew it. “And put on that fine coat of yers, too. If she’s a-watchin’ from shore, she’ll think ye look right dashin’ in it.”

Brendan nodded. Oh, he’d put on the coat, all right. If not for Mira’s benefit, then for his crew’s. They’d need a strong, inspiring leader to follow today. They’d need a capable commander at the helm.

Dizziness washed over him, and he pinched his arm, hard, to quell it. But was he strong? Was he capable?

Liam was staring at him, his eyes dark with worry. Fergus and Rama were hauling out those foolish crystals and chanting about past lives. Dalby, holding his gut, was frowning. And some of the men were eyeing him uncertainly.

He couldn’t have that.

“Good heavens, laddies, what are you all staring at, eh? Faith, I’ve never seen such a hesitant bunch of do-nothings! You’d think we were waiting for a funeral. Now look lively, lads, we’ve got company coming for dinner!”

He grinned, playfully punched Liam’s shoulder, and without a further look southward where the formidable British squadron, as yet unseen, was advancing, went below. No one noticed that he’d stuffed his hands beneath his coattails to hide their weakness. No one noticed how he leaned heavily against the bulkhead at the bottom of the hatch until his vision righted itself. No one saw him wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of an unsteady wrist.

But everyone saw him glance a final time toward the deep, choking woods where somewhere, a pretty little lassie was out picking blueberries for a pie that would never be made.

He donned a clean new shirt, a red waistcoat, and his tailored blue coat with its red facings. His knees were weak and he was sweating heavily, a cold, ugly sweat that had nothing to do with his apprehension about the growing battle and everything to do with his body’s infirmity. Coming up through the hatch, he straightened his stock and pulled out the ruffled lace at his wrists.

Liam met him as he came up through the coaming, his face grave.

“Today’s the day, Liam,” Brendan said, with more cheerfulness than he felt.

“Aye, Brendan.” He handed Brendan his sword and pistol. “Don’t push yerself too hard, eh?”

“No harder than ever, Liam. But as hard as I must to see us out of this.”

“Well, just don’t ye be thinkin’ about that lassie. She’ll be just fine, right where ye put her.”

He nodded, and mustered a grin. “Yes . . . Why, she’ll have the best seat in the house, won’t she?”

As he emerged on deck, over fifty worried faces turned toward him, and some of the men began to cheer. More and more joined in, inspired by the sight of their dauntless young captain, until the whole ship rang with the wild thunder of their voices.

“Huzzah! Huzzah!”

“Three cheers for the Captain from Connaught!”

“And for Kestrel, too!”

But he merely nodded, grinned, and drawing his spyglass, went to the rail. The prize schooner they’d taken earlier rolled in the swells nearby, and Brendan regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. Then, bracing himself against the shrouds, he trained the instrument off the starboard beam toward the choking wilderness and held it there for a long time. Finally the glass began to shake in his hands. Somewhere out there was a little green-eyed lass with hair that wouldn’t stay out of her eyes, and a skill with a cannon that he’d never need more. But she would be safe.

And then he swung the glass forward.

There was Diligent, storming up the bay with signal flags streaming from her mast. On the horizon he could just make out tiny puffs of clouds, like a squall coming in from the sea.

Except they weren’t clouds at all.

Dalby pressed close to his elbow, and in a voice filled with doom, relayed the awful message. “The enemy’s in sight, sir.”

Brendan lowered the glass. Unbidden, his gaze went to Freedom, standing alone in her red-painted carriage. High above, the raking masts rose into the sky, swaying and creaking as Kestrel rolled uneasily at her mooring. Aft, the proud American flag billowed in the wind.

He laid a comforting hand atop the schooner’s gunwale. Kestrel was nervous. The men were nervous. He was nervous.

Again he eyed that empty gun, suddenly wishing he’d have Mr. Starr by his side for their most desperate fight yet.

Chapter 31

“If ye’d stop eatin’ them berries, Bobbs, the lady’d be able to gather enough to make a pie out of! How the hell’s she supposed to do that if ye keep stuffin’ yer face, huh?”

Abadiah scratched at his mole. The captain had told him to keep Mira out here as long as possible. He’d seen the desperate look in those russet eyes, the tension that tightened that laughing mouth. Oh, he’d keep her out here till hell froze over if he had to. Their captain had never steered them wrong yet. If he anticipated something bad, then Abadiah would trust his judgment. “Why don’t ye just shut up, Stan? You’re eating more than I am.”

“Am not!”

“Are, too!”

“Keep it up and the two of you’ll be out behind the rocks with the shi—”

“Really, Miss Mira, if your father could hear such language!”

“My father’s the one I learned it from,” she announced, grinning saucily. Her hair fell down over one eye, and impatiently she tossed it back over her shoulder. She was hot, sticky, and growing tired. “Let’s go back now, Bobbs. I think we have enough blueberries.”

“Not enough to make a pie with,” he said hastily.

“So? I’ll fill up the space with something else.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Hardtack? Raisins? Some of that fish chowder—”

“Fish chowder?”

“Well, there’s milk in fish chowder, and you’re supposed to drizzle milk over the crust, aren’t you?” she snapped defensively. “If you can put it over the crust, I don’t see any reason why you can’t put it in the pie. And furthermore—”

Bobbs’s grizzled head suddenly jerked up. “Jee-zus, what was that?”

“What was what?”

“That noise! It sounded like thunder!”

“Probably a storm coming in,” growled Stan, leaning on his rifle.

Mira yanked her hair free of a pricker bush and placed berry-stained hands on her hips, listening. And then she heard it, too. Her face blanching, she clawed the hair out of her eyes and stared at Abadiah Bobbs. “That’s not thunder, Abadiah!”

He lowered his pail. “Nay, girl, I don’t think it is.”

The other marine, clad in buckskin and a beaver hat, slapped at a mosquito and popped a blueberry into his mouth. “’Tis, too, thunder. I’ve been out in enough storms to know thunder when I hear it.”

“That ain’t thunder; it’s gunfire, and you know it!” Mira cried. “I’ll bet the British reinforcements have arrived!”

“God help us,” Stan whispered, blanching.

Abadiah grabbed at her sleeve and caught only a branch that slapped him across the face. “Mira, wait!” But she was already tearing through the thick brush, stumbling over roots and stumps, her hair catching in thick branches, her boots sliding on boulders slick with moss. Grabbing his pail, Abadiah tore after her, crashing through the woods with the two marines close behind. “Mira!”

“Brendan!” she cried. “Oh God, we have to reach the ship!”

They tore out of the trees, raced down the beach, and slid to a halt on the slimy, seaweed-covered rocks. Mira’s heart skipped a beat and filled her throat. Dread snaked up her spine. There, coming up the bay, was Diligent, the ship that Saltonstall had posted as a lookout twenty-five miles downriver at the entrance to the bay. Far behind her was the other lookout, Active. And far, far off in the distance, almost indistinguishable in the haze, were the sails of a mighty fleet.

“For God’s sake, hurry up!” Mira screamed, dropping her pail and running for the little boat they’d dragged up on the beach. Already the tide was coming in, lapping at its keel. “Brendan needs us! Kestrel needs us!”

“No, Mira.” Abadiah grabbed her arm. “Look.”

She flung the hair out of her eyes and followed his gaze. The color drained from her face. There was the American fleet, some of them already weighing anchor. There was Warren, signal flags soaring up her masts and calling a halt to the attack.

Attack? What attack?

And there was Kestrel.

Sail was blooming at her nose, climbing her sharply raked masts, and filling with clean, strong wind. Guns poked from hastily opening gunports. She was not dropping anchor like the others, but turning her face south—toward the enemy.

“Brendan!” Mira screamed at the top of her lungs. “Damn you, don’t leave me!”

Water reflected off Kestrel’s glossy black hull, then her tallowed underside, as she heeled gracefully and, with the prize schooner also weighing anchor to follow her, moved quietly downriver in stately, majestic hauteur. Away from the fleet. Away from her.

Watching the two ships, Mira cursed and swore and screamed until her voice went raw in her throat. It took Abadiah and both of the marines to hold her down. And as she watched the little schooner sail bravely away to face the enemy, Mira vowed that if Kestrel survived, it would be the last time Brendan would ever run away from her again.

“What the bloody deuce is that damned Irishman up to now?” Crichton thundered, grabbing his glass from a stunned Myles and training it on the oncoming schooner. “Is he insane?”

Myles sniffed and dug at his pockmarked face. “I would give him more cleverness than his peers, sir. At least he’s going to try to make a run for it. They, on the other hand, will be sitting ducks when Sir George’s ships move in.”

“If I know Merrick, he’s not running, he’s up to something! And I don’t give a damn about the rest of the fleet. I want that schooner and I want Merrick! You think I really care about those other cursed rebels? You think I persuaded the new admiral to assign me to this squadron just for the jolly hell of it?” Crichton slammed the glass shut and thrust it into his lieutenant’s hand so hard it nearly broke the man’s finger. “I joined it because I knew Merrick would be a part of it, and I wasn’t mistaken. This time he won’t escape me!”

Myles, who was inclined to let bygones be bygones after their last humiliating brush with the Captain from Connaught, shrugged and picked at the cuff of his sleeve. “Honestly, sir, perhaps we should forget about this one schooner and one privateersman when there’s the whole American fleet just sitting—”

Fuming, Crichton spun around and cracked the back of his hand across Myles’s face. “Dare you question my wishes? That one schooner is my ticket to flag rank! That one privateersman is the reason I never got it in the first place! He owes me, Myles! And this time he’s going to pay up!”

“Yes, sir,” Myles said, sullenly rubbing his cheek.

“Now, get forward and run out the bow chasers. Have the men beat to quarters and load every gun with grape. Should Merrick try to get past me, I’ll blast him and that damned schooner to kingdom come!”

His milky eyes glowing with a fanatical light, Crichton gripped the rail, set his jaw, and waited.

“Make five . . . six . . . eight enemy sails, sir, standing up the bay!”

“Thank you, Mr. Reilly.” Looping the lanyard of his speaking trumpet over his wrist, Brendan calmly pulled out his sketchpad. So be it, then. Eight British ships against Saltonstall’s twenty. Ought to be a good fight. Drawing his knife, he sharpened his pencil and made a test mark on the clean white paper. This was definitely one battle he wanted to save for posterity.

Liam was at his elbow, his face going purple. “God Almighty, Brendan, don’t ye think ye ought to be mindin’ the ship just this once, instead of playin’ artist?!”

“Minding the ship? Faith, Liam, that’s your job. Tell Mr. Wilbur to see to that foresail, would you? She’s luffing a bit. I don’t want the vice admiral to think I’ve lost my penchant for perfection. And oh, Liam, while you’re at it, do get your fiddle out and strike up a lively tune, would you?”

Liam stared at him. “Somethin’ Irish?”

“No, something American, I think. Such as . . . oh, I don’t know. ‘Yankee Doodle’? Actually, I think ‘Free America’ might do quite nicely.”

Fergus McDermott, clutching a crystal in one hand and a Bible in the other, nervously eyed Freedom. “But we don’t have Miss Mira to sing it for us.”

“And we don’t know all the words,” added George Saunders.

“Fine, then make them up as you go.” Brendan grinned and tapped his pencil against the sketchpad. “That’s what she would do!”

He turned away, pretending blithe indifference when, in truth, he was anything but blithe, and anything but indifferent. He swallowed hard. There was an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his old injury as he looked at the forlorn and lonely Freedom. Mira. At least she would be safe. Furious with him, surely—but safe.

Hurriedly he put pencil to paper and sketched out the admiral’s flagship, unaware of the whispered comments of his crew.

“Captain’s ailin’. Look at the way his hands are shaking. He can barely hold that sketchpad of his, let alone draw on it.”

“And he’s leaning against that mast as though he’s trying to hold it up.”

“He ain’t recovered yet, Reilly. He ought to be abed, not on the deck of a warship.”

“Think he’s up to it?”

“Nay, he’s not up to it! But there still ain’t no captain in this here fleet I’d rather be with than our Brendan!”

They watched as he went to the rail, pretending not to notice the way he hooked an elbow through the shrouds to keep his balance, the way he braced a hip against the gunwale, the way his gaze kept straying to the woods where they’d left Miss Mira.

“Makin’ six knots, sir,” Liam said gravely.

“Hoist the topsails and let’s try for seven.”

“Might need the t’gallant fer that, sir.”

“Fine, Liam, then hoist it, too.” Pulling out his spyglass, Brendan trained it on the vice admiral’s flagship, studying her lines, her sail set, the way she cleaved the water. Finally he lowered the glass, his hand quickly and expertly putting to paper what he’d seen. The man-of-war’s big courses were bloated, her topsails clewed up for battle, her mighty stem plowing the water. She had sixty-four guns against Kestrel’s ten. A crew of hundreds against his fifty. He pitied Saltonstall. And an experienced admiral against a cowardly commodore.

He wondered if he’d survive long enough to get a taste of the infamous Mill Prison—and decided he’d rather die first.

“I don’t hear your fiddle, Liam!”

“God Almighty, Brendan, what about the commodore?”

“The commodore shall thank me for diverting the enemy long enough for him to think out his next—and only—move. Mr. Keefe! We must make it look like we’re trying to escape to sea, do you understand? The entire British navy is after our little Kestrel. ’Tis a gamble, but if we can lure at least a few of them to follow us, then it might allow Saltonstall the time he needs to gather his forces and prepare to meet the British fleet.”

“That’s gambling a lot, sir!”

“I know that, Mr. Keefe, and we’re going to take a beating doing it. But we’re the only chance the commodore has. Let’s hope he’s a survivor and takes the opening we shall give him! Now signal our prize and tell her to stay close on our heels, and when I tell you to swing to larboard, I want you to go to starboard!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Hands to the sheets and prepare to come about! Gunners, to stations and load up with grape, double-shotted! Mr. Saunders, you may take Mr. Starr’s place on Freedom. No singing, please! Mr. Wilbur, shake out the fore topsail! And, Dalby, please let go of my sleeve!”

“But, Captain, my stomach—”

Liam was there, hauling Dalby away. “Leave the cap’n be, Dalb! Ye know he hates to be bothered when he’s doin’ a sketch . . .”

But Brendan was no longer sketching. Dividing his attention between the oncoming British ships and his men, he directed his crew with brisk gestures of his spyglass. “Run out the starboard battery, Mr. Doherty! I want to fool Sir George into thinking we’ll loose the starboard guns when, in truth, ’twill be the larboard ones! And larboard gunners, keep down lest our fine British friends see you! Get those topsails hung, Mr. Wilbur! Lively, now! Faith, you people are slower than molasses today!”

Men, bare-backed and barefoot, raced each other up the shrouds. Aft, the prize schooner was left wallowing in their foamy wake as Kestrel lifted her bows, spread her wings, and gathered speed, her pennants snapping and streaming in the wind.

Above, the topsails made a noise like thunder before being sheeted home.

Brendan stroked the schooner’s sleek rail. “A wee bit faster, lassie. ’Tisn’t much I ask of you. . . .”

Beneath the bows, the keen of water grew higher and higher in pitch as Kestrel answered his gentle plea. Wind sang in the rigging, and the great foresail curved like a drum against the bright blue sky. Spray hissed at the bow, drove back in the wind, flecked Brendan’s cheeks with a damp mist. He licked his lips and tasted salt.

“Six an’ a half knots, Brendan.”

“Go hálainn, Liam, but I want seven!”

He’d be lucky to get it. Not in this wind. He put his hands behind his back and braced himself against the gunwale, the dizziness striking with swift and sudden force.

Another three minutes and they’d be in easy range of Raisonnable’s guns.

“Seven knots, sir!”

Two minutes.

He hung his head, fighting to stay on his feet. “Sheet in foresail and main!”

The crew stared at the massive, oncoming man-of-war. Every breath caught in every throat. Panic widened frightened eyes. Liam wrapped his big, brawny hands around the mainsheet. Kestrel quivered in fear, driving closer and closer to the mighty two-decker, now rising above her like a fortress. . . .

“Our father, who art in heaven—” Fergus was chanting.

Dalby, pale with terror, clutched his gut and whispered, “Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done—”

“On earth as it is in heaven!” Brendan slammed his speaking trumpet to his lips. “Larboard your helm, Mr. Keefe, and let fly. . . . Now!”

The tiller went over, hard. The big mainsail boom skated over their heads and to the other side. Kestrel danced across the wind, her bowsprit sweeping over the rippling water, toward the oncoming flagship, past it, farther and farther, aligning now on the hazy mainland, the islands. . . .

“Straighten her out, John! For the love of God, now!”

Kestrel nosed back toward the wind, her sails a-thunder, her rigging shaking—and then the man-of-war’s broadside crashed out, around, above, and beside them. A hail of iron slammed into the little schooner’s flanks and ripped through rigging and sails alike. Debris rained down on the deck, splashed into the sea. Kestrel shuddered, lurched, hesitated—

“Come on, lassie, you can do it!”

—and dove through the hole in the thick black smoke.

“We’re hit!” Liam screamed. “God Almighty, Brendan, we lost the fore tops’l mast—”

Dimly Brendan heard Raisonnable’s broadside crash out again. The deck trembled beneath his feet, and the world seemed to explode as his own guns bellowed in impudent reply. Thick, choking smoke drove back in his face. Spent powder burned his nose. Masts swayed and yards shook as Kestrel, pitching and yawing, fought valiantly to make headway.

Dizzily he staggered to the tiller and wrestled it out of Keefe’s hands, its solid support the only thing keeping him on his feet. “We’re almost through, lassie! Don’t fail me now!”

Kestrel, shuddering, clawed upward, trying desperately to regain her balance. Gathering her courage, she answered her captain and bravely swung herself back toward the mighty flagship. Moments later, she was safely past the huge two-decker and showing a fleet pair of heels to the vice admiral’s flag.

Kestrel’s crew went wild, cheering and tossing their hats in the air.

“We did it! We did it!” Liam was jumping up and down, pounding his great fist against the rail in triumph. “God Almighty, Brendan we did it! They’ll follow us, right out to open sea if we want ’em to! The commodore’ll be a-thankin’ ye up ’n’ down when he sees what ye’ve done fer him! Brendan?” He raced aft. “Brendan! Easy there, laddie.” And caught his captain as he fell, supporting him beneath the shoulders in his massive, brawny arms.

His head spinning, Brendan raised his arm and pointed with his spyglass through the parting smoke. “Not yet, we haven’t, Liam.” He shut his eyes and fell back against his friend’s chest. “Look . . .”

Liam’s gaze followed his captain’s arm. His eyes bulged, and the triumphant grin froze on his face.

For there, blocking the way to the open sea, was HMS Viper.

At midnight the American general Solomon Lovell, several miles north of Kestrel, gave the order to evacuate the peninsula. The panicky militia was put aboard the transports, and these were protectively herded behind the swift and well-armed warships. Ammunition was hastily loaded, artillery gathered, supplies collected. By eight o’clock the following morning, the mighty American fleet was fleeing up the narrowing river, where Lovell hoped the British fleet, with their deeper-drafted men-of-war, would be unable to follow. But follow they did, and thwarted by an ebb tide, the Americans finally dropped anchor and prepared to face Sir George’s ships.

At noon Commodore Saltonstall made his most decisive move since the Expedition had arrived in Penobscot.

Calling off his defenses, he signaled for every ship to fend for itself.

From shore, Mira, Abadiah, and the two marines watched in stunned horror as a southerly breeze drove the British squadron closer and closer. But the Americans didn’t turn and fight. One by one the warships and skittish privateers weighed anchor and raised sail.

“Bloody hell, Saltonstall’s giving the order to retreat!” Stanley yelled. “C’mon, we have to follow them!”

“There ain’t no place to retreat to—but farther upriver!” Abadiah cried.

Frantic, they raced along the heavily wooded shoreline, terrified of losing sight of their ships and desperately trying to keep pace with them. Seeing the Americans’ flight, the British piled on more sail, and even Mowat’s three sloops came out of their lair and joined the fray.

What had been a pursuit was now a downright rout.

Chaos reigned. Screams and shouts and gunfire shattered the quiet of the great woods, echoed over the bay. Defenseless, the heavily laden transports wallowed like tubs as the fleet warships that were supposed to protect them crowded on all sail and, with the British in hot pursuit, fled upriver, passing them one by one and leaving them to the mercy of the enemy. It was a sight that the helpless militia aboard them—and the little party of stranded mariners on shore—would never forget.

Swift Yankee brigs, their sails spread to catch the wind at their sterns, bolting upriver with their tails between their legs. Mighty square-riggers, their wakes streaming behind them. Privateers and state ships and Continental vessels—and Warren herself, with Saltonstall’s flag fluttering shamefacedly at her mast.

All fleeing.

The utter humiliation and disgrace of it wrung the tears from their eyes. Sobbing, Mira sank down and buried her face in her knees. Why didn’t they turn and make a stand? Why, why, why? She stood up and clenched her fists at her sides. Clawing her hair from her streaming cheeks, she screamed, “Damn you, Saltonstall! You cowardly bucket of spineless slime! Turn around and fight!”

Sunset came and went, and darkness cloaked the Maine woods. One of the transports fell into enemy hands; another. And then, out in the river, a mighty explosion lit up the night in a spectacular display of disgrace. A great sigh went up from Mira’s little band. The Americans were setting the transports afire to prevent their seizure by the enemy. By the light of their funeral pyres, the militia waded dejectedly ashore and watched mutely as their ships went up in flames.

And then the proud warships and privateers began to follow suit.

One drove against the far shore and, moments later, exploded into flames that soared high into the night as its crew, unwilling to let it fall into British hands, torched it. Off to the right another blew up, belching a fountain of orange sparks into the tall pines and scorching their fringed branches. The horrible scent of burning pitch, tar, and canvas filled the air as the privateers died. Tears raced from Mira’s eyes, tracing paths down her smoke-blackened cheeks and reflecting the sad flames.

Oh, Brendan . . . She covered her eyes with her hands, unable to bear the sight. Oh, thank God you made it to sea and don’t have to see this. Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God—

Abadiah Bobbs grabbed her wrist and pointed downriver. Through the glowing orange smoke. Through the tangle of American and British warships, and the fires that lit up the night and the entire surface of the river itself. Toward the south.

There, heading toward them, her black hull reflecting the flames, every sail set and her proud colors streaming from her gaff, was Kestrel.

She hadn’t gone to sea after all.

And then Mira’s heart lodged in her throat. In hot pursuit was a frigate, her very size dwarfing the little Kestrel.

Mira fell back against Abadiah’s arm.

That frigate was Viper.

Some tried in vain to get past the British squadron and out to sea.

None, save Newburyport’s Pallas, succeeded.

The brigantine Defense, of Beverly, went aground. New Hampshire’s Hampden engaged one of the men-of-war, lost the fight, and was surrendered. Headed off as she tried to scoot between Long Island and the mainland, the eighteen-gun Hunter lurched ashore and was abandoned. With the exception of Kestrel and her prize schooner, the rest of the American fleet fled upriver.

Brendan stood solemnly on the deck of his doomed ship, surrounded by his crew. His plan to save Saltonstall had been for naught. And now they were trapped with the rest of the Americans.

Faces were long and sad in the flickering orange light of the flames. Eyes were haunted; nobody spoke.

Beneath his feet, Kestrel rolled uneasily.

Ahead, the river narrowed and would grow impassable. Behind, their escape was prevented by British men-of-war and the frigate Viper. There was nothing more to do, nowhere left to go.

Near shore, an American ship went up in flames with a terrible, rushing roar, and then a mighty explosion as the fire found her powder magazine.

Brendan took a deep and bracing breath. He touched the rail and felt Kestrel trembling all the way down to her keel.

I can’t, he thought. He stroked the rail and swallowed the hard, burning lump in his throat. You’re my lassie . . . I can’t destroy you. . . .

But he couldn’t allow her to fall into British hands, either.

To larboard, Defense blew up, screaming like a live thing as the flames roared up her masts and, in seconds, consumed her sails and swallowed them whole. Sickened, Brendan turned away, unable to watch the awful death.

“I can’t,” he said aloud.

No one spoke. Kestrel surged restlessly beneath him, fearful, suddenly wary.

The British ships moved closer, already moving to surround him.

He took off his hat and raked shaking hands through his hair. His vision swam and his heart was burning a hole in his chest. The old scar ached. He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, careful to keep the emotion out of his eyes. But to muster a grin was too much. He looked at the ships dying around him, the smoking remains of the once proud American fleet—and knew what he had to do.

“Liam,” he said quietly, “bring me some hemp and a lantern from belowdecks.”

Kestrel was shaking. Pleading. Begging.

“Brendan . . . what’re ye goin’ to do?”

“The only thing I can do.” He shut his eyes in agony, his nails biting into his palms. “Torch her.”

Aft, the prize schooner pressed close to Kestrel’s flank as though seeking her protection. His jaw clenched, Brendan stared past her, out over the smoke-clogged water and into the night. Tears stood in his eyes and he hastily turned his back so the crew wouldn’t see.

And then Liam was there, solemnly holding the lantern and a thick piece of hemp.

The time had come.

With trembling hands, he reached for the lantern.

A mile away, Mira and her little party huddled together onshore and watched another blazing hulk come drifting down the river in a thundering wall of bright orange flame and billowing smoke.

A horrible, keening cry of grief rose in her throat, and she turned her sobbing face into Abadiah’s arms to block the sight.

It was a schooner.

Chapter 32

What was left of the mighty American fleet gathered together and, on foot, made the long, exhausting trek back through the Maine wilderness to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Many died in the lonely woods. The true losses were never counted. Starving, dejected, and footsore, they followed the coast and returned to their homes.

On the day that Mira wearily pulled open the Ashton front door, the sun was glowing with that melancholy late afternoon burnish that painted the sides of the house in rust and cast long shadows over the lawn. She was greeted by a sobbing Abigail, a jubilant Ephraim, and the news that Matt and Eveleen were affianced.

She passed the table, set with fine silver and polished crystal. She waded through some twelve or thirteen cats, clapped her hands over her ears at the sound of Ephraim’s great, chiming Willard clock, and retreated to her room without a word to anyone.

She’d never felt so wretched in her life.

And with each hour she was home, the pain only worsened.

Two days after her arrival, she wandered out to the stable and watched her three horses grazing in the paddock. Rigel, his dappled coat shining like gunmetal. El Nath, looking over the fence with his long, inky forelock hanging in his eyes. Shaula, prancing along the perimeter, her white tail raised like a glorious flag.

Once, they had meant everything to her, those horses. Now she could not have cared less about them.

In several of the Market Square stores, merchants displayed brilliantly executed sketches of sea battles and got the high prices they asked for them. Mira, dejectedly buying some flour several days after her return, happened to glance up and see one. She knew who the artist was without even having to look at the signature.

She didn’t go into the store again.

Across High Street their neighbors, no doubt tired of the unreasonable amount of noise coming from the Ashton household, had long since moved out. Now Eveleen and Matt, who had regained the sight in one eye, were planning to move in as soon as they tied the knot.

And down in the Ashton Shipyards, a new ship was taking shape on the ways, not far from where the legendary Kestrel had been built. She would be a brig, sleek and graceful, with a jaunty nose and a tapered tail and masts that scraped the sky. Her figurehead would be a blonde maiden with soft eyes, and the name across her counter would be Eveleen. And her drafts, carefully locked in Ephraim’s office, had been drawn by a naval hero named Merrick, an Anglo-Irishman who’d met his end in the wilderness of Penobscot.

For Mira, the days passed in a thick haze of grief. She didn’t eat. She didn’t think. She didn’t sleep, but spent her nights in the bed that had been Brendan’s, clutching to her heart the pillow that had once cradled his dear head and crying until she had no tears left to cry. The days merged into each other, one after another, until the day of Matt’s and Eveleen’s wedding finally arrived.

It was late afternoon, with celebrations planned far into the night. St. Paul’s Church filled rapidly, despite the heat of the day and the short length of time since the couple had made their announcement, for Matthew Ashton was a Newburyport hero, and the whole town turned out to attend his nuptials. The Reverend Edward Bass sweated in his long robes. The groom looked carefully dressed and resplendent for once; the bride, soft and beautiful in a simple gown of pale blue. Guests sat fidgeting in the hard pews: sea captains wearing their best uniforms, mariners in freshly washed shirts and homespun vests, merchants in silk and velvet with the sweat pouring out of their powdered hair. Men scratched beneath their wigs. Ladies fanned themselves and dabbed at their brows.

The Reverend Bass cleared his throat. Ephraim looked at his watch. Somewhere in the back, a baby yowled and split the tense silence with lusty cries.

“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today. . . .”

Mira heard the words through a foggy, pressing daze. She saw her brother’s gentle smile for his bride, saw something of Brendan in the grin that Eveleen returned. She felt herself smile, desperately wanting to be happy for them. But her own eyes filled with tears.

This was the wedding day I never had. You said you would marry me, Brendan, as soon as you got back to Newburyport. You and I were supposed to be standing up there. But you’re never coming back. You are dead and my reason for living has died with you, and I will never smile again.

Reverend Bass droned on. The shadows grew long. The baby screamed louder and had to be carried out. Outside, a wind came up and the trees rustled, and from far off came the distant roll of what sounded like thunder.

“Captain Ashton, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Matthew stuck out his chest and said in his best quarterdeck voice, “I will.”

“Miss Merrick, would you please repeat after me . . .”

From outside came the mad approach of flying hooves.

The doors of the church burst open and a horseman, breathless, tore off his hat and pressed it to his heaving chest. “Come quick! Two ships’re just off the river’s mouth! There’s gonna be one helluva battle off Plum Island, mark my words!”

The pastor blanched at the horseman’s rough language. In dismay, he watched as a sea captain grabbed his hat, strode down the aisle, and breaking into a run, raced out through the door. Another followed. Another.

“Gentlemen, this is a wedding!”

But that didn’t seem to matter. The Tracys, privateers and shipbuilders themselves, were hard on their heels. One by one, and then as a mass exodus, every sea captain in the church went running out of the church and out the door. Then the seamen went, the fishermen, the fresh-faced boys, and finally the women.

In moments, the big church was nearly empty.

And then the Reverend Bass put down his Bible and, with long robes trailing behind him, hurried down the aisle and out the door, leaving just Mira, her brother, and Eveleen alone in the church.

Matt took a deep breath, and, with a helpless little smirk lifting the corners of his mouth, faced his prospective bride. “Guess we’d better go watch as well, Eveleen. . . . You don’t mind, do you? We can get married when everyone comes back.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” she said, linking her arm with his, and together, they left the church.

And Mira, sinking down into a pew, was alone.

Then, and only then, did she finally allow the tears to flow as off in the distance, some ship engaged another, the thunder of distant cannon bringing back grief-filled memories. On and on it went, each distant report tearing a little piece of her heart out. A long time passed. And then the deep reverberations stilled and from far off, probably down along the riverfront, she heard a wild cheering.

She put her face in her hands and sobbed wretchedly, her heart breaking. Whatever the identity of the victorious ship down there, that glorious welcome should have been Kestrel’s.

Time passed. The cheering was getting louder now. Closer. A carriage raced past in a clatter of wheels and thunderous hooves, the driver yelling something she didn’t hear. Mira sobbed harder. Strands of thick, heavy hair drooped from beneath her mobcap and she pushed them off her damp cheeks. Damn them all, why hadn’t they cheered Brendan when he’d gone off to war, taken his little ship into battle and faced Crichton all alone, sacrificed himself for Matt—

The cheering grew deafening, just outside the church now. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the swelling crowd, numbering in the hundreds, surge past the window, with a man lifted to their shoulders. She heard their voices, raised in excitement and glee. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Let’s make it a double wedding!”

“Aye, a double wedding!”

“Where’s Reverend Bass?”

And Father: “Blast it all, ’bout time ye showed up, and in the nick of time, too! Where the hell were ye? Now, git in there an’ take yer place next to her, dammit! I’m already gittin’ me a daughter-in-law, ’bout time I got a son-in-law, too, and I ain’t waitin’ no longer, ye hear me?!”

“Marry her! Marry her! Marry her!” the people cried.

It became a chant, growing louder—

“Marry her!”

And louder—

“Marry her!”

And louder, until the doors exploded inward and the wild chanting spilled into the church.

“MARRY HER!”

Late afternoon light streamed red-orange across the varnished wood of the pew before her. It slanted through the still-open doors and picked out striations in the wood. And then that light was cut off.

Mira looked up, the sobs catching in her throat. She turned.

There, framed in the doorway with the crowd behind him and pushing him forward, was a tall, immaculately dressed man with a jauntily set tricorne and a weightless grin.

He was holding a sketchpad up for her to see.

On it was a drawing depicting a frigate with a British flag at its masthead, and a beautiful schooner with sharply raked masts.

The schooner, victorious, was firing on the frigate. And the frigate was sinking.

He grinned, and their eyes met across fifty feet of space.

“Mira,” he said.

And it came out, Moyrrra.

Chapter 33

In the big four-poster tester bed in the east bedroom of the Ashton house, a man lay sleeping.

He was tall and handsome and nearly naked, with well-muscled thighs, long legs sprinkled with auburn hair, and bare feet that stuck out over the foot rail by a good ten inches. His was a handsome face, even in sleep; the jaw firm, the lips sensual, the mouth and eyes framed by laugh lines that appeared to get much use. His hair, dark against the white pillowcase, tumbled rakishly over his brow and was the color of September chestnuts, rich and glossy and curling at the ends.

He was her new husband, and he was, by far, the best-looking specimen of his gender Mira had ever seen.

Dawn was breaking just outside. Her eyes still heavy with sleep, Mira rested her cheek against the puckered white scar on his chest and listened to the heart beating so steadily beneath her ear. In all her life, she had never heard a more precious sound. His arm came up to hold her close, and then his fingers twitched and the arm grew heavy and she knew, by the sudden change in his breathing, that he was dreaming. . . .

For Brendan, time had rolled back to the evening before, and he was once again commanding Kestrel’s desperate flight from the sea, the mighty mouth of the Merrimack approaching off their bows, HMS Viper—having chased them all the way from Maine—in hot pursuit, and his sketchbook spread out over his knee and fluttering in the breeze. . . .

“Brendan!”

Liam’s voice, desperate and wild.

“Bren-daaaaan!”

Faith, where was their confidence in him?

Boom! The frigate’s guns thundered behind them, and overhead, a cannonball slapped through the mainsail.

“You won’t be foolin’ Crichton a second time, Brendan! He’ll be wise to you now, and he’ll know where those sunken piers are!”

“Now Liam, I have no intention of leading him into the river. A final reckoning this may be, but I can assure you I have no wish to die this day. Not until I see and wed my wee lassie. Now, prepare to come about; we’re close enough in, I daresay.”

“Close enough in for what?”

“Why, to fight, Liam. What do you think?”

“God almighty, I wish I’d kept us all out to sea a week or two longer after ye collapsed following our escape . . . I ain’t ready for this!”

“Well, you’ll have to be, because I need you. Crichton is running out his guns, and I didn’t get us safely out of Penobscot only to lose Kestrel to him now and in plain sight of Newburyport, as well. Where is my sword? Ah, thank you, Dalby. . . .”

Astern, Viper was gaining on them, her bowsprit growing larger and larger, her great guns coming, one by one, to bear on them.

“Brendan—”

“D’you know, Liam, that when a river the size and length of the Merrimack meets the sea, there will be sandbars, sediment, and shoals for a good mile or so out? I really am glad I had a look at those charts before I came topside.”

“What charts?”

“Why, the ones that say that we’re only in about three fathoms of water, and shoaling fast.”

“Ye’re not leading him into the channel, then?”

“Faith, of course not. We will clear the shoals, and only just. But Crichton, with his deeper draft, will not. Pity that he’s so intent on catching me that he’s thrown all sense and caution to the wind. I expect him to regret his recklessness just . . . about . . . now—”

With a sudden groan and a hideous swaying of her three masts, the British frigate suddenly struck the plateau of sand and sediment that the mighty Merrimack, with its origins in the far distant mountains of New Hampshire, had deposited for a mile out into the sea. One moment, she had been gaining rapidly on them; the next, she had pitched to a sudden stop, her stern swinging violently around with the force of her momentum and her hull beginning to pitch dangerously over as her keel buried itself deep into the sand beneath her bottom. With an awful shrieking scream, her mainmast came down at the same time her guns banged harmlessly out, and on her smoke-wreathed decks, Brendan could hear the confusion and shouts of her crew.

“Shall we just leave her there, Brendan?”

“’Twouldn’t be very Christian, Liam, now would it?”

“Nay, Brendan, I suppose it wouldn’t be. Holy bleedin’ hell!” Liam ducked as some gunner aboard the stricken frigate managed to bring his gun to bear on the schooner, and a hail of iron went screaming overhead. “He’s not going to give up.”

“No, I didn’t expect that he would.” Brendan picked up his speaking trumpet and with an exasperated sigh, yelled, “Ready about, Mr. Keefe! Larboard guns, load and run out!”

Kestrel came across the wind, her great boom went over, and her sails were sheeted home. She continued her turn and then ranged up alongside the frigate, safely out of the range of her broadside, ineffective now with the sharp angle at which the larger ship had impaled herself on the shoals. The frigate’s marines had rallied, though, and now gunshots cracked out from her listing decks, and metal began pinging off Kestrel’s cannon, popping through her sails, and taking chunks out of her railing.

Brendan raised his speaking trumpet. “Will you strike, Crichton?”

“Never!” came the enraged bellow.

“Hull her,” Brendan said simply, already twitching with impatience, for there was a certain lass in a certain Georgian house with a certain anchor out front that he hoped would be waiting for him, and he had better things to be doing than sinking a ship that was already well into her death throes.

Kestrel’s guns roared, and great plumes of water bloomed all along the frigate’s exposed underline as the cannonballs found their mark.

“Again,” Brendan said.

Viper was leaning further over now; too far for her shrouds to support her remaining masts. Grimly, Brendan watched as one by one those shrouds began to snap and the masts, with loud cracks! that sounded like guns going off, split from deep within the hull and tumbled into the sea, taking sails and spars and rigging down with them. A deep rumbling issued from the dying ship as her cannon broke loose from their moorings, charged down the listing decks, and smashed through her bulwarks and into the waves. A last gun cracked out somewhere forward in a final show of fight, and then a lieutenant appeared, clinging to the rail, holding up a white handkerchief because Viper’s once proud colors had fallen into the sea along with her mizzen and there was no flag left for him to lower.

Crichton was nowhere to be seen.

“She’s striking, Brendan,” said Liam, quietly.

“Heave to, and stand by to pick up survivors.”

Viper, dismasted now, was settling by her bows and sinking deeper into the sea, her timbers making awful groans as she began to break apart. Her sailors swarmed her rails, and some began to leap overboard, floundering in the surf, their screams rending the air.

Brendan had seen enough. As Kestrel turned into the wind, sails luffing as she stood helplessly by and watched the death of her nemesis, he called for the boat and, ignoring Liam’s admonitions not to go across to the stricken frigate, climbed down into the little vessel and in moments, was pulling himself up Viper’s sharply listing tumblehome.

Her decks were pure carnage. Planking had buckled when the masts had fallen, guns were scattered, twisted lines and shrouds and rigging were everywhere, and Brendan knew the frigate didn’t have long.

The young officer who had waved his handkerchief at him came forward, his face numb with disbelief that his once proud ship had come to such an inglorious end. Introducing himself as Lieutenant Stafford, he unbuckled his sword, and in defeat, presented it to Brendan as an official surrender of the ship.

“You outfoxed us once again, Captain Merrick,” he said with a rueful smile. He took off his hat and wiped an arm over his forehead. “I tried to warn Captain Crichton that we drew too much water to continue the chase, that there were shoals here, but he was so intent on capturing you that he didn’t listen.” Beneath their feet, the decks gave a sudden lurch, and both men caught at the wreckage of the mizzen to keep their feet. “He never listened. He was blind to all but his own ambition.”

“And where is your commanding officer, Lieutenant?”

For answer, Stafford merely turned, and, picking his way across the sharply listing deck, the tangled cordage, spars and overturned guns, led Brendan aft.

There, lying half-buried beneath the wreckage of what had once been the mizzen’s gaff, was the man who had haunted Brendan’s dreams for the past four years, who had shattered his sister’s life, who had pursued him with a fervor that went beyond fanatical. Only his legs and torso were visible from beneath the sailcloth that had fallen over him when the mast went down, and this was no longer white, but bright, bright red with spreading blood.

“Lift the sail,” Brendan commanded, not wanting to look, but knowing that he must if he was to live the rest of his life without the specter of Crichton hanging over him.

Wordlessly, the lieutenant did as he was asked, and it was enough.

A jagged piece of wood some five feet in length had driven itself straight through Crichton’s bowels, impaling him to the deck.

Brendan turned away. The nightmare was over.

Beneath them, the doomed frigate moaned, and the deck tilted still further over. Wordlessly, Brendan replaced the bloodied sail cloth over Crichton’s face, and straightening up, motioned for Stafford to follow him. Time was running out if they wanted to escape the dying ship.

And he had somewhere he wanted to be.

Moments later, he and Stafford were back aboard Kestrel, whose boat was picking up the remaining survivors, and standing together at the rail as they solemnly watched the frigate’s last moments. Bathed in the fiery afternoon light, Viper sighed and with a deep and awful groan, finally capsized, her tallowed underside glistening wet in the fading afternoon sun. She floated that way for five minutes, maybe ten, then, slowly began to sink.

Brendan felt someone tugging at his arm. “Not now, Dalby.”

But Dalby didn’t answer, the tugging persisted, and with a start, Brendan opened his eyes.

And saw that it was not Dalby, but Mira, and that he lay in his old room at the Ashton house, in his old bed, with his new wife—which was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Nightmare?” she asked, her impish green eyes wide with love and concern.

He smiled and drew her close, pressing his lips against her hair and gazing out through the open window at the dawn just pinkening the sky outside. “Nay, stóirín,” he murmured, softly. “Just a dream. The nightmare, I daresay, is over.”

“Well, then, shall we get up and greet our first day as Captain and Mrs. Merrick?”

“Aye, lass. But first, we have some catching up to do,” he murmured, and pushing his hands beneath her thick, heavy hair, he lowered his head to hers and claimed her lips in a kiss. “A lot of catching up to do.”

Epilogue

The Essex Gazette, September 15, 1779

After setting his prize—not his own ship—afire, and using it to cut a hole through the British fleet at Penobscot and dashing through it to make his escape, the brave Captain Merrick gallantly brought his sharp-sailing schooner Kestrel off Newburyport, where he engaged in a heated battle with Captain Richard Crichton in His Majesty’s frigate Viper that was witnessed by many from the shores of Plum Island.

We are happy to report that despite being outgunned, Captain Merrick managed to get the better of his superior rival and, taking advantage of both tide and the seabed, caused such damage to the British ship that she foundered and sank within sight of all who witnessed this stunning affair.

There was no mention of the brave Captain Merrick’s collapse following his ingenious escape from Penobscot, nor of Lieutenant Liam Doherty’s taking over command of Kestrel and keeping her out to sea for a few weeks, long enough for his captain to recover from the abuse he’d suffered at Crichton’s hands, and a thirty-foot fall from Kestrel’s rigging. But that didn’t matter, as far as Ephraim was concerned.

The important details were all right here.

Upon bringing his schooner safely into Newburyport to the rousing cheers of the town, our heroic Captain Merrick found himself rewarded with the finest prize of all—Miss Mira Ashton— the happy couple tying the knot within moments of Captain Merrick’s triumphant arrival.

Crichton dead and gone, never able to harm his family again. Kestrel tied up down at the wharf, both she and her captain restored to their former glory. Matt and Eveleen happily married, and Mira and her cooking and her bleedin’ cats now Captain Merrick’s problem.

Ahh, life could sure be good, even to an old man.

Cackling with glee, Ephraim Ashton, shipbuilder, picked up the paper and read the passage a second time.

And then he licked the jelly from his fingers so as not to get any on the Marine News section, carefully rolled up the paper, and made his way to Davenport’s Wolfe Tavern, chuckling all the way.

THE END

ABOUT DANELLE HARMON

Bestselling, multi-award winning and critically acclaimed author Danelle Harmon has written ten books, previously published in print and distributed in many languages worldwide. Though a Massachusetts native, she has lived in Great Britain and is married to an Englishman; she and her 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 her website, Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest.

BOOKS BY DANELLE HARMON

Heroes of the Sea Series
The Admiral's Heart
Master Of My Dreams
Captain Of My Heart
My Lady Pirate
Taken By Storm
Wicked At Heart

The de Montforte Brothers Series
The Wild One
The Beloved One
The Defiant One
The Wicked One

DANELLE HARMON'S
CONTACT INFORMATION

Email: Danelle@DanelleHarmon.com

Website: http://www.DanelleHarmon.com

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If you enjoyed reading Captain Of My Heart, please post a review. Books with more reviews are more likely to show up in searches, so I'm thankful for every review! Thank you for reading Captain Of My Heart!

KISSED

Tanya Anne Crosby

To my sweet children, in whose eyes I first knew unconditional love.

Part One

"What sweet thoughts, what longing led them to this woeful pass?"
—Dante

Chapter One

England, Rose Park, April 1763

What sort of man paid to have his sister’s heart broken?

Lord Christian Haukinge tossed the parchment aside, and reclined deeper into the leather desk chair, contemplating the inconceivable notion.

He didn’t bother considering the issue it raised: What sort of man accepted such a proposal? He already knew the answer to that one.

The scribbled letter before him bore no salutation—a deliberate rudeness, a flagrant omission of his title—courtesy though it may be—and his demeanor, as he retrieved the parchment, shifted from indifference to keen irritation. His gaze skimmed the page once more, settling upon the last paragraphs.

... as she seems to have convinced herself no other beau will do, save you, fatuous as it seems, and she has set her face against the new contract I have put before her, clinging to your annulled betrothal simply to defy my wishes, I am forced to offer this proposal. Please consider the above remuneration for your services; the amount is more than adequate for your brief employ, and, indeed, should prove quite useful in the refurbishment of your newly purchased estate. As to that, please accept my condolences.

I am certain you shall wish to begin with all due haste, and look forward to your timely response in this matter. The sooner she has been suitably disillusioned, the sooner you might be compensated for your troubles. For the greater good, I do hope we might overlook the nature of our past relationship, and endeavor to assist each other in persuading my dear, misguided sister in choosing the right-minded course. The advance will assure you see it my way. Accept it in good faith. I shall enlighten you further when we are face-to-face.

Signed simply, Westmoor.

For the greater good?

Bloody bastard.

Christian’s lip curved with contempt—and then a thought occurred to him: If Westmoor knew he’d purchased Rose Park, doubtless his own brother had gotten wind of the fact, as well. Philip was likely choleric with rage, having to discover something of that nature second-or even third-hand. Damn… Christian might have given much to glimpse the expression on his brother’s face when he’d been informed of the fact.

Gazing out from his office window, at the unkept garden, a rueful smile touched his lips. What a family he had; the elder a greedy thief, the younger a contrebandier.

With a sigh he reached back to rip out the satin tie that bound his hair, and then thrust his long fingers through the unpowdered length of it, muttering sourly beneath his breath.

Hell, at least he had no qualms over admitting the fact. Though it might seem appropriate to bear some measure of guilt… too bad he couldn’t muster the sentiment. In fact, he’d burn in hell before he’d regret a damned thing. And that in itself should have disturbed him, he supposed. But it didn’t. Not in the least. He was what he was, and he felt absolutely no remorse for his... enterprising. Supplies were needed in the colonies, and he simply transported those goods. Nor had he any falsely noble incentives to declare. His motives were quite simply self-indulgent.

He wanted money.

Aye, and he wanted respect.

He wanted land.

He wanted more than anything for the sons he intended to sire to all have equal shares of the empire he would build for them. Damned if he’d leave one alone to fend for himself in a world such as this. And nay, it was not so much the lack of title he abhorred, for he might truly have been happy in most any situation—save the one in which he found himself. Youngest son, nonentity.

All that disdain without anyone having known of his greatest social flaw, even. His wry smile deepened. What a field day the gentry would have if they were to discover his bastardy.

All those years he’d settled for what little his father had cared to give him. Which was nothing, not even a momentary-lapse pat on the head, a “good show, son.” Nothing. The only one thing he’d counted on, was his bequest of Hakewell, his mother’s dower land. It was to be hers, until her death, and then it was to go to Christian. And God’s truth, he’d been perfectly content to bide his time, however long that should be, for he cherished his mother and would have her live an eternity were it possible. But he had counted upon that estate someday. And then he’d been offered a betrothal with Westmoor’s young daughter, and he’d found himself with such great expectations, such dreams. Security for his heirs.

Shattered, all of it shattered upon his father’s death. The old man hadn’t been gone more than a single month when Philip had set in motion Christian’s disinheritance. All very discreetly done, of course. He’d finagled possession of Hakewell through legal loopholes and treachery.

Certainly Christian knew he could contest it, for Hakewell was his mother’s to give, but Philip—the son of a bitch—had resorted to extortion, knowing Christian would never sully his mother’s good name. And then he had run to Westmoor to inform him of the transfer of property, and with his bequeathal gone, Westmoor had annulled the betrothal at once; as the sole reason for the contract to begin with was Hakewell. Without that parcel of land, Christian was worth no more than a brass farthing.

In the blink of an eye, everything had been stripped away, and like a man caught in the throes of a riptide, he’d been helpless to do anything but let it bear him away.

No more.

He was helpless no more.

And never again.

His gaze returned to the letter in his hand, and his fingers closed about the parchment, crumpling it. He slammed his fist down against the hardwood desk.

By damn, he wanted revenge.

The certainty of it struck him full of force.

Despite that he’d sworn himself against it—even after what had happened before—he wanted it, with a bloodlust that was almost palpable. Cold fury seized him and he determined, instead, to give the cocky young duke his due. The idiot had offered him a ridiculously low sum for this insulting task, as though he were a green boy fresh out of Eton with a bulge in his breeches and little in his purse. But that was not what rankled most. Rather it was the snobbery and contempt at the heart of the insult offered.

One too many from the almighty Westmoor.

Not good enough to wed the man’s sister, was he? But good enough to—what? bed her?

So he would have his sister disillusioned… for the greater good?

Christian wondered what, precisely, that entailed.

From the letter, he’d gotten the distinct impression that Lady Jessamine Stone was not too receptive to her brother’s choice of husband. He supposed it was her bastard brother’s intent that once her little heart was duly crushed, she would more easily bend to his will. But to what end was Westmoor willing to go?

And why choose him, save to rub salt into his wounds?

Christian’s eyes narrowed. God’s truth, he had no wish to do Westmoor any favors, but there was some sense of justice in that he would be paid now to avail himself of what should have already been his.

Poetic justice.

Aye, he’d do it, all right, but if Westmoor thought he meant to honor the letter of the agreement, he was more fool than Christian supposed. His cobalt blue eyes glinted with ruthless determination. The truth was that Christian had already ruined the father... He now fully intended to finish the business—and he didn’t give a bleedin’ damn who was brought down along the way, the virginal little sister included.

He didn’t bother to scribble a return note; it wasn’t worth the effort to attempt to put words together. He peered up at the figure standing quietly in the doorway, awaiting his return message, and said with barely suppressed virulence, “Tell him my answer is yes.”

And then tell him to go straight to hell, he added silently, and rose from his desk.

God help him, right or wrong, he was about to court Lady Jessamine Stone.

For the greater good.

Chapter Two

England, Westmoor May 1763

Jessie sat upon the small embankment, peering dreamily over the rim of an open book, scarcely able to keep her mind upon the text within. She’d chosen the much-loved volume, thinking to pass the time reading outdoors, but who could concentrate with so many delicious thoughts cavorting within her head?

He’d come; Lord Christian had come!

Her brother had been expecting him this morn.

All this time, she’d never dared dream he would come to her rescue. And yet she’d so wished that he would! He was her very last hope!

The awful truth was that at twenty-two, Jessamine was a prime candidate for spinsterhood, and her dowry sadly lacking, as well. Silently she cursed her father for that. It seemed ludicrous that she should be angry with a man for simply dying. But his untimely death, followed by the ugly rumors that surfaced afterward, had forced Westmoor into a monetary pinch, and thus had rendered her virtually unmarriageable. Amazing how swiftly one’s acquaintances withdrew when there was the scarcest nuance of scandal.

It thrilled her that Lord Christian might yet desire her—if not her, precisely, then what little remained of her dowry. Though perhaps it should trouble her that he might desire her for her money alone, it didn’t. God’s truth, she would do anything—anything—to escape the fate her brother would mete her!

Including swear to a love she didn’t feel.

She’d shamefully lied to Amos, and yes it did bother her just a little, but she would have done most anything to persuade him to agree to a betrothal with Lord Christian—anyone, in truth, to be free of Lord St. John.

But Lord Christian had no grand title to consider. Nor had he any money to his name—evidenced by the fact that he’d purchased such a tumbledown estate as Rose Park. In fact, he would be marrying up did he choose to accept Amos’ paltry offer. And with that conclusion, her spirits lifted considerably.

And if he didn’t want her?

Well, then... still she might find a way to prevail upon him to assist her in finding safe passage to her father’s brother in the colonies. She had her mother’s jewels to persuade him, after all. And they had once been affianced. He owed her something for that, did he not?

Yes, indeed, she determined, and refused to be disheartened. One way or the other, her greatest chance to escape Lord St. John lay with Lord Christian—and he had come at last.

Her mood lighter than it had been in ages, she set the age-blackened volume down upon the grass to peer at the brook below. An old stone packhorse bridge spanned its shallow width. It had been there as long as Jessie could recall—put there by druids, her mother had claimed. Bathed in misty sunlight beneath the lush oaks and elms, this had always been her favorite place to come, whether to brood or shout huzzahs.

This instant she felt like dancing wildly.

The water seemed so cool and tempting...

Surely no one would spy her if she removed her slippers and stockings to soak her feet…

How long had it been since she’d risked such a thing? It seemed a lifetime ago she’d dared be so carefree.

Closing her eyes, she called to mind the day so long ago when her mother had caught her wading in nothing more than her pristine white shift. If she remembered very hard... she could still see it... almost hear her mother’s sweet voice...

“Jessie love! ’Tis no place for a young lady to cavort by her lonesome!”

She’d caught sight of Jessie’s gown cast away upon the grass. “Good heavens!” she’d exclaimed. “What would your papa say!”

Bursting into fits of giggles, Jessie had flopped upon her belly in the water, splashing everywhere.

“Whatever shall I do with you?” her mother had asked, but Jessie had spied the smile she tried so hard to conceal.

“Watch, Mother!” Sucking in a mouthful of water, Jessie held it dammed within her mouth as she watched her mother remove her silk shoes and wade in after her. When her mother stood before her at last, she popped her cheeks with her palms, spewing water all over her mother’s fine gown.

Her mother had peered down incredulously at her ruined gown, and seeing the flustered expression upon her face, Jessie feared to have angered her at last, but suddenly her mother had lunged after her, a peal of raucous laughter bursting from her lovely lips.

Looking back upon it now, Jessie thought it might have been the disheartened expression on her face, for she couldn’t begin to imagine what could be so funny about an impish child and a ruined gown. And yet, how they’d laughed and frolicked that day.

Tilting her head back, she sighed, feeling the gentle warmth of the sun upon her face. She was six years old that day... the year before her mother had died. More than a lifetime had passed since then.

Her brother ruled like a dreary little monarch. As her father would, he’d turn choleric with rage to spy her at such merrymaking. And truth to tell, she couldn’t help but giggle at the expression she imagined he’d wear. A spark of mischief ignited. The birds twittered nervously in the treetops. What could he say, after all? He couldn’t possibly be more callous toward her than he already was. What harm could come of it?

Impulsively she tossed off her slippers and stood, flinging up her skirts. Rolling down her stockings, she removed them, and cast them away with an impish giggle. And then drawing up her skirts, she knotted them firmly to keep from soaking the lacy hem, more than pleased with herself for forsaking her petticoat this morn. She’d had to sneak to get out of the house, but the freedom it now gave her was well worth the undignified duck behind the server.

She wasn’t fool enough to run about in her shift at her advanced age, but she could see nothing wrong with wetting her feet—to blazes with Amos!

She started down the incline, humming cheerily.

Christian found himself reluctant to intrude upon her delightful diversions and so he sat, admiring her unheeded as she whirled and frolicked like a doe in the fields. Kicking up a slim leg, she showered water into the air, laughing huskily when it rained down upon her face.

He smiled despite himself.

She made quite the charming picture.

Too charming.

He frowned.

He didn’t want her to be refreshingly sincere and guileless. He wanted her to be coy and artificial... so that he could loathe her as he did her father and her brother.

Christ, why the hell was he doing this?

There was too much to be dealt with to be engaged in paltry revenge.

So what if he’d been betrothed to the green-eyed witch? So what if the betrothal had been wrenched from him solely because he’d been disinherited?

God’s teeth, she wore no petticoat.

The revelation slammed into him without warning. Desire slid through his veins like warm brandy.

Provoked by his body’s response to the sight of her, he spurred his mount down the incline, some part of him bent upon spoiling her revelry. He entered the brook without hesitation, his mount’s hooves splashing, churning water, angrily grinding stones beneath the crystalline surface.

With a gasp of surprise, she spun to face him. “My lord!”

He arched a brow.

Her eyes widened in recognition. And then suddenly she was gazing up at him, her expression one of adoration.

Bloody hell.

“My lord,” she said again, and her eyes turned liquid. “I cannot believe you’ve come!”

Christian knew she was addlepated—must be. There was no way she could know who he was, and still look so damned grateful to see him. But then, all she really knew was that her brother had supposedly written him and reinstated the offer of matrimony, only with a lesser dowry. “Of course I came,” he said, “did you think I would not?” Though he didn’t smile to reassure her.

She shook her head, and actual tears sprang to her eyes.

Damnation.

There was no need for her to weep, was there? Taken aback by her unexpected reaction, he scowled, not quite able to tear his gaze away from her liquid green eyes; how singularly beautiful they were. As they had been that day so long ago. They’d haunted him then. Bewitched him still.

He forced his gaze lower, to her full, sensual lips, and concluded that his business with her brother might not be so unpleasant, after all.

Quite the contrary. She was possibly one of the fairest women he’d ever laid eyes upon. Not beautiful, precisely, though something about her made him feel she was—those eyes... and those lips that seemed made for kissing.

She was a bold little thing, he decided. The longer she stared the greater her danger of being soundly and ruthlessly kissed. He was tempted.

Why postpone the inevitable?

“My lord,” she said softly, demurely, “I shall forever be in your debt!”

“Really, m’mselle?” He couldn’t keep himself from baiting her, knowing she couldn’t possibly recognize him and look so damned grateful. “Won’t you tell me just who it is you think I am?”

She peered up a little anxiously. “Why, Lord... Christian... of course...”

She sounded so beautifully anxious, so very uncertain, that Christian found himself grinning down at her. “In the flesh,” he confessed, “though how you placed me so quickly after all these years, I shall never know.”

Why was it he felt suddenly so relieved?

Pleased, even?

“How could I ever forget you, my lord?”

She smiled sweetly, and it pricked at his heart.

Chapter Three

Jessie found herself staring unabashedly, regarding Lord Christian’s windblown locks with both fascination and scandalized horror. The truth was that he was not at all the man she recalled. Gone was the genteel boyish quality she remembered, and with it every last pretense of civility.

Whereas decent men wore dignified headpieces and powder, he wore only his natural dark mane, bound at his nape—and heaven help her, her first impression of the man before her was that he held himself accountable to no one.

Why had he come?

It didn’t matter, she told herself.

The years had changed him much, but all that truly mattered was that he had come to her rescue and she was heartily grateful despite a new tide of misgivings.

If only he would stop staring at her so...

“I-I was reading,” she blurted, unsettled by his mercurial eyes.

“Were you?” The tiniest smile curved his lips. “You certainly appear to be reading,” he said sarcastically, and gazed down pointedly at her bare feet. “Perchance you have a book beneath those pretty little toes of yours?”

Jessie’s gaze fell to her bare feet.

Good Lord, she was a ninny hammer!

Mortification squeezed the breath from her lungs. “Nay, my lord!” she said, her gaze flying back to his. “It’s just that, you see... well, I-I left the book upon the bank!”

She fanned herself unconsciously. “It was rather hot, you see!”

Lord, but it was uncomfortably warm of a sudden. Feeling more than a little foolish, she turned at once and began to make her way out of the brook. “I should go!” she declared.

“Not on my account, I hope.”

Jessie didn’t stop, couldn’t find the courage to do so; mortified, she continued instead toward the bank.

“I must confess, I was rather enjoying the sight of your revelry,” he said behind her, and Jessie’s stomach lurched.

She halted abruptly, turning to peer up at him, a little chafed by his confession.

Lord, just how long had he stood watching before making his presence known?

She reminded herself that she needed him and couldn’t afford to offend him. “I must have been woolgathering,” she said, unable to keep the censure from her tone. “I never even heard you approach, my lord.”

His blue eyes glinted silver and the silence between them lengthened as Jessie scrutinized him.

He wore a midnight blue riding coat, with immaculate white breeches that clung to his thighs so snugly, they were almost indecent. His waistcoat was blue, and his shirt a crisp white, with frilly cuffs that flared from beneath the sleeves of his coat. To his credit, his stock was neatly tied. And truth to tell, save for the dusty black boots, and his Bohemian hair, he appeared quite respectable, quite patrician, and not at all the nefarious rogue Amos had portrayed him to be.

And yet there was something about him that was not quite civil...

Her eyes narrowed as she followed his gaze to her hem—her knotted hem—and she gasped and scrambled to untie the knot in her gown, settling it hastily over her bare limbs, letting the fragile material she’d taken such care with only moments before soak up the brook. To her great misfortune, her mortification escalated.

Completely at a loss for words now, she lowered her gaze to his boots. She didn’t dare look elsewhere—certainly not up into his too handsome face, for it seemed she was destined to remain apple-cheeked this morn. “My brother would not approve of us here alone,” she said. “I-I should go!” She turned at once to leave.

“But, m’mselle,” he protested. “It was your brother who suggested I might find you here.”

Jessie spun to face him, her gaze flying upward in surprise. “Amos?”

His smile was somewhat cocksure. “Amos, indeed.”

Jessie tilted her head. “How... very…” Strange she thought, but said, “forthcoming...” It wasn’t her brother’s way at all to abet the foe—and foes they certainly were in the matter of Lord Christian. It seemed her brother was bound and determined that she should wed Lord St. John. And God’s truth, he would condemn her to a fate worse than death with that man! Her proposed intended was a detestable boor—and more, the thought of his hands upon her made her physically ill.

She was determined to prevail.

But so was Amos.

She peered up at Lord Christian, unconvinced.

“And yet I did get the distinct impression he does not care for me overmuch,” he added offhandedly.

Jessie choked on the truth of the admission. His gaze was all too knowing, and she found she couldn’t perpetuate even the tiniest untruth under his scrutiny, not even a wee one for his own benefit.

Curse Amos and his condescending ways, for the last thing she wished to do was to discourage Lord Christian’s suit. “Perhaps it’s true, my lord,” she confided a little resentfully, “Though I’m certain my brother is harmless.”

He made some choked sound. “Harmless?”

“I believe so, my lord.” She couldn’t very well tell him Amos was, in fact, a pantywaist, though she couldn’t have him believing her brother would call him out either.

He smiled down at her, his eyes glinting. “He had me quivering in my boots this morn, hinting of pistols at dawn.” The gleam in his eyes intensified, and Jessie cast him a dubious glance, for it was impossible to believe the man before her had ever quivered before anything, or anyone.

Ever.

He was jesting with her, she thought... though she couldn’t be certain. “Really, my lord,” she countered, “you mustn’t take my brother’s mettle too much to heart. The truth is he trusts no one.” She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. “He must have determined you were quite harmless, as well, or he would never have directed you here to me, I’m certain.”

The chit was too trusting by far, Christian decided.

Didn’t she realize he might have said anything to gain her trust, including the truth?

Then again, wasn’t that what he wanted? To gain her faith. Certainly it would make his task here go all the easier. Why should he care whether she was easily duped?

He didn’t, he assured himself.

His jaw clenched as she lifted her gaze fully to his, and he spied the uncertainty she tried so hard to conceal. It gave him a heavy feeling in his chest. “’Tis only fitting a brother should be mindful of his sister,” he told her. “Not all men are so honorable, you realize?”

She peered up at him, arching a brow in challenge. “Nor are they all such terrible lechers as my brother would have me believe,” she surprised him by saying.

Christian lifted a dubious brow.

“I do not believe they are,” she asserted, and blushed profusely.

“Really?”

She nodded, a little less certain now. “Truly,” she persisted.

He watched her flush creep lower, to the region of her décolletage, and his gaze lingered upon the square-cut neckline of her rose colored gown. Subconsciously her hand fluttered to her throat—an alluring gesture—and he compelled himself not to think of what it might feel like to press his lips to that burning flesh.

Heaven; it would feel like heaven.

The only sort of heaven he was ever like to know.

“Well, I… I really should go,” she declared once more, and again moved toward the bank, backing away slowly, as though she were no longer quite certain whether to flee or to stay, to trust him or nay. He found he didn’t wish her to leave so soon, and so he allowed her the comfort of distance between them.

He waited until she was seated high upon the bank, beneath the old elm, and was well on her way to replacing her slippers to her feet, and then he spurred his mount after her.

Chapter Four

Jessie watched him guardedly as he hobbled his mount, trying to convince herself she really should go. Instead, she sat upon her blanket, berating herself for her foolish fancies. She snatched up her silk stockings, knowing there wasn’t time to don them before he turned from tending his mount, and hid them beneath her dress, keeping an eye to his back, lest he spy her and she be mortified once more.

“Won’t you sit?” she asked a little breathlessly, when he turned to face her at last.

She needed his help, she reminded herself, and wouldn’t get it by scurrying home with her tail tucked between her legs.

Hidden though they were, she felt her stockings beneath her limbs like smoldering embers against her bare flesh.

This was no good—this was not right! She prayed fervently he would refuse her, for she seemed to have lost the good sense to ask him to leave.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and sat dutifully upon the blanket beside her. Jessie was both relieved and mortified at once.

What would she say now?

Whatever would they speak of?

He plucked a pale blade to worry between his teeth, and Jessie smiled, fighting the urge to bound to her feet and hie away like a timid schoolgirl.

God’s truth, but his face was arresting up close—startlingly so, with those deep-set blue eyes. His jaw was thick but lean, his cheekbones high, and against his swarthy coloring, his face was shadowed by a day’s growth of whiskers. Yet it was the intense, fiery burn of his cobalt blue eyes that made her shiver and drew her gaze.

Propping up a knee, he leaned backward upon one arm and began to suckle the tender blade. Jessie watched him, feeling both encouraged and titillated by his presence when she knew she should be heedful instead.

She wanted to imagine he’d come for her—her knight in shining armor. She’d always dreamed he would someday. And though she’d never have admitted it to anyone, it had truly distressed her to know that he’d not cared enough to challenge her father’s mandate all those years ago.

It didn’t matter; he was here now, and there was hope.

Christian watched as she lifted up a small leather-bound volume, her lips curving in the most damnably tempting smile he’d ever beheld.

He could scarcely keep himself from wondering at her thoughts as her smile deepened to reveal perfect white teeth. Like rose-blushed porcelain, her cheeks were stained with color, and the long, lustrous strands of her hair were swept up at the sides, arranged to fall in an artful tumble of midnight curls. A few escaped confinement—evidence of her delightful romp in the brook.

He stared like a besotted youth, and only belatedly came aware of the soft rhythm she tapped upon the small volume she held and his gaze focused upon the book.

Indirectly the book reminded him of his reason for calling today: her brother’s damnable proposal. The terms of their bargain had been spelled out for him in the library this morning. Ironically, it was there, some five years before, in that very same room, that the old duke had breached yet another contract with him, and that recollection had a rather sobering effect.

What did he care about some fresh-faced miss?

Her feelings weren’t his concern.

She lifted the book to her breast, hugging it shyly, and guilt pricked at him nevertheless. He ignored it, thrusting his damnable conscience away, suffocating it with his anger.

She smiled gently. “You see, I truly was reading, my lord.” She presented the book as evidence. “Adelard of Bath, Questions on Nature. Do you know the text, by chance?”

Christian’s brows lifted. “I wasn’t aware it was proper reading material for a young lady,” he said bluntly.

Her brows drew together. “Why not?” She sounded quite affronted.

“Have you by chance read them all?” He was convinced she had not. Had she bothered, she’d never have brought up the manuscript at all. She’d more than likely be sitting upon the blasted book—as she was those stockings of hers, hiding them from his scrutiny.

Her legs were bare.

His heart quickened at the thought. God, but he felt like a beardless youth with sweaty palms sitting beside his first lover. What the devil ailed him?

“Not all of them, of course,” she was saying. “Though I’ve never found a one to be improper in the least. In fact,” she informed him pertly, “I find them to be rather clever speculation and very much worth contemplating indeed!”

“Clever?” Christian suppressed a chuckle, sensing she was perfectly serious. He found, at the moment, that the last thing he wished was to offend her.

“Yes, of course,” she persisted. “Quite. Such as...”

She tried for a disaffected tone, but he anticipated the coming challenge. The shrewd little wench was baiting him, he realized.

“Do you never ponder, my lord, whether beasts have souls? Or...” She cocked her head coyly. “Why the seats of imagination, reason, and memory are found in the brain? or why the waters of the sea are salty? or why certain rivers are not?”

She glanced up at him, and seemed encouraged by his interest.

“Or,” she continued, her tone flippant, “why men get bald in front?” Unable to contain a giggle, she then continued, “Or, for that matter...” Her lips twitched. “It simply boggles the mind to consider why men were not born with horns or other such weapons on their person! Do you not agree, my lord?”

She graced him with a heart-stopping smile suddenly.

Dark, sooty lashes framed eyes that fairly glowed with merriment, and the effect was nothing less than stunning. It momentarily snatched Christian’s breath away.

He chuckled and cleared his throat, struggling in vain to ignore the lust that held him firmly in its grip now. “Are you quite certain we are not, m’mselle?”

Her brow furrowed softly as she pondered his question.

God, but she was an innocent.

“Of course, but how can you know,” he persisted, “whether I, in truth, have no horns, or other such weapons upon my person? I very well might.”

Once again her blush crept to her bosom.

His gaze followed, too tempted to resist. “My guess,” he ventured, smiling darkly, “is that you do not.” He lifted his gaze. “Furthermore, my lady scholar, not all of those inquiries in that little book of yours are suitable material for impressionable young women, clever speculation or nay.” By her expression, he surmised she was truly unaware of some of the baser texts within the pages of her book. “Such as,” he added offhandedly, “why women, if they are more frigid than men, are more wanton in desire.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “I’ve no recollection of that one at all! And you, my lord, are truly debauched to have brought it to my attention!”

“You think so? I meant only to make a point, ma belle.”

“Yes! I truly do!” she scolded, coming to her knees, though he noticed she did not get up for fear that he would spy her stockings. “You are quite debased, sirrah!”

Why did he suddenly feel like a wretch?

“Please accept my humble apologies if I’ve managed to offend. It is a failing of mine, I fear.” He thought he sounded appropriately remorseful, and he must have, for she eyed him discerningly, and smiled slightly, settling back down.

“Truly, my lord…” She flipped the book about, examining the back, and then again met his gaze, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Is there such a question posed to Adelard?”

Inquisitive little vixen.

His lips curved in unadulterated pleasure. “Certainly.”

She gasped and discarded the book at once, setting it down between them. “Well! I would think it safe to say it is Adelard and his inquiring nephew who are the depraved ones! And you, my lord, are ultimately absolved!”

She gave him a coy little smile, blissfully unaware of how close she was coming to being thoroughly and lustily kissed. God, but he was tempted.

Strange as it was, he felt inordinately pleased with her blind defense of him. It had been a long time since anyone had defended him at all—deservingly or nay.

He chuckled. “’Tis most kind of you to absolve me,” he said. And to his amazement, he found himself genuinely enjoying their singularly peculiar conversation. He held her gaze an instant longer, reluctant to release it as yet, wholly mesmerized by the beauty of her pale green eyes.

She wasn’t wholly unaffected by him, he knew, for her blush was no longer one of chagrin. Her head tilted slightly, instinctively, and she leaned so far forward that her face was dangerously near his own. Christian had to constrain himself from leaning forward and brushing his lips against her soft pink ones.

He wondered how she would taste.

Sweet.

He knew she would be sweet. Sweet as the tender blade between his teeth.

She was the first to glance away, her gaze returning inevitably to the book lying between them.

“In fact I was searching for something in particular,” she explained a little breathlessly. “You see, I seem to recall that Adelard wrote of reason as a guide, and of authority as a halter. Are you perchance familiar with that particular passage, my lord?”

Flicking away the blade of grass from his lips with his fingers, Christian lifted the small volume from her hands. It wasn’t an original copy, but ancient, nonetheless. “May I?” he asked, and awaited her consent before opening it.

Her eyes flashed with gleeful anticipation. “Of course, my lord.”

He smiled, pleased, and held her gaze as he quietly flipped through the fragile pages, until he located the text in question. And then he read aloud to her, his voice thick, “‘For what else should authority be called but a halter...’” He cleared his throat. “‘Indeed, just as brute beasts are led by any kind of halter, and know neither where nor how they are led, and only follow the rope by which they are held.” He paused for breath, cocked a brow at her, and thinking he meant it as a challenge for her to finish if she could, she began her recital where he left off.

“‘So the authority of your writers leads into danger not a few who have been seized and bound by animal credulity!’ Yes, and he also claims reason has been given to all individuals, so that with it as the first judge, he may distinguish between the true and the false. Do you not agree with him, my lord? I mean that reason has been given to each of us,” she clarified. “Should we not think for ourselves, men and women alike?”

He lifted a brow, impressed. “Tres magnifique, m’mselle. I should have liked to say I knew the text so well myself.” He closed the book and handed it back to her, wondering at such a pointed question. “As to your query, yes. As Adelard suggests, ‘unless reason be the universal judge, it is given in vain to individuals. And whosoever does not know or neglects reason should deservedly be considered blind.’ I believe that fully of men and women both. Are you a dissenter, then?” he teased.

“Oh, nay, my lord!” she replied at once. “Though, at the moment, I believe my brother quite thinks so.”

“I see. And why is that?”

Her eyes, which had been fastened reverently to his, slid now to the book balanced upon her lap. She blinked, peering up into the treetops. “Well, I suppose...” She sighed. “I suppose ’tis because we are of such different minds, he and I.” She lowered her gaze to meet his eyes. “You see, my brother would be immensely pleased were I to see… things… his way.”

He gave her a commiserative smile. “Any one thing particular?”

“Not especially,” she replied, then more firmly. “Nay.”

Christian lifted a brow. “I see. Well, then, you are quite certainly entitled to your own mind, though I doubt Adelard of Bath intended for you to use his writings as evidence to that fact. I rather think he’d turn in his grave to know he’s inspired a young maid’s insurgence. You see, in his time, women weren’t considered individuals at all. Just as they wondered whether beasts had souls, so, too, did they wonder about women.”

“Say it isn’t so, my lord!”

“Ah, but ‘tis the truth,” Christian asserted. And then he had to chuckle because she looked so absolutely horrified at the prospect. She didn’t seem to realize they weren’t so far from those times even now.

“Simply imagine!” Her eyes were wide with incredulity. “Women without souls!” She shook her head despairingly, and shuddered. “Whatever could they have been thinking, my lord?”

Christian chuckled, and shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he told her. “It does seem a rather ludicrous notion, does it not?”

“Indeed!”

She said the word with such impudence that his shoulders at once shook with mirth. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she was delightful, but at the temptation, he sobered. It wouldn’t serve him to be losing his head over the winsome chit... something he was beginning to suspect would be quite easily done.

She was beautiful, aye... but she was something more that he’d not anticipated...

Chapter Five

Kindred spirits, that’s what they were.

Jessie lay fidgeting upon her bed, thinking that they saw so much through the same eyes. Uncanny was what it was. But comfortable, too. She sighed dreamily, for Lord Christian seemed simply too wonderful to be true.

And monstrously wicked, too.

Her maid had long since retired for the eve; eager for the day to end and the morning to arrive, Jessie had dismissed her even before her hasty bath was complete. Only now that she lay within the darkness of her room, sleep stubbornly eluded her.

Exhausted, but too exhilarated to be frustrated by it, she resigned herself to her wakeful state, sat up, and tossed the coverlets aside. She rose and made her way to the window, drawing open the draperies just enough to allow her to survey the night sky, so full of brilliant, winking stars. Perhaps he was… too good to be true.

She peered down into the garden below, at the little bench she’d occupied so regularly this past week. Christian had called upon her every day. They’d done little more than sit, chaperoned by Hildie, and converse.

To her wonder, it seemed he truly enjoyed her company, as well as her conversation. Unlike Amos, he seemed to encourage her to speak her mind at every turn, and never took sport in ridiculing her for some perspective he did not happen to share. Instead, he made it a point to ask why she’d come to such a conclusion, and then he’d weigh her explanation before offering his own, thus leading her into refreshingly direct discussions. She found she so enjoyed his company—respected him, too, for he had such noble views.

She was nearly certain now that he was courting her—nearly because she truly had no idea how one went about a courtship—a true courtship, that was. Not one the likes of which Lord St. John had embarked upon. That, she thought grimly, had been little more than a business proposal, with herself as the article of trade. She was heartily thankful Christian had responded to her brother’s missive, for she could never have borne Lord St. John as a husband.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have to.

Hope surged, and she smiled, releasing the drapery. She made her way back to the bed, slipping beneath the cool blankets, and closed her eyes, unable to think of anything other than Christian. He was everything she’d imagined he would be and more: gentle but strong, thoughtful yet amusing. God had surely favored her, she reflected happily, for he was as noble a soul as ever had existed upon the face of the earth. More so than the heroes of legend, for Christian was flesh and blood, and he had come to her rescue even after having been so wronged by her father.

Yes, indeed, he was her knight in shining armor... and she... she was the damsel in distress for whom he would battle friend and foe in the name of love.

Love.

Perhaps it was possible after all.

Sighing wistfully at the fanciful notion, she sent a hasty thank you heavenward and snuggled deeply within the blankets.

If this is a dream, don’t let me wake, she prayed.

Sleep discovered her smiling serenely.

“Please! oh, please!”

A harried sigh was Amos’ response, together with a most disapproving scowl as he rifled through the morning’s correspondence. He chose a particularly large envelope, tossing the rest aside, and sprawled backward within his chair, hiding behind the envelope, as though to escape her.

Jessie wasn’t about to give up. “Please,” she begged.

Still he sat, peering over the top of the envelope, his green eyes, so like her own, glittering with annoyance. Jessie suppressed a shudder at the cold feeling that swept over her. “Just this once,” she swore. “I’ll not ask again!”

He tore open the envelope with a vengeance, sighing a masterful reproduction of their father’s disapproving lament. “Very well, Jessamine. Do as you wish. Extend our invitation to the miscreant.” He didn’t bother glancing up. “Tomorrow eve, if you must.”

Jessie stepped away from the desk in surprise, eyeing her brother with disbelief. “Yes?” Her voice caught. “You said... yes?”

Amos gave her his full regard at last, though his expression was liberally laced with discontentment. “Can you not hear, girl? Yes! Do! Invite the cur to dine with us, if ’tis your wish, but leave me be now!” Unfolding the doubled parchment he’d extracted from the envelope, he apprised her, “And I shall, indeed, hold you to your word; do not ask this of me again.”

Wide-eyed with disbelief and too delirious to stop herself, Jessie hurried around the. desk to give her brother an affectionate hug, the first such embrace between them in years.

Amos recoiled from her at once. Grasping her upper arms, he peeled her from his person. “Jessamine! Please! Recall yourself at once!”

Jessie retreated, stung. “Yes, of course. I... thank you, Amos. I-I don’t know what came over me,” she said as stoically as she was able, and then turned to go, her eyes misting.

She didn’t know why it should surprise her so each time he rebuffed her, but it never failed to do so. And yet, this once, she had a concession from him, at least. She refused to feel dispirited.

He’d not always been so heartless, and she couldn’t help but ponder what could have changed him so—though she had a very good idea. Their father. Always it came back to their father. His Grace the Duke of Westmoor had lived the most unapproachable of lives, and Amos, in trying to prove his worthiness, was fast becoming a perfect replica of him.

Her older brother, Thomas, who’d been two years Amos’ senior, had been their father’s indisputable favorite. Poor Amos had lived in the shadow of that fact, trying so very hard to measure up, even unto the end. All for naught; after word had arrived of Thomas’ death, their father had simply lost the will to live. She and Amos had not been enough to keep him happy and healthy. It had happened so quickly that Jessie sometimes wondered whether her father’s death had, indeed, been a natural passing. But then, just as quickly, she discarded the ugly notion. His physician had declared it to be his heart, and that’s what Jessie wished to believe.

But it confounded her that her father had worried Amos would never measure up to the title, for Jessie thought Amos was more like their father than any of his three children—Thomas included. Like their father, Amos would take great pains to insure his victory, she knew. But in this matter of her life, Jessie vowed to fight him unto the bitter end. He didn’t like to lose, she knew, but perhaps in time he would come to forgive her.

If he saw that she was happy...

She was miserable.

God forgive her, but she had the most overwhelming desire to turn her goblet of good Madeira over Eliza’s gaping bosom. There was absolutely no denying it, the evening was a miserable disaster. Jessie had hoped her brother would come to admire Lord Christian as she had, but sadly that was not to be.

Eliza, to the contrary, seemed to have taken to him quite well, she thought sullenly, and if she continued to admire him so openly, she’d cause Amos’ antipathy to wax irreversible tonight!

Amos sat in resolute silence, regarding—or rather, disregarding—their guest with an air of disaffected aloofness, while Eliza never averted her eyes from him, even for an instant. Understandably, it was becoming more and more difficult for Amos to retain his air of indifference. Jessie’s sole comfort was the fact that Christian seemed not to note any of the tumult surrounding him. That, or he simply could not be offended.

“M’lord,” Eliza purred, taking a dainty sip from the finely etched crystal goblet she held in her hand. She waved the glass beneath her nostrils, sniffing deeply of its sweet contents, her breasts rising with the effort. “You haven’t said what it is, precisely, you plan to do with your newly acquired estate.” She leaned further, swinging her goblet airily. “You will refurbish it, of course, but have you decided upon a particular architect as yet?”

“I’m afraid I have not, Countess, though tell me...” Christian’s gaze shifted from Amos’ choleric face to that of his beautiful, simpering wife. “Have you an interest in that sort of thing?”

If he truly wished to avenge himself upon Westmoor, Amos’ flirty little wife was extending him the perfect opportunity. Though he found her golden good looks and rehearsed elegance quite irksome at the moment. God’s teeth, for the pained expression upon Jessie’s face, he wanted to strike her dumb—he who had never laid a finger upon any woman in anger.

“Oh, yes!” Eliza assured. “Perhaps, my lord, you might even find me”—She smiled prettily, puckering her lips in blatant invitation—”of some assistance when the time comes?” She cocked her head suggestively. “We are neighbors, after all?”

“Perhaps,” Christian yielded, his lips curving ruefully. “Perhaps I shall, madame.”

His gaze returned to Jessie, and he found her expression apologetic. He smiled, reassuring her and her features softened in response. His heart squeezed a little. it was inconceivable that she should look at him so adoringly. Incomprehensible, and God help him, he found himself reluctant to tear his gaze away.

“What I would like to know,” Amos interjected, his tone frothing with rancor, “is how you intend to finance such a venture. Correct me if I am mistaken, sirrah, but you haven’t the first resource from which to draw the necessary funds in order to undertake such a monumental task—much less to complete it.” Provoked by Christian’s inattention, he persisted, “It was my understanding that Rose Park is just short of desolation, a miserable estate, if ever I’ve seen one.”

Tearing his gaze away from Jessie, Christian arched a brow. Rose Park might not be the grandest estate, but it was his now, regardless that some would say he’d gained it by disreputable means. His lips turned faintly at the corners. “So then, you have seen the estate?” He smiled, knowing bloody well Westmoor had not personally set eyes upon the property—his whoreson agent had.

“Well,” Amos dissembled, glancing at his sister and taking a deliberately casual bite of his lemon-seasoned sole. “Not precisely... Let us simply say I have it from a very reliable source—but you have yet to answer my question, Haukinge.”

“Amos,” Jessie interjected. “Perhaps it is none of our concern?”

Back to the business of championing him, was she?

Christian watched as Amos turned to pierce his sister with a glare. Bastard. His gut wrenched. Perhaps this time she might appreciate reinforcement. Christian, for certain, had digested more than enough for one evening. He waited until Amos was finished berating his sister and then met and held his gaze. It was curious how similar in color his eyes appeared to Jessie’s... and how very different. Hers fairly sparkled with life and warmth, while Amos’ were cold and removed. Wholly devoid of compassion.

“I’m afraid I must disappoint you,” he said. “While ’tis certainly true I’ve no real English assets—”

“Of course you do!” Jessie argued in defense of him. She glared at her brother. “You have Rose Park!” She gave him a fleeting nod and then turned once more to glower at her brother, daring to rebuke him on Christian’s behalf.

Christian nearly laughed outright at her militant expression—the vixen. He found himself wishing, not for the first time this night, that she were sitting beside him, not across the blasted table. What he wouldn’t give breathe the essence of her beside him, inhale it into his soul. The thought alone aroused him.

“So I do,” he relented, chuckling low. “Though as your brother can attest, Jessamine, Rose Park cannot as yet be considered an asset, per se. It is, in fact, a liability at present, though rest assured. Simply because I’ve no English land to speak of is not to say I’ve no assets at all. Rose Park shall not remain a liability for long.’’

“Truly?” Eliza asked, intrigued now in earnest. “How exciting!” She cast Amos a tight little smile, and then turned to regard Christian with slitted eyes. “I doubt my husband was aware of that fact, m’lord. Do tell us more. I so enjoy discussing one’s…” Her gaze slid to her husband as she emphasized with raised brows. “... assets.” Leaning seductively forward, she managed to display a sight more of her abundant cleavage.

Christian choked upon his Madeira, nearly spitting it upon the white linen table cloth.

Amos puffed with impotent rage.

Jessie choked back a swallow of Madeira.

Amos coughed indiscreetly.

It was evident Eliza had forced her brother beyond his limits. He rose abruptly, raking his chair backward as he stood, and went directly to his wife. He lifted her perforce from her chair, and didn’t bother to excuse himself; rather, he simply dragged Eliza from the room. Their snarling voices trailed them all the way down the corridor, and up the spiraled stairwell. Jessie was both relieved and mortified.

Risking a glance at Christian, she found him smiling charitably. “Oh, my lord, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed at once. “Truly! I never thought it would turn out so disastrously.” And then her face fell, for who did she think she was fooling? How else could the evening have ended, considering Amos’ animosity toward Christian? “I’m sorry,” she said once more, feeling guilty.

But his smile deepened, putting her at ease. “No need.” His eyes sparkled with good humor. “I rather suspect your brother’s wife is in dire need of whatever it is he is about to give her.”

Jessie laughed quietly. “I assure you, Eliza can be quite difficult, but Amos would never harm her. He’s not a brutal man. In truth, I sometimes wonder if he feels anything at all. He’s so—”

“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” he broke in. “In fact, I would venture to say he’s feeling a wealth of emotions just now.”

Lifting his goblet of Madeira, he swirled the contents, raising it casually to his lips and Jessie found herself staring as he drank the last of it.

Her gaze returned to his eyes; they were so dark a blue and fairly twinkled with devilment. And then again, her gaze fell to his lips and she found her breath strangled. His mouth curved into a devastating smile, and something fluttered deep in her breast—a feeling not wholly unfamiliar to her these days.

“At any rate, I believe your sister-in-law has a little surprise in store,” he said softly, his tone hinting at something... something, though she had no idea what. And yet, that same something inside her quivered at his words.

Suddenly she didn’t know what to say. After conversing about everything, from philosophy to freckles, she found herself dumbstruck in his presence.

“Are you, er, finished, my lord?”

“Finished?”

“With your meal?”

“Ah... yes, thank you. I believe I am. And you?”

Jessie nodded, her heart pummeling against her ribs. The richness and depth of his voice never failed to affect her. He rose abruptly and came about the table, halting at her side to proffer his aid. “Allow me to assist you,” he offered gallantly.

Her heart was vanquished so easily.

She gave him a shy smile and then her hand, her gaze never wavering from his magnificent face. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered. She stood, grateful for his assistance, for she felt disconcertingly giddy this moment—and it was not the Madeira, she was certain, for her goblet remained filled to the brim.

“M’lady?”

Startled by the maid’s diffident inquiry, Jessie spun toward the door. At her despondent expression, Jessie’s brows collided. “What is it, Hildie?”

“Well... ’tis like this, mum.” Hildie’s eyes skidded uncertainly to Christian’s imposing form, then again to Jessie. Seeming to have mustered her courage, she stated more firmly, “His lordship won’t be returnin’ to the table; he bade me tell you... well, you see, ’e’s requested Lord Christian...” Her gaze shifted once more to their guest. “Well, mum, that ’e’s to leave straightaway. But that’s not exactly how he said so.”

Jessie’s spirits sank. “So early?”

“Sorry, mum, but that’s what ’e said.”

“I know, Hildie, I didn’t mean—thank you.” Instead of leaving them, Hildie lingered in the doorway, waiting nervously. “You may go now, Hildie,” Jessie directed, though not unkindly.

Hildie shook her head. “Oh, no, mum, I can’t! His lordship also said I was to stay with ye until the—er, ah...” She glanced discreetly at Christian, looking quite anxious. “Until he was off and away.” She nodded with meaning.

“Jessamine,” Christian interjected, “’tis past time for me to leave.”

He squeezed her fingers tenderly, and it was only then that Jessie realized he was still holding her hand.

She stood there, gaping stupidly. What must he think of her to be so bold?

He bent to whisper in her ear. “Don’t look so glum, love... I assure you I am not so easily offended.” And then he winked at her, and Jessie’s heart turned over.

More than anything, she wanted him to stay, but she had little choice in the matter. Amos had requested he leave, and Jessie had absolutely no say in her brother’s home.

Reluctantly, and without another word, she escorted him to the door, opened it, and leaned into it as Christian moved past her. He stepped out into the balmy night, and there, on the topmost step, he paused, and turned to face her. The intense look in his deep blue eyes snatched her breath away.

What if she asked him to stay? to meet her in the garden? Would he agree? Lord forgive her, but she wanted to ask that more than anything.

Was she mad?

Truly she had to consider the possibility, for she was certainly not herself these days.

“My lord,” she began, disheartened to see him go so soon.

He placed a finger to her lips, shushing her, as though he knew what she would ask and sought to save her from herself. She swallowed the rest of her words as he leaned forward, brushing her mouth with his warm, velvety lips. He kissed her, and the world ceased to exist for the space of an instant.

He kissed her sweetly, and with affection.

Closing her eyes, Jessie inhaled sharply at the intimate contact, moaning softly.

Sweet heaven, he’d kissed her… and then he moved away.

If she thought her heart was racing before, it pounded fiercely now. Lord, how she longed to draw him back... to feel that quickening within her breast... to breathe in the heady, masculine scent of him.

Her eyes remained closed long after his lips left her.

“Good-bye, Jessamine.”

She opened her eyes and blinked to find he was standing apart from her now, regarding her with heavy-lidded eyes and a somewhat rueful smile.

“Good... night,” she whispered, her voice catching strangely. Something about the way he’d spoken his farewell made it seem so final, and her heart twisted a little.

Giving her a brief salutory nod, he turned, and she watched him disappear into the shadows.

Not until he was gone did she close the door to face her indignant maid.

Chapter Six

When Jessie woke the next morning it was raining, scarcely more than a cooling mist, but enough to cast a pall over the entire day. It didn’t matter.

She was too happy to care.

Dressing carefully in anticipation of Lord Christian’s daily attendance, she chose a deep forest green gown, one adorned with stark white lace at the neckline and sleeves. It seemed he was partial to green, for he complimented her grandly every time she wore the color. He said it made her eyes look all the brighter.

Much too anxious to eat, she breakfasted on tea and a mere scrap of a biscuit, then made her way into the library to find herself a book to read while she waited. Because it was still raining, she remained in the library as it was nearest to the front door. That way she’d be certain to hear the knocker when Christian called.

Never in her life had she bestowed so much hope upon one person.

Oddly enough, this morning Amos seemed resigned to Lord Christian’s attendance at Westmoor... though truthfully, that gave her pause for thought. She could only attribute it to the fact that he and Eliza seemed to be reconciling themselves to one another after last night. Really, the two seemed a pair of ridiculous lovebirds—to go from one extreme to the blessed other? Jessie could scarcely fathom the difference between them this morn. She shook her head in utter bewilderment. Merely a week ago, neither of them would have spoken so much as a civil word to the other, yet the two were making sheep’s eyes together all throughout breakfast. Who would have imagined? It really didn’t matter how they’d achieved it, Jessie was delighted for them—more so for herself.

By late afternoon, however, her joy had diminished somewhat. She’d managed to read full half her book before growing weary of it. When the print began to blur before her eyes, she snapped it shut, unable to concentrate upon a single letter, let alone make out the words. In truth, she wouldn’t have been surprised to discover she’d been reading the volume upside down, so little did she recall of what she’d perused. She looked then, just to be certain, and was relieved to find it right side up.

Halfheartedly she skimmed another, but the truth was that she was bored silly, anxious, and a little bit disappointed he was coming so late.

What if he didn’t come back at all?

What if he’d changed his mind about courting her?

After last night, she would hardly blame him.

Sighing wistfully, she turned her thoughts to the kiss Christian had bestowed upon her last eve; she was at once encouraged by the memory. As though to savor it still, her fingers brushed her lips, caressing them absently in remembrance. His warmth somehow lingered there. She closed her eyes, and her heart thumped wildly.

She hoped, dear Lord, she hoped.

She wanted this so very much.

She started guiltily when the door to the library creaked open, and her hand flew from her mouth.

Eliza entered, her expression somewhat smug. Shutting the door behind her, she leaned against it. “Still waiting?” she said with an affectation of a sigh.

Jessie’s stomach turned, for she recognized Eliza’s mood.

“Really,” Eliza carried on. “Even should Lord Christian wish to wed you, I should think you’d desire better for yourself, Jessamine. The man is a miscreant, after all.”

Jessie bristled. “Why? Because he’s a younger son?”

God’s truth, she’d never been anything but sympathetic to Eliza’s plight, but of late her brother’s wife had become implacable in her resentment. “What sin is there in that? Amos, too, was a younger son once upon a time,” she pointed out. “Though how convenient for him—and for you—that Thomas perished when he did.” It was rude, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself, Eliza’s condescension grated upon her nerves.

Eliza’s face flushed as she came forward, angry now. Jessie could see it in her eyes. “Lord Christian is naught but a debaucher of women!” she maintained. “Mark my words, Jessamine!”

Something in Eliza’s expression gave Jessie pause. “Perhaps you know something I do not?”

Her stomach floated a little, for Eliza seemed to think on the question a minute too long. And then she narrowed her eyes, and her expression lost all trace of pretense. “I came to advise you, Jessie, so listen well... You’re fair enough, it is true, but Amos isn’t foolish enough to give you a dowry to wed the likes of that man. Penniless, you’ll be nothing to Lord Christian. Your brother knows it, too. Why else do you think he’d agree to such a farce, if not in hopes that once you discover the truth, you’ll wed Lord St. John without further ado? I came to tell you that you’re making a blessed fool of yourself!”

Jesse blanched. “I don’t believe you. Amos would never withdraw my dowry!”

“Who do you think sent me here?” Eliza asked, lifting her brows. “Amos would see Westmoor prosper, dear. If you truly must, then go ask him.”

The ensuing silence was excruciating, for the truth weighed heavily upon Jessie’s heart. Amos would do anything it took to win, she knew. Even as a lad, he’d fought his battles ruthlessly. Good Lord! She should have realized when she’d managed to convince him to reinstate the betrothal that he’d only done so because he’d never intended to play fair. Her brother never gave anything willingly. She should have known, and yet she’d been blinded by hope.

As though she’d not already said enough, Eliza broke in once more. “Do what you will, say what you must, my dear. Charm Lord Christian to your heart’s content. Though I fear I must caution you...” She glanced pointedly at Jessie. “You must endeavor to keep your virtue intact.”

Jessie’s intake of breath was audible. “How dare you!”

Eliza offered a self-satisfied smile. “I see you take my meaning. You see,” she continued coldly, “Lord Christian will not have you without a dowry, and I doubt even Lord St. John, who is silly with lust for you, would embrace a soiled wife. Unlike the others, he’ll take you penniless, but not despoiled. He’s much too proud a man.”

Jessie rose from the chair. Her eyes stung with tears. “You above all should understand! Good Lord! Were it such a simple matter as a mere lack of affection, I might wed Lord St. John without a backward thought, but I can barely tolerate that man! He’s old enough to be my father!” she added, somewhat hysterically.

Eliza simply shrugged. “As I’ve said before, love has little to do with anything. ’Tis a simple task to lie back and think of”—she offered a long-suffering smile—”more pleasant diversions. Really, I’ve no idea why you persist in this, Jessamine. Marriage is a contract, nothing more.” She met Jessie’s gaze. “Take Amos and me for instance... We’ve no affection between us at all, and yet we suit perfectly well.”

Jessie’s heart twisted. “Do you?”

“Now, dear,” Eliza advised balefully, her hand going to her breast in supplication, “you might go into this union willingly, with your brother’s blessing... or with his fury upon your head. But he shall prevail. Best you realize, at last, that he’ll not be swayed in this matter. He needs this affiliation with St. John. We need this affiliation.”

“He cannot make me wed if I am not here for him to command! Now, can he?” Jessie countered, feeling trapped, panicking. She hadn’t meant to say it, but it was out now, and she found she meant it fiercely.

Eliza’s brows lifted in amusement. “No?” She laughed softly. “Where else would you be if not here? Really, dear! Don’t be addlepated!”

Jessie sat a little straighter. “Charlestown! I shall appeal to Uncle Robert!” If she could but send a missive to the colonies, alerting her uncle of her arrival, he would surely give her refuge. There was little love lost between the two, after all.

Eliza rolled her eyes. “Really, and how do you presume to accomplish such a feat? How would you go?” she asked. “Fly with the wind, perhaps?”

It was a very good question, though Jessie wasn’t about to admit as much to Eliza. At the moment, she almost resented Lord Christian for leaving her to worry so. God’s truth, she didn’t know what she’d do without him. Swallowing the bile that rose in her throat, Jessie composed herself and said with as much aplomb as she was able, “I’m sorry you were forced into wedding my brother, Eliza.” Her limbs felt liquid as she moved toward the door. “Though why you seem to fault me for it, I shall never know.”

Eliza blinked at the accusation.

“You might inform my brother,” Jessie added smartly, once she reached the door, “that if he persists with this—this—travesty of a union, he shall, indeed, have earned my enmity! As to Lord Christian, he will return, I assure you! I will not marry that vile Lord St. John!” She opened the door and slammed it shut behind her, praying to God she spoke the truth.

Jessie was blameless.

For two miserable weeks Christian kept himself otherwise occupied so as not to call at Westmoor. He’d rebuffed every attempt Amos had made to contact him.

This morning he’d saddled one of his brother’s Arabians, telling himself he meant only to ride.

The one blessing of this ill-begotten sojourn was that Philip and his nagging wife were not in residence. He’d made it a point to learn his brother’s schedule and had bristled to hear that the place that had once meant so much to him was used so bloody little. It burned his gut, and only served to prove that Philip had taken his one and only bequest simply because he could.

God, what was he doing here?

Damned if he didn’t have more important things to do.

Such as securing a base port for his orphaned ships.

He clenched his teeth at the thought.

Word had arrived from Le Havre that one of his ships, the Belle Terre, had come into port there, and that the authorities had come aboard. While he’d been assured everything had been found in proper order, the officers of the vessel were now being interrogated. Procedure, he’d been told. Yet the thought of his men in the hands of the haughty French officials unsettled him—despite that he trusted his crew implicitly—mostly because after this incident, his ships would need to stay clear of France. At least until he discovered the cause behind this surprise inspection. Doubtless someone had pointed the finger at him, though who it was, he couldn’t fathom.

The list of possibilities was endless.

Fortunately France supplied very little of his illicit trade. Most of what he procured there was transported quite legitimately—as was the case with his English wares, but it was an inconvenience at least.

At worst it was treachery.

The drizzle that had plagued him most of the day had subsided, and the scent of wet loam rose with the heat-mist, lingering in the air, filling the senses. It was a familiar odor, though not a comforting one, for it forced Christian to consider his losses. Soothing to him was the scent of the sea; salt-mist so thick, it could be tasted upon the wind. Aye, he could nearly smell it now. He lapped at his lips and could almost taste the spray.

He closed his eyes, diverting his thoughts.

Soon enough, he’d be back aboard the Mistral. Even now, the ship was being prepared for his return. His lips curved as he thought of his newest acquisition. She was, by far, the largest of his vessels, a beautiful but costly ship made of sturdy live oak, and he counted himself fortunate to have her. The demand for well-crafted vessels was high, and Carolina-wrought ships were sought most of all for their exceptional durability. Their workmanship was unsurpassable. The Mistral was one such prize.

In his absence, she was being coated with pitch and tar; she’d be scoured and repainted next.

Hell, he’d even commissioned stained glass for his cabin windows—extravagant, aye, but he spent far more time aboard his vessels than anywhere else, and he’d have one place for himself that didn’t scream of meagerness. He inhaled deeply, anticipating his return to the sea, and the scent of sodden earth jolted him rudely from his pleasures.

At some point during the course of their first visit together, he’d concluded that vengeance against Jessie’s brother was pointless.

She would doubtless be the one to suffer its consequences, and the last thing he wished was to hurt her. After his last evening with her, he was more determined than ever not to wound her sweet little heart.

She deserved more.

So much more than he could offer her.

Christ, but he’d managed even to convince himself that he’d never intended to follow through with her brother’s asinine proposal to begin with, that curiosity, and curiosity alone, had prompted him to accept when he should have spat in the bastard’s face instead. And having convinced himself of that much, he’d determined never to see her again. His curiosity had been appeased, after all, and there was simply no point to it.

He couldn’t have her.

Didn’t want her.

Of that, too, he endeavored to convince himself. But it hadn’t quite worked that way. Like a besotted youth, he’d gone to see her again and again—even after that wise decision had been arrived at—bloody fool that he was! Who would have figured he would find the chit so damned engaging?

Damn it all to hell and back.

Grimacing at the turn of his thoughts, he tried to focus upon his commerce once more.

Nay... England would never do as a safe harbor. There was no way he’d bring his ships anywhere near her with illicit cargo aboard. Even if he could pull it off, he wanted no trace of scandal to mark his future here—concern not for himself, but for his heirs, of course.

Perhaps the West Indies—or even Charlestown would do... though Charlestown had never really been a smuggler’s haven.

The image of a black-haired child rose up to taunt him... hair as silky soft and shiny as a raven’s wings, a daughter with eyes so luminous a green, they made his heart melt with a single glance and his heart squeezed with a longing so keen, it was physical.

Snarling in self-contempt, he sawed the reins.

The truth was that the cab he had ordered had long since arrived. Nothing more required him to keep residence in this godforsaken place—certainly it wasn’t fond memories that kept him here. He’d written off the estate long ago. Along with his relationship with Philip, he’d banished every last trace of his former life from his heart. So then, he was left with only one explanation for lingering.

Jessie; he was reluctant to leave her.

Now that he’d made her acquaintance, he found he could not so easily put her from his thoughts, or his life.

He felt some measure of responsibility for her father’s death, he told himself. He’d never expected the man to be such a weak-kneed, feckless fool. Nor had he ever expected to feel any remorse. Yet as much as he’d like to deny it now, he felt duty-bound to look after Jessamine’s welfare. He’d purposely set out to devastate both her father’s name and his resources.

And God damn him to hell, he’d succeeded.

What he hadn’t counted on was the man losing a son, as well, and then taking his life over his losses. It had merely been his intention to give The Duke of Westmoor a small taste of what he himself had been dealt. The man had proven a weak-minded fool.

God’s teeth, why the devil should he feel guilty for any of it?

He shook his head in self-disgust, his jaw working, for the fact was that he did. Pivoting his mount about, he headed towards Westmoor, ignoring the warnings that sounded like foghorns in his head. But he had the distinct feeling he was going to sorely regret this.

Jessie marveled that no matter how oft the colt was brought outdoors, it reacted as surprised and delighted with the warm sun upon its back as it had upon its first outing. The instant she detached the leading rein, it darted away, bucking and twisting in a dance of euphoria. Then suddenly it stopped, ears perked, only to dance again without warning. She giggled softly at its antics. There was no question that the animal was altogether enchanted with life. She only wished she were, too.

Her knight in shining armor was somewhat tarnished.

Nearby, the dam stood nibbling at the grass. Every so oft she’d glance up to eye the colt, and nicker softly as though to reproach him—a useless gesture, for the colt merely dismissed her gentle rebuke, and her whinny managed only to attract Mrs. Brown’s attention.

Mrs. Brown, the old goat, had been a faithful companion to many a brood mare, and seemed to have grown particularly fond of the stable’s newest addition. The faithful animal seemed content as long as she had something to nibble, grass, leaves, the mare’s mane or tail. Jessie smiled. Once, even, the goat had managed to swallow a goodly portion of her skirt before she’d even realized it stood behind her.

Just now, Mrs. Brown’s ancient face appeared between the fence slats, head cocked inquisitively. As Jessie watched, the goat shimmied beneath the fence to join her companions. Hoisting herself up, Jessie sat upon the fence to watch the goat and mare sniff proper greetings to one another. Afterward, as though they’d shared some great parental confidence, the mare nodded and Mrs. Brown turned to scrutinize the spirited colt with a commiserative bleat. Despite her glum mood, Jessie found herself smiling at the amusing exchange, for they were not unlike a pair of gossiping old maids.

Christian spotted her at once, sitting upon the stable fence, her back to him.

He didn’t bother dismounting. She was so enthralled with the young foal gamboling before her that she didn’t seem to realize his presence even once he was directly behind her. She laughed suddenly, the sound low and musical, and warmth spread through his veins.

“Good morning, m’mselle.”

She swung about, nearly toppling from her perch upon the fence. “My lord!” Regaining her composure, she cast him a reproachful glance. “You startled me. How do you manage to appear so suddenly?”

Christian swung down from his mount, forcing levity, offering a wink and a smile. If she asked him to leave, he didn’t know what he’d do. “My apologies if I’ve disturbed you, cherie.”

“Not at all,” she said, somewhat sullenly, looking almost like a child with her slumped shoulders. There was no chance, however, she could be mistaken for a child, for her femininity was nothing if not conspicuous.

She turned away to watch the colt, avoiding his gaze. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. “In truth, I thought perhaps you’d taken your leave of Hakewell, for ’tis been an age since I saw you last.”

Christian felt certain she wasn’t aware how much she had disclosed with her carefully worded grievance.

“I had business to attend,” he lied, and hobbled his mount to the fence, then hoisted himself up to sit beside her, facing her, his back to the enclosure to better see her.

She looked at him, brows drawn. Devil hang him if she didn’t have the most beautiful eyes. They were his undoing.

“Didn’t you miss me at all?” he whispered at her ear.

For a long instant she merely stared, and he could see the confusion in her eyes. He’d done this to her, he realized. Without even trying, he’d begun to do her damage already. What more injury might be done if he stayed?

He should leave, he knew. It was the right thing to do, but he couldn’t... .

“I did, my lord,” she confessed, and her eyes turned suspiciously liquid. He cursed himself roundly. She ducked her head, her cheeks flushing prettily, and Christian reached out to lift her chin with a finger.

Their gazes held.

He stroked her chin with his thumb.

God only knew, he didn’t deserve her assurance, but he needed to hear it, even so…

“I’m glad to know I’m not so easily dismissed,” he said, his voice as gentle as a caress.

Jessie shivered, her breath catching softly at the intensity of his gaze. She stared stupidly. His eyes... they seemed to be looking into the very depths of her soul... One brow rose slightly, and he smiled, a roguish smile, as he lifted her hand, placing it to his chest.

“Do this wretched heart o’ mine a kindness,” he whispered. “Tell me again, cherie... that you missed me.”

Jessie’s heart skipped its normal beat.

She prayed her blush wouldn’t deepen and give her away. Of course, she had—so much so that some part of her had nearly died with grief in his absence.

But he might have sent word—might have told her that he intended to return, rather than let her speculate and worry. Rather than leave her to fend off Eliza’s smug “I told you so” looks. Her heart tripped painfully when his sensual lips broke into a wicked little grin, and she felt the telltale warmth creep down to the tips of her very toes. And yet she couldn’t tell him what he wished to hear.

She couldn’t let him see how much his inattention had hurt her.

How much his return meant to her.

She felt much too vulnerable.

She forced a lighthearted smile. “I-I was watching the colt.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the animal in question, then turned again to scrutinize her. Staring meaningfully into her eyes, he whispered slowly, “Exquisite creature.”

“Yes... he is,” she agreed.

His mouth quirked with amusement, and she wondered what she’d said.

“The dam was a gift from my father,” she explained.

His grin turned crooked. “That was quite generous of your father, Jessamine, but I wasn’t speaking of the colt, you see…”

Her hair was caught today at her nape in a brilliant yellow bow; a few of her dark, shiny curls had found their way free and now fell in abandon, framing her lovely face. Her soft, pale cheeks were flushed from too much sun. In her bright saffron muslin gown she seemed a ray of sunshine herself.

As though she only now grasped his meaning, her gaze fell demurely, and it was all he could do not to lean forward and kiss those soft lips as he craved to do.

He had to remind himself she was not some dockside miss to be mishandled. For most every second of the last two weeks he’d fantasized about seeing her again, kissing her—a new experience to him, this idle daydreaming. He decided it had been much too long since he’d lain with a woman, for even now he found himself helpless to follow his baser instincts. Her sweet innocence fed his lust; like kindling to burning coals, it set him afire, brought him to a full and painful arousal. He wanted to make her smile, he realized. He didn’t relish seeing her this way.

“Jessie,” he said, “I’m sorry if I’ve neglected you these past weeks... I wanted to come. I swear I did. I simply couldn’t.” And it was the truth, nothing but the truth. “Forgive me?”

Jessie wanted to believe him, she truly did.

He’d still not released her hand, she realized. She nodded at last, unable to deny him the words he wished to hear when he looked at her so affectionately. “Yes,” she confessed softly, and her heart quickened painfully as he lowered his face to hers suddenly. “Yes, I do…”

He smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “’Tis the truth that I thought of you every moment.” He stared deeply into her eyes. “May I kiss you again, Jessie?”

Her heart lurched, and she stammered, “Y-You wish to...”

“Kiss you,” he finished, nodding. “Very much so, Jessie.”

The sound of her name on his lips gave her heart a jolt. He drew away a fraction, watching her with smoldering eyes and his covetous expression was her undoing. If she’d harbored even a thought of resisting, it was gone now. His gaze flicked provocatively to her lips, and he came forward once more, his hand touching her cheek as their lips met softly.

“I’ve craved this every moment we’ve been apart,” he murmured.

God help her, but so had she...

For a few seconds, Jessie ceased to breathe at all. The shock of his lips as they touched upon her own prompted her to clamp her lips tightly shut. He made a sound, part chuckle, part groan, as though her absurd reaction had somehow pleased him, and then he cradled her face within his hands, pecking one corner of her mouth first, then the other, ending with a kiss on the bridge of her nose.

Breathe! Jessie commanded herself. Breathe!

But she couldn’t, and then as his mouth lifted and descended once again, grazing hers, moving seductively over her trembling lips, molding insistently with her own, her uncertainty vanished. With subtle but coercive pressure, he coaxed her lips apart, and liquid fire spilled into her mouth. Never in her life had she been kissed so exquisitely, so thoroughly. Indeed, never in her life had she been kissed at all… except by him.

“God... you are lovely,” he whispered into her mouth.

Jessie shivered as his tongue slipped boldly between her lips once more, the feel of it as erotically soft as warm, wet velvet upon her bare flesh.

She knew she should protest.

It was the right thing to do.

She opened her mouth to speak and he whispered into her mouth. “Hush, Jessie… don’t deny me this... a kiss and no more…”

Chapter Seven

Heaven help her.

Jessie wanted this too.

A kiss and no more.

Jessie was helpless to do anything but nod weakly as his tongue dove within the depths of her mouth. It was the most tender moment of her life. She was completely powerless to do anything but wrap her arm about his waist and hold on lest she melt from his embrace into a pool upon the ground. She could feel his warmth even through his coat.

Abashedly she realized that her hand was exploring the breadth of his back... and worse, she was trembling.

Mortified, she tried to still her quaking by pressing her hand more firmly against him. She was startled to find that his heart hammered fiercely, too. It was more than evident to her that Lord Christian had kissed many a woman in his life, and Jessie had been afraid he would find her wanting. And yet... if she wasn’t mistaken... if she wasn’t imagining, he was trembling, as well...

Or rather... it was his coat that trembled...

Her brows drew together, for the movement seemed to commence... She groped downward. At his coattail? Her curious fingers moved downward and encountered a warm, fuzzy face.

Mrs. Brown!

Understanding dawned, though even as she acknowledged the sloppy sound of Mrs. Brown chewing Lord Christian’s frock coat, there was a sudden tug. It happened so quickly. Unwilling to take Jessie down with him, he released her at once and went flying backward.

With wide, incredulous eyes, Jessie watched as he tumbled into the enclosure at her feet. Startled, the goat bleated and leapt away, a small morsel of Lord Christian’s coattail still caught within her twitching mouth.

Lord Christian remained sprawled before her as dust settled upon his dark coat and breeches.

Prompted by his stillness, Mrs. Brown ventured back to glare down into his dazed face. He recoiled as she lowered her nose to sniff indignantly at him.

Jessie couldn’t help it; his dumbfounded expression brought a peal of laughter to her lips. All the tension of the past weeks dissolved at the sight before her.

“What is that?”

“That!” she told him, her voice strangled with giggles. “That—” Lord help her, but she could not quite manage her hilarity, his expression was so comical. “That,” she tried again, “is Mrs. Brown!”

“Mrs. Brown?” He eyed the goat balefully, and Mrs. Brown scurried away, decidedly uneasy with the look he gave her.

Jessie was teary-eyed with laughter when next he spoke.

“A bloody goat!”

“Yes, my lord!”

Jessie managed an appropriately sober nod, and reached up to dab her misty eyes with a finger, only to burst out laughing once more.

To his credit, he managed a chuckle as he admonished her, “If you’d not wished to kiss me, m’mselle, you might simply have said no.” He arched a plaintive brow.

“But, oh,” Jessie cried, her merriment rekindled. “It was so much more effective this way! Do you not think so, my lord?” She burst out laughing and Christian’s hand darted out to catch her ankle. With very little effort, he snatched her down into his embrace.

Laughing, she tumbled down atop him. “My lord!” she shrieked, scandalized.

“What?” he asked much too innocently.

Her laughter ended abruptly as his hand slid about her waist, securing her where she sat.

She had no idea what a tempting morsel she made, Christian decided.

Supporting their combined weight with one arm, he slowly drew her toward him.

Her intake of breath was audible, and her breast rose enticingly with the effort, tempting him beyond reason, bewildering him so that he momentarily forgot his resolve merely to kiss her.

His breath caught as he found his mouth at the level of her breast, a blatant invitation to his parted lips. He was so close now...

So many times he’d fantasized about loving her this way...

He closed his eyes, commanding what was left of his self-control. All he needed to do was move a fraction forward. Only a fraction... and then suckle...

But it would frighten her, he knew.

As much as he wished to believe she was wise to his needs, that she shared them—that she knew where this petting and fondling would lead—he recognized innocence when faced with it. She was too bloody naive to even know how to restrain her newly awakened passions.

Damn, but he wanted this.

Closing his eyes in an attempt to regain his composure, he caught the heady scent of lilacs—perhaps from a sachet secreted beneath her undergarments—and he was at once thankful for his tight breeches to conceal the evidence upon which she was so innocently perched.

Seeming to recover her senses, and squirmed, trying to remove herself from his lap, but his hand tightened about her arm, stilling her movements. He groaned in pleasure and in pain and she froze, meeting his gaze.

She tried again to rise, but with a firm hand to her back, he brought her forward for another kiss instead.

Ah, but Christ, he couldn’t help himself.

He thought to make it brief, just a quick peck, but when his lips touched hers, and she parted them so sweetly, he nearly lost his will. Her mouth was too warm, her breath too sweet. He kissed her hungrily, savoring the moment like a man starved.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that if he didn’t lift her from his person this very instant, she would soon discern the lump she was perched upon so unsuspectingly was no simple lump, at all. Worse, he might completely forget their surroundings and be tempted to make love to her here under the twilight sky.

She deserved better, he reasoned desperately, searching diligently for the impostor gentleman within—the one who seemed so eager to be all that she desired.

Perhaps the man had fled?

He hoped, and yet, he felt inclined to seek him out once more.

They would doubtless be discovered before the first raindrops fell—which would be any moment if he scented it right. He peered up at the darkening sky.

If not that, then Mrs. Brown might decide to take exception to his loving her and nab his rear.

If not Mrs. Brown... then perhaps one of the other two occupants of the enclosure. The last thing he desired were teeth marks upon his arse... or pistols at dawn.

Or perhaps that was precisely what he hoped for.

To face a pair of barking irons… with her brother at the other end.

Sighing regretfully, he caught Jessie with both hands at the waist—and fought the incredible urge to slide his hands upward, cup them about the tantalizing flesh she’d only just tempted him with.

Blast it all, he was going to sorely regret this visit tonight when he lay alone in his bed.

“I believe I scent rain,” he said thickly, his voice sounding strangled even to his own ears. “Much as I’ve enjoyed this...” He eyed her meaningfully. “I fear I must be off before it pours, m’mselle.” And then slowly, though reluctant to do so, he lifted her from his person, cursing roundly to himself as he did so.

Jessie nodded, though she seemed not to have heard a word he’d said. Christian knew the very instant she regained her wits because her face flushed a rosy pink. He couldn’t quite bring himself to apologize, however, for he wasn’t the least bit sorry for what little had passed between them. In truth, he might have preferred to have something of which to be repentant. Still, he didn’t wish to embarrass her more than she likely would be when she realized what liberties she’d allowed him, so he remained seated upon the ground and lifted a knee to conceal his amatory state.

When he made no move to rise, Jessie seemed to forget her chagrin at once, eyeing him solicitously. “Oh my! Are you hurt, my lord?”

Shaking his head at her naïveté, he chuckled ruefully.

Christ, but he was going to suffer tonight.

“Let me help you!” she offered and extended her hand in aid.

He waved her away, clearing his throat. “In an instant, Jessie. I’m just a wee bit... stiff at the moment.” He peered up at her, gauging her expression, and smiled grimly when she clearly didn’t understand his meaning. “The fall,” he suggested.

“But you’re not hurt?” she asked, her tone filled with concern.

Enormously relieved that she’d not understood his lecherous jest, he said, “I assure you, m’mselle that I shall live.”

To his great misfortune.

At her doubtful expression, he rose as proof. “See.” He grinned then, seizing her by the chin, and raising her face to place a perfectly chaste kiss upon the bridge of her nose. He turned her about so that she couldn’t spy his brick hard arousal.

She seemed reassured, though even as she turned to smile up at him, the first raindrops struck her full in the face. She mopped them away with a sleeve, and laughed softly. “I do believe it’s going to rain, my lord,” she told him, her humor restored. “I commend your unerring nose.” She bolted toward the gate. “Follow me!”

He didn’t dare.

He waited until she was out of the gate, racing toward the shelter of the house before bothering to move. And then reluctantly, he scaled the fence and seizing his reins, he mounted his horse.

Realizing at last that he wasn’t following her, she halted abruptly, whirling about.

“Don’t stop!” he shouted. “Get yourself home, lest you be caught in the downpour!”

She stood, nevertheless, rain soaking her to the bone, reluctant to leave him, sheltering her face with her hand. Instinctively he understood why, and it warmed his heart.

“I’ll call again tomorrow,” he swore, and then added, “I promise!”

She smiled beautifully.

Wheeling his mount about, he cast her a backward glance. She was still watching, despite that it was raining harder now, and he pivoted his mount to face her. His steed pranced impatiently, eager to leave.

He advanced upon her suddenly, and said impulsively, “Meet me by the brook... noon tomorrow?”

Her brow furrowed. “I... I don’t know…”

“Noon,” he said again, and prayed she’d refuse him.

She nodded and he smiled down at her, giving her a final salutory wink.

“Till then, my love,” he said, and turned to leave before she could rethink the wisdom of what she’d agreed to.

Before his damnable conscience could interfere yet again. With all his heart and soul, he wanted Jessie.

Chapter Eight

True to his word, Christian materialized by the brook precisely at noon—equipped for a picnic. Jessie was delighted that he’d taken the time to consider so much, and she chided herself for worrying over naught.

Once again they whiled away the hours conversing, and she sighed contentedly as she listened to him. He was so wonderful, so very wonderful—magnificently handsome, too.

Languishing in the heat of the day, he’d removed his frock coat. It lay forgotten now upon the grass. His crisp white shirt, with its perfect pristine ruffles and folds, he wore recklessly unbuttoned at the neckline, long having discarded the stock. Jessie found herself staring at him more oft than not, powerless to dispel from her mind the memory of his kiss; it kindled a strange warmth within her every time she thought of it.

Plucking a small yellow blossom, she peered up -at him through her lashes, praying he couldn’t discern the wickedness of her thoughts. She twirled the bloom between her fingertips, wondering how long it would be before he would try to kiss her again.

Would he?

Did she wish him to?

Her cheeks burned as she acknowledged the truth, impossible as it was to deny. She’d broken the rules of propriety by coming alone to this secluded place without a chaperon. Why else would she have done so, but in hopes that he would... if only once more? She cast him another surreptitious glance, and her heart fluttered wildly.

God have mercy, she yearned for it, even, as one would hunger for food or thirst for drink, or even want for sleep. She was consumed by the desire for it. His kiss had somehow awakened some unfamiliar yearning within her, and even when she’d fallen asleep last eve, tossing and turning, it had not fled her. Lord help her, she’d dreamed of him even then.

Seeing the adoring look in her eyes, Christian felt his stomach knot. She seemed to see in him only what she wished to and nothing more.

What might she think if she knew him for what he truly was? If she knew what base thoughts burned through his mind, what sordid desires slithered through his veins?

Christ, the things he wanted to do to her even now as she gazed up at him so worshipfully. He could think of little more than taking her within his arms and initiating her beautiful body into glorious womanhood.

Only, for the first time in his life... there was something more than mere lust that compelled him. And still....

His jaw turned taut, for it was merely a matter of time before she discovered his true nature.

She might as well know it of him now.

This moment.

Before he might be tempted to lay his heart at her mercy. And God save him if that ever came to be, for if he allowed it... she had it within her power to crush him beneath those precious feet of hers.

Suddenly he felt the need to shock her. “What might you think, Jess, if I told you I was bastard born? Would you still look at me with such reverence?” The words had come bluntly, his tone hinting at all that was loathsome about his life.

A vision came upon him of himself as a superstitious peasant warding away evil with a makeshift cross. If it weren’t such a pathetic image, he might have been amused.

Was he so desperate to save himself from the devotion so evident in her beautiful eyes?

Christ... but those eyes had the power to reach so deep into his soul... the power to touch his very heart. Somehow she made him want to be all that she believed of him.

All that he was not.

And more.

He couldn’t hurt her, he realized.

He wouldn’t hurt her.

She looked stricken by the unexpected revelation. “Is it true?” she asked, sounding horrified.

He laughed derisively, casting her a dispassionate glance. “Aye.”

“How—” She shook her head, refusing to believe it. “However did you discover such a thing?”

“It doesn’t matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Her brows drew together. “Your brother might have been lying, don’t you see!”

Christian shook his head soberly, wondering belatedly over the wisdom in telling her such a thing. To reveal this, his darkest secret, was to open a vein for her to draw on. That someone other than himself and his mother—he refused to acknowledge the rest of his family—should possess the knowledge of his bastardy would make him vulnerable as he’d never been before.

“Nay, Jess.”

She seemed dumbstruck, and then sputtered, “Y-Your father?”

He wasn’t certain what it was she was asking. “Maxwell Haukinge?”

“Nay,” she said softly, and looked disconcerted. “Did he know?”

He nodded, understanding. “Ah, well, yes... I believe he did.” Something in her expression compelled him to go on. “And my real father… I believe he would as soon hang himself from the tallest masthead rather than defame my mother’s good name. My captain, you see, is the man who sired me, and loved my mother.”

For a long moment, there was silence between them. When she spoke again there was only concern in her tone, and he was warmed by it. “When did you discover the truth?”

He inhaled sharply. “As a lad. Though I didn’t learn who until about a year ago.” Gazing at her sweet face, he wondered why he felt compelled to drive her away when he craved more than anything the sweet fulfillment he suspected she could give him.

Try as he might, he couldn’t find the answer.

“Please,” she entreated softly. “Tell me of it..

He cocked his brows uncertainly.

Inconceivably, there was no condemnation in her voice, no loathing in her eyes. God, it felt so good to reveal himself to her. A strange calm threatened to steal over him, and for the first time in his life he felt he could trust, truly trust, another human being.

Plucking a grape from the platter before them, he pitched it at her. It fell halfway between them, and he retrieved it, pitching it again. “There’s isn’t much to the tale... nothing sensational to speak of.” He went still, remembering. “I simply looked into his eyes and knew the truth.”

He shook his head and reached out to pluck another grape, placing it within his mouth. Plucking another, he fed it to Jessie. She accepted his offering with a sad smile, urging him, with her silence and her persuasive green gaze, to continue. Her eyes... God... how they seemed to reach into his soul and draw out the words, never mind that they’d never been spoken before now.

Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, he lay back upon the blanket, locking his hands behind his head, and peered into the treetops as he continued, “It was the strangest thing,” he said, “but for the space of an instant, the years were stripped away... and it was as though I were left gazing into a looking glass at my own reflection, blue eyes and all. I just knew.”

Staring past the lush greenery into the clear azure sky, Christian waited for her to speak—to say something, anything—words that would give him some small hint of how she felt about his shocking disclosure. When she said nothing for a long moment, he rolled to face her. Propping his head upon his hand, he stared into her eyes, hoping to see into her heart. What he saw there in the shimmering depth of her eyes gave root to his burgeoning sense of peace. Once again he felt compelled to go on; the need to purge himself of the blackness was strong, and it seemed that she, and she alone, had the ability to absolve him with her soul-cleansing gaze.

“My brother has gray eyes,” he told her softly, “as did our father. My mother has beautiful brown eyes, so deep and dark, they seem almost fathomless. And I, well, I was the only one in the brood with eyes of blue—and God... at that moment, Jessie... looking into Jean Paul’s face... his eyes... so many things became comprehensible at last.”

“What sort of things?” Taking a grape for herself, she offered another to Christian, as he had done for her. He repaid her gesture with a lopsided grin.

“For one...” He took it, but placed it against her own lips, and smiled when she accepted it so easily. This ease between them felt good—better than anything had in all his years. “Jean Paul appointed himself guardian over my mother and me when first we took up residence with my grandparents in France—a fact that always bedeviled me, that this man, so in love with the sea, would bind himself to a woman and child not his own. It made no sense at all.”

“Do you think, perhaps, he did so out of guilt for his part in your mother’s... predicament? She left England, I know. Only it was never known precisely why.”

“She was banished by my father, actually—we both were.” He glanced away, uncomfortable with the emotions that surfaced in that instant. “She was glad enough to go, I think. I always believed she was in love with Jean Paul, though for my sake she masked it well.”

His gaze returned to her, gauging her expression. Nothing. He could discern nothing.

“For her parents, as well, of course; she would have spared them any injury.”

He plucked another grape, squeezing it gently, anticipating her reaction; veiled disgust, revulsion perhaps.

He was unprepared for sympathy. “How very sad. I’m so sorry for you,” she whispered.

The grape burst, spurting juice everywhere. She cried softly, wincing as it sprayed her face. Wiping a droplet from her lip with a fingertip, she held his gaze, smiling wanly. Christian tossed the grape over his shoulder. Sympathy was not precisely the emotion he’d sought from her.

“Don’t be. I was rendered quite speechless by the discovery at the time, but I’ve no contention in my soul over it a’tall. I welcomed the knowledge of Jean Paul as my father wholeheartedly, embraced it even, for it made so many things bearable.”

“Truly?”

Their gazes met and held; stark blue and healing green.

Jessie’s look was so compassionate, her eyes so luminous with concern, that Christian experienced the sudden inexorable urge to kiss her distress away, to assure her that he’d come away from it all unscathed. Years of mistrust compelled him to say instead, “You must swear to me, Jessamine, that you will never repeat a word of what I have revealed to you. I only wanted you to understand that I’m not the exemplary man you think me.” He lifted her delicate chin with a finger. “Every time you look at me, ma belle vie, I see... I see reverence. Trust me when I tell you I’m the last soul upon this earth to deserve it.”

“Nay! Never say so! You are—”

He lifted a finger to her lips. “Hush, my love,” he commanded her.

He brushed a wayward curl from her face. His fingers caressed her sun-flushed cheek, moving to the silky thickness of her hair, gliding through it reverently, catching finally at the blue satin binding that kept her wild curls so neat and tidy. He drew the ribbon free, releasing her glorious hair.

Without warning, he drew her down beside him and rolled atop her, pinning her beneath him in one easy movement. She didn’t protest. Her breath caught and she cried out.

There was no fear in her lovely eyes, none at all, and relief surged through him. God help him, he doubted he could restrain himself much longer. And this moment, he wanted more than merely to soothe his troubled spirit. He needed to appease his body’s beastly hunger. He went about each day in a semi aroused state, and in her presence it became unbearable. What manner of hold did she have upon him that he would subject himself to such monstrous torture? That he would feel driven to protect her from himself? He wanted her so desperately that he actually ached with his need of her, and still he restrained himself.

Jessie knew she should object—indeed, knew she must! But Lord, how she wanted him to kiss her again!

Her soul ached for it.

Her mouth craved the feel of him.

Would he taste again as he had yesterday? A heady mixture of brandy and musky maleness that she’d savored again last eve while she’d dreamt of him. Even her body seemed to cry out for it now.

A knot formed in her breast, constricting painfully.

Nay, she’d not stop him... she very much desired this—needed it. Swallowing her dutiful words of protest, she let him move atop her, and sighed...

What a wanton she was that she would allow him such wicked liberties.

Unbidden, Eliza’s words invaded her thoughts. Do what you will... say what you must. Charm him to your heart’s content. But I warn you... keep your virtue intact.

As his lips touched her own, she began to quake. A single tear escaped, unnoticed, for he was kissing her at long last and did not see. It didn’t matter, she didn’t want him to stop—she thought she’d die if he did. She clung to him as though her life depended upon it. And she thought it might.

Feeling her shudders, he whispered softly against her throat, “Have no fear, mon amour.”

He stopped, peering down at her, and swore, “I shall take nothing you do not freely give.”

But that, dear God, was precisely what she feared. This moment, everything she had was his to take—everything! She wanted to give him all that she had.

“Open your eyes for me, dearling.”

She obeyed him, opening shimmering eyes.

The hunger evident in his gaze made her heart fly into her throat.

“My God, but they are the rarest of jewels,” he whispered softly, passionately. “You are... so lovely... so very lovely, Jessie.”

His hand slid firmly to her waist, then to her hip, exploring...

Remembering the way she’d looked standing in the brook that first day, barefoot and wide-eyed, Christian hardened fully.

A vision of slim calves and shapely thighs besieged him and a shudder coursed through him as he bent to kiss her lips once more, all the while gathering the hem of her gown into his fist, drawing it up to expose her beautiful legs to the warm, sultry sun... to his hungry touch. Once again she’d forsworn her petticoats, and he whispered a prayer of thanks—ignoble as it might be—that she seemed to shun that one vestige of propriety.

She wanted this, too, he told himself—and Christ! he thought he’d die without it.

Her hand flew out to stop his ascent—instinct, he thought, for she didn’t end the kiss. Though he rarely prayed, he did so now, fervently. If she denied him... if she said nay... that damnable part of himself would feel honor-bound to stop—and God’s teeth, he’d not be able to bear it.

Her lips were soft, too soft, pliable, warm creamy silk... He kissed her feverishly, groaning in relief when she forgot about her elevated skirts and her hands moved to explore his back. He smiled with fierce satisfaction as her fingers bore themselves passionately into his flesh. God help him, he battled the urge to strip her quickly and ravish her where she lay. Damnation, but he couldn’t bear this maddening torture much longer.

He was no gentleman, for God’s sake, no saint, merely a man—and not a bloody honorable one at that!

Sliding her skirts higher, he shifted upward, groaning as he pressed his aching anatomy into the sweet, warm hollow between her thighs. She lifted against him, though timidly, as though unsure of herself or her intuitive reaction to his blatant invitation, and he felt himself swell against her.

It was all the encouragement he needed.

She might not have understood the provocative inquiry, but her body certainly did. She wanted this as much as he did... and who was he kidding? He’d love to oblige. His tongue swept into her mouth, moving as he craved to do in other regions. She tasted of grapes... smelled of lilacs, and woman... so fresh a scent, so pure. Her body quivered beneath him, and heat surged through his loins, tightening them. Shoving aside the voice of reason, he set free the fiend within.

She was sweet... so sweet... too sweet...

Somewhere at the back of her thoughts, Jessie heard the voice that cautioned her to stop, but she knew she’d not heed it.

She was lost, her body no longer her own to command. Her breath came in strangled gasps as Christian rocked seductively against her.

Thunder stole into her heart.

Instinctively she gave back motion for motion, feeling the hardness between them grow, and not truly understanding anything more than it gave her body pleasure to seek it.

Heat flowed, like warm honey, into the most secret core of her being. Her senses flowered, making her bold. Each time she pressed back, the return pressure deepened, until she could think of nothing but appeasing her body’s sensational new hunger. Fully clothed, their bodies writhed together upon the blanket, off the blanket, rolled onto the fragrant green grass, undulating in time to some age-old rhythm.

It happened so quickly. Somehow, she came to be on top of him, and he stroked the back of her thighs beneath her gown. Her heart thudded to a halt when his fingers slid to her bare bottom, pressing her more firmly against him. Then, just as quickly as they had lit there, they slid between her slightly parted legs. A jolt of pure, delicious sensation burst through her, snatching her breath away.

As she buried her face into the crook of Christian’s neck, Jessie’s lips moved of their own accord. He groaned, as though in pain, and it startled her so she froze.

“Nay,” he said, breathing heavily now. “Don’t stop now...” He pressed her face against the quickening pulse at his throat, urging her back into carnal oblivion.

Moaning softly, Jessie parted her lips against his heated skin, tasting him against her tongue.

“God... yes...”

She nibbled him as he had done to her, and it drove Christian insane with lust.

His body quivering with restraint, he seized her hand, folded it tightly within his own. His senses dimmed by the inferno at his groin, he slid her fingers between their bodies where he most craved her magnificent touch, pressing her delicate little palm against his aching flesh.

He needed her now—God, but he had to have her!

He was beyond reason.

Too long he’d denied himself.

She was too sweet... too tempting...

Whimpering, Jessie swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, though she couldn’t have removed her hand had she tried. She knew an overwhelming desire for completion—but a completion of what?

She trusted Christian without fail.

He wanted her in the way that a man wanted a woman, and the knowledge made her lie eagerly before him. He would do nothing to harm her; she knew it deep down in her heart. And he was giving her pleasure as she’d never imagined possible.

His lips seared her flesh, kissing her boldly. When he moved down, nibbling her breast through her bodice, she felt a shock of pure rapture.

Whatever he would do to her, she would gladly allow it...

Anything.

“Let me love you, Jessie…”

The plea echoed through Jessie’s heart. Yes, she adored him. He was her savior, her protector. Anything he wanted of her, she would willingly give—gladly, madly...

She was mindless with need… for all that his touch promised.

His hand found that place between her thighs, and he stroked it lovingly. Jessie’s emotions worked with her body, spiraling her into oblivion. She could think of nothing but the sensations he was rousing within her as his finger slipped daringly within her, then stopped abruptly.

Chapter Nine

It was the only thing that could have stopped him.

Christian froze, cursing roundly.

He’d known it was there, but had blatantly ignored the prick of his conscience. Now it shrieked at him like a banshee out of a mistral wind.

She opened her eyes, silently questioning his hesitation, and the screeching intensified as she gazed up at him so expectantly.

Christ, he couldn’t do this to her.

She trusted him, respected him, saw only the good and honorable in him... and he... he couldn’t fail her.

Sweat slid from his brow as he reined in his lust—a near impossible feat, for he was nearly over the edge.

Still, he hung on, mentally haranguing himself out of his lascivious designs.

Damn... he’d asked that she meet with him here today for this very purpose... and she had come to him willingly.

And yet she was an innocent, and she would be the one to pay if he accepted what she would give him.

Curse him, he wanted to hurl caution to the wind; he hurt so badly.

And she needed him—he could see the passion in her luminous green eyes.

He clenched his jaw, resolved.

She needed the release he knew he could give her. Nay, he needed to give it to her, by damn.

He intended to give it to her.

He stroked her body, gently but insistently, and felt her respond with abandon. Her face screwed in the most erotic expression he had ever had the pleasure of spying, her eyes closed, her jaw clenched.

“I-I love you!” she gasped.

The unexpected declaration lashed him as soundly as a physical blow. Pleasure so keen it was pain shot through him, and yet he wanted her to say it again, and again... and again.

Working feverishly to bring the declaration to her lips once more, pleasuring her, he swore to deny himself, and suffer as he watched the rosy flush of sexual rapture blossom upon her cheeks. Her bottom lip caught firmly between her teeth and she concentrated so intently upon the pleasure that she drew the tiniest trace of ruby red blood. Leaning forward, he lapped the salty droplet away, healing her mouth with his kiss.

He couldn’t help himself; he kissed her eyes, then her nose, her mouth... losing himself.

Again his conscience shrieked at him.

She trusted him to keep her safe—safe from his lechery. He would loathe himself did he rob her of her virginity, her virtue. He would despise himself beyond bearing if he hurt her. His finger slipped within her body once more, as though to be certain, but the filmy barrier remained to taunt him.

He grimaced, shuddering.

Bloody damn, but he couldn’t do it... Still, he could not leave her wanting either. Struggling with the needs of his own body, he worked to give her the release she required now, taking pains not to damage her maidenhead in the process. He’d brought her past the point of return, and it would be his penance to go without for himself.

“Oh, my God!” she cried, unaware that she had, and then her body shuddered in release.

Christian, aching as he was, watched the emotions that played across her face, and felt strangely triumphant in that instant.

Jessie lay unmoving for the longest while, her eyes closed tightly against the brightness of the day.

A hand moved out of her skirts—Christian’s, she acknowledged with growing mortification.

She flushed as strong fingers smoothed down her garments, repairing them. Desperately she tried to understand what had transpired between them, but shame washed over her, warming every inch of her body.

Something was wrong.

She sensed it.

She could scarcely bear to open her eyes and face him now. What must he think of her? Was she defiled? If not precisely defiled, what then was she?

If she was now disgraced, what could she do? Never would she think to lay the blame upon Christian’s shoulders, for she had silently invited him—nay, pleaded for him—to take whatever he would.

Dear God, would he depart from her life now that he’d taken the only thing of value she’d had to offer?

Eliza had said he would.

She felt sick with dread. Confusion.

“Jess?”

Her eyes flew open to meet his. He was looking at her strangely. Was it pity she spied in his gaze? Disgust?

Her voice failed her.

She choked on her emotions. Did she really wish to know what he was thinking? His expression was such a peculiar one. Why had he come into her life? she wondered. Before she could stop herself, she asked him, “Why did you come, my lord?”

For an instant, Christian was taken aback by the innocent question.

The look in her eyes told him she had no inkling what it seemed she was asking. A rueful smile curved his lips, for he hadn’t, didn’t she know.

“I mean to say... I know that my father—”

“I’d as soon not discuss your father,” he snapped. His jaw working, and then he said, softening the angry sting of his words, “If you don’t mind... not now.”

“O-Of course,” she whispered and closed her eyes.

Seeing her anguished expression, the way she turned from him, Christian felt his gut twist.

After a moment, her long lashes fluttered open, and she turned to him. He wanted so much to reach out and wipe the corners of her eyes with his thumb—before the regrets could come. He didn’t think he could bear it if she cried. If possible, her eyes became greener, brighter, in the wash of unshed tears. Their gazes held, and then hers skidded away.

He swallowed the lump that tried to strangle the words into oblivion. “I came,” he began, hating himself for being so callous with her feelings.

She waited expectantly, her chin lifting, her eyes alight with hope as she awaited his response.

Ah, Christ... he had the greatest desire to kiss those eyes closed once more lest she discern the fateful emotions that warred so violently within him, to feel the silky curl of her lashes against his lips, to soothe away her troubles once and for all. She didn’t deserve the grief that lay in store for her... the heartache he was sure to give her.

Damn her brother for an uncaring ass.

She needed someone to protect her.

The question was... could he be that man when he was the greatest thing she had to fear?

“I’m—” His voice caught at her hauntingly tender expression. She went so still that he suspected she’d ceased to breathe.

God damn him to hell, the reassuring words would not come, no matter that he desperately wanted to speak them.

Anything he said right now would be binding. Was he ready to drag her along his life path, when his life was never more uncertain?

“I’m not sure,” he said finally, shaking his head, gritting his teeth against the lie. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes swam with tears as he said again, softly, “I don’t know, Jessamine.”

Bloody hell if he didn’t.

Tossing down the last swig of his brandy, Christian poured himself another, emptying the second decanter for the night. Disgusted with himself, he set the snifter down and lifted the container, staring down into its crystalline depths as though somehow he might find the answers revealed to him amid the acrid-sweet fumes within.

What the devil was he supposed to have said to her? I came, Jess, my love, because your whoreson brother offered me a tidy little sum to break your goddamn little heart?

Turning the decanter, he examined the beautiful etchings, a delicate floral scrolling pattern. The extravagant bit of glass had graced Hakewell’s library for as long as he could recall.. his father’s... his father’s before him... damn them all to hell.

Damning himself as well, he hurled the decanter at the lapping flames across the room, aiming too high; it struck the mantel with a deafening crash, shattering into a profusion of multicolored shards.

He shouldn’t care—had trained himself not to—but the simple truth was that he was fast losing his heart to the little twit. God’s blood, but he should wed her and end the torture once and for all.

Wed her.

The thought wasn’t altogether unappealing.

Scowling, he resisted the urge to glimpse over his shoulder to be certain there wasn’t some demon angel perched there, whispering noble suggestions into his ear. There was nothing noble about him, and he’d be doing her a disfavor, bringing her into his life... his world... his disgusting secrets...

Secrets that could destroy him.

Secrets that could devastate her.

The firelight cast the room in an eerie light, basking all it touched in deep orange-red hues. Squinting against the shadows, he slouched backward into the elaborately carved damask chair, surveying the room before him. Upon entering, he’d drawn the curtains to let in the muted afternoon light, but the sun had long since set and the night mist cast an opaque veil over the half-moon rising.

His gaze shifted from the window to the vast shelves of books occupying the far wall. This should have been his study. His, and not Philip’s. Everything might have been different then, if only his brother had not stolen his birthright. Aye, for then he might have wed the late... great... son of a bitch’s daughter all those years ago, without the dissent he was now plagued with.

Damn.

Retrieving the snifter from the desktop, he swirled the amber liquid within, envisioning his life as it might have been; the anger that might have been forsaken, the loathing he might not have felt...

He imagined coming home to sweet Jessie, imagined her waiting, tucked prettily between the sheets—their sheets. He imagined taking her the first time, the second time, every time thereafter. His lust was rekindled just so easily, if indeed it had ever been extinguished; blazing white heat shot through his veins.

Christ, the ways he would have her...

What did he care what had passed before? What might have been? She still could be his... if only he might cease brooding long enough to ask for her hand in marriage.

And she needed him.

St. John desired her for one reason, and one reason alone... because Christian had been denied her. It hadn’t hurt matters much that she’d turned out to be such a beauty. And even if Christian wasn’t the reason... everyone knew the way St. John dealt with his women, bloody whoreson that he was. Why would a wife be treated differently? Christian felt an incredible violence stir within him, imagining St. John’s hands upon her—anyone’s hands, for that matter.

If he were to hurt her...

He couldn’t live with it.

But what if Jessie’s fool brother denied him?

Again.

His eyes, narrowed thoughtfully, for he’d simply have to see to it that Westmoor didn’t refuse him.

And what will you do if he doesn’t cow? a voice within taunted. Drive him to suicide as you did their father? Clamping his jaw shut, he groaned, as though to deny the nagging presence that was bent on giving him conscience.

He was what he was.

And if Jessie didn’t wish to wed him... well, then... so be it. He could leave despising her for it, and all would be as it was.

Tossing down the last swallow of liquor, he shook his head, shuddering away the effects, and thrust the snifter none too gently across the mahogany desk. It slid, stopping just before plunging over the edge. It hung there, suspended, contrary to the laws of nature, more of it resting off than on. The sight of it wrung a wry smile from his lips.

Damned if he didn’t feel as though he was going off the edge himself

“Wake up,” demanded a frantic Hildie. “Wake up!”

Jessie lifted the covers over her head, shielding herself from her maid’s scrutiny, moaning. “Go away. I feel sick!”

And it was true, she did, for she’d spent long hours worrying herself that way over her appalling behavior with Christian. She’d practically thrown herself into his arms, after all. She’d ensured her own ruin yesterday, and ruined, she was.

“Sick?” the maid said, sounding worried. She shook Jessie’s tightly bundled form.

“Please... please, just go away!”

Jessie felt like weeping. God’s truth, but she never wanted to show her face again!

The maid sighed regretfully. “I would, lovey, if only I could, but ye’ve a guest downstairs to be attending. Amos said to fetch ye, will ye nill ye.”

No, Jessie fretted silently.

No, no, no—not Christian!

She couldn’t face him, as yet—didn’t want to—especially with Amos there to scrutinize them together!

A whirlwind of emotions swept through her all at once. She sat reluctantly, clutching the coverlet to her bosom. Shame descended upon her like a storm, and she worried that Hildie would discern the difference in her. Surely it would be apparent in her eyes. Her face? She felt as though her loss of innocence had somehow physically changed her.

She felt different.

“Lord Christian?”

Hildie shook her head regretfully. “Nay, m’lady. ’Tain’t Lord Christian. Come, now, up and dress yourself.”

Her brows drew together. “Who, then?”

Since their father’s death, few had called at Westmoor. Even their closest acquaintances had ceased to visit after hearing the ugly rumors of Westmoor’s death, never mind that they were as yet unfounded.

Hildie mumbled something under her breath, and though Jessie hadn’t heard a word of the maid’s disclosure, her sorrowful expression made Jessie’s suspicions rear. “Who is it come calling, Hildie?”

The maid peered at her anxiously. “Lord St. John, m’lady... all the way from Charlestown.”

Chapter Ten

Christian’s mouth felt parched. His head ached—effects of the liquor, no doubt, though perhaps in part it was also a result of the momentous decision he’d come to last night.

God’s teeth, but he was glad for Quincy’s aid this morn, he thought, as he observed the wrestling match between man and boot.

White-haired Quincy had come to him along with Rose Park—a shabby, run-down estate and a dilapidated old man. Fitting pair. Still and all, Christian felt a certain attachment to the decrepit old fool, as he did to Rose Park. Knowing no one else would have hired him in his advanced days, Christian had kept him on. It seemed old age made Quincy an unwanted relic to be discarded as useless, and Christian felt a certain empathy for his plight.

He winced as the boot was shoved onto his foot, at long last, with more force than was credible for the old man. And then his brows collided as Quincy suddenly gave an offensive snort. He watched incredulously as the old man lifted his thin upper lip, spraying spittle through his teeth. The repulsive sprinkling landed squarely upon Christian’s right boot.

Christian reconsidered his employment at once. “God’s teeth, man! What the devil do you think you’re doing!”

“Buffing your shoes, m’lord.”

Using his faded sleeve, Quincy proceeded to buff the spittle from the tip of Christian’s boot.

Christian groaned.

“’Tain’t nothin’ quite the likes o’ good spit, to tidy a man’s leather.”

Christian grunted in response, too distracted by other matters to protest further. “If you must do so in future,” he added, “do it when I’m not about to witness it.”

Quincy chortled, and Christian grimaced, pressing his hand to his forehead to still the hammering in his brain. And raking his fingers through his hair, he willed himself to bloody blue blazes—perchance there he would be somewhat less tormented!

“Ye goin’ to Westmoor this morn, m’lord?”

Christian eyed the old man with an arched brow. “Aye,” he relented.

“To see the li’l miss?”

God’s blood, but the old man was bold. He frowned as Quincy grunted knowingly.

“That’s quite enough polishing for the one boot,” Christian announced.

Quincy peered up from his handiwork, nodding with pleasure. “Certainly, m’lord,” he said after a moment’s deliberation, and then left off with the polishing to retrieve the boot that was still lying upon the wooden floor. He rose to his knees, extending it for Christian’s foot. Christian proffered it, bracing himself for the impact of Quincy’s weight. Grunting, the old man shoved, but the boot proved more stubborn than he, and Quincy thrust again, harder this time. Caught unexpectedly, Christian was propelled backward over the bed. In the blink of an eye, Quincy leapt upon the mattress with him and stood above him, battering the upturned sole of his boot, threatening it physical harm. For a long moment, Christian could only stare, his expression screwing in disbelief. And then he came to his senses. “Enough already. Get off!” Then, more forcefully when Quincy made no move to obey, “Get the devil off my bed! I’ll put the damned thing on myself,” he groused.

Quincy ignored him still, shoving more forcefully, and the boot rewarded him by popping into place at last. That done, he lifted a sleeve and spat upon it.

Christian rolled from the bed, coming to his feet at once. “Damn it! ’Tis not my boots in need of acceptance, but my bloody proposal! Stay clear of me with that spittle-sodden sleeve!”

“But, m’lord!” Quincy objected. And then his eyes bulged. “Proposal, you say, m’lord? Well, now! Ye can’t go with one boot shiny as a copper and the other dustier’n me gran’s attic—specially not today. ’Tain’t right,” he objected. “What would the little miss say?”

Christian glared at him. And then, shaking his head with mute disgust, he slid into the nearest chair. What would she say, indeed? If Jessie didn’t agree...

Christ, he loathed the thought of making a fool of himself over some slip of a girl.

Quincy stared expectantly, and he sighed wearily, proffering his boot. “Do it,” he said sullenly. “But do it quickly.”

Grinning, Quincy at once dropped to his knees, snorted, and spat, then set about the task of buffing with quiet determination. “You won’t be sorry, m’lord!”

Damned if he wasn’t already, Christian thought morosely.

Lord St. John was a balding, self-loving bore, with more hair than wit—though he didn’t have much of that!

Jessie thought if she heard once more about how influential he was, she was going to rip out his three remaining hairs, one by one.

Botheration!

And this was the man her brother would have her spend the whole of her life with? She shuddered at the thought.

“Really,” he was saying. “You’ll love Charlestown, m’dear—so much like London.” He gave her a meaningful smile, and boldly tapped her skirt with a finger.

Jessie started at his touch, jerking away. “Truly, m’lord?” She choked back the contempt from her voice. She loathed London! And she detested the man sitting beside her all the more! The very sound of his voice made her shudder. She hugged herself protectively, hoping he wouldn’t notice her disgust.

“Oh yes, indeed,” he crowed, grinning with pleasure over her feigned interest. “Some like to refer to it as Little Londontown, even. It was named after old King Charles, don’t you know!”

Jessie turned from him slightly, rolling her eyes. “Yes, my lord, so I’ve heard. In fact, I believe I heard it from you, quite recently,” she added, giving him a sweet little smile. She resisted the urge to ask him if he was addlepated. He must be, for it’d been a mere quarter of an hour since he’d last recounted that very thing to her. She peered anxiously at the door. What was her brother doing? Why wasn’t he back yet? He’d abandoned them so long ago. And where, she wondered crossly, was Eliza? Certainly she’d made herself visible enough for Christian. Jessie scooted forward impatiently, toward the edge of the settee.

Lord St. John cast her a questioning glance, as though to discern whether or not she mocked him. Apparently resolving she did not, much to her dismay, he carried on with his incessant rambling.

A discreet cough brought Jessie’s attention to the doorway. “Griffin!” She sprung from the settee at once, grateful for the butler’s interruption, and made her way to where he stood, leaning forward to hiss into his ear. “Where is my brother?”

“Er, yes, m’lady,” he said, not truly answering her question. “He bade me tell you to remain here in the salon, and to assure you he and Lord St. John will return anon.” Turning to St. John, he announced, “His Lordship awaits you in the Lib’ry, if you would be so kind to oblige, m’lord.” Gesturing with a hand, he urged St. John from the room.

“Yes, of course,” St. John replied. He turned to fix Jessie with a frightening smile. “I shall return in an instant, m’dear. Do not fret yourself over it.”

Jessie cringed as she watched him go, and was filled suddenly with a terrible foreboding.

Just what had Amos been up to for so long in the library when he knew full well that she was inappropriately ensconced in the salon with a man she barely knew? that her reputation might suffer because of it? True, she had managed to be alone with Christian, but never with Amos’ knowledge or approval. All but for a handful of times, Amos had been made aware of Christian’s presence, and had made certain Hildie was near to keep a watchful eye upon them.

Something was amiss... and be damned if she didn’t intend to discover exactly what it was. She waited until she was certain the way was clear, and then headed to the library after them.

Chapter Eleven

“Bloody hell!”

For the last hour, Christian had tried in vain to convince Westmoor of his intent to wed his sister, but the son of a bitch seemed to have turned a deaf ear to his words.

“Damn you! I don’t want your blood money, not now—or ever!”

“I was under the impression, Haukinge, that we’d come to an agreement concerning my dear sister already.”

“Agreement, hell! You spoke, I listened, and you took my silence as an alliance!”

“I see,” Amos said stiffly. “Well, then, just what is it you require of me, sirrah?”

Christian’s jaw ticked with anger. “Jessamine,” he said with quiet menace. “I wish to have your sister’s hand in matrimony, and nothing more—as it should have been years ago!”

“Impossible, she’s already betrothed—”

Amos halted his explanation as the library door creaked opened, revealing a mottle-faced Lord St. John behind it.

“Well, now, there he is!” Amos smiled broadly. “Jessamine’s intended himself!” With great satisfaction, he then decreed, “Haukinge, you may take great pleasure in making the acquaintance of Lord St. John, lately of Charlestown. It is to him I have granted my dear sister’s hand in matrimony. So, then,” he concluded, “as you now know, your request is far from a reasonable one.”

A cool nod was Christian’s only greeting as he acknowledged his longtime adversary. His gaze swept over St. John, and his lips formed a snarl as he turned again to Westmoor. “The pleasure has already been mine, I fear.” Turning to St. John, he nodded.

“Haukinge,” he replied disingenuously, “so very good to see you again.”

“I’m certain,” Christian drawled.

Shrewdly assessing the situation at hand, St. John said, “Amos is telling the truth. Dear, lovely Jessamine has agreed to become my bride.”

When Christian looked disbelieving still, he announced, “We shall be departing two weeks hence for The Colonies and shall wed there. Unfortunately circumstances do not permit me a lengthier stay this voyage.” Casting Christian a very meaningful glance, he explained, “Much has gone awry in Charlestown, sir, much indeed—if you know what I mean—and I know you do.”

Turning to Amos, Christian ignored St. John’s carefully worded accusation. “I don’t believe it. She would have told me she was spoken for.”

“Now, Haukinge,” St. John interjected, his voice a sneer. He came forward to stand beside Amos. “Why should Westmoor lie to you? Why would I? I’m quite aware that you frequent”—the word was another insinuation—“Charlestown’s harbor. Wouldn’t it be a rather simple matter for you to investigate my personal affairs if you were so inclined?”

Christian’s gut twisted.

He had the lowering feeling St. John was telling him the truth. But why would Jessie have lied to him? Why would she have whispered of love when she knew full well she belonged to another man? Why had she so eagerly encouraged his suit? From what he knew of her, it didn’t make sense. Then again, when had anything between them ever made a lick of sense? He managed a slow nod. “I take it that Jessie knows?”

Amos smiled victoriously. “Well, of course she knows, Haukinge. How could she not know?”

Once again, the door creaked open and Jessie herself peered warily into the library.

“I knocked,” she told them apologetically, glancing first at St. John, then at Amos. “Jessie knows what?” she asked quickly, and then suddenly she turned and gasped in shock as she spied Christian. “I did not realize you were here, my lord!”

Christian merely stared, holding her gaze, not trusting himself to speak.

“Is something wrong?”

A shiver swept down Jessie’s spine as she scrutinized the occupants of the room. Christian’s expression told her, indubitably, that something was indeed very wrong. The look in his eyes and his rigid stance told her all she needed to know; he was raging mad.

Botheration!

She had no idea what Amos could have said to anger him so, but he looked positively feral, ready to pounce. She swept the room with her gaze and inquired once more, “What is it that Jessie knows?” When there was still no reply to her question, she demanded, “Will someone please speak!”

“The fact that you are to wed Lord St. John, of course.”

Jessie whirled on her brother. “But you said—”

“I remember well what I said,” he returned quickly, flicking Christian a glance. “But the charade must now come to an end, I fear. I never imagined Lord St. John would come to collect you so soon.”

Jessie’s stomach twisted. “Charade?” She swallowed convulsively. “What charade, Amos?”

“Quite simple, sister dear. Haukinge came to court you only because I paid him to, and now I believe he’s come to collect his due.”

Her heart lurched. Jessie turned to Christian; their gazes collided like fire and steel. “He paid you?” He didn’t reply and she knew. “My God!” Her fingers flew to her lips. “He paid you!”

Eyeing her coldly, Christian answered her question with one of his own. “Have you agreed to wed this man or not?”

Their gazes remained locked for a long, painful instant, and then Christian shook his head when Jessie couldn’t speak to deny it. Raking a hand through his hair, he hung his head backward, closing his eyes, and froze in that position when he heard Amos’ next words.

“I’m sorry, Mister Haukinge, but you really cannot have expected Jessamine would wed a bastard. Even if she would, it would be heinous of me to allow such a mesalliance.”

Christian’s head snapped upright, his eyes glittering coldly. He fixed his glare upon Jessie, though his question was directed at Amos. “What did you say?”

If he’d needed proof against her, he certainly had it now.

St. John’s eyes bulged with the declaration. His gaze sought Christian’s to verify the scandalous disclosure.

“I said,” Amos repeated, “that it would be heinous of me to allow—”

“Son of a—” Christian willed his temper to calm. “Did she tell you that?” He turned to Jessie, demanding, “Did you?”

Jessie opened her mouth to deny it, but she was still reeling from Amos’ revelation. Nay, she’d not told him! But how dare he be angry with her when it was he who had committed the dishonor here!

“Christ! Don’t answer,” he snarled. “I’ve had more than enough of your lies already! What a grand little actress you are! If ever you tire of playing the seductress, m’mselle, you might consider taking to the floorboards!”

Jessie felt as though she’d been slapped.

Her eyes misted, and her heart felt as though it would shatter into a thousand tiny shards. She tried desperately not to weep before him. Weeping would accomplish naught, she knew, and yet, even as she restrained herself, a sob seemed to form of its own will. “How could you?” she blurted miserably, “I... I never—”

“Shut up, Jessamine!” Amos exploded. Closing the distance between them, he seized her forcefully by the arm, gripping her hard in warning. “You’ve absolutely nothing to explain to this—this jackal!”

All eyes turned to Jessie, waiting.

She couldn’t speak. Amos’ grip warned her not to—nor could she seem to form the words.

Christian was the first to turn away.

Shaking his head with disgust, he clenched his jaw.

Those pale green eyes of hers had a way of piercing his very heart. Impossible not to feel when they were fixed upon him, and he didn’t want to feel just now. Outwardly his expression remained carefully bland, until he happened to spy the wounded expression she wore.

How could he ever have thought her pure?

Sweet? Caring? How dare she play the injured before him now? He didn’t give a bloody damn who else was present, he wasn’t about to leave this place without giving her a piece of his mind. And to think he’d nearly given her... everything—Christ, what a bloody fool he was! His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, my love, was it difficult to lie there beneath me and whisper words of love, knowing all the while you belonged to another man?” His jaw clenched.

Her face drained of color, but he felt no satisfaction, only pain more intensely.

“So much for love, eh?”

St. John’s face mottled with rage.

“Do not make intimations that can so easily be disproven, Haukinge.” Amos shot a warning glance to Jessie, urging her without words to remain silent while he attempted to acquit her name.

Smoldering with anger, Christian taunted, one brow lifted in contempt, “Can it now?” He turned to Jessie. “Can it, I wonder, my love?”

He was daring her to deny it.

Jessie’s face flamed at his mortifying disclosure. It seemed all eyes were upon her again, probing, questioning, gawking. God help her, but she could not deny Christian’s insinuation, for she was, in truth, no longer innocent. Only that didn’t seem to matter just now; she only felt the pain of his betrayal. She choked on a sob. “I... “

“You what? You do love me? Say it now, so that all may hear your tender declarations.”

Jessie stood silent, her heart breaking, her world collapsing around her. She thought she might swoon. Her palms dampened, and she wet her lips nervously, glancing at her brother, then at St. John, then again at Christian, not knowing to whom to turn. Tears welled in her eyes, blinding her to all but Christian’s spiteful glare. His furious expression cut her as surely as a knife. Her hands began to quiver, but she could not speak. She didn’t know what to say in response to all the hurtful things he was saying to her. Oh, God! She stifled a sob. Amos had paid him! And Christian, he’d accepted without compunction.

Her heart felt crushed beyond repair.

She couldn’t bear it. Bile surged in her throat. It was no wonder he believed she would betray him, for he had already betrayed her. Her heart felt as though it would rend in two. And God help her, for she loved him even still. He stared, waiting, inviting her to humiliate herself further by professing an unrequited love, for he couldn’t possibly love her in return.

Well, she wasn’t about to satisfy him.

“You cannot say it, can you? Now, when it matters most! Christ! How witless of me to have ever believed in you!” His eyes came alive with loathing, as he turned to St. John. “My congratulations to you, St. John, on your impending nuptials. You richly deserve one another!” He started toward her. “Keep your stinking money, Westmoor, your sister has already paid me in full.” His gaze locked with hers as he passed her, and he whispered for her ears alone, “Haven’t you, love?” He left then, his footsteps echoing behind him. He opened and slammed the front door, taking with him the promise of Jessie’s future.

If possible, St. John’s face reddened even more as he turned to face her. The whites of his eyes seemed to bulge from his face. “Is it true?”

Even without Christian’s presence, she could not answer.

“I shall not be the butt of every man’s joke!”

What could she say? Nothing. There was nothing she could possibly say in her own defense.

Silence permeated the room, damning her.

“By God!” St. John thundered. “I shall not have that jackal’s leavings! Not this day! Nor any other! Good day to the two of you!”

“Wait!” Amos demanded as St. John turned from him. “I can explain!”

St. John shook his head, not bothering to look Amos’ way. “Nay, sirrah, you cannot! I shall be departing Westmoor at once. A good life to you both!” And with that, he, too, left, slamming the door in his wake.

Jessie was certain the front door would split in two if it were slammed so violently even once more.

“Damn, damn, bloody damn!” Amos exploded. He glared at Jessie.

Left to themselves, the room became deathly quiet. Amos shook his powdered and peruked head, hatred and disgust leaping from his eyes.

Jessie felt anew the condemning sting of tears.

“Does he speak the truth, Jessamine? Tell me, now!”

For a long moment she couldn’t say a word, and then she nodded, her lips quivering. Her hands trembling, she wiped away the blur of tears from her eyes.

Amos gave her a contemptuous snort and shook his head. “Do you realize what you have done?” he asked gravely. “I cannot believe you would do this to me—to Westmoor!”

His expression was frightening, his tone cold and brutal in its sharpness. She recoiled as he came toward her, raising his hand in anger. He stopped abruptly, held it in midair, as tears pooled and spilled from her eyes. Silently they coursed down her cheeks, onto her lips. She let them, not bothering to wipe the humiliating wetness away. Looking directly into her brother’s vacant eyes, she realized then that there was nothing left of him there. They revealed not a trace of warmth.

“I thought he loved me,” she sobbed brokenly, tasting the salt of her grief. “I-I thought you—”

His hand slammed down upon the desk and he glared at her as though to blame her for the violent reaction she’d wrought from him. “You thought too much!”

“Why, Amos? Why would you do such a thing? I-I don’t understand. Why would Lord Chris—” She choked on the question, unable to finish.

“’Tis not so difficult to comprehend,” he replied balefully, his words clipped and cool. “For the good of Westmoor, Jessamine, I would sell my soul to the devil himself. And Lord Christian? That is quite the simple deduction as well; he’s the lowest of low, the scourge of society. It is only to be expected from the likes of him.”

Once again, silence fell. Only Jessie’s sobs broke the hush. She cried softly. “What will you do?”

Amos shrugged, his look cold, unreachable. “Precisely what I should have done to begin with. Send you to Charlestown, m’dear.”

She blanched. “But Lord St. John said—”

Amos eyed her coldly. “Have you no ears? Did you not hear? Nay, you’ll not go with St. John, but to Robert, instead!” He shook his head lamentably. “I can do nothing more for you here—you have seen to that well and good! Robert may fare better than I.”

He observed the silent tears as they spilled down her cheeks and was unmoved by them.

“You’ve disgraced us! You’ve dishonored my name. Eliza warned you that Haukinge was a debaucher of women—a penniless one at that!” he scoffed. “But nay, you would not listen. It was also made known to you that he would not stay overlong once he knew you came to him without a dowry. I can only say I told you so!”

Jessie held her breath momentarily.

Hope stirred despite the pain.

“He asked after my dowry?” Pride seemed a forgone thing suddenly. If Christian had asked after her dowry, he must have asked about matrimony. And then it dawned on her suddenly what Amos had said to him and hope surged. You really cannot have expected Jessamine would wed a bastard. “Amos, did he ask to marry me?”

“It never came to that. With no dowry, you are nothing to him, and I made that clear from the start—that you would be given none. He never bothered to ask.”

Jessie masked her face with her hands as an anguished sob burst forth.

Amos watched a moment longer, and then abandoned her, too. Just so easily, everything was gone.

Everything.

Part Two

"There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in misery."
—Dante

Chapter Twelve

Charlestown, 1763

“Sacrebleu! ‘Ave I grown two heads, mon ami?”

Christian seized up the crowbar, prying the lid from the largest crate. “You’ve still the one, old man, rest assured.” He eyed Jean Paul reproachfully. “Just the same, I strongly suggest you refrain from calling me by that name.”

Jean Paul’s brows rose. “Since when do you take offense to mon ami?”

Christian eyed him narrowly. “You know very well what I’m referring to.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he peered into the newly opened crate. “Damn it! Not in this one either.” He eyed Jean Paul pensively. “Are you certain it was loaded upon the Anastasie?”

“Quite certain,” Jean Paul answered. “Anyway, had they found their way to France, we would have heard by now. They must be here someplace, Hawk.”

“Christian.”

Jean Paul grimaced. “That reminds me,” he said, ignoring Christian’s reproof. “That cantankerous old fool you brought with you from England seems to ’ave taken offense to my sleeping in your room at the big house. I told him it was only till you returned, but non! Again and again he moves my things into the unfinished rooms—and it rained late last night!”

“Only a drizzle,” Christian said, grinning, though he vowed to speak with Quincy at the first opportunity.

“Mon cul! There was two inches of water on the floor where I slept—I swam instead! And this morn, my peruke was ruined!”

Christian chuckled. “Be damned if you need that lice-ridden headpiece, anyway.”

Jean Paul scowled at him. “You should wear yours more, I think! For someone who doesn’t wish attention called to himself, you have a curious way to show it.”

Jessie had oft eschewed her petticoats, as well, Christian couldn’t help but recall, and it occurred to him in that instant that he’d never thought to question it. On the contrary, he’d understood completely. It was her one small rebellion against authority. His had merely been the first of many.

“Alright,” he relented, cursing himself for a bloody fool. Why couldn’t he seem to forget? “I’ll bring Quincy back to the city with me.” He hung his head back to relieve the tension in his neck, massaging the soreness, and then with a grimace of disgust, turned his attention to the crate before him. “Here, old man... give me a hand with this one.”

“What old man!” Jean Paul eyed him reproachfully, but complied at once. “You are disrespectful to your elders, mon fils.” Together they shoved the heavy crate out of the way. “I could be your—”

“Father?” Christian interjected, sobered by the turn of their conversation. He turned to face Jean Paul, one brow arched in challenge but Jean Paul said nothing. The two merely stared at one another, gazes locked, and then the moment passed and Jean Paul glanced away. Christian bent to retrieve the crowbar.

“I could be,” Jean Paul said suddenly, his declaration barely more than a whisper. Christian’s gaze snapped up, meeting his father’s bright blue eyes. Aye, he knew… but did Jean Paul? Could his mother have told him? Or had he simply come to her rescue, ready to accept a son not his own?

Jean Paul’s expression shuttered suddenly. “What happened to you in England?” he demanded. “That is what I wish to know!”

Christian turned away, his jaw working as he moved to the next crate. “Nothing I care to discuss.”

“I know you too well, Christian. Something has happened to make you so foul-tempered. Quelle barbe! I see you not for months—and now, when I should be glad to find you are not fodder for the fish, or hanging from the gallows, I can scarcely bear to look at you for that hideous scowl you wear!”

Christian grunted as he pried off the lid. “Then don’t look.”

“Never have I known you to take an insult so lightly! Non, the Hawk I know would ’ave taken what was his due! Jesu Christ! I have seen you seize even that which was not your own! If they took something from you, why do you not just take it back and cease all this brooding?”

Christian’s head snapped up. “I am not brooding, devil hang you!” His eyes narrowed in warning. He’d be damned if he’d have his personal affairs questioned by anyone—not even Jean Paul! “Enough to say we didn’t suit—we’re cut of different cloth, she and I. Now... give it up, Jean Paul.”

“Humph!”

Slamming the lid back into place, Christian muttered an oath. “Damn, not here either!” Raking his fingers through his hair, he mused aloud, “They must’ve somehow been unloaded back on Adger’s wharf.”

Jean Paul’s heavy brows lifted.

Christian was at once resigned to what must be done. “We’ll have to go into the warehouse tonight, retrieve them before customs realizes ‘tis there under their bloody noses.”

“Just so?”

“What choice have we?”

“I suppose, not much,” Jean Paul ceded. “But you have an obligation to attend the gala tonight—the oaf knows you’re here. If you make no appearance, St. John will likely suspect and come searching. There have been rumors, Christian.”

“I know, damn it all, I know!” Christian considered his options. “I suppose I shall have to pay a visit to the Wilkes club to see if Ben can’t round up some of his boys. I’ll head to the tavern just as soon as we finish here.” His gaze returned to Jean Paul. “The two of you can handle it from there, can you not?”

Jean Paul considered a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Oui... but there is no need to go searching.” He nodded in the direction of Oyster Point. “Stone is there. His men too. I can see them from here.”

Christian turned and went to the ship’s railing to gaze out over the expanse of blue-gray water that separated the Anastasie from the Charlestown battery. “What the bloody hell would have them congregating so damned conspicuously?”

Jean Paul came up behind him, clapping a cautioning hand upon his shoulder. “Daniel Moore, the new stamp collector has arrested two of Laurens’ vessels. So have a care now... the situation grows grave.”

From her vantage point along the bay, Jessie could see clear to Oyster Point. In the harbor itself, hundreds of vessels were at anchor—the breathtaking sight never ceased to awe her. All about, people scurried to and fro. Children played. Merchants peddled their wares, while elegantly dressed women walked simply to be seen—perhaps chattering about tonight’s gala?

Glancing down at the envelope she held within her hand, she smiled knowingly. Kathryn Sinclair was anxious for Jessie to invite her cousin to attend the masquerade, and Jessie had promised she would attempt to persuade him. To that end, she’d gone to her cousin’s wharf to inquire over Ben’s whereabouts and had been told to seek him out at Oyster Point, though what he was up to away from the wharf so early, she just couldn’t fathom. Nibbling her lip fretfully, she considered the rumors... but nay, she refused to believe them. Ben would never place himself at risk.

Shuddering, she glanced up, gauging the sky. Even through the lingering storm clouds, the sun shone brightly, warming her. She hoped it wouldn’t rain again tonight—more than that, she wished she wouldn’t cease to breathe every time she passed this blessed street!

As so many times before, when she passed the brick facade town house she’d discovered belonged to him, she couldn’t resist a glimpse. She was startled to find that today its black protective shutters were open wide to the fresh air.

Was he here? In Charlestown? After all these months? Her heart lurched at the possibility.

God curse the rotten scoundrel that he could do this to her even now! What was wrong with her? she wondered peevishly.

Well, she knew what was wrong with her, of course! Now, at last, when she was able to walk the shell-paved streets without searching for his face in the crowd, he came to torment her once more!

Yes, she knew Christian had holdings in Charlestown. She had dreaded meeting with him—but he might have given her more time! Not that he would have concerned himself with her preferences. Rotten, deceiving wretch!

Perhaps it wasn’t him at all, she reasoned. He might have loaned the house, after all.

She certainly didn’t want it to be him...

Did she?

Seagulls dotted the clear blue sky above, wailing as they swooped to the streets in search of scraps. Pigeons wobbled carelessly, dodging carriages and rushing feet, all oblivious to her sinking mood. She walked faster, no longer in the frame of mind to tarry. She intended to deliver the envelope to Ben, and then hurry home and lock herself within her room for the rest of her natural life!

And then perhaps not...

Why should she? she thought crossly, resisting the childish urge to stomp her foot and scream. Why should she allow him to terrorize her into hiding away?

Well, she wasn’t about to!

Ben would likely scold her for delivering the invitation by hand when she could have easily sent a messenger instead, but she’d needed the walk and the fresh air—if it could be called fresh. Her nostrils flared slightly at the odor that rose to accost her. Many of Charlestown’s streets were paved with crushed oyster shells, effecting a rather distinct odor that was saved from being fetid only by the sweet breeze of the sea. Once passed it, she glanced over her shoulder, at the brick-facade town house.

Were the servants merely preparing for his arrival?

For her peace of mind, she prayed it wasn’t so. She forced her thoughts away from the town house and away from Lord Christian Haukinge.

A carriage rolled slowly by, crackling noisily over the delicate shells. A white-gloved hand, followed by a shrill female voice, caught Jessie’s attention.

Waving in greeting, Jessie continued on her way. Despite her fears to the contrary, Charlestown had, in truth, proven to be precisely the haven she’d sought. She’d worried that Lord St. John would sully her name here, and that she would be labeled an outcast upon arriving in the city, but for whatever reason, he’d not so much as breathed a word of the incident to a soul. There were some, in truth, who still believed her betrothed to him... which led her to wonder that perhaps Lord St. John was as humiliated by the ordeal as was she.

She smiled softly then, with grim satisfaction, for Amos would likely curse himself to Jericho did he know that this penance of his was no penance at all. Her father’s brother and wife had been so good to her. For the first time since her mother’s death, Jessie felt part of a true family. Her cousin Ben was more like a brother to her than Amos could ever have thought to be—even if he was a mite too accommodating at times.

Ben, who was merely two years Jessie’s senior, had been her Uncle Robert’s sole child. Uncle Robert, Aunt Claire, and Ben had all afforded her such a warm welcome that she couldn’t help but love them all dearly already.

Love.

She couldn’t help it, she wondered if he would present himself at the masquerade tonight, and then cursed herself for her weakness to the blackguard.

“Jessamine!”

Hearing her name, Jessie turned to see that the carriage that had only just passed her by had circled and now drew up behind her once more. Kathryn Sinclair nearly toppled from it, and Jessie smiled as she greeted her newly found friend. “I should have thought you’d be home, diligently preparing for this eve.”

Kathryn’s smile was brilliant. “I’m to pick up my gown from Madame Legare,” she announced, snatching off one of her gloves and toying with it nervously, betraying her anxiousness. “And I was... looking,” she confessed.

For Ben.

Jessie’s smile deepened. “I wish I’d known. I might have asked you to join me.” She lifted the small envelope and displayed it to Kathryn’s inquiring eyes.

Kathryn nibbled her lower lip, suppressing her glee. “Do you think he will come? Oh, how I do hope so! My heart positively aches for it!”

Jessie laughed softly, shrugging noncommittally. “You know my cousin,” she cautioned. “One can never tell, but I shall endeavor to convince him.”

“And I know you will succeed!”

Suddenly inspired, Jessie glanced over her shoulder, toward Oyster Point. “Tell me, Kathryn, are you expected home very soon?” She smiled mischievously.

Kathryn’s gaze followed hers to the Point, and she admitted, “I saw him from the carriage! And nay! God’s truth, I was requested not to return directly, for it seems I’ve frazzled just about everyone’s nerves.” She smiled unrepentantly. “And poor Thom,” she added with a grievous sigh. She waved a hand in the direction of her waiting coach. “I’ve dragged the wretched soul to every last boutique in this city and now I am left with no choice but to return and plague my mother.” She sighed airily. “Unless, of course... someone should take pity upon me, and take me with them to the Point...” She smiled coyly, and Jessie laughed.

“Well, then...” Jessie gave her friend a shrewd smile. “Why not accompany me while I deliver this urgent missive to Ben?”

Kathryn’s eyes lit with merriment. “Truly? You’d not mind if I tagged along?”

“Of course not,” Jessie insisted. “In fact, I’d be quite grateful for the company.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Both, you say?”

Ben Stone nodded glumly. “Seized.”

“Devil plague that man!”

Christian shook his head in bewilderment. “Whatever possessed Moore to seize them, anyway? Charlestown has never been a smugglers’ haven; why would he suspect?”

The vessels in question had made the usual voyage between Charlestown and Laurens’ property in Georgia, and though it was intended that trade between territories be cleared with customs first, there was no customs house near Laurens’ plantation and so he’d not been able to comply with the requirement. Customarily such cases were overlooked, but Moore had for some reason refused to do so, and Christian was nonplussed as to why.

“Perhaps he simply intends to make an example of him?” Ben suggested.

“Or perhaps it is a warning?” Jean Paul interjected.

“Perhaps,” Christian conceded. “Then again, I suspect St. John may have had a hand in this matter, as well. He and Moore have been thick as thieves, and St. John and Laurens have little regard for one another.”

“Nor does St. John care for you, Hawk,” added one of Ben’s cronies. “He’s determined to snatch you.”

“Yes,” Ben agreed, chuckling, “though I’d like to see him try.”

“Never underestim—” Christian broke off suddenly, and froze.

Turning to see what had captured his attention, Ben chuckled and said, “My cousin... she seems to have that effect quite regularly, I’d say.”

His cronies all murmured an agreement.

Christian eyed him pointedly and scowled at the rest of the men. “Your cousin?”

Christian knew the instant Ben detected his interest in her, for his brows slanted to a frown. His stance grew as rigid as his own. “Hawk,” he said, his voice low in warning.

Devil hang him!

Even now the sight of her stole his breath away. He loathed himself for his weakness toward her. Stone. Damn, but why hadn’t he put the two together? His jaw clenched. Even now, it was impossible not to want her. His gut wrenched with remembrance, even as he hardened his heart against her.

“She’s my cousin, Hawk,” Ben said again, responding to something in Christian’s gaze.

Lifting her skirts, Jessie hurried across the sand-filled street into the clearing, smiling with delight at Kathryn’s bubbling excitement. And then at once her heart lurched to a halt. She froze, her breath strangling in her throat as the tallest man in the gathering turned to face them.

Their gazes met and held.

Jessie’s knees buckled a little at the baleful glare he gave her. Unknowingly she crushed the envelope she’d been carrying. If she weren’t such a blessed coward, she told herself, she’d walk directly to him and slap the self-righteous expression from his face!

But she was a coward, and the truth of the matter was that if she didn’t turn now, and go, this instant, she’d surely shame herself.

She felt Kathryn’s hand upon her arm and was grateful for her steadying presence. “What is it, Jessamine? What’s wrong?”

He continued to stare, his smoldering blue eyes narrowing in condemnation, but he said not a word, nor did he move to address her. What had she expected? A greeting? I’m sorry? How’ve you been, my love? She expected nothing! she told herself. She expected nothing—and received less. It would serve her best to simply walk away now. She spun on her heels and hastened away, with no answer for Kathryn’s anxious inquiry.

Kathryn hurried after her. “Jessamine! Wait! What is it?”

Ben caught her as she crossed the street, his expression sober as he asked, “Is it him?”

Jessie couldn’t find her voice to speak.

“Confound it!” Ben exploded.

“Who?” Kathryn asked, trying in vain to keep up with their hurried steps and fragmented conversation. There was only concern evident in her tone as she demanded, “Oh, please tell me, Jessamine! What has happened to upset you so?”

Still unable to speak, lest she burst into tears, Jessie shook her head. Ben was the only one person in Charlestown, aside from Lord Christian and Lord St. John, who knew the truth about what had happened all those months ago in England. Only Ben hadn’t known everything—he hadn’t known precisely who was responsible for her misery. Even Ben’s parents had been spared the awful truth. It was the one thing for which she had Amos to thank, he’d spared her that much—more for his own sake than for hers, she was certain. But she’d grown so close to Ben these past months that confiding in him had seemed a natural thing to do, but she could never bear for Kathryn to know her shame. Her cheeks colored even as she remembered that fateful afternoon beneath the elm tree, and her eyes misted, though she refused to weep.

Too many tears had been wasted already.

Ben seized her by the shoulders and spun her about to face him, gripping her harder than she knew he meant to. “It was he?”

Lifting her face to him, Jessie forced a nod, and leaned into his embrace, wanting him to shield her from so many prying eyes. She knew people were staring, though she couldn’t see them through the blur of her tears.

“Ah, Jessie…” He enfolded her within his arms, and for a long moment there was only the comfort of his silence. “Are you well enough to make it home?” He cast a dubious glance at Kathryn.

“I have my carriage,” Kathryn offered.

“Please… I... I am fine…” Jessie forced a smile for Ben’s sake, for Kathryn’s sake. “I-I have no idea what came over me,” she swore, mindful of Kathryn’s critical regard, “but I-I... I’m fine now.”

“Are you certain, Jessie?” Turning to Kathryn, Ben appealed, “Would you mind terribly excusing us? I should like to speak to my cousin privately.”

Kathryn nodded, flustered. “Certainly,” she said, sounding wounded, though she tried not to show it. “I shall go on, then.” She turned to Jessie. “Are you certain you will be all right?”

“Yes, thank you, Kathryn. I truly am fine.”

Kathryn managed a nod. “Very well, then... if you’re certain...”

“Perhaps I shall see you this eve, Kathryn,” Ben suggested, dismissing her once and for all.

Kathryn’s expression softened at once and she smiled brightly. “Why, yes—yes, of course! That would be truly wonderful!” Her face aglow once more, she turned to Jessie. “Goodbye, Jessamine. Feel better.” Leaning closer, she whispered a fervent, “Please!”

Jessie smiled weakly. “I shall,” she assured, trying to sound cheerful, though her heart was breaking into tiny wretched pieces. With a farewell wave for her friend, she turned to Ben, her eyes blurring with tears. “I had no idea that you and Lord Christian—that man—were so well acquainted!”

He frowned at her. “More importantly, I didn’t realize you knew him so well, Jessie.” His voice held no condemnation, only sorrow on her behalf. “He is not a man to be trifled with.”

Shame suffused her, and she averted her eyes. “I only wish I did not!”

“You should have told me,” he said, his jaw tautening. Peering up at him, she could see the fury flashing in his eyes. “Haw—” He broke off, glanced away, toward the point, and then back. “Christian will not trouble you. I swear it.”

Jessie gave him a doubtful look. If Ben only knew what misery the man could invoke with only a glance... if only he knew... but he couldn’t possibly.

He smiled down at her, giving her a playful chuck beneath the chin. And then, as though he scarcely could help himself, his fingers slid up and he stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Sweet, sweet, Jess... how they’ve hurt you—Christ, if only you weren’t my cousin,” he said, and smiled down at her then. He said lightly, “I believe I would marry you myself and tuck you safely away from all the world.” His expression sobered suddenly, his gaze shuttering. “If you weren’t my cousin,” he added.

Something in his expression made Jessie uneasy suddenly. She peeled herself away from him. “And yet you are,” she reminded him firmly. She didn’t wish to hurt Ben’s feelings, but it seemed of late he made more and more such declarations. Didn’t he realize? Cousin or no, she could never love another man as long as she lived!

“Come,” she told him, taking his hand and leading him away. “Your mother will worry.”

The noise was unbearable.

And the stench.

For the fifth time in as many moments, St. John glanced over his shoulder at the door, readjusting his tricorne. He’d forgone his powdered peruke for this meeting in hopes of blending more easily with the rabble of Dillon’s tavern, but he felt exposed without it. His tricorne was much too large for his unclad head, as it had been made to fit a gentleman’s peruke, an item of dress he was rarely without. He only hoped he wasn’t too conspicuous... that this meeting would mete itself well.

A barmaid came to him and he shook his head, sending her away without a word. It seemed to him that everyone was staring in his direction, and he fidgeted uneasily under the scrutiny, ignoring them as best he could. Thankful for the dim light of the tavern, he seized up his full tankard, lifting it up to his lips, sipping hastily before stopping to glance once more over his shoulder at the door.

Filthy, the place was filthy!

He loathed the thought of drinking after all these stinking mouths—wouldn’t be surprised to find they didn’t even wash their cups. He eyed the tankard with unveiled disgust.

Again he glanced over his shoulder.

A dark-haired man entered and peered his way, nodding politely before turning away, but it was not the man he awaited, and he cursed softly as a nervous spasm shot through the cords of his neck. Wincing, he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and set his tankard down, resisting the urge to slam it, for fear of drawing unwanted attention.

Where the devil was McCarney?

Haukinge—damn his hide to hell—he and Hawk were one in the same, and St. John intended to prove it, once and for all. By God! The blackguard had managed to make him look the fool one too many times, and he intended to make him pay, at long last. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

The problem was that Haukinge was much too cunning... his men too loyal—or terrified one.

Still, it was merely a matter of time before he exposed himself. Merely a matter of time... and St. John intended to be there when he did.

Damn it, where was McCarney?

“Ye look like a damned fool!” commented a voice at his back.

St. John leapt from his seat in startle. He swung about, dislodging his tricorne in the process. One hand flew out to catch it.

“About time! I’ve been waiting for over an hour! What have you brought for me, McCarney?” he demanded. “I expect you’ve summoned me for a better reason than to simply admire my dress!”

McCarney adjusted his own tricorne under St. John’s watchful eye, then lifted St. John’s tankard from the table, quaffing the last of his ale without bothering to ask.

“God’s teeth, man! What have you brought? I cannot stand this accursed place!” He glanced about. “Come outside before I suffocate in this filthy pigeonhole!”

With a brief glance about and a shrug, McCarney followed St. John from the tavern. Once outside, St. John made his way to where a groom held his mount, pausing a good fifteen feet away. There, he turned to McCarney expectantly.

“Ye want Hawk?”

Removing his tricorne, St. John crushed it to his chest, thumping an anxious finger against the brim of it. His lips slowly curved into a triumphant grin. “You know I do.”

McCarney paused long enough to create a moment of anticipation, and then revealed, “He’s raidin’ the warehouse at Adger’s wharf tonight... ten, or thereaboots. Seems ’is men mistakenly unloaded somethin’ of consequence late this morn... somethin’ that must be removed by first light... Do ye take my meaning?”

“I do,” St. John said. “How did you discover this?”

McCarney’s eyes gleamed by the light of the moon. “Stone. He’s roundin’ up men for the job even as we speak.”

St. John eyed the man suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this, McCarney? I know you’re in league with them.”

McCarney sneered. “You ain’t the only one with a grudge against the man. Anyhoo,” he added, “I’ve heard ye’re offerin’ coin—might as well do fer money what I’d like tae do fer free.”

St. John’s curiosity was piqued. “Aye? What’s he done to you, McCarney?”

McCarney eyed him balefully. “Not that ’tis any o’ yer concern, mind ye, but the jackal kilt my brother—ain’t aboot to forget a thing like that!”

St. John smiled, satisfied. “How touching... brotherly devotion... but tell me, how do I know you’re not making this up? I can’t say I trust you.”

“I don’t give a brass farthing if you don’t,” McCarney said, his lip curling. “I’ll get ’im on me own someday—tried once already, don’t ye doubt it.” He snorted and spat upon the ground at St. John’s feet.

“You’ll have to stand in line, I’m afraid,” St. John said, producing a silver piece.

McCarney shook his head. “That’s not enough,” he announced, eyeing the coin.

“But it’ll do,” St. John told him coolly. “’Tis a good thing for the crown there are still men like you about, McCarney, unfettered as you are by noble sentiments.” He flung the coin into the air and caught it, balancing the silver piece upon the tip of his thumb as he gauged McCarney’s expression. “Tenish, you say?”

“Aye,” McCarney answered, eyeing the coin greedily.

St. John laughed, flipped him the silver piece, then turned and walked away.

Jessie was grateful for Ben’s company, for the alley seemed strange. The lanterns, which were usually brightly lit at this hour, had for some odd reason all been gutted already. Only the full, luminous moon lit their path, and even that light was minimal, for the buildings along the narrow lane cast shadows that were untouched by the moon’s glow. She recalled the tales Aunt Claire had related to her last eve, and a shiver coursed down her spine, making her shudder.

Sensing her unease, and the cause for it, Ben thought to console her. “Mother worries for naught.”

“I don’t believe that, at all,” Jessie countered. “If what she says is true, we have much to fear with those turncoats wreaking havoc about. I wonder why the lights have been gutted,” she added uneasily.

Ben’s hold tightened upon her hand. “They might be dissenters, Jessie, but turncoats, nay.”

Jessie twisted her fingers out of his painful grip, flexing them. She rubbed her hand, peering up at him. “Dissenters? I rather doubt I would put it quite so mildly,” she told him. “Your mother told me they threatened to hang British officials! ’Tis treachery, plain and simple!”

“My mother embellishes. They wouldn’t have hung the man. They simply intended to make a point—that and nothing more.”

“By building gallows and hanging effigies of stamp collectors upon them? That, Ben Stone, is a threat if ever I have heard one. At any rate, why are you defending them?” She peered warily up at her fair-haired cousin. His golden locks reflected the moonlight and seemed to glow. In contrast, his sun-darkened face was almost invisible to her, so deeply was it cast in shadow. “You’re not in league with them, are you?”

“Me?” He chuckled. “Dear coz, do I look like a turncoat to you?”

She scrutinized him a long moment as they walked. In the darkness she couldn’t quite make out the color of his coat, but she knew it to be a midnight blue; only his crisp white stock stood out, reflecting the moonlight.

He and Christian had so much in common, she considered suddenly, for they both seemed to flaunt fashion. Nor was that all they had in common. Smiling wanly into the shadows, she recalled that Christian, too, had teased her as easily as Ben did now, and the memory brought a sting to her eyes.

“I suppose not,” she yielded at last, “though if Gadsden and Pinkney are in league with those anarchists, who is to say what a turncoat looks like? Certainly not I.”

For a long moment there was only silence between them; only the hollow sound of their echoing footsteps infiltrated it.

“True, coz,” Ben agreed after a moment, snatching up her hand once more. “Though I wonder how it is you know so much.”

“Your mother, of course,” Jessie replied, laughing. “She seems privy to every last morsel of gossip in this province. You should have heard what she learned today.” With a trace of laughter still evident in her voice, she disclosed in a mock whisper, “It seems the notorious Hawk is sailing Carolina waters. Imagine that! Do you know, Ben, that I have heard him referred to as the Prince of Smugglers? I can scarce imagine anyone wearing such an ignoble title so proudly!”

Ben’s hand tightened upon hers. “Nonsense. Hawk has no business here—Charlestown is not like Boston, where smugglers are made welcome and praised for their fearlessness. I wonder where my mother would have heard such a thing.”

Having arrived at their destination, Ben led her without delay onto the Sinclair veranda and halted there. The front door was open to the night. The sounds of festivity, laughter and music, drifted to them. Two men in Sinclair livery stood, each on opposite sides of the door, their expressions cast as though in stone.

Jessie was momentarily taken aback by the agitation in Ben’s tone. She studied the rigid planes of his face, wondering why he seemed so tense tonight. “Really, Ben... I’ve no idea where she might have heard—enough of that; come, let’s go in!” She turned, tugging at his hand, and started to enter the house, but Ben drew her back.

“The night is much too lovely to go inside as yet. Keep my company an instant longer.”

She stared at him through the shadows, not liking what she heard. “You aren’t coming in?”

“Nay, I”—he sighed, looked away, then back— “I can’t.”

“Oh, Ben! Kathryn will be so disappointed! How could you break her heart so!”

He turned away, staring in the direction of the harbor. “Give her my best regards,” he said somewhat absently.

Had Jessie not had her gaze centered on the harbor, as well, she might have missed the sudden flash of light that pierced the darkness. Even as she stared, there was another. And then another.

“I wonder what that was.”

“Hmmm?” Following the direction of her gaze, Ben assured her, “Nothing, I’m certain ’tis nothing, sweet coz.” He untied his stock and slid it off, looping it gently about her neck, drawing her close. “I’d best be going, at any rate. Go inside and enjoy yourself. Kathryn will be waiting, and I shall return to collect you soon.” With a wink, he added, “You’ll save me a dance, won’t you?” Jessie nodded, and he bent to kiss her forehead, abandoning the stock about her shoulders.

Leaving her with another wink, he leapt down from the veranda; shells crackled noisily as his boots lit upon the street. Jessie stood, watching with a frown as he slipped into the shadows. He’d left behind his snow white cravat, and his garments blended consummately with the night.

A feeling of unease swept through her as she watched him go, but she ignored it, telling herself there was nothing to be concerned with—perhaps he was meeting a woman...

Removing his cravat from her shoulders, she gazed at it pensively, and then deciding that must be so, she shoved it within her reticule and made her way past the servants, into the festively decorated hall.

Chapter Fourteen

Moonlight spilled over the open veranda, lighting most of its length, but within the garden, beneath the oaks, there was only blissful darkness. It was precisely the haven Jessie sought, and she quickly made her way into the shadows, grateful for having escaped the crush without having gained anyone’s notice.

Beguiled by the peace of her surroundings, she stood gazing wistfully into the lantern lit gardens as the soothing strains of a familiar ballad drifted through the air. For an instant she was lost in reverie.

If only things had been different.

Perhaps she, too, would be within... dancing gaily under the dazzling chandeliers... in his arms... gazing lovingly into his remarkable eyes.

But it was not to be.

And she was no child to muse away her life on shattered dreams.

Sighing wistfully, she drew the domino mask from her head and stared at it. Most of the guests wore one in lieu of a full costume, for fine cloth was not so easily procured here. Her own was gold and silver to match her gown, and though it was truly a work of art, it looked rather dismal with its pouty mouth and exotic eyes. No matter, it matched her mood.

Lord Christian Haukinge was a contemptible blackguard, a swine, a lecher. He was every woman’s nightmare.

The problem was she loved him still.

The music faded and she came aware of another sound in the distance—the gentle rushing of water from a garden fountain. It was such a peaceful, lulling sound that when the music recommenced, a minuet, seemingly louder than before, it grated on her nerves and she went in search of the font. Following the well-worn garden path, she left behind the sounds of the masquerade and entered the serenity of the central garden. The font was there in the heart of the hedged enclosure, water spouting from its moonlit core, cascading into an illuminated pool. The scent of wild honeysuckle and roses wafted sweetly upon the air, filling her senses—making her forget, if only for the instant.

Hidden in shadow, Christian watched as she passed him. At the font, she removed her glove and like some bloody seductress, slid her bare fingers into the curtain of water. She sighed softly as she brought the moisture to her skin, cooling her wonderfully soft flesh.

Damn him, but he couldn’t seem to forget the feel of her.

Her performance was such a seductive one that he found himself at once aroused. And then again, he thought ruefully, it didn’t seem to take much. He needed only remember the day they’d lain together under the elm tree... the way she’d trembled at his touch... the expression upon her face as she’d come to completion...

It haunted him still.

He clenched his jaw and thrust the image away.

It served no purpose to remember now.

He glanced away, unable to bear the sight of her. The image of Ben Stone, the way he’d held her this afternoon, twisted his gut. He shouldn’t care—didn’t want to care—but devil hang him if he didn’t. Like metal to a lodestone, his gaze returned to the font, drawn despite his resolve against it. He watched her sway seductively against the cement monstrosity, her face upturned to the inky sky as she caressed her neck with the moistened tips of her fingers. Inexplicable anger surged within him. Did she know he was watching?

He thought it likely so—no doubt another devilish form of torture she’d devised. All evening she’d danced so light-heartedly, smiled so brilliantly with all her beaux—as though nothing in the world troubled her.

And aye, she’d managed to make his heart bleed all over again.

Before he could be tempted to go to her, he sat upon the ironwork bench, watching. God help him, he was drawn to her like a drunkard to wine, knowing she was no good for him, and yet... craving her with a need that was too painful to deny.

This time he would resist.

Closing her eyes, Jessie wished herself away from the smiling faces and blissful couples she envied so.

Though she was glad for them, it was much too difficult to watch their gaiety when every promise of happiness had vanished from her life. Lord, how she wished she’d never set eyes upon him again—more than that, even, she wished she’d never known him at all.

If only she’d known then what she knew now—that he was a contemptible blackguard who cared only for his own mean pleasures. He’d used her heartlessly, without so much as a thought for her feelings.

From the bottom of her soul she wished herself back in time... so that she might undo her mistakes—or, at the very least, prayed she would open her eyes and find it had all been a dreadful nightmare, that she would awaken and find herself capable of feeling again. Turning her face up to the stars, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a fervent, “I wish...”

“What is it you wish, m’mselle?” a painfully familiar voice inquired, startling her.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, and for a moment she was paralyzed with dread. Panicking at the thought of facing him again, she drew the domino mask over her face at once and spun around.

She had to search a moment to spy him.

He was seated upon the arm of an ornately carved bench, his arms crossed, his legs spread before him, linked casually at the ankles. He stood slowly, flinging a lit cheroot upon the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before coming forward out of the shadows, regarding her all the while with an expression of supreme boredom.

Please, Lord, she begged, don’t let him realize it is me.

Her heart thundered painfully. She glanced about anxiously, hoping for a hasty retreat. God curse them, her feet refused to move. And then it was too late, he was standing before her.

His dark lashes fell momentarily, masking his eyes, and then he glanced up once more, meeting her gaze directly. “You were wishing for?”

Her nerves were near the breaking point, and his scrutiny managed to fragment her composure completely.

Should she lie? Should she run? The truth barreled out. “I-I was merely indulging in a whim, my lord. Woolgathering you might say.” She frowned behind her mask, hoping he wouldn’t read the truth behind her words.

His gaze left her as he considered her answer, and in that brief instant Jessie was able to observe him unheeded.

He was as handsome as ever—God curse him for that. Dressed in black, he blended consummately with the night. Like Ben. Unlike the other guests, however, he wore neither costume nor mask. She prayed he didn’t know it was her.

But when he looked at her again it was with narrowed eyes, and his cold, unmerciful gaze took her breath away. In that discomfiting instant, she knew... concealing her face from him was pointless. Her mask might have been made of glass, for all it seemed to conceal. His gaze converged upon the glove she’d removed from her hand, and then reverted to the font, lingering there an excruciating moment before returning to her.

His smile was chilling. “You make an alluring picture, my love,” he said at last. “Tell me... was that performance entirely for my benefit... or would you by chance be meeting a lover?”

His question stung like a slap to the face.

Her eyes misted traitorously at his accusation. “I-I was merely seeking air,” she told him, suppressing the urge to slap his wickedly handsome face. She wanted to kick at him, and rail at him, and might have given in to such childish ravings had her dress not restricted her so. She loathed these trappings, loathed the social order that forbade an open show of her anger.

God help her, but she wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her!

“If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said instead, her hands trembling. “I-I believe I shall leave you to your solitude—my apologies if I have intruded!” With halted breath, she stepped around him, but he caught her arm and drew her back.

Jessie gave a cry of despair as he snatched the hood from her head. She snatched it back, her fingers tightening about the gold and silver cloth as a cruel smile touched his lips. His grip tightened upon her arm.

“Release me!” She jerked her arm free, and lifted her skirts to bolt past him, but his hand shot out once more, seizing her wrist, jerking her backward.

Her heart lurched. “Please,” she whispered, desperate to be away from him. “Let me go...”

“Nay, damn you!”

God help him, he couldn’t.

And damn him, too, because he shouldn’t have to think of her every waking moment—because he shouldn’t want to touch her even now—because he shouldn’t know the compelling desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

He’d come to the garden for a minute’s solitude, away from her haunting green gaze, her ingenuous smiles, only to have that peace intruded upon by none other than his tormentor herself.

Had she truly thought to hide behind that silly mask of hers? Foolish—one need only glimpse into those witch’s eyes to know her.

Only a blind man could not see.

“Damn you, Jessamine!” he swore again, drawing her to him and crushing her against him.

She cried out but did not resist him at once.

“Damn you, damn you... damn you,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers.

“Don’t!” she cried, and tried to break free. “No!” He paused briefly to look into her eyes, and then his gaze fell to her mouth, lingering there.

“Jess,” he said, lifting a dark curl that had fallen from her coif and stroking it between his thumb and forefinger.

He put his finger to her mouth, caressing her lips, wandering to her cheek, stroking it softly as he held her gaze.

Shivers coursed down her spine.

Jessie wasn’t aware he released her until both of his hands tangled within her hair. His fingers curled about her neck, holding her steady for his kiss.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat as his lips descended once more. “Nay,” she beseeched him, trying in vain to avert her face; he held her imprisoned. “Don’t... don’t... please...” She whimpered.

“Jessie,” said with a groan, urging her to face him, forcing her to acknowledge him.

The sound of his voice was low and tormented, undoing her completely, and then his mouth met hers with savage determination, coaxing her trembling lips. Like liquid fire, his tongue slipped within to brush hotly against her own, and a jolt of almost painful pleasure surged through her. His other hand slid down to splay across her back... pressing firmly, forcing her to acknowledge the rest of him as well.

God help her, she responded wantonly to his tender coercion, letting him take whatever he would in that instant. He tasted of brandy, his mouth so warm and sweet with the taste that she could almost feel the burning liquor gliding down her own throat. He smelled of it, too... the scent heady to her senses. Her hands dropped helplessly at her sides, and the mask and glove slipped forgotten from her fingers.

“Jessie,” he murmured. “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie…”

She shook her head, some last vestige of her pride clinging to reality. What was wrong with her that she would weaken so? Even after all that he’d done to her? A sob caught in her throat as she acknowledged the truth. She was in love with him—would always be in love with him—regardless of what he was, regardless of what he’d done to her.

And she loathed him for it—herself even more!

With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she broke free. “Get away from me!”

With trembling fingers, she swiped his kiss from her lips. Glaring at him, she bent to pick up the discarded mask at her feet, overlooking the satin glove that lay just beneath it. He stepped forward, and she raised her face to look into his eyes. “Stay away from me!” Her eyes misted traitorously. He reached for her and she twisted away. “I loathe it when you touch me!”

It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it.

He arched a brow. “Really?”

Her heart pounded.

“It seemed to me you wanted that kiss as much as I,” he taunted. He reached out to place a finger beneath her chin, raising it slightly. “Don’t dare deny it, love.”

She slapped his hand away from her face. “I am not your love!” she hissed. “You don’t know the meaning of the word!”

He stiffened. “And you perchance do?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she backed away another pace, ready to bolt if he advanced upon her again, but he merely stood, glaring at her with that soul-searing gaze.

Six months ago, that very same blaze in his eyes had broken her heart. Now it only infuriated her. And fury gave her the courage to ask the one thing she needed to know of him. “What sort of man are you, that you would accept payment for breaking a woman’s heart?”

For a long instant he merely stared at her, his jaw working, and then he answered, “What kind of man is your brother that he would invite me to do so?”

“I am not asking you to defend my brother’s honor!” she countered. “Merely your own! And I ask you again—what kind of man are you that you would take payment for such an ignoble deed? Certainly no gentleman!”

Again he stiffened. “If you find me no gentleman, m’mselle... it is because you are no lady.”

He laughed then, the sound harsh, and stooped to retrieve her glove from the ground. His accusation wrenched at her soul, for she very much feared it was so. He brought the glove to his lips for a heartless kiss, and tossed it angrily at her breast. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him in mute rage.

With trembling hands, she replaced her hood and mask, and after a moment followed him into the house, hoping he intended to leave, because she, as yet, could not. She cursed Ben to perdition for leaving her here at his mercy. Her heart continued to pound traitorously.

She found Kathryn still on the dance floor, laughing gaily, and so she stood aside, watching the shimmering silk and satin dresses promenade by. After a moment—or it might have been a lifetime—Lord St. John appeared at her side. Silently she wished him to blazes, as well, but managed to give him a pleasant smile, nevertheless.

“Jessamine, m’dear,” he crooned. “You look absolutely ravishing this eve.”

She resisted the urge to kick him squarely in the shin. “Thank you, my lord,” she said sweetly. “However did you know it was me?” She extended her hand in greeting, and he brought it to his lips. Behind her mask, she recoiled at his touch. Only after everyone else in Charlestown had given her such a warm welcome had Lord St. John even bothered to call upon her, fickle fool that he was—not that she wished him to, mind you, but he seemed to flow with the tide of public opinion, wanting her one moment, despising her the next.

Much like someone else she knew.

Her gaze searched the room.

“You,” he murmured, kissing her proffered hand, “are simply unmistakable, m’dear.”

She sighed. “And why is that, my lord?” she asked through clenched teeth, thankful for the mask that concealed her expression of disgust.

“Why, your eyes, of course,” he declared. “They are the rarest of jewels, you see...”

At his declaration, Jessie fought to hold back the tears. Christian had once said the very same thing to her, and she wondered irately just how many women had been privy to such disingenuous drivel. How many others had Christian whispered such endearments to? The very thought left her bereft, furious too.

Once again her gaze swept the room, this time meeting his over a snifter of brandy. He raised the glass in silent tribute. She could scarcely read his face from the distance, but she suspected he was congratulating her upon Lord St. John’s renewed quest for her hand. The man was becoming a boor in his pursuit of her. This week alone, St. John had called upon her near a dozen times, and each time she’d claimed an attack of the vapors. Nothing seemed to dissuade him. He simply came again, and again, and again.

She averted her gaze, pretending interest in Lord St. John’s one-sided discussion. It was insufferable that both men who had caused her so much anguish all those many months ago in England should be here now, so many miles away, making her miserable once more. God was surely punishing her!

“And where is Ben tonight?” St. John asked, his gaze turning with unconcealed disgust toward Christian. “Jessamine? Are you listening, m’dear?”

Chapter Fifteen

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she answered sweetly. “What did you say?”

“I was inquiring over your cousin,” St. John said, silently cursing her. It had not escaped him the way their eyes continued to meet across the room—never mind that their expressions were full of veiled contempt. The woman could barely listen to him for his presence. How many times must he forfeit to Haukinge?

“I really don’t know, my lord,” she replied, sounding bored.

St. John gritted his teeth, wanting to smack her for her cut of him once again. He forced himself to remain calm and shook his head gravely. “Well... I daresay... I do hope he doesn’t find himself near the docks this eve...”

He’d come to believe in her innocence, and that as much as anything had kept his tongue stilled about the incident, but with the way Haukinge watched her now, as though she were a coveted lost possession, he had to consider her part in the affair all over again. He smiled then, for what sweet justice it would be to woo Jessamine from under his very nose.

“Oh? Why is that, my lord?”

If she would only cooperate.

Why, he pondered irately, was Haukinge not with his men tonight?

His eyes widened with feigned disbelief as he bent to whisper low, “You mean to say you’ve not heard?” He glanced at Haukinge. The man was rabid, he could see. St. John could feel his tension, even with the distance between them. His gaze returned to Jessamine. Perhaps he wouldn’t lose this round after all...

Perhaps he could use their mutual attraction to his advantage...

Jessie shook her head, her brow furrowing.

“Well, m’dear, they’ve seized two of Laurens’ vessels! It seems Daniel Moore—who is a very, very good friend of mine, incidentally—had reason to suspect him of smuggling. And that is not all! Moore has also received word that the infamous Hawk will attempt to smuggle in arms this very night—perhaps as we speak—to those rebel traitors he abets. Imagine that!”

Watching her expression, he continued, “I daresay it would serve those devils right if each and every one was assigned the gibbet tonight!” Gazing at Jessie speculatively, he then added suggestively, “I do hope your cousin is wise enough to keep his distance from those rabble-rousers... and, of course, the docks... at least for the night...”

Jessie’s heart began to race wildly.

“Yes, of course, my lord! Ben would never!” She tried to mask her concern from St. John, smiling and saying, “In truth, I expect him any instant.”

“Do you?” He smiled softly, his expression oddly triumphant.

Jessie smiled wanly in return, though her blood ran cold. If Lord St. John spoke the truth... then Ben could very well be with them now—she just couldn’t bear to think of the price he might pay. Recalling the lights flickering at the dock, she remembered Ben’s rapt attention upon them... as though he were watching... a signal? She shuddered at the notion.

“Very good,” St. John said, “Because I daresay Adger’s wharf is no place to be tonight.”

Jessie followed the direction of his gaze to where Christian stood, and wondered at the fact that St. John made it a point to raise his chin in greeting, when she knew they despised one another. When St. John’s gaze returned to her, he was smiling victoriously, and another shudder seized her.

“Dance with me, dear,” he entreated, giving her no opportunity to resist, for he took her hand and led her without delay amidst the dancers.

Unwilling to create a scene, Jessie went, though her gaze strayed once more across the room.

Christian watched them together, his fury barely contained.

It was obvious by the expression on St. John’s face, and by the way the bastard’s gaze kept straying in his direction, that he had burned Jessie’s ears with information intended for him. Maggot. He smiled in disgust. Little did he know that he was investing in the wrong stratagem; Jessie would never willingly come near him—particularly after what had transpired between them in the garden. She’d studiously avoided his gaze ever since.

Damn St. John.

Damn her.

Well, by damn, he felt compelled to oblige—if St. John wished to convey information through her treacherous lips, he was certainly willing to hear it. He moved purposefully through the dancers and bent to whisper in her ear.

“Might I have this dance, m’mselle?”

Startled, Jessie swung about to discover Christian behind her, smiling coldly, though for once, not at her, but at Lord St. John. St. John’s gaze, too, held some private, undecipherable message, and she shuddered at the feeling that came over her suddenly—as though somehow she were caught in the midst of some war raging between them.

Releasing her, St. John smiled as he stepped away. “Of course,” he said, relenting much too easily.

Jessie started to protest, but he gave her no opportunity. Without awaiting her assent, Christian swept her into his arms, leading her away from St. John.

“I don’t believe I recall agreeing to dance with you, my lord,” she said evenly. “You’re rude, to say the least!”

He smiled without mirth. “You flatter me, ma belle. Now, tell me... what were you discussing so privately with St. John.”

“Of all the arrogant, vainglory—” She gnashed her teeth. “It was none of your concern!”

“M’mselle,” he said, smiling down at her with all the devastating charm that had once been her downfall. Nothing about his tone or expression hinted at the threat she sensed in the affectionate address. “I will know this moment what you discussed,” he demanded, “or I promise you will sorely wish you’d stayed at home this eve instead of coming out to parade your”—his gaze swept down, lingering over her carefully exposed bosom— “many assets,” he finished. “I didn’t realize you had quite so much. You would do Eliza proud, I think.”

“How dare you! Arrogant cur!” Jessie gritted her teeth and glared at him. “What makes you think our discourse was any of your concern, my lord?”

“Let us simply call it mother wit, love.”

Jessie’s eyes burned with contempt. “I asked you not to call me that!”

Christian grinned a slow, unrepentant grin. “Pardonnez-moi, ma pauvre petite.”

“Nay!” she spat. “I will not give you pardon!”

He gave her a wintry little smile, but said nothing.

A thought occurred to her suddenly; much as she despised the fact, she knew that Christian and Ben were acquainted...

If Ben was, in truth, in danger, she would need someone’s aid. There was nothing she could accomplish alone, especially at this late hour of the night. The sad truth was that there was no one else she knew to ask for help save Christian. Still, she loathed to ask anything of him.

“Very well!” she relented. “He said there was to be trouble on the docks this eve... that Ben should stay away.”

“Is that what he said?” His gaze was as cold and unyielding as steel. “And?”

“That the notorious Prince of Smugglers himself would be raiding the warehouse at Adger’s wharf! He—”

Without warning, Christian seized her firmly by the arm, turning her about. She gave a small cry of pain and he released her at once. With a hand at her back, he forced her off the dance floor, walking so close behind her that she could feel the heat of his body. “Do as I say,” he whispered for her ears alone, “or so help me God, you will live to regret it.”

He led her directly toward their hostess, made a hasty apology for their early departure, and within moments, they were out the front door.

“How dare you tell her I was ill!” She spun about to face him. “My God, you are a despicable liar, as well!”

Christian shook her hard in warning. “Shut up! Shut up, and listen to me, before I lose what bloody little patience I’ve left! You’ll take my carriage and go directly home, tu me comprends? Go directly!” His tone brooked no argument. He waved a hand, signaling his driver.

“I cannot go now!”

He jerked her arm, warning her without words to be silent.

She stumbled slightly, tripping over her skirts. “Oh! You! Give me one accursed reason I should do as you say—just one!”

His lips curved contemptuously as he peered down into her face, his eyes shadowed. “Because, my love,” he said, “you care too bloody much for your cousin to see him hang, that’s why!” Shoving her into his carriage, he hailed the driver off, and then disappeared into the darkness, toward the docks.

Jessie watched him go, fear gripping her heart.

“Jean Paul!” Christian’s angry summons slashed the darkness of the warehouse.

“We found it, Hawk. Here!” As proof, Ben swung the lantern quickly over the wooden crates in question.

Pistol in hand, Christian made his way quickly to where they stood.

“The rest have already been hauled aboard the ship.”

“Good—get the bloody things up and get out of here! St. John knows.”

Christian belted his pistol to help with the crates, but no sooner had he seized up one end when there was a muffled hiss from across the room. Within seconds, a thunderous report ripped through the air. Jean Paul’s end of the crate crashed to the floor; he took a single step, floundered, and then collapsed upon the crate.

“Halt in the name of the Crown!”

Two more shots rang out and the lantern Ben was clutching swung sharply through the darkness, plummeting downward. It shattered against the splintered wood, bursting into flames.

Chapter Sixteen

Pacing the confines of her room, Jessie was torn between fury and fear—and then she heard the cry and fear won.

“Fire!”

A chill swept down her spine.

Racing to the window, she peered down below just in time to hear the man call out once more. “Fire! Fire at the warehouse!” He scurried down the street, bellowing at the top of his lungs; one by one, windows lit along the shadowy lane. Across the alley, a man came stumbling out in his nightwear. Sprinting into the middle of the street, he snatched off his nightcap as he ran, waving it wildly, hailing the crier, who was even now turning the corner to Church Street. More doors burst open. Within moments the narrow lane became congested with the curious and alarmed. A loud rapping at Jessie’s bedroom door startled her away from the window.

“Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie!” cried the voice behind it.

Jessie hurried to the door, thrusting it open to reveal a pudgy, sweet-faced black woman. “Miss Jessie!” the maid squawked. “They’s a man downstairs, waitin’ fo ya at the back doe—he says that Mastah Ben’s in trouble! He tole me to fetch you and only you, not Mastah Robert! He says you is the only one who can help him! Should I wake Mastah Robert?”

Fear clutched at Jessie’s heart; she shook her head. It might be Christian! “Not yet; let me see what the man wants.”

Leaving the door open for the maid to enter, Jessie turned to snatch up her cloak from the wooden peg upon the wall. Too distraught to worry over her appearance, she flung the cape over her shoulders and slipped her feet into the soft blue leather slippers she’d discarded earlier in the eve.

Immogene appeared scandalized. “Oh, Miss Jessie! Ain’t you gonna dress?”

“Once I’ve discovered what the man has to say, I shall.”

Jessie hurried past the fretting maid, into the corridor and down the elegantly carpeted stairwell.

“Well, then I’m comin’ with you!” Immogene hurried down after her, adding, “Ain’t fittin’ fo a lady to be runnin’ round wit’ nothin’ on but her nightie!”

“I’ll be fine,” Jessie swore. “Just see that Aunt Claire and Uncle Robert are told about the fire.”

“Fire?” Immogene halted behind her upon the stairwell. “Lawdy, Miss Jessie, what fire?”

“The warehouse—though I don’t know which one as yet! Please go tell them!”

Immogene turned, hurrying back up the stairs, and Jessie raced through the corridor, into the dark kitchen. Pushing open the back door, she found a man standing upon the back steps.

It wasn’t Christian.

The look he gave her made her wrap her cloak more firmly about her.

“Ma’am. Name’s McCarney,” he told her, his thick brogue made more prominent by drink. She could smell his fetid breath even from where she stood. “I’ve come ta fetch ye for Ben, lass. He’s hurt.”

“What do you mean hurt? How?”

The man’s gaze shifted nervously.

“Has it something to do with the fire?”

He seemed to hesitate a moment, then nodded. “Aye,” he yielded at once. “The fire.”

“Dear God!” Jessie exclaimed, turning and starting back into the house. “Please, Mister McCarney, wait while I fetch my Uncle.”

“Nae, lass!” Without warning, he seized her by the cloak, jerking her backward. He pressed a whiskey-steeped hand against her lips and nostrils.

Jessie choked, and opened her mouth to scream, but he shoved his fingers down her throat, gagging her as he forced her into the concealing shadows.

The door slammed shut as she struggled free of him. Twisting away from him, she ran back toward the safety of the house, opening her mouth to cry out for help, but suddenly the sound of shattering glass rang in her ears. Something wet and sticky trickled down the side of her face. Jolted by the blow, she wavered and fell back into his arms. The last she heard was an indecipherable Irish curse.

“McCarney, you whoreson! What the blue blazes have you done to her?”

“She wouldna come,” he said without remorse. “She was aboot t’ go and tell her uncle—couldna let her do that, now could I?”

“You didn’t have to strike her so damned hard!” Taking Jessie into his arms, Christian shoved McCarney away.

“I dinna draw blood!”

“God’s teeth!” Christian snarled. “She’s dead to the world. What’d you hit her with?”

McCarney frowned. “Ma whiskey flask, and y’ can well believe I was no’ too pleased o’er wastin’ good whiskey, either—paid good coin fer it, damn it all!”

“You’d bloody well better pray she wakes up!”

“She’s breathin’, ain’t she?”

Christian eyed him speculatively as he placed Jessie gently down within the skiff. Her cloak was twisted wildly about her—damned, if she didn’t look like an Indian corpse being readied for a burning. Untying the cloak, he carefully unraveled it, and removed it.

“Christ!” he muttered, dropping the cloak over her at once to shield her from McCarney’s greedy eyes. He turned to fix McCarney with another glare as he came to his haunches beside her. “What the devil did you do, McCarney, take her from her goddamned bed?”

McCarney shook his head, his eyes flashing insolently. “Nay! She came t’ the door just so!”

Damn her, Christian cursed silently. “Let’s get out of here.” It was a wonder they’d escaped at all. He shook his head in disgust. Someone had cost him dearly this night—damned if he wouldn’t find out exactly who. First Jean Paul—Christ, if his father died...

He forced his thoughts away from that possibility.

And then Ben.

Now Jessie?

He couldn’t bear it.

Within moments the boat was launched and gliding soundlessly down the Cooper River, toward the shadowy harbor.

Jessie groaned, placing a hand to her head, and relief surged through him as he watched her revive. And then she lifted that beautiful green gaze to his, and he had the sudden urge to toss her overboard, so much revulsion was evident there.

“You!” she hissed, scooting away from him as though he were a slug in her bed. She drew herself up, glaring fiercely at him. “I should have known! God, I should have known! You’re a despicable liar, Mister Haukinge!”

Mister, was it?

He’d fallen that far from grace, had he?

Again she scooted backward, and stood, rocking the boat with her hysterics. Her cloak slid away, revealing the dark tips of her breasts through the pristine white nightrail she wore. His jaw tautened. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. “Turn around, McCarney!” Turning again to Jessie, he apprised her, “Be still, or you’ll topple the boat.”

“You’re a liar!” she shrieked. “Where is Ben? God, he’s not even hurt, is he? What a paperskull I am! God—oh, God, where are you taking me?”

Christian frowned. Why wasn’t there more ruching, or lacing, or bows—or some other goddamned thing on the bodice of her nightrail to conceal her from view?

A memory besieged him; the day he’d pulled her from the fence... how he’d wanted to taste her then. He shuddered, thrusting the sultry image away. “Cover yourself, Jess.”

She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Where are you taking me!”

“Goddamn it, Jess!”

“Where are you taking me?”

He reached for the cloak that lay pooled at her feet. “Cover—”

Thinking he meant to grab her, she recoiled, shrieking her hands flailing as she lost her balance. The boat tipped precariously. Christian reached for her, snatching her down before she could tumble overboard. He brought her safely to her knees. She fought him, shoving wildly, and when that didn’t work, pounded his shoulder with the butt of her hand.

“Be still, damn it—you’ll topple the goddamned boat!”

Her eyes burned with green ire. “I can swim, Mister Haukinge—can you?”

A faint smile quirked at Christian’s lips. Impertinent wench! She ceased her struggles at last and glared at him as though she could will him to burst into flames—the irony of it all was that she could. He burned for her even now. “Aye,” he told her, “I can, though I’d prefer not to.”

“I don’t much care for what you prefer! I demand you return me to my home this very instant!”

Christian shook his head regretfully. “I cannot, I’m afraid.” He smiled slightly as he suggested, “Though you might always hitch a ride with the gators, if you like.”

“Gators!”

As Christian intended, she went perfectly still within his embrace. He nodded. “Out there.” He nodded toward the darkness.

She immediately searched the shadows. “You lie! I see no gators!”

“Ah,” he said, “but are you willing to chance it?”

He released her then, to prove his point.

For a moment she peered hard into the blackness, into the moon’s reflection upon the water, as though to discern whether or not he spoke the truth. There was an ominous splash in the distance, a swish of water, but nothing was discernible through the darkness. Assuming Jessie had heard it as well, he was unprepared for what she did next. He caught her once again as she lunged toward the water, forcing her flat upon her back. He had to lie full upon her in order to still her completely.

Anger clouding her judgment, Jessie fought him, pummeling him with her fists and shoving with all her strength. He seemed as heavy as a mountain—indestructible as one, as well—and the only thing she seemed to accomplish was to rock the boat. Feeling utterly helpless, she boxed his left ear with an open palm.

“Ayyee! Devil hang you, woman!”

Christian caught her wrists, pinning them ruthlessly to the planks.

“Damn you! Didn’t you hear me? There are gators in these waters! Do you really loathe me so much that you’d prefer their company to mine?”

“Yes!” she spat. “At least with them, I know what to expect! You, Mister Haukinge, are an impostor of the worst sort!”

Chapter Seventeen

She didn’t know the half of it.

He felt the urge to lash back at her, to make her heart ache as much as his did, but he found he couldn’t bear to do that. There had been far too much grief already this night. He had no idea if Jean Paul even lived at the moment, he only knew that by now they would have reached the Mistral—that he and Jessie, too, must reach the Mistral. He desperately needed her help. “Jess...” God, he loathed the thought of telling her. “Ben was shot tonight.”

Her expression transformed before his eyes, from fiery abhorrence to liquid fear. “Shot?”

“Aye... and Jean Paul, too.”

“The same Jean Paul?”

Christian nodded slowly, his jaw taut. “Aye.”

“Is—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, choking on her words. “Ben...”

Christian knew instinctively what she was asking. “He was alive when last I saw him,” he told her, trying to be merciful, but truthful. “I’ve no idea how he fares just now.”

Jessie’s eyes glistened with tears as she stared up at him. His anguish deepened as he acknowledged her tormented expression. “If I release you,” he asked softly, averting his gaze momentarily, “will you promise to sit quietly?”

She nodded dumbly, and Christian removed himself from atop her at once. Comfort was there within his grasp—within her arms—but they were not alone, nor did he feel she’d welcome his embrace. She sat slowly, hugging her knees to her breast, staring numbly into the darkness. Unsure of what to say to ease her, Christian retrieved her cloak, tossing it about her shoulders.

“How?”

She couldn’t seem to bear to look at him.

“You’ll have to ask Ben,” he told her softly. “If he wishes you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”

Jessie nodded glumly, and Christian wondered if he was making a mistake involving her.

Could she be trusted?

Though she’d betrayed him once already, the truth was that he had little choice in the matter: Jean Paul needed someone to nurse him, Ben, too, and Jessie, inexperienced as she might be, was all that was available to him. He could trust no one else—sad state of affairs, but these were treacherous times.

He told himself she had every reason to keep silent... for Ben’s sake. And judging by the sorrowful look upon her face, he had nothing to fear; she cared for her cousin.

The question was... how much?

His gut twisted at the thought of the two of them together.

Night sounds filled the air. Frogs and crickets that only moments before had been silent croaked and trilled so loudly that their din overwhelmed all other sound.

Hugging herself against the crisp night air, Jessie turned to meet Christian’s gaze. He was watching her with an odd intensity, his dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. His jaw taut, and his mouth set determinedly. However much she loathed him, now was not the time for it, she decided.

Ben needed her.

“What of Jean Paul?”

“Alive,” he revealed with a shrug that attempted to conceal his pain. “I really don’t know.” With a glance toward McCarney, he shook his head and repeated softly, “I really don’t know.”

The Mistral was anchored offshore, far enough that there was no light to guide them, yet close enough that they dared not use a lantern for fear of discovery.

The faint glow of a single lantern illumined one of the portholes of the Mistral, and by that light, Jessie could make out the rope ladder that had been left for their use.

McCarney maneuvered the skiff alongside it, and with a curt nod and a wave of his hand, Christian motioned for her to climb it. She hesitated and he asked her, “Perhaps you’d like to remain with McCarney, instead?”

That veiled warning sent Jessie scrambling up the ladder at once. God’s truth, but she had no wish to be alone with that man ever again! Certainly he’d not needed to employ such appalling violence to gain her compliance. He might have simply tried explaining Ben’s predicament. She would have flown to his aid.

She reached the top rung and started to feel Christian’s hand suddenly upon her, steadying her until she was safely over the railing. She’d not realized he was following so close behind. Even as she planted her feet firmly upon the decking, he heaved himself over the side after her. He said not a word, guided her instead, toward the feeble light belowdecks. He led her within a cabin at the midway point along the dusky passage.

Clasping her cloak together, she froze upon entering the room, tendrils of fear clutching at her heart. Two cots occupied the small cabin. Jean Paul lay so very still upon one, Ben upon the other. Christian at once went to his father’s side, his profile as rigid as steel as he stooped over his still form. His jaw twitched, only slightly, though enough to reveal his pain. Jessie’s heart ached for him.

Taking a deep breath, she followed within. Ben turned to face her at once.

“Jessie!” Ben exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing here, sweet coz?”

“How do they fare?” she heard Christian ask.

Jessie’s eyes misted as she dropped to her knees beside Ben. “Where... were you shot?” Her voice faltered with joy and relief. Her fingers trembled as she took his hand.

Ben’s gaze skidded away. He closed his eyes for the briefest instant, his jaw working. “Who... who told you?”

Jessie’s gaze turned to where Christian knelt, examining Jean Paul, and then quickly returned to Ben.

Ben sighed, understanding her silent message. “It merely grazed me,” he yielded at last, turning to show her a small gash at his temple.

“Balderdash!”

Startled by the exclamation, Jessie immediately searched the cabin for the bearer of the voice. A white-haired man rose from beside Christian and started toward them, shaking his head. Bending purposely over Ben, he very unceremoniously yanked the coverlet from his limbs. Pointing to the wound upon Ben’s leg, he asked, “Does that look like a graze to ye, mum?” ‘

Jessie gasped, for Ben was bare beneath the blanket. She forced her gaze to remain, for the wound seemed hideous and she wanted so desperately to help. It was evident that he had bled a great deal, for there was blood encrusted upon his leg and a fair amount soaking the pallet beneath him. Yet it no longer bled, and for that she was deeply gratified.

Casting the old man an angry glare, Ben snatched the blanket back before Jessie could see more. He flushed, but noting her horrified expression, he turned again to the old man. “What the devil do you know!” he snapped. “What are you trying to do? Frighten her to death?”

Amazingly, the old man glowered back at him. He snorted. “Tryin’ to save yer ungrateful hide, is all,” he grumbled. “What do ye think she’s here fer, anyhow?”

Returning his gaze to Jessie, Ben assured her, “Really, coz, ‘tis not as bad as it appears.” He gave a resentful nod in the old man’s direction. “The slug’s already been removed—and not too gently, I might add. ’Tis why it looks so bad and bled so much.”

“I see,” Jessie replied. “Who removed it?”

Turning to pierce the scowling white-haired old man with an indignant glare, he ground out, “Take one guess.”

“I’m certain, Ben, that he was only trying to help.” She shook her head, trying to keep at bay her emotions. “At any rate,” she told him, her eyes questioning, “It is not his fault you were wounded tonight, was it?”

“Crotchety pain-in-the-arse old man!” Ben grumbled, but his eyes misted suspiciously. He averted his gaze.

“Please...” She glanced up into the old man’s gentle brown eyes. “Bring me water and rags, and accept my apologies for my cousin’s discourteous behavior. It must be the pain that dims his sense of gratitude.”

The old man stared at her a long moment, clearly unused to such apologies and evidently bemused by her defense of him. He nodded suddenly and hurried away to do her bidding.

“You know not what you’re doing, abetting that man,” Ben said, still unable to look at her.

“Shush,” she said.

Reassured that anyone as contrary as Ben was too mean to die, she turned her attention to Jean Paul. In truth, she had no idea what else to say to her cousin, for she was seeing a side of him she’d never known existed. Nor was she entirely certain she wanted to know what had occurred tonight.

Christian moved away as Jessie neared, but she noted the way he watched her so intently. He didn’t trust her, she knew. Well, she didn’t care. She ignored him as best she could, turning to peer down into the slumbering man’s face. Her eyes widened and her gaze immediately returned to Christian. The resemblance between them was uncanny. How, she wondered, could Jean Paul not know Christian was his flesh and blood? Deciding they were a pair of stubborn old fools—and that they deserved one another—she turned again to Jean Paul.

Placing the back of her hand to his nostrils, she felt his warm breath against her skin and sighed in relief. Hesitantly, fearful of what she might discover beneath, she lowered the blanket from his chest to examine the wound at his shoulder.

It didn’t appear nearly as bad as she’d expected—Ben’s was worse, in fact. Still, judging by the stain upon his shirt, he, too, had bled quite a lot. Taking in the wide expanse of his chest, she peered up at Christian, unwittingly comparing the two. Christian gave her a narrow-eyed look, and her cheeks heated. She glanced quickly away, though Lord help her, she could scarcely keep her thoughts from straying where they should not, even now.

She felt suffocated with him so near.

She examined Jean Paul’s wound, completely at a loss as to what to do next. It appeared as though Quincy had ministered to him, as well, and she was silently grateful to the old man, for she truly doubted she could have done the unpleasant task herself. The awful truth was that Jessie wasn’t even certain she’d have known how to remove the ball in the first place—nor did she have the strength of stomach for it. The very sight of so much blood made her dizzy and sick. She wasn’t precisely experienced in this sort of thing, after all. She peered up at Christian in exasperation, silently asking him what he wished of her, because she didn’t know what to do.

“He regained consciousness a short time ago,” Ben revealed, “for an instant.”

Peering over her shoulder at her cousin, Jessie nodded and turned to place a hand to Jean Paul’s forehead. “He’s quite warm,” she added softly. “I-I’m not certain what to do... when I was ill, my maid Hildie would sponge me with cool water. It seemed to help—at least I think it did.”

“Do what you can for him.” The tone of Christian’s voice, the gravity with which he spoke, gave Jessie the impression that he’d come as close to begging as he was able.

She peered up at him.

“That’s all I ask of you.”

Their gazes locked, held, and Jessie fought the urge to throw her arms about him, comfort him. There was so much pain evident in his deep blue eyes. “Christian... I—” Truly, she wanted to help—despite everything—but she just didn’t know how. She shook her head, not in negation, but in regret. And then anger flooded her once more, that he should put her in such a horrible predicament. She averted her gaze. “You should have abducted a physician in my stead! God’s truth, I know nothing of the healing arts!”

“You don’t understand,” Christian murmured low into her ear, and despite the gravity of the situation before them, a chill swept down her spine as his warm breath stirred her hair. “I—” His voice caught. “I had no choice, Jess.”

Jessie shivered. “Why not?” she asked, swallowing. She peered up at him. “Your fa—Jean Paul,” she amended hastily, furiously, glancing briefly about before speaking again. “He could die without a physician’s care—I don’t understand why you would risk that! Why?”

His blue eyes glinted strangely.

“Because,” he snapped. His jaw worked, and then suddenly his expression hardened. “Damn it, I simply cannot! Do what you can, or get the hell out of the way!”

Jessie worried her lower lip, torn between the desire to rail at him and the need to aid Ben and Jean Paul. She pretended an interest in Jean Paul’s frilly sleeve cuff, rubbing it absently between her fingertips. Lord help her, but outrage nearly won out. She dared not meet his gaze, lest he see the awful pain he’d once more managed to inflict upon her. She held her tongue, resigning finally to do all that she could, though it seemed insane not to procure medical aid from a knowledgeable physician. There was so much to lose.

“I’m certain you’ll at least do what you can for Ben,” he said, and his tone was almost an accusation.

Jessie met Ben’s sympathetic brown eyes over her shoulder. Her cousin seemed angered by Christian’s disregard of her, yet he said nothing. Out of deference? Loyalty? What?

Rising abruptly, Christian peered down at her, his fists clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, his expression was shuttered; only his eyes revealed his pain. “Please, Jess...”

He couldn’t know what he was asking of her—what if she failed? She nodded, placing a hand to Jean Paul’s chest, taking comfort in his smooth, even breath.

Silence seemed to permeate the small cabin, and then suddenly Christian turned and walked away, his footsteps a hollow echo upon the planking.

How could he put her in such a dreadful position? How could he drag Ben into his sordid affairs—and yes, she was certain the blame for everything, everything that had transpired this night, fell to none other than Christian. Gritting her teeth, she set about the task of removing Jean Paul’s bloodied shirt.

“You love him don’t you, coz?”

Jessie shot Ben a wrathful glare. He was watching her intently, his knowing gaze as penetrating as Christian’s.

“As I love walking barefoot through snow,” she replied. But even as she spoke the words, her heart ached with the lie; she feared she did love the rotten knave.

Quincy reentered the room, lugging in a small black kettle filled with water and a handful of rags. The kettle, he set down before her, sloshing water onto the floor; the rags, he dropped beside her. “That’s it, mum.”

“Thank you,” she said woodenly.

The old man sighed wearily and stooped to speak softly to her. “I’ve seen worse, mum. He’s just all out from my removing the slug, is all. Ye watch an’ see iffen he don’t wake up soon.” He winked conspiratorially. “Now... his lordship, on the other hand...” His gaze locked with hers. “ ’Tis him what needs you, Miss Jessie.”

Jessie averted her gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured, flustered. For the first time, she thought to wonder how the old man knew her name.

How could he possibly think Christian needed her?

She listened to the protest of his bones as he stood with a groan and waited for his footsteps to fade as he left her, then she set out to do the best she was able, using the scalding water to cleanse both Ben’s and Jean Paul’s injuries. She ripped up the rags into small strips and bandaged their wounds, and later, once Ben had dozed and the water had cooled, she used it to sponge Jean Paul.

Only when her eyes began to droop did she leave off, curling beside Ben upon the floor. She lay there, with her head pillowed upon his chest, listening to the smooth, even rhythm of his breathing, and fell asleep just so.

Chapter Eighteen

Christian didn’t quite expect the sight that greeted him as he entered the cabin—should have, perhaps, but didn’t. Yet, it didn’t surprise him either. It did make his gut turn to see Jessie curled so familiarly beside her cousin upon the floor.

God’s teeth, at least she was still wearing her cloak, he told himself, though it had ridden up her leg along with her gown, exposing her for God’s and just about anyone’s eyes. He strode purposely toward them, muttering curses as he stooped to cover her with her cloak.

Unable to sleep, he’d come several times during the night; each time he’d found her awake, holding her damnable cousin’s hand, or gently sponging Jean Paul’s brow. And so he’d remained hidden in the shadows, observing unheeded, not trusting himself to remain in the same room with her. After a while, he’d not been able to bear even that, and he’d withdrawn to the solitude of his own cabin. Now he had to wonder over the wisdom of his decision.

It was obvious the woman was a dim-witted fool to be lying so near a half-nude, half-conscious man—cousin or not! What the devil was wrong with her? Didn’t she realize what she could do to a man with aught more than her presence? Christian might have been dead as a doornail and would have still scented her beside him; hers was a siren’s perfume that called to his senses more keenly than he cared to admit.

God’s bones, she’d nursed her cousin so tenderly that he’d found himself wishing it were him lying there wounded instead... with her soft hand stroking his so lovingly. What ailed him that he would crave her touch so interminably? Even to such a degree?

Why had he felt compelled to seek her out last night, when somewhere within, he had to have known she couldn’t help him.

Because he’d needed her.

The admission tormented him.

Stirring at last, Jean Paul groaned, and Christian turned as his father opened weary blue eyes to the morning light.

Behind him, Jessie roused at once; he was painfully aware of her every move, every gesture and sound. She hurried to Jean Paul’s side, ignoring him—or perhaps she did not see him—turning the full impact of her stunning emerald gaze upon his father instead.

“Mon Dieu... un ange,” Jean Paul murmured weakly. He blinked at Jessie, his eyes glassy with fever. “I am gone to heaven, ma petite cherie, yes?”

“You’ve been ill,” Jessie whispered, smiling sweetly down at him. She touched his brow and Christian shuddered. He found himself envying his father, as well; he couldn’t help himself.

“I thought you were on your deathbed, old man.”

Jean Paul turned to face him. “I’m much too stubborn to die, you realize.”

Christian flashed him a grin.

“Who is this divine ange, Hawk?”

Jean Paul seized Jessie’s hand, squeezing it. She snatched it away at once, so startled was she by the name he’d spoken.

Christian stiffened.

As she turned slowly toward him, he saw that her expression was one of shock and horror, and he braced himself for her anger.

“Nay!” she whispered, her face twisting. “It cannot be!”

Her gaze reverted to Jean Paul. Jean Paul wore a guarded expression now, his eyes shifting uneasily from her to Christian and then to Ben, who was now awake, watching. Jessie met Ben’s gaze then, her eyes searching his face for confirmation. And then her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to Christian. She glared at him.

“What did you call him?” she asked Jean Paul, though her gaze never wavered from Christian’s.

“Not a bloody damned thing!” Christian thundered. Shoving away from the doorframe, he eyed Jean Paul wrathfully.

Jessie stood. “Well! No need to repeat yourself, sirrah,” she said with a glower for Jean Paul. “I believe I heard well enough the first time!” Her gaze met Christian’s. “Hawk!” she spat, as though the word were an oath. “I cannot believe I have been so dull-witted!” She spun about, going to the port window to gaze out into the harbor. “Good God, I should have known!” she whispered furiously, casting a wounded glance back at them.

For a long instant she was silent, and Christian hung his head back and closed his eyes.

She turned to the window.

Before her, the ocean was a blanket of molten silver beneath the cloudy heavens; Charlestown no more than a blur on the misty horizon—as were her emotions, for she couldn’t seem to feel them. “And Ben?” Jessie asked. “How long have you known?”

“From the first. I’m not sorry for it, coz.”

For a long moment, Jessie couldn’t bring herself to face them, much less respond to Ben’s confession. How well she understood, for she herself had tried in vain to feel regret for all that had passed between her and Christian.

Hawk.

The loathsome appellation twisted her heart, filled her with confusion and anger.

Fear.

Another lie.

She shook her head, the ache in her heart growing tangible now. How very, very, very stupid she’d been. She let her forehead strike against the pane and gave a wounded little laugh. She spun to face them abruptly.

“Of course you wouldn’t be, Ben,” she yielded bitterly. “He has a certain cunning about him, does he not?” She eyed Christian coldly “The ability to twist a person’s mind until that person sees him as all that is noble and good!”

She laughed derisively, though it was directed more at herself—for her stupidity and blind devotion. She gave a small cry of despair and said, “What a travesty of a man you are, Hawk! I—” Her voice broke. “God help me—I despise you!” Herself, as well! What an undeniable fool she was, for even now she wanted to fling herself into his arms, beg him to love her. God’s truth, if he only halfheartedly denied everything, she would believe in him even now... because fool that she was, she wanted to trust in him still... wanted to love him still.

She couldn’t help herself.

Christian’s eyes glittered cruelly, piercing her heart.

Her brows collided, the ache in her heart nearly strangling her. “Amos was right,” she spat, wanting to hurt him as he’d hurt her, “you are the lowest of low! A filthy, rotten scoundrel!” Blinded by unwanted tears, Jessie bolted past him, wrapping her cloak more securely about her as she fled the cabin.

He caught her in the corridor, seizing her by the arm and wrenching her about, dragging her in the opposite direction from which she’d intended to go. “Release me!” she demanded, struggling against him.

“I don’t think so, my love; you’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“Unhand me!” she insisted, struggling in vain against his merciless grip.

Kicking open the door at the end of the passage, he dragged her within his cabin.

To Jessie’s shock, this room was immense, disorienting her momentarily. Beautifully furnished, it came complete with window dressings and exquisite paintings. The curtains were drawn over what appeared to be an enormous window, keeping all trace of sunlight from the room and leaving them bathed in shadows. The bed itself was a massive canopied platform, ornately carved with beautiful rice blooms and steps beside it. Dark blue silks, nearly black, cascaded from the canopy, fluttering wildly as he slammed the door behind them.

His face a mask of fury, he led her toward the monstrous bed, thrusting her down; the mattress was soft, cushioning her fall. She settled deep within it, parting her lips for a scream. He held his hand up abruptly, silencing her, for she thought he meant to strike her. He didn’t; he merely stood, glaring instead.

“Damn you,” he warned, “I don’t want to hear another bloody word from you!” Towering over her as he was, he suddenly appeared nothing like the man she’d come to love in England. She saw him in that instant for what he was: a ruthless outlaw against the Crown. How could she not have known before? All the signs... only she had been too blind and too stupid to recognize them all. His hair, his dress, his manner—everything about him!

Wide-eyed, Jessie scooted backward across the bed, glaring wrathfully at him, her anger making her bold, despite her fear. “Of course not,” she taunted, “Hawk! Heaven forbid that you should hear the truth about yourself. Lord knows, I should have listened to my brother! God’s truth, even Lord St. John would have been a better man to love than you! God, I loathe you!”

“Do you?” His expression turned suddenly colder. His eyes glittering, he bent over the bed and said, “Do you truly, ma pauvre petite?”

He reached out, snatching the cloak from her body. Jessie gasped as he hurled it across the room. Without warning, he caught her by the leg, jerking her down to the end of the bed, and then he leaned over her fully, trapping her between his arms, beneath him. He hovered above her, his breath ragged with anger, and his body taut. Panicked by the savage look in his eyes, she tried to wriggle free; he descended upon her at once, pinning her beneath his weight.

He caught her by the neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, his eyes glittering coldly as he tilted her face to meet his smoldering gaze.

“Do you truly despise me?” he asked softly, menacingly. He didn’t wait for her to respond; his lips descended swiftly—hot, branding, stifling in their intensity. Lord help her, but she couldn’t breathe—she thought she’d suffocate, his kiss was so unrelenting.

Her fingers grasped wildly at his back, closing about his queue. Tugging desperately, she tried to draw him away, twist free of his kiss, if only to catch her breath, but the uncompromising hand at the back of her neck prevented it. He squeezed her nape and she released his hair. She was well and duly trapped, yet even as she acknowledged the fact, she was suddenly so very desperate to hold him close to her.

It was like nothing Jessie had ever experienced. Gone was the gentle coercion Christian had exercised before. His lips were hard and punishing as they moved over hers, yet intoxicating nevertheless. She whimpered as his tongue masterfully pillaged her mouth. She struggled to rid herself of the warm, silky intrusion in her mouth, but his kiss only deepened in response.

He groaned, suddenly softening in his response to her as his other hand sought her breast. She was startled by the gentleness of his fingers as they caressed her. Her heart leapt, and she fought her treacherous body as it reacted to his touch. Gasping at the incredible sensations his shocking touch aroused, she tried to will herself to breathe. Her heartbeat quickened and her breath became more labored still.

She was mortified that he could affect her so, even as angry as she was, but she couldn’t help it, she sank into the mattress, reaching out to clutch him to her, returning his caresses; her fingers stroked his back.

Good God... she couldn’t help herself...

He jerked away suddenly, his look satisfied, yet furious still... so very furious. Jessie’s breath came in labored gasps as she stared numbly up at him.

“Now,” he said through clenched teeth, “tell me again how much you despise me, Jess.”

Jessie was struck dumb, unable to think clearly, much less open her mouth to speak. Her hand went to her throat as she gasped for breath.

“I didn’t think so,” he said smugly, and spun on his heels, leaving her so dazed that she had to wonder what it was he’d even said. Always he had to have the last word! When it finally dawned on her what he’d said to her, her cheeks flamed in anger.

“Blackguard!” she screamed. She reached back and seized the first thing she encountered—a pillow—hurling it at his back. It bounced off him to the floor, and he halted in midstride.

His hand clenching at his sides, he addressed her with controlled deliberation. “I suggest you get some rest, lest you desire more of what I have to offer.” He turned to face her then, his blue eyes glinting dangerously, letting her see the evidence of his arousal.

Her eyes widened.

“I see we understand one another,” he said sharply, pivoting once more. “I’ll send McCarney to Charlestown for your possessions in the meantime.” He opened the door and stepped out.

“Nay—wait, please!” He hesitated in closing the door, and Jessie scrambled from the bed after him. “Ben...”

He turned to face her, and his anger seemed to flare at the mention of her cousin. She forced herself to speak, stepping forward, clutching her gown together.

“B-Ben and I shall go with him,” she suggested, her eyes pleading. “Please... he needs a physician.”

“You’re a fool, Jess!” he swore softly. “He cannot go back!”

“Nay, nay, but listen to me! I shall simply explain—”

“Christ!” he exploded. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He gave her an incredulous look. “What will you explain, Jessamine?”

Her heart leapt. “I’ll think of something... surely... something...” Her voice sounded weak and defeated even to her own ears.

He shook his head. “I’ve news for you, love... After last night, they would as soon hang Ben as listen to explanations.” His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you want for your beloved cousin? To see him hang?”

Jessie shook her head, angry tears of frustration stinging her eyes.

“I didn’t think so,” he snarled. “Now, get some sleep! You’ll bloody well need it!”

Jessie nodded in resignation and sat upon the bed, her eyes misting. God help her, she absolutely refused to weep before him. Again he turned to leave. “Wait,” she pleaded still, more softly this time. “Wh-What will you tell Ben’s father?”

“What would you have me tell him?”

“The truth,” she appealed, her green eyes brimming with tears. “Perhaps he can help?”

He shook his head, his expression softening somewhat. “I doubt it,” he told her. “But if ’tis your wish, then aye, I shall tell him.”

“Do you not think my uncle deserves to know of his son’s condition?” she returned, her outrage returning tenfold. “What if Ben were to die?”

“I’ve seen worse injuries,” Christian informed her curtly. “I rather doubt he’ll expire any time soon—but yes, you’ve a point, and as I said, I shall tell him. Now, get some sleep; ’tis been a long night.” He left then, slamming the door after him.

When Jessie awoke, she was startled to find her trunks littering the cabin floor. Lord, she must have slept like the dead, for she’d not so much as heard anyone enter. At second glance, it appeared as though Christian had brought every last article she owned, and she wondered irately why he would have done so.

Surely she wouldn’t be away so long—couldn’t bear to be!

In one corner of the cabin, there was a large cheval glass that had not been there previously. Under normal circumstances she might have recognized the gesture as thoughtful, but she refused to be grateful to the likes of Hawk—damnable Prince of Smugglers! Traitor to the Crown. Her face screwed, for she loved a man she should not even like. Again she wondered how she could have been so witless that she hadn’t known. She ran a hand through her tousled hair, lifting it out of her face, and then rose with a weary sigh.

Her green silk dress lay sprawled over one of her trunks. It was more than obvious that Christian had taken the liberty of rifling through her belongings—well, she wasn’t about to dress to please the wretched mongrel, and so she ignored it. Searching indignantly through the largest of her trunks, noting with some relief that he’d neglected to bring her petticoats, she found the most unbecoming gown she owned—a blue one, almost the shade of his eyes. She frowned at the comparison, then irately tossed the gown aside. Again she searched, smiling with satisfaction as she spotted another more suitable one.

It took Jessie little time to dress. She braided her hair into one thick braid, and with a quick glimpse into the cheval glass, decided she looked unappealing enough. God’s truth, she couldn’t bear any more of his heated glances—nor, for that matter, any more of his kisses. The last had nearly undone her.

Opening the door, she drew in a breath and stepped out of the cabin, making her way to the room where Ben and Jean Paul slept. The door was closed, but Ben and Jean Paul were awake, bickering ceaselessly with one another like cantankerous old men.

“Damnation, Jean Paul,” she heard Ben grumble, “he needn’t have brought her into this.”

“Non,” came Jean Paul’s curt reply, “but he did what he thought was best. You cannot fault him for trying to help us.”

Neither could Jessie for that matter, and some of her anger left her with that realization.

“He knew not where else to turn—nor could he have known we would fare so well.”

“Good God, man! You might have fared well enough, but I? I cannot even rise upon these useless limbs!”

Jessie’s heart twisted painfully at his disclosure, and she closed her eyes, placing her cheek against the door.

“Oui, mon fils, but you will given time.”

There was a strained silence between them, and she thought to use it to her advantage, to make her presence known, but even as she made to open the door, Jean Paul spoke again. “You think I do not know what makes you so angry, but I do. You love her, do you not?”

Jessie held her breath for his reply, but there was none.

“I thought so,” Jean Paul answered low, almost too low for her to hear. “In that case... allow me to point out to you a fact that you are doubtless already aware of. She’s your kinswoman.”

“We’re cousins.”

Another long interval of silence before Ben gave his grudging reply. “Damn you, Jean Paul, you’re getting on my nerves—shut up, already!”

Having heard enough, Jessie knocked faintly upon the door, somewhat shaken. “’Tis me,” she called out, trying to sound nonchalant.

There was a long, impenetrable silence, then Jean Paul’s voice rang out clearly. “Come in, come in, ma petite. Come in!”

She opened the door to find Jean Paul at the port window, facing her, looking drawn, but well enough.

Ben, on the other hand, sat upon his pallet, propped against the wall, his expression grim. The coverlet had been hastily tossed over his limbs, and his shirt was agape. In his hand he held a long, slim piece of oak, and he pretended to study the length of it, ignoring her.

Jessie’s first thought was that Jean Paul should not have risen so soon. But then, unable to help herself, she quickly returned her gaze to Ben. She’d never seen a man unclad before, and couldn’t help but stare. She found herself wondering if that were the way Christian looked without his shirt. They were similar in build, after all. As though suddenly realizing the direction of her gaze, Ben clasped his shirt together, turning a shade of crimson as he concealed himself from her scrutiny. Chagrined by her brazenness, Jessie managed a hasty apology, and before either of them could protest her leaving, she turned and left them, closing the door swiftly behind her.

Going in search of Christian, for she fully intended to demand he take her home, she made her way above deck, only to discover it bustling with activity. The one detail in particular that caught her immediate notice was that the mainsail was being hoisted. As understanding dawned, it took mere seconds for her anger to resurface.

Christian, the cur, stood upon the foredeck, his legs set imposingly apart as he overlooked the preparations for sail, barking orders to his men. Enraged, she marched toward him, fists clenched. “Just what do you think you’re doing? And why have you brought so many of my belongings aboard this—this smuggler’s den of yours? I do not intend to remain!”

His eyes glinted with amusement. For a long moment it seemed he wouldn’t reply at all, and then when he did, his tone mocked her. “It seems to be obvious, m’mselle, I am readying the ship for sail.” He eyed her gown and lifted the corners of his mouth. “As for your belongings,” he told her somewhat scathingly, “I believe you’ll find that you will indeed need them”—his brow rose—”unless, of course, you prefer to wear your nightwear instead.”

“Oh yes! Of course,” she replied in an acid tone. “I love to parade about in my nightgown! More than that, even, I love to be abducted in the middle of the night and brought against my will to a den of thieves! Indeed I do!” God help her, she wanted to slap the self-satisfied smirk from his face.

He gave her a quelling look, narrowed his eyes, then glanced away as though to remind her that his men were listening, as well. “Watch your tongue,” he warned. “I’d loathe to have to—”

“Cut it out?” she demanded indignantly. “Famous! Smuggler, traitor, ravisher of innocents—and butcher now, as well! You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Kiss you?” he murmured low. His lips curved slightly, taunting her. “What do you think, mon amour?” His smiled deepened, though it never reached his eyes. “Wouldn’t I love to, indeed?”

Jessie shuddered at his veiled warning. “Nay!” she said quickly, “I-I meant that you would cut out my tongue!”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said drolly, lifting a brow, and cocking his head.

“You! I insist you take me back to Charlestown at once! Now! You don’t need me here! Nor do I wish to remain.”

“Nay.”

“Nay?” she repeated incredulously.

He nodded. “I believe that is what I said.”

“But you cannot keep me here!”

“Can I not?” Once again he cocked his head and lifted a brow in challenge.

“Nay, you cannot!” she countered, bristling. “I can do no more for Ben—or Jean Paul—than anyone else aboard this accursed ship—and I will not remain to be abused by you!”

He eyed her sharply. “M’mselle, I’ve not so much as lifted a finger against you, but I warn you, I’m sorely tempted this moment to put you over my knee and paddle that delightfully tempting derriere of yours, audience or nay.” He lifted his chin, indicating the scrutiny of his men. By now, all had suspended their chores in order to watch them with unconcealed interest.

Jessie followed his gaze, mortified to have been threatened in such an intimate manner before so many watchful pairs of eyes—and ears! “Oh!” she gasped. “You just bloody well try!”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Threats, m’mselle?” He actually laughed then.

Jessie narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not completely at your mercy, you realize,” she reminded him, chafing at his arrogance. “Ben remains below deck.” In an angry whisper, she confided, “I would need but tell him what you did to me back in your cabin, and he would surely find cause enough to call you out!” In truth, it was the very last thing Jessie intended for her cousin to do—particularly in his present state—but it seemed the only thing with which to threaten the incorrigible beast.

Christian never blinked an eye at her dire proclamation, but said quite amiably, “That would be a rather unfortunate mistake on his part.” Though his tone was casual, his eyes seemed to bore through her with brilliant intensity. And then he said soberly, “If you care at all for his life... you’ll do no such thing. Ben’s a good man—a bit green about the edges perhaps, but even so, I’d like to see him live long enough to get over loving you. You see, my love, he doesn’t realize it yet, but you’re unequivocally the worst thing that could ever have happened to him.”

Jessie’s eyes widened at his cruel words.

“Aye,” he said low. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.” His arms crossed, his legs set arrogantly apart, he challenged her to deny it.

She couldn’t—not with what she’d heard below—and her face heated under his scrutiny.

He turned from her long enough to order his men back to work, and he was revealed to her fully in that moment, for he was within his element at last, feral and magnificent. Despite herself, the sight of him stole her breath away; his features hard and hawk like, and with his dark, unbound hair flowing, he was the Hawk. With his snug black breeches and loose white shirt billowing in the breeze, he’d never appeared more ominous than he did at the moment. Evidently his men thought so as well, for without him having said a word, all eyes turned from them at once.

Satisfied that their conversation would no longer be overheard, he returned his gaze to her. “In future,” he told her, “I would suggest you refrain from bedeviling Ben—trust me, love, a man can only take so much.”

There was nothing of the man she’d thought she’d known in him now, nothing. She truly didn’t know him. Had she ever? she wondered bitterly. “How dare you speak to me so rudely?”

“Had he been himself last night,” he continued coldly, ignoring her angry objection, “and not beset with fever and pain, you’d no longer be virgin—I assure you, cousin or nay. Or,” he suggested, his tone fierce, “perhaps that isn’t a concern any longer.” He narrowed his eyes, and asked softly, “Is it, Jessamine?”

Jessie’s face flushed a bright crimson. “Oh! That is none of your concern—though I assure you my cousin is a gentleman through and through—unlike you!”

“Is that so,” he replied evenly, giving her a ruthless smile,

Christian had to suppress the urge to grin outright.

He’d managed to discover what he’d needed to know, and the truth was that he was well pleased with the answer. Ben hadn’t touched her, he was certain of it, and neither had anyone else for that matter; for she wore a virgin’s blush.

“I really must insist you take me back to Charlestown!”

Christian shook his head, sighing. “Nay, Jess. The fact is that your uncle has already bandied word that you and Ben have sailed for England.” He grinned at her then, unable to suppress his glee. “It seems you have developed a nasty case of homesickness. As you see... I cannot allow you to go back, for in doing so you’d raise suspicions now, and I will not permit you to do that, my love. After all, ’tis my father’s life you would endanger, as well.”

Christian could see the fierce determination leave her features, though it was immediately replaced by resentment.

Was his company so disagreeable to her?

Did she truly loathe him so much?

He couldn’t allow himself to believe it, for if he did, a part of him would shrivel and die. He thought to put the issue of her leaving at rest once and for all, and he said, “We’ll be gone only as long as necessary, and if you endeavor to stay out of the way, ’twill pass all the easier for you. Rest assured, Jessie. I am no more thrilled for your company than you are for mine.”

Her expression became mutinous suddenly, her green eyes reflecting the depths of her animosity, buffeting him as surely as though she’d struck his cheek with her palm. “I—well—and—truly—despise—you!”

His jaw grew taut, and his chest tightened, but he managed a nod. “Despise me all you wish,” he allowed, “only stay the hell out of my sight.”

He felt little satisfaction when she stiffened as though she’d been cuffed, and less when she turned and stalked away. He forced himself to let her go, telling himself that her anger was a welcome barrier between them.

Without it, he was lost.

Chapter Nineteen

Sweating from his labors, Christian made his way back to his cabin. He’d not intended for the Mistral to set sail again so soon, and so there had been a number of things he’d had to see to before leaving Charlestown harbor. It had been a near miraculous feat to resupply his ship in the course of a day, without earning suspicion, and he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish the task at all without the generous help he’d received from the men of the Wilkes club. Ben was obviously well thought of among them, for they’d rallied together without thought for their own safety, procuring supplies and hauling them aboard.

His intent now was simply to sail down the coast to the West Indies, collect a payload, then return to Charlestown, arriving in the dead of night. Fortunately, because it was hurricane season, they wouldn’t be the only ones departing the harbor, and his only true concern was that he was sailing directly into hurricane territory, but there was nothing to be done for it. He’d have to take his chances.

And then there was the matter of their return...

They would be back long before the harbor became congested once more, and because Jessie and Ben were to have sailed for England, he’d need to steal them down the Ashley to Shadow Moss as quietly and covertly as possible.

He chuckled suddenly, for it would likely mean muzzling Jessie until they arrived at his plantation house—impudent wench that she was. And then again, he reconsidered, for Shadow Moss was nowhere near to completion, and Jessie would likely squawk all the louder when she discovered that fact—most females would, he didn’t doubt—so perhaps he would consider leaving her gagged until Ben healed...

He turned the knob to his cabin door, gave a little shove, and then again to be certain before slamming his fist upon it. Locked!

Damn it all! “Jess! Open the blasted door!”

The deafening crack startled Jessie, rousing her at once, though she remained disoriented, having awakened to foreign surroundings. It took her a full moment to regain her faculties. The room swayed gently and swells of water could be heard smacking the side of the ship. They were no doubt at sea by now.

“Jessie!”

Recognizing Christian’s thunderous voice, Jessie smiled triumphantly and stretched lazily, refusing to be cowed merely by the sound of his voice. Raking her hair from her face with her fingers, she rose and went to the door as quietly as she was able, smiling at her ingenuity. She’d used Christian’s very own sea chests against him, piling them against the door, and then further braced them with her own hefty trunks. It had taken much time and toil to accomplish the master-work, but now she was certain the only door to the cabin was truly impenetrable. To her mind, it was a fine job... and this was precisely the moment she’d been awaiting. She fully intended to savor it.

Using the bottommost trunk as a step, she carefully climbed the stack to place her ear against the wooden door. Christian pounded the door unexpectedly, ringing her ears with the unholy vibration, and Jessie leapt away, nearly tumbling from her carefully laid mountain to the floor.

“Damn you, Jess! I demand you open this door! I’m not in the mood for games,” he warned.

She gave him no response.

“Jessamine? Do you hear me? I desire my bed!”

God forgive her, but she couldn’t resist baiting him. “I suggest you seek it elsewhere, then,” she told him flippantly, “for I’ll not be giving this one up! Nor will I share!” And that was that, she swore to herself, slapping her hands in a definitive manner, smiling with self-satisfaction.

“The devil you say, woman! That is my cabin you would have me give up, and I’ll not do so,” he apprised her.

“Oh, but you will,” she demurred sweetly, “for I doubt I shall ever allow you entrance. I did not ask to be brought aboard this thieves’ den, and because you seem to have so little regard for my wishes, nor will I for yours, my nefarious Prince of Smugglers—Lord Christian, hah! What a farce!”

Her words brought a smile to Christian’s lips.

It was the my that settled him so quickly.

His grin was smug as he disclosed, “Perhaps you don’t realize, as yet, but you’ll need come out of that cabin sooner or later, love. You’ll need to eat sometime, and when you do—”

“Camp by the door then,” she suggested. “Though I fear you’ll have quite a long wait. Your cabin boy—Peter, I believe is his name—was quite accommodating, you see.”

Christian shook his head, disbelieving his ears.

“I simply told the dear boy that I was feeling under the weather,” Jessie told him, “and that I preferred to take my meals in my cabin. He understood perfectly and gave me enough provisions to last, well... a few days at least.” She giggled suddenly, and added, laughter in her tone, “How very tired of waiting you shall grow!”

Christian was no longer amused; the thought of waiting days for his bed was wholly unpalatable. “Damn you!” he bellowed. “You little hoyden!”

Losing his patience all over again, he slammed his boot against the door. She had it bolted from within, he was certain, but it seemed too solid a barrier to be simply barred. It was as though she’d placed something before it... His brows furrowed. What the devil could she have moved to bar it with? he wondered. Most everything was nailed firmly to the floor in protection against the movement of the sea. And damn her, for she sounded so very self-satisfied; it rankled to the bone.

Releasing the full magnitude of his temper, he agitated the doorknob, nearly detaching it in his fury, and shook the cabin door so violently that Jessie had to wonder whether her barricade would even hold against him—yet hold, it did, even if the trunks seemed somewhat the worse for wear.

Another string of vile curses stung the air, and then utter silence fell between them.

Had he given up at last?

Jessie doubted it; somehow she had the distinct impression Hawk, odious Prince of Smugglers, never simply gave up at anything.

But then... where had he gone to suddenly?

It was entirely too quiet on the other side of the door.

More important... what was he planning?

When there was no more sound from behind the door, Jessie had to assume victory. Yet it had come too easily...

Her brow furrowed. Unsure of what to do next, she paced the cabin floor, clasping her hands at her back to stop them from quaking. After a long interval, when there was still no sign of him forthcoming, she decided to pour herself a goblet of Christian’s fine Madeira to calm herself. God’s truth, but her nerves had never been more frazzled than they were this instant, and were becoming more so by the second.

Finishing it quickly, she gave a choked little cough. God knew, all she needed now was to drown herself in his good wine—probably stolen or smuggled! she reflected resentfully. With a ragged sigh, she poured herself another brimming goblet-full and then wandered to the cheval glass. The woman staring back at her was haggard looking; hair mussed from slumber, and faint shadows darkening the hollows beneath her eyes. And the neck of her gown choked her, strangled her breath. She drew at the neckline irritably, and gave a derisive little laugh, for the gown had surely had its desired effect above deck; Christian had not so much as glanced at her untowardly. He was quite obviously unaffected by her.

He didn’t care.

He’d never cared.

Yes, his threats had been lecherous, but there had been no heat to them, no feeling. No intent. God, what was wrong with her? Surely she wasn’t thinking... that she wanted...

She shook her head vehemently, and took another sip, refusing to continue her present vein of thought.

Stay out of his way indeed.

So she had won this round, after all. Against whom? a little voice niggled. She raised her goblet in silent acclaim clinking it gently to the silver mirror—against herself, it would seem, for if she could be honest... it was not Christian she feared at all... but her own wicked yearnings.

Standing before him there upon the foredeck, she had found herself wishing he would silence her raving with his soul-weakening kisses—that he would take her into his arms and tell her he loved her, beg her forgiveness. God help her, she had baited him, wanting only that he would lift her up into his arms and sweep her back to his cabin—she shuddered—in truth, back to that day beneath the elm tree...

How long could he possibly be kept at bay?

She glanced back at the door...

It was not made of iron, after all. If he truly wished to come after her... She shook her head, for then again... he was quite obviously not trying overly hard. Perhaps he would leave her be, after all.

With a very unladylike snort, she lifted her goblet and quaffed down the rest of her wine, then set the crystal gently down upon a small table beside the looking glass. With a sigh, she unbuttoned the topmost button of her gown, and then the next, and the next.

She stared at her image, trying to see herself as he might, and then irritably turned from the mirror. She wandered to the drapery-covered window with the intent of drawing it open to the fading daylight, and then it dawned on her suddenly that she’d forgotten to procure flints with which to light the lanterns tonight. She sincerely hoped she could find some within the cabin itself, for she had no desire to remain in total darkness. Shuddering at the thought, she tugged open the blasphemously dark window coverings, and gasped aloud at what lay beneath.

The most beautiful stained-glass window she had ever beheld stood in all its grandeur before her—three full-length panels! The left and right were wholly painted in colorful biblical scenes, but it was the double-wide center pane that caught her attention and held it fast.

There in the middle of the depiction stood a grand apple tree, its limbs outstretched, forming a beautiful green shelter. Beneath it lay the figure of Eve, her dark hair unbound and spread gloriously beneath her like a carpet of black silk. In her proffered hand, she held a shining ruby apple, offering it up to... Adam?

The resemblance between the figure of Adam in the depiction and Christian was striking—and good Lord, he was nude as the day he was born! So was Eve for that matter, beckoning to Adam with the apple like some seductress straight from a preacher’s fire- and-brimstone sermon. Her green eyes were brilliant, haunting in their intensity.

Her gaze was drawn upward. The sky of the depiction was clear glass, a masterpiece, utilizing the blue of the true sky as its color—if it was dark outside, the painting would be as somber as midnight; if it was bright and sunny, Adam and Eve’s world would be as blue as sapphires; and if the weather was foul, then it would draw them both into the stormy tempest. This moment, it was faded a blue-gray, with orange and pink hues streaking as far as the eye could behold. The sun in the horizon was rapidly sinking from view, plummeting into the murky darkness of the sea.

Jessie’s gaze reverted to the nude form of Adam, and she swallowed convulsively as her eyes settled upon that very male part of his anatomy. Such an odd, odd member... and so very, very... erect! She scrunched her nose. And then suddenly, her eyes widened as she recalled a certain something she’d said to Christian.

It boggles the mind to consider why men were not born with horns or other weapons on their person. Do you not agree, my lord? Her heart leapt at the recollection.

Are you quite certain of that fact? he’d asked her.

She couldn’t have known. Her eyes narrowed in outrage and her lips trembled with misery. The cad, he’d been mocking her, even then... How he must have laughed at her naïveté—how he must have rejoiced in her stupidity!

She was a fool.

She was still a fool.

Unable to keep herself from it, she reached out for him, her breath becoming labored and her body stirring wickedly, heating with the Madeira... and something else; as she smoothed her fingers over Adam’s full body. She stopped abruptly at his groin—couldn’t help herself, brazen as it was—feeling with wonder the almost indiscernible raised lines where one color met another. She was awestruck by the artfulness of the glass, by the beauty of the man depicted. Shuddering with the desire that burst to life within her, she caressed the cold glass before her... her heart thundering...

Her eyes closed, and her head fell back, remembering...

Christian’s heart began to hammer.

From his precarious perch just outside the window, he felt the bold caress as though it were on his own body. Heat surged through his veins, its potency just short of heart-stopping.

Christ, how he wanted her, ached and burned for her. His body shuddered at the sight she presented, head back and her face flushed with desire, her bodice undone and exposing her throat. Making certain his feet were secure within the toehold he’d fashioned within the rope, he shifted so the knot he was perched upon wouldn’t cut quite so sharply into his groin.

How many times had he dreamed of that caress? So soft and innocent, and yet lustful too.

Whatever else she was, the woman was passionate—that much he had to give her. The wistful look on her face made him burn all the more fiercely. He, tried to ignore her. While she was otherwise occupied with Adam, he used it to his advantage, peering in at the door through the distorted glass. Damnation, but he couldn’t begin to imagine what she’d barred it with.

He muttered an oath when his eyes finally focused upon the objects before the door. There were what appeared to be five trunks stacked before it, not one, not two, but five. His own two, which were by far the largest, were doubled at the bottom, and three of hers, one large, two small, sat directly above them, braced against the door. How the devil had she managed it?

He knew the very instant she spotted him, for she suddenly leapt away from the glass, shrieking. She fell back upon the floor. Now that she was aware of his presence, he swung into plain view. He peered through the clear glass into the cabin, knocked on the window and smiled.

Jessie seemed to recover quickly enough, scrambling to her feet at once. She stood staring, that hideous gown of hers gaping at the neckline, and he had the sudden urge to shatter his precious stained-glass window—to hell with the cost of it—throw her upon the bed and climb atop her, lift up her skirts without preamble and rut like a blood-maddened bull. He was that badly in need. That provoked. He willed her to open the door, so that he could have McCarney and Tibbs haul him up—so he could go to her and slake his insane need for her, and only her. In all the many months he’d been away from her, he’d not touched a woman. None of them had been Jessie.

“God,” he croaked, his voice hoarse with restraint, and something more as he recalled her cozy familiarity with her damnable cousin. “Jessie... open the door...”

Spurred to life by his request, Jessie suddenly tugged the drapery closed. “Really!” she shouted. “Sleep there upon your bloody rope, for all I care! Or loop it about your neck,” she added flippantly. “I care not which!”

“Jessie! Open the goddamned door!” Now that he knew what was before it, he could quite possibly open it himself, for he’d noted that a few of the trunks were already tilting precariously, but Jessie had placed them there and Jessie would remove them, he vowed.

Having blocked his smug face from view, Jessie went to his massive dark-curtained bed and plopped herself down upon it, trying desperately to ignore him—good Lord, he had caught her fondling his window! Her face heated with mortification.

Such a deep hush prevailed from beyond the curtains that she found herself feeling uneasy as she surveyed the room in its unholy darkness. Why was everything so... so black? she wondered irately. His bed, more suited to a sultan, was curtained in dark midnight blue silks. A beautifully carved armoire in dark wood graced the wall by the door, and a table with wicked claws for legs hunched in the middle of the cabin, its fearful talons gripping the bare wood floor. There were paintings of indescribable value and beauty, bookcases built into the wall with dozens of leather-bound volumes housed within them. And then of course, there were the stained-glass windows...

“You’d think the man was a prince!” she muttered. But then, he was, wasn’t he? He was Prince of Smugglers. She laughed without mirth, cursing herself for a silly hysterical fool. Her gaze reverting to the curtain, she decided it was much too still for her peace of mind, and she rose to peek behind it... to be certain he was gone.

He was still there, smiling knowingly, taunting her, his teeth flashing in mockery. His brow lifted diabolically.

“Oh! You! I hope the rope snaps and you plummet headlong into the ocean and drown, you cur!” Yanking the curtain shut again, Jessie fumed. But his voice when next he spoke seemed unsettled, and she experienced a twinge of guilt for her hateful words.

“Damn it, Jess!” Then more frantically, “Jessie! I’m slipping... damn it... Jess!”

Arms crossed stubbornly, Jessie refused to reopen the drapes, refused to believe him. It was a ruse, she was certain. He was a cad! a cur! a lecher! And he sounded no more distressed than a gluttonous toad at home upon his lily pad.

Yet even as she endeavored to convince herself, there came a cacophonous thud against the side of the ship, followed by an awful, endless abrasive sound that concluded with an ominous splash far, far below. Jessie’s heart lurched, and she snatched open the draperies with trembling hands.

Lord, what if he had fallen?

The rope dangled dismally before her eyes, swinging ever so slightly, evidence that he’d been there—but was no more. He was nowhere within sight.

Oh, God—dear God. He had fallen. Hadn’t anyone seen? She glanced up, pressing her nose to the tinted glass, spying no one above—not that she could see a blessed thing through the colored glass! Frantically her gaze slid down again, to the fathomless ocean. She could see very little through the greens and blues and reds of the stained glass... and yet... and yet... she could have sworn that the water rippled away from a foaming center.

It was all her fault! Not daring to waste even a single precious second, she went to the door and began clearing it of obstacles at once.

“Someone! Anyone!” she shouted hysterically. “Please, Christian—Hawk!” she screamed. Lord, what to call the accursed man? “Your captain!” she decided finally. “He’s fallen overboard! Someone, please—help!”

Thank heavens that her own trunks were easy enough to remove, but the other two, his two, were another matter entirely. They were as heavy as sin! Squatting upon the floor, she planted her feet squarely and gave a mighty heave. It moved a little, though at this rate, she thought that by the time she removed the last of the sea chests and made her away above deck to summon help, Christian would be long gone—dead—and at her hands, no less!

Lord, she was a murderess! Tears stung her eyes. The very thought of never seeing him again made her heart suddenly ache. The possibility chilled her, left her bereft.

Giving the trunk one last desperate heave, she shoved it out of the way, and with a groan she tackled the largest of them all, the one that was buttressed so securely against the door, the one that had taken her a lifetime to set into place.

“Dear God,” Jessie prayed aloud, “please don’t let him die—don’t let him die—please!” Her face turned scarlet with her efforts and still the trunk would not budge.

“Someone, please—oh, please, please, help!” she cried out, despairing ever to be free of the cabin. She was desperate to aid Christian. The armoire she’d admired earlier was within reach, and she happened to brace her feet upon it in her despair. Finding anchorage there, she shoved with every last bit of her might. Nailed down as it was, the armoire gave her the much-needed reinforcement and the confounded chest inched slowly but surely away from the door. Her face flushed and her brow beaded from her exertions, she gave the chest a final shove, sliding it just barely out of the way, and then she stood hurriedly, unbolting the door.

Her mouth fell agape as she opened the door.

“What took you so long?”

In one swift, agile motion, Christian shoved away from the wall that faced her, smiling devilishly.

Much too belatedly, she tried to slam the door in his too wicked, too handsome face. His hand swept out to hold it ajar.

“My, but you do seem distressed,” he said much too calmly. “Tell me... where are you off to in such a frantic rush, my love?” The gleam in his cobalt eyes told Jessie that he truly didn’t wish or need an answer to that particular question, and she didn’t offer him one.

His jaw working angrily, he suddenly shoved the door further open, causing her to lose her balance for the tiniest fraction of an instant. One boot on, one conspicuously missing, he came into the room, stalking her as a lion would its prey. Jessie backed slowly away from him, fearing him suddenly.

“Y-You tricked me!”

“You locked me out of my cabin,” he returned smoothly, his glittering blue eyes never leaving her own.

“B-But you t-told me to...” He shook his head slowly in negation and her voice suddenly failed her.

“I told you to stay out of my sight, not to shut me away from my bed.” He grinned then, but it was an ominous, mocking grin, not the least bit reassuring.

“Wh-What were you doing out there anyway?” she asked defensively.

“Why, I was looking to see what you’d barred the door with, of course,” he said. “But tell me... what were you doing at the window?” He smiled that wicked, knowing smile of his.

Jessie ignored the impertinent question, though her cheeks flamed. She fanned herself reflexively, unaware that she did. “How did you get back up?” Her treacherous knees began to wobble. Nor was he wet, she noticed, frowning.

Slowly, ruthlessly, he backed her toward the bed. “How else do you think, Jessamine? At my signal, my men hauled me up.”

“B-But I heard you fall,” she stammered, her legs buckling as the bed came up behind her unexpectedly.

He watched with ill-concealed amusement as she fell back upon it.

“I swear it—I shall scream!”

“And who do you think shall come?” he taunted, his voice little more than a whisper. “Your hobbling cousin? I very much doubt it, Jess. At any rate, you deserve a good lashing, and it was he who first suggested it, ma belle.”

“But you wouldn’t dare!”

Christian’s eyes gleamed with the devil’s own light. “Wouldn’t I?” he said, his jaw clenching.

“N-Nay! Y-You’d not dare!” she stammered, and truly hoped it was so. The look in his eyes, however, confirmed otherwise. He would, indeed, dare, and thoroughly enjoy it besides!

“I wish to God you had fallen!” Where she found the strength and courage to do so, she would never know, but she flew at him in that instant, her hands pummeling his chest. “I heard you fall!” she cried. “I know I did! Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you?”

Christian caught her hands with a single sweep of his own, stilling them against his chest. She felt his heart beating fiercely beneath her fingertips.

“Ah, ma pauvre petite,” he said huskily, “what a dreadful shame for you... Alas, but it was only my good boot you heard plummetin’ into the sea.” He nodded, his eyes glinting with arrogance. “Aye, my love, you did note I was missing one, did you not?” Her eyes shot him with cold contempt and he added, “Aye, I see that you have noticed. Tell me, m’mselle... should I take the price of them out on your pretty little derriere?” He reached back as though to make good his threat, swatting her backside.

Jessie shrieked indignantly and began to struggle anew, twisting her arms to be free of the prison of his grip. In one swift motion, he lifted her and thrust her down upon the bed. He straddled her then, taking his sweet time so as to prove to her how very defenseless she was against him, that she would bend to his will even against her own.

He bent low over her, to look into her eyes, his own eyes gleaming ruthlessly, and she swallowed convulsively, never feeling more vulnerable than she did at the moment. And then his lips came nearer still, until she could feel the heat radiating from them, beckoning... and Lord help her, she wanted him to press his lips to her mouth, mold them to her own. Even as angry as she was with him, she found herself wistfully remembering the way his velvety tongue had felt within her mouth, so warm, so insistent, and her breath quickened.

She wanted to taste his fierce hunger... again... and again... and again... never to stop.

The sweetest ache began again to unfurl within the depth of her body, reaching deep into her soul, tautening the peaks of her breasts and making them ache for his touch.

If only he could touch his lips to them once more, tenderly now. If only...

She flushed crimson at her wanton thoughts.

But then, in that bittersweet instant, he shifted and came closer, brushing his lips against hers so very gently, too gently, almost as though that brief contact were part of his warning.

“I could have sworn,” he whispered, “that I’d told you once already... it would go all the easier for you did you simply stay out of my way. Do so... and you shall save us both much trouble... Do not... and you shall pay dearly... I swear it. My patience is at its end—doubt it not.”

Her mind dazed with his nearness and his whispered threats, she returned, “Really, m’lord...” She lifted a brow, mocking his imperious gesture. “What more can you take from me that you’ve not already?”

He laughed then, the sound ruthless, his breath searing the tender flesh of her lips. “More,” he swore, the threat no more than a whisper, “more, my naive little princess... so very, very much more.” And with that, he released her abruptly, lifting himself from the bed.

He sat on the edge, ignoring her, lifting his one booted foot to his knee to remove the shoe, and still Jessie dared not move. His boot slipped off, and he tossed it unceremoniously across the room, where it landed with a wrathful thud.

He rose from the bed abruptly and went to pour himself a snifter of brandy, tossing the contents down his throat and pouring himself another. Eyeing the bottle of Madeira that sat beside it, he lifted it, assessing the lack, and said, his back to her, “Well... as long as we are at it, then.” He lifted a clean goblet and poured her another glass of Madeira, bringing it to her and pressing it into her hands.

Then, with his own glass in hand, he strode to, and sprawled backward into, his blue damask throne of a chair. He sat there, ignoring her for the longest time as he finished his brandy. She sipped nervously of her Madeira, watching him all the while, as the sun continued its descent, leaving them finally bathed in little more than dusky shadows.

“You will light the lanterns?” she asked after a long, strained silence.

“Nay.” His gaze met and held hers across the shadows. He shook his head. “I came to sleep... yet here I find myself sitting instead, wondering just what it is I should do with you.”

Jessie sat numbly, not knowing what to say, unable to move, unable even to tear her gaze away from his much too stunning face. In the growing darkness, his features took on a sinister cast; his eyes seemed to glow by the light of the moon, and a shiver traveled her spine. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. What would he do? she found herself wondering—but to her shame, not without exhaling a shattering breath of anticipation.

“You plan to share my bed with me?” his husky voice inquired after a moment.

“O-Of course not!” she cried indignantly, but she was mortified to feel the flutter, the thrill, that raced through her body like wildfire.

“Then get out of it,” he advised her. “Now.”

The last was said so softly that she barely heard the command.

“I swear you are no gentleman!” Yet having said that, she gaped, fascinated by his sleek grace as he proceeded to unbutton his shirt cuffs.

Though his features were now hidden deep in shadow, she could have sworn he smiled at that insult, his teeth flashing white. Taking a nervous sip of her wine, she swallowed it with a tortured, strangled gasp, and continued to sit, hopelessly entranced, watching shamelessly as he then started upon the buttons at his throat. She was utterly helpless to tear her gaze away from his ritual performance.

Belatedly recalling her own gaping dress, she clasped it together, holding it fast, cutting off her breath as her flesh burned under his scrutiny. But Lord help her, she really couldn’t care that she couldn’t breathe just now, could only be thankful for the darkness of the cabin to conceal her brazenness.

And her desire.

He stood then, his body little more than a dark silhouette before her, and she was spurred into life finally, clinking her goblet down quickly upon the small table by the bedside.

“I believe I’ve given you fair enough warning,” he said low, unbuttoning his breeches and shrugging out of them. Her heart leapt as they slithered to the floor and he stepped out of them, magnificently naked.

Like Adam.

She froze, again staring as though transfixed, her gaze leaving him only to revert to the window, to the silhouette of Adam glowing faintly there by the light of the moon, before returning to Christian, but Christian stood too deeply in shadow and she could see nothing of him.

Chapter Twenty

“I’ll not ask you again,” he swore, and then his shadow descended upon her.

Jessie leapt from the bed, scurrying away. She listened intently to the rustling of the sheets as he snuggled between them, nude, she knew, and the thought made her shiver, though she could see absolutely nothing as his body slipped into the crisp coolness of the sheets. She knew they were cool, even as she knew his body was hot—as was her own. She burned as though with fever.

Once he was settled, he tossed her a blanket. It fell at her bare feet. She stooped to retrieve it, holding it close to her as she stared into the darkness of the curtained bed.

“Where will I sleep?” Her voice trembled slightly. Lord, she loathed herself for that weakness.

He grunted, as though annoyed by her question, and said, “Wherever you wish... in the bed, if you please.” And then he added, “If you dare...”

It was a challenge, a gauntlet cast at her feet, but one Jessie had no intention of accepting, or even acknowledging. She didn’t dare, for she’d be lost if she did.

“I-I shall sleep on the floor, then.”

“As you wish.”

“Oh! I do so wish!” she assured him, her voice laced with bitterness. What manner of man was he to allow her, a gentle-born woman, to sleep on the floor—on the deck of a ship, no less, to roll with the ocean’s waves! God, how could she have ever thought him a gentleman? And again, she had the despairing thought that she was the worst kind of fool, for she was a fool in love.

And he was a devil and a knave, the lowest of low!

Resigning herself to a night of discomfort, she settled upon the floor, drawing the blanket to her chin to keep away the chill of the night. To her chagrin, she found the one blanket was not proof against the cold. And then again, perhaps the chill came from within? And then, too, it was dark... and she could hear him breathing, smoothly, evenly, peacefully.

And then slower still—the cad! How dare he sleep!

In that miserable moment, Jessie despised him immensely. Cursing him, she shifted, trying in vain to find comfort on the hard, cold floor.

He snored.

“Famous!” she muttered to herself.

He made some curious sound, and then it seemed his entire body jerked, as though to catapult him into blissful slumber.

Jessie couldn’t bear it—that he could sleep so peacefully when she was so very miserable.

“Christian?” she whispered. There was no reply. Louder this time, she hissed, “Hawk?”

Still no response.

She waited a moment, and then shouted, “Are you sleeping?”

He grunted, and responded finally, “Not anymore. What the devil do you want now, Jessie?”

“I need a pillow,” she said petulantly.

“I have only one.”

“Might I use it, then?”

“God’s teeth, woman! I am using it!”

Jessie gritted her teeth.

“But you may share it,” he conceded irritably.

“Share it? With you? Thank you, but nay. Is there another cabin I might make use of, then?”

“Nay.”

“Another bed?”

“Jess.”

“Another cot? Another world?” she mumbled beneath her breath.

Some choked sound escaped him, as though he would laugh but refused to allow himself the concession. When he spoke again, his whisper sounded for all its caressing softness an irate command.

“Go to sleep, Jessamine. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Indeed, Christian amended silently, a long voyage, for it was going to prove wholly impossible to share the same cabin with her while keeping his sanity.

It was impossible to sleep with her scent filling his nostrils, arousing his senses. Yet there was truly no place else he would have her go.

Certainly not with that damnable cousin of hers—and there was no place else.

“I do so loathe you!” she informed him with great feeling.

“And the sentiment is mutual,” he returned dispassionately. “Now, be a wise little wench and go to sleep. Or I swear, you’ll come to regret it.”

“You don’t understand,” she cried softly. “I cannot sleep in the same room with you! ’Tis unseemly... and... and—”

“To bloody hell with what’s proper, Jess! ’Tis a man’s ship,” he apprised her, his voice strained. “There is no other place for you to sleep but here... in my cabin—where you will be safe,” he added almost reluctantly, for he wasn’t truly certain she was safe with him either.

“Why couldn’t you have thought of that before you abducted me?”

He sighed. “As I’ve already told you, there was no time to consider. Look at it from my view. I believed two men lay dying, and I knew not where to turn for help... Being that one of them was your beloved cousin... I rather hoped you might feel somewhat inclined to aid them. Perhaps I was wrong?”

There was a long moment of silence, and then she admitted finally, her voice quivering faintly, “You were not.”

The pitiful sound of it did not escape him, and Christian’s sigh slashed through the darkness. “If ’tis your virtue you fear for,” he relented, “then you should leave off the worrying, mon amour. I’ve absolutely no wish to touch you at all,” he lied, his lip curling with self-contempt at the blatant falsehood. Even now, he stood ready. Yet, even despite that fact, he played the noble for her, ever the righteous gentleman. He cursed her fiercely beneath his breath, for making him want to be something he was not.

“Even so,” he interjected, “I swear that if you do not let me be, Jessie, I’ll assume you wish to divert me, and I might find that I do, indeed, desire a certain diversion, after all—if you take my meaning?”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and the helpless whimper that escaped her, and he felt her pain, and despised himself for his weakness to her.

Neither of them spoke.

After a long moment, Christian grudgingly tossed her his pillow.

It landed with a soft whooshing sound atop her head. Jessie snatched it quickly, burying her face into it, soaking it with tears.

“Thank you!” she sobbed, swearing to herself that she loathed him still, and despising herself for the lie. After a time, his husky snores filled the cabin, and hours later, still unable to sleep, Jessie lay shifting uncomfortably in the darkness.

She stood finally, clutching Christian’s pillow to her breast, and approached the dark pit that was his bed. She stared at his moonlit features for a long moment, gathering her courage. God, he wore a scowl even in his sleep. He was a fiend—so why did she love him so? Why?

She was cold.

And she was desperately miserable.

And he had the bed.

Lord, but he was rude and ill bred not to have offered her the bed!

Mustering her courage once and for all, she lifted the coverlet carefully and slipped within, making certain to stay as far from him as possible.

The beast never stirred.

He was sound asleep, she acknowledged resentfully. And he had fallen so very easily. How, when her own body lay burning so fiercely, kindled merely by his presence? It was as though the very air were filled with him, making her yearn... She shouldn’t feel such a wanton longing for his kisses… and more. Only, when she tried not to recall that day beneath the elm tree... her body seemed to have a will all its own, demolishing her resolve.

“I never did betray you,” she whispered softly into the pillow beside him. She rocked herself consolingly, gently, so as not to wake him. How could he have believed she would?

Oh, God, how could he sleep?

He really didn’t want her.

He didn’t care. A tear slipped through her lashes.

The moon’s glow illuminated the stained glass with an uncanny light. Eve’s eyes seemed lucid, melancholy almost, and so very damning, for those eyes were the mirror to her own soul.

She was lost to him, and he didn’t trust her, and he didn’t love her... and he didn’t even seem to want her.

The tears she’d been fighting so long spilled from her eyes, coursed shamelessly down her cheeks.

“I did not betray you,’ she swore again, her whisper soft and full of pain. “It was you, Christian, who betrayed me!” She gazed longingly at the exquisitely depicted figure of Adam, his face unreadable, his eyes as blue and fathomless as the sea.

“I did not tell my brother—he knew already.” Though she knew he slept, she felt compelled to go on, “It was your brother, Philip, who told my father. Not I,” she swore softly. “Amos told me so later.” She continued to rock herself, eased by it, and she wept softly.

“But you...”

The single word was filled with overwhelming grief.

“You came to seduce me—and you let him—” She choked away a broken sob. “Oh, God! You let my brother pay you to wreck my heart and my life! How could you? Yes, you came to make me love you... and to tear my soul to tiny, wretched shreds—and God curse me, for I let you!”

She turned away from him to lie upon her side in a devastated heap, unable even to accept his presence next to her upon the bed, for she wanted nothing more than to turn in to his arms and be comforted by him.

She was weak... oh, so weak.

“But it is my fault... I let you hurt me,” she whispered brokenly. And then her sobs came full force and she muffled them with the feather pillow that bore his musky male scent, allowing her anger to become a balm for her pain.

As though he’d heard her somewhere deep in his slumber and meant to comfort her, Christian’s weight shifted. His arm reached out and wrapped about her waist.

Jessie stiffened, thinking she’d inadvertently awakened him, but he made some sleepy sound before snuggling closer to her. His breath was as smooth and even as before, and she knew then that he slept on, that he’d never awakened at all. In his dreams, he probably thought her some tavern wench warming his bed!

Still, in the darkness, just this once... Jessie dared to be comforted by his embrace—no matter whether he mistook her for another.

Just this once, she swore to herself.

No one need know.

Tomorrow she would be fine.

She would make certain of that, for never could she reveal to him just how much he’d hurt her with his lies and his deceit.

Nor could she bear that he know how very much she loved him...

Still.

The sun broke, transforming Adam and Eve’s world into a brilliant picturesque display.

As she stretched sleepily, Jessie’s gaze followed the path of the morning sunbeam to where it performed a kaleidoscopic parade upon the wood floor.

With a start, she remembered just where it was she’d fallen asleep—more important, with whom—and whirled about to stare at the empty space beside her.

He was gone.

She moved onto his side of the bed, closing her eyes against the cool sheets, savoring the lingering scent of him.

She had dreamt of him... his warmth, his hand upon her breast... drawing down the neckline of her gown. His kiss burning her flesh, trailing down, down... leaving a fire burning in its wake...

She burned still.

She opened her eyes in self-disgust. Good Lord, but she should be ashamed for thinking such wanton thoughts. Hating herself for them, she arose and dressed for the day, pulling out the first thing her fingers encountered from her trunk. Her brow furrowing with resolve, she determined to do as he had bade her.

God curse him, she fully intended to stay out of his way.

Chapter Twenty One

It took very little effort on her part, for it became apparent that Christian had no care to see her, at all.

Truth to tell, it was amazing how vast the ship suddenly seemed, despite that she shared his cabin each night. He came only when he was certain she slept... and then, on the third night, he didn’t come at all. She learned from Ben the next morning that Hawk had begun to share their cabin.

“He’s in a foul temper,” Ben told her as she came upon him. He sat, whittling the crude piece of oak Jessie had found him clutching that first morn. It was beginning, despite Ben’s amateur strokes, to take on the shape of a walking cane.

“Who?” she asked much too innocently.

Taking a moment’s pause from his sculpting, Ben peered down at her, his brown eyes troubled. “You know very well to whom I am referring.” He nodded in Christian’s direction, nonetheless.

Jessie didn’t bother to turn. She knew he was there. She needn’t look to know he was watching them.

“Tell me,” she said, changing the topic, “how is your leg? Does it pain you still?”

“Here and there,” he confessed somewhat reluctantly. His features softened as he gazed down at her. “’Tis healing, though, and I’d not have you worrying over it, sweet coz.”

Jessie averted her gaze, unable to bear seeing his pain.

He wore one pant leg split up the side so that she wouldn’t be exposed to his nudity while attending him, for despite her lack of medical knowledge, there was no one else to do so. Jean Paul, too, was healing well enough. And though he suffered a lingering fever, it had been mild enough that he’d not bothered to take himself back to bed. Only the paleness of his complexion gave any evidence to his illness, for the man was as out-of-hand as the rest of the crew, stubborn too, for he refused to be coddled or cared for. Ben, on the other hand, seemed content enough to accept what little aid Jessie could give.

“You need your bandages changed. I brought these.” Dropping the bundle of rags from her arms into Ben’s lap, she sank to her knees to better inspect his thigh. The bandages were free of body fluids for the first time—a good sign, she thought, though she truly couldn’t be certain. With a heartfelt sigh, she began to unravel the soiled wrappings.

“You shredded one of your gowns for these?”

Jessie peered up at him to see that he was toying with a bit of lace that still clung to a strip of it, obviously having been overlooked in her haste. He removed it carefully, mindful not to tear it in the process, while Jessie busied herself with his leg. “It was old,” she assured him. “It was nothing.”

Freeing it at last, he held it between his fingers, stroking it meditatively. “I’ve never seen the likes o’ this mood of his, Jessie, and I’ve known the man an eternity.”

Jessie tugged off a section of his bandage much too quickly and cast him an irate glare.

“Ayeee! Gad, Jess, be easy with me!” Resisting the urge to shield his wound from further aggression, he gritted his teeth, allowing her to continue. But he said through clenched teeth, “Tell me, coz, what is it you said to him to turn his mood so foul?”

“And what makes you think ’tis me?” Jessie peered up at him with narrowed eyes.

Ben shrugged.

“Nothing he didn’t deserve,” she assured. “And you! You haven’t been alive an eternity!”

But he had! Jessie thought, glancing briefly toward the ship’s wheel, for he was the devil’s own!

“Not an eternity, perhaps, but long enough to know...”

With Ben’s bandages finally unraveled, Jessie glanced up into her cousin’s handsome face. He smiled down at her, though it was a cheerless smile, and it made her heart ache terribly.

Catching her hand at his knee, he stroked the back of it with his thumb. Jessie could merely stare as he caressed her, feeling uncomfortable with it, yet not quite able to withdraw her hand.

Her expression anguished, she lifted her face to his, and their gazes held.

“Sweet Jess,” Ben murmured. “How I could love you... if only...” She flushed, averting her gaze, and he said, “How depraved I must sound to you, wanting you as I do—but I cannot help it! I’ve tried,” he swore, “and I just cannot stop!”

“Ben...”

“Hush,” he demanded. “Listen to me, sweet coz. I do know you can never be mine…” He placed her hand to his heart. “I can only hope that someday... someday,” he repeated solemnly, “though I doubt it very much, I shall find another as kind and beautiful as you. Until then, know my heart belongs to you, and only to you.”

Jessie shook her head, her heart twisting at his disclosure. “Ben... please...”

He placed his fingers to her lips, shushing her. “Listen to me, please, because I must say this. I swear I’ll not speak of it again, not to anyone. Know I love you, Jess, and know I’ll always be there for you, no matter the circumstances. I pledge that to you here and now.” He groaned suddenly, the sound tormented. “God’s teeth! I feel such a fierce loyalty to Hawk, for he once saved my arse from the gibbet. You see... I risked my father’s ship on a venture—a worthy venture, though it matters not a whit now, for the outcome remains the same.” He shook his head regretfully. “Hawk came to my rescue. He didn’t have to, but he did.” He shrugged. “Had he not, well then... my father would have lost his ship in the Indies, and I...” He chuckled without mirth. “I daresay, I would be as lifeless as this wooden cane in my hand.”

Placing the staff he spoke of down upon the deck, he reached out, taking her by the arms, drawing her closer, yet gently, as though to gain her full attention.

“Even so... hear me well... if Hawk so much as touches you in the wrong manner... he’ll answer to me. And yet... I know in my heart you’ll not need me, because Hawk is a good man. I know only too well that he is... and so... you truthfully have no need of me at all.”

An anguished look crossed his features. And then, as though he could not help himself, he brought her closer still, his lips not far from her own as he spoke to her.

“Dear God... Jessie...” He groaned. “I might ask only one thing of you... I dream of you so oft, sweet coz—too oft! I would have you put an end to these dreams. I cannot ... Perhaps if you would kiss me, just once ... your soft, sweet lips to my own... just once. I shall not ask it of you again—I swear it on my honor!”

“Ben!” she choked out, panicking, and tried to withdraw from his embrace. He held her fast and came nearer still, urging her with his compelling gaze to assent.

“Please, Jess...” He sounded as tortured as a man could possibly sound.

Jessie’s eyes closed and she swallowed convulsively, knowing in her heart that she could not deny him this once. She nodded, and heard his moan of relief as he pulled her exuberantly into his embrace, touching his lips tenderly to hers at first, tentatively, as though he were afraid she would bolt. His kiss was achingly sweet... and she should have felt something... anything, for he was nearly as masterful with his lips as Christian, yet she could feel nothing. She was numb. Her heart was dull and heavy for she was cursed to love another.

After a long-suffering moment, he tore himself away. “Christ,” he concluded, scowling fiercely. “I believe that might have been a first-rate mistake.” He winked at her halfheartedly. “Tell me, Jess, can you never...” He paused then, seeming to rethink his words, and said instead, shaking his head, “Never mind. You love him and there is nothing to be done for that. You cannot give full measure... and I can take no less... Only know that I shall always—”

“How very moving.”

Jessie whirled about to spy Christian looking down upon them from the upper deck, his expression dark and stormy, his stance threatening, and his dark hair whipping with the breeze. His blue eyes shot her with contempt.

“It is not what it appears, Hawk,” Ben swore at once, his tone repentant, if only slightly irritated. “She was...” His gaze reverted to Jessie, but he could not bank the look of intense yearning that was there for her to see, then suddenly he did, and he looked again at Christian, slightly more composed. “I stole a kiss from her,” he yielded, “and she had not the heart to refuse me.”

“How very charitable of her.” Christian cast her a ferocious glare before turning and stalking away.

“I’m sorry.”

Jessie shook her head. “It matters not... He couldn’t possibly loathe me more than he does already.”

Christian felt rage like never before, though he’d be damned if he’d fault Ben for it. It was Jessie he blamed.

Curse her faithless hide!

He’d listened with bated breath to her soul-stirring confession a few nights past and had felt her pain.

The biggest part of him had been elated at the possibility of her innocence; still, he’d not been quite able to bring himself to believe her. For all he knew, she’d performed the dramatics for his benefit alone, knowing he was awake and listening. And yet, though he’d not dared believe in her, the need to hold her had been irrepressible, and he’d reached out to comfort her even against his will.

How could he have thought to believe her?

For the last days, and nights, while he’d lain next to her, he’d respectfully let her be, while he’d grappled with his heart and his conscience, coming so close to trusting in her...

So close.

He’d not gone to her last night because he hadn’t trusted himself.

And now...

Had he been even remotely near them, he might have torn Ben limb from limb. God’s truth, he felt like doing so even now. With a curt nod, he urged his first mate away from the wheel, taking charge of it himself, his expression furious. Black-haired, bushy-browed Tibbs gave up his post immediately, eyeing him warily as he scurried away.

Damn. He didn’t want to believe her, not now—particularly not now. But her pitiful wails had resounded with truth, tearing his own heart into tortured shreds. But she was lost to him, for it was apparent she loved another... that she despised him as much as she claimed.

He recalled Ben’s blissful expression as his lips had touched upon Jessie’s, and his chest constricted painfully. Christ, he had come to such foolish conclusions all those months ago in England, and now he would pay for it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her with Ben. Couldn’t bear the thought of Ben’s hands upon her, his lips worshiping her body. He closed his eyes for an instant, feeling dizzy with anger and regret. He’d never loathed himself more than he did at the moment, for he’d had her once, and he’d lost her.

How could he have been so witless?

How could she be so faithless?

So fickle?

She was a treacherous bitch—even if she had not been the one to betray his confidences. She’d played him false with her inconsistent emotions—damned lady turncoat!

But she was never yours to love in the first place, he reminded himself bitterly.

She was never yours to begin with...

Nor could she ever love the man who had caused the death of her father...

And he was that man.

The remainder of the journey passed uneventfully.

It took just over two weeks to reach their destination, a small, picturesque island as bright and vibrant as the lush background of stained glass with which it competed. Jessie remained within the cabin the entire day they were docked.

They departed early the next morn, stopping at yet another port two days hence. There they spent merely a few hours, and were gone again by noon.

If she thought Christian had avoided her before, he certainly did so now. She saw him only fleetingly, when she happened to search him out. God only knows why she should do such a thing, but sometimes before she could stop herself, she would find herself seeking just a glimpse of him.

So many times she’d been tempted to go to him, to speak with him, but Christian would need only glare at her with that devil’s fire in his eyes and her courage would immediately falter. And then she would scurry back to her cabin.

God’s truth, were it not for Ben’s and Jean Paul’s company, she would have died of the doldrums along with her broken heart.

They were half a day from Charlestown when a knock sounded upon her cabin door—Christian’s cabin door, though he had so generously abandoned it for her. How gracious of him, she thought bitterly.

“Come in,” she said, knowing instinctively it was not Christian, for he never would have bothered to knock upon his own door.

The cabin door opened at once and Jean Paul came sauntering in, his expression grim. He took a seat at the claw-footed table without invitation. In so very many ways he was like his son, Jessie mused, but she liked him anyway. She felt sorry for him, in truth, that he should be so close to his only son and have no knowledge of their relationship. He’d told her once already that he’d never married and had never had children.

How could he not know?

Once seated, Jean Paul looked at her pensively. Screwing his lips, he gazed at her as though he would speak but was unsure of how to proceed.

“What is it? Ben?”

“Non, non, mon ange, not Ben. Fear not, for he is well. His leg seems to be healing and he walks well enough with his cane—although,” he yielded with a regretful shake of his head, “I very much fear he shall be left with a limp for the remainder of his days. And yet he’s quite fortunate, for the leg bone did not shatter, and it well may have.”

Jessie shuddered at that ghastly thought.

“Oui, demoiselle, I have seen it before.” He raised a brow. “But enough of Ben—’tis my son I’ve come to discuss with you just now.”

Jessie’s eyes widened and her jaw fell. She closed her mouth abruptly, for she had no idea what to say in response. “You know?”

His face contorted. “I take it Hawk has confided in you, then, for you seem to know precisely who it is I’m speaking of.” He nodded, seeming pleased with the discovery. “But then, of course, he would have,” he addressed himself. He sighed. “So much makes sense to me now.” He chuckled softly, the sound so oddly familiar that it sent a chill down Jessie’s spine. “I take it you think I did not know?” He clucked his tongue, casting Jessie a reproachful glance. “But I ask you, ma petite, now could I not know? A man would have to be blind—nay, there can be no mistaking it; Hawk is my son.”

Jessie’s shock was evident in her expression. “I—” She shook her head in stunned disbelief. “He has no idea that you know,” she told him after a moment.

“Aye,” Jean Paul confirmed, “and that is my own fault, I fear. I made his sweet maman swear to me that she would never tell him... and then, when I thought he knew, I pretended ignorance. I just could not seem to meet his eyes when he spoke of her, for then he would know, cherie, that I love her still.”

“But... I don’t understand...”

“I was not certain until now that he knew, you see. But if my son has confided in you, then indeed he knows. And still... I must allow Hawk to decide to accept me of his own accord. I would not betray his mother by speaking of it first. So until the day he acknowledges it, I am content simply to have Hawk as my friend. Tell me, how blessed can a man hope to be? I cannot give him my name, but my son has my friendship, and that is so much more. How many fathers can say as much? Non, non, fear not, mon ange, I am perfectly content with my lot—but enough of me! I came because I must know for certain... do you love him... do you love my son?”

Jessie frowned. “He’s a rude, contemptible boor!” she told him with conviction, taking the seat across from him.

Jean Paul watched her with probing blue eyes, as though to see through her words. He chuckled softly. “Yes, I know… but do you love him, cherie? That was the question.”

“Nay!” Jessie said much too quickly. She shook her head emphatically. Perhaps a bit too zealously, for something in Jean Paul’s expression told her that he did not believe her.

Suddenly Jean Paul slapped his hand down upon the table. “I see,” he said, smiling slyly.

He nibbled at the side of his mouth for a moment as he stared at her. “Very well then.” He nodded, rising from his chair, obviously through with his interrogation of her, brief as it was. “Yes, I do think I know what must be done then, demoiselle. And you are quite certain you do not love him?”

Misunderstanding his question, Jessie shook her head, and then realizing what she was saying, nodded at once with a certainty she didn’t quite feel.

Jean Paul chuckled, giving her a conspiratorial wink, and Jessie had the most awful premonition as he turned to leave, yet before she could question him about it, he was gone. She spent the rest of the afternoon worrying over Jean Paul’s strange visit, wondering at his cryptic remarks.

That night, however, her curiosity came to an end when the door to the cabin burst open and slammed shut behind Christian.

The room was pitch black, the lanterns having been snuffed for the night, but Jessie knew it was him. Her skin prickled, and gooseflesh erupted.

“Why isn’t the door bolted?”

Jessie didn’t have time to reply to his question before he spoke again, this time his tone somewhat less angry, though ominous still.

“That whoreson cousin of yours!” he muttered irately, his words slightly slurred. “And that damned Jean Paul! Those two are enough to tax a dead man’s soul! I swear before God, woman, did I remain one more instant in that bloody cabin with those two bickering idiots for company, I would like to have shot them both again!”

He turned to her, searching the darkness as though to be certain he was not talking to himself, for Jessie had yet to give him indication she was awake. She knew the moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw her, for his scowl immediately disappeared.

His features softened, illuminated by the light from the window, and the strange tenderness evident in his gaze gave lie to the brutality of his words.

“Say one word against my presence, and you shall find yourself overboard in a twinkling!” Having said that, he lapsed into a strained silence as he proceeded to tug off his boots. They fell to the floor, each with a thud. Without preamble, he began removing his breeches, then deciding against it, left them on, but unclasped. His shirt, which was already gaping, he removed quickly. Jessie thanked God for the shadows that concealed—to hide not him, but the flush that even now was burning through her body.

And then he asked, more softly this time, as he wadded his shirt and hurled it to the floor, “Why in bloody blue blazes wasn’t the door bolted, Jessie?”

Jessie tried, but couldn’t find her voice to speak.

“You were perhaps expecting someone?” He stood there, awaiting her reply, and when it was not forthcoming he demanded, “Scoot over.”

Apparently Jessie didn’t move quickly enough for him, for he very nearly lay upon her as he plopped himself down next to her upon the bed. She did scoot away then—at once—to the far, far side of the bed.

Christian gave her a cynical little laugh. “Can’t bear to touch me, love? Damn, but you are a deceiving little prude. Pardonnez-moi,” he said scornfully, “but I’ll bloody well not sleep on the floor for you, so you might as well bear my presence as best you can and simply go to sleep.”

With that, he promptly snatched the pillow from under her head. Jessie’s cheek hit the bed with a soft thud as he then proceeded to pound the pillow with his clenched fist, as though to remove all trace of her presence from it. She didn’t bother protesting. It wouldn’t have done any good. The man was an insensitive oaf!

“Bon nuit,” he whispered “Pleasant dreams, mon amour!”

Tears filled her eyes, and she cursed herself, for it seemed with him, she was always weeping over something. She tried to stifle her sobs, but they seemed to find a way of their own, forcing themselves through her throat in pitiful little whimpers.

Christian heard her and fury gripped him.

“Christ! What have you to weep over now, woman!”

With a snarl of disgust, he reached out for her, snatching her into his arms, hating his body’s reaction to her even as he did so. She screeched and tried desperately to move away, but he was too strong. Her back to him, he wrapped his arms about her, holding her close, imprisoning her within them. And no sooner was she within his embrace than he felt himself pulse and swell against her luscious little bottom. He closed his eyes, grimacing, trying to ignore the reality of her within his arms... after so long... trying to ignore his raging desire for her.

It had been so bloody long.

He held her tighter, closer, but her wails only increased, and so did his need, for she was squirming without mercy against him. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs, commanding restraint of himself, but her hair smelled so very sweet... like lilacs and fresh sea air combined; the two shouldn’t have mingled so exquisitely, but they did.

Unable to stop himself, he pressed his lips to the back of her head. He was quickly losing himself, losing his will. He moved to her neck, feeling the strands of her silky hair brush between his heated lips, and he took a deep breath, never releasing it, for he could have sworn she trembled within his arms. It took very little, just that simple gesture to remind him of the passion she’d once shown him. Her sobs ceased at once and she froze, bringing a measure of sanity to his fogged senses.

Perhaps she feared him instead?

He exhaled finally and breathed in deeply the scent of her. Christ, she smelled so devilishly good. He’d consumed an entire bottle of whiskey tonight, straight from the flask like a mindless drunkard, before coming to her in hopes that he would be numbed to her presence beside him. What was it about her that made him buckle to such weaknesses? Maxwell Haukinge had been a bloody sot—his brother Philip as well—and he loathed them for their condescending arrogance and their flaws, yet here he was, no better than they, in truth.

His breathing quickened and he groaned, holding her closer as he tried to regain his reason. She was no good for him, he argued. He was no good for her. But it was no use, the noble gentleman had fled, probably cowering in some dark corner, terrified of the beast within his soul.

It was about time, he thought grimly.

It felt damned good to have himself back.

His hands unlocked and roamed her body at will, her breasts, her belly, her thighs, and then slid between them, committing the feel of her to his memory.

He wouldn’t be denied, not this time, he swore... not this time...

Christian turned her so that she faced him in the darkness. His hand went to her face and he caressed her lips, her soft cheek, moving down to her chin, slowly, taking his leisure. She let him. Holding her delicate chin between his thumb and forefinger, he stroked it with his thumb as he lifted her shadowed face for his kiss.

She didn’t resist him, and victory, sweet and potent, swept through his veins in that instant—along with it, a hunger more compelling than the physical, a yearning so deep and fierce that his mind went blank of all thought save for that of the woman in his arms. When his lips met hers at last, he found them trembling sweetly for him, and he couldn’t help himself, his fevered tongue thrust within, tasting and taking with a delirium he’d never experienced before.

In that moment, as their tongues met and sparred, he found the sweetest taste of paradise, discovered a glimpse of heaven and beyond... and knew instinctively it was a place he would never see... save through her.

God, he wanted her so much... so bloody much...

And this time, he was not going to stop.

God Himself couldn’t keep him this time.

He’d waited far too long already—honor be damned! Conscience be damned! If he should burn in hell the rest of eternity for this night, then it was a penance he would eagerly pay.

And curse her, for she responded much too wantonly to his every thrust, his every touch, moaning and undulating for him so wildly, in such sweet abandon. Aye... she was fiery heat in his arms, and he reveled in the reality that she desired him, as well.

Christian felt her body shudder at his touch, heard the passionate little whimpers she made, and saw himself suddenly tearing the bodice of her gown in his fierce need to taste her, to suckle the sweet buds, not recognizing himself or his actions anymore.

At the instant, he felt as savage and ruthless as he was reputed to be.

Jessie whimpered, though not from pain or fear, but from a longing so great, she could scarcely comprehend it, much less deny it. Her sanity was swept away, and she could only feel—couldn’t think, only feel...

“Christian… please...” She wanted to plead with him never to stop, but her voice failed her, and she closed her eyes to savor his touch instead. “Please...”

“Nay,” he growled, “I cannot—God curse me, but I cannot! I want to see you, Jessamine... all of you... kiss you everywhere... ah, Christ,” he hissed, leaving her lips and touching his burning mouth to her throat. “I’ve waited so long, Jess...”

Arching for his lips, Jessie moaned. It felt so blessed good to be kissed and loved by him... but then, he didn’t love her, she had to remind herself. And still... if she would be condemned for this weakness all the rest of her lifetime, then let it be so, for she could not deny him—nay, she could not deny herself! When his warm lips closed over and suckled at her breast, she thought she would die from the intense pleasure it gave her. “Please...”

“Please what?” His breath was hot against her flesh as he moved lower still, tasting her as he ripped the gown further from her body, reducing it to little more than tattered rags... like her will.

“This, Jessie?” he asked softly, touching his lips to her body in that most private place.

“Yes,” she hissed, undulating and twisting with the sheer pleasure of it. “Yes...” She moaned, her eyes closing tightly as she cherished his loving. She wanted to remember forever every detail of this night, every sensation he roused within her. The passion in his hands; the way he touched her as though he adored her. “Yes,” she murmured, her body responding with tiny little shudders.

“Jessamine,” he whispered hoarsely, sliding up, bending low over her and burying his face within her hair. “I’m not going to stop this time...”

His whispery breath was velvety soft and blazing hot against her ear.

Christian lifted himself above her, waiting for her to reopen her eyes before continuing, wanting to know that she’d understood him clearly, wanting her to understand that it was to him she gave herself... not Ben.

She lifted her dark lashes at last, relief and anguish both evident there in the brilliant green of her eyes. They seemed to glow in the darkness, beckon him on...

She watched without moving as he tugged down his breeches, shrugging them off.

Her gaze met his and his lips turned ever so softly as her eyes lowered to that very erect male part of him. Her gaze flew once again to his.

He made some sound, part chuckle, part groan, at her reaction, for through the years Christian had lain with many women, all with diverse personalities, each with varying degrees of experience, but never had he been privy to such an expression as that Jessie gave him now. It was obvious to him that she’d never seen a man unclad before, and that knowledge gave him pleasure like no mating ever could have.

“Wh-What are you d-doing?”

“Making love to you,” he answered huskily, leaving no doubt as to his intent, and then his hands were moving across her once more with an urgency he could no longer restrain. Not gently at all, he jerked the last threads of her gown from her body, revealing her completely to his scrutiny.

“My God...” He swallowed with difficulty. “You are... more than I’d imagined...”

Jessie’s heart squeezed at his words.

Suddenly she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel... His hands moved over her, searing her flesh, and then he cupped her breasts with his warm palms, kneading them gently beneath his expert fingers, as he bent to kiss her once more, his tongue delving deeply, possessively.

In the next instant his mouth left her lips to replace his hands at her breast, suckling her like a babe at his mother’s bosom, and Jessie discovered some heretofore unknown connection between that part of her and the other.

And then he knelt above her once more.

Heat flared in the innermost reaches of her body as she felt his hand slide like molten fire between her legs. She moaned as one large finger thrust within her body, exploring the depths of her, and in response her legs lifted of their own accord. His body shuddered violently in answer to her instinctive invitation. Seeming to have found what he sought, he tensed over her, staring at her through the darkness as though he were overwhelmed by his discovery. Jessie could not tell his expression for the shadows, but his hand arrested there in the very depths of her. Then, all at once, she felt his finger stroking deep within her as his body quivered once more.

In an instant, he withdrew, covering her, his weight pressing her into the bed, and all the while he continued to adore her flesh, with his hands and his lips and his tongue. He was a man driven, it seemed. His arms slid behind her knees, and then it seemed he was parting her, separating her legs, lifting her. She obliged, wrapping her legs about his hips.

And then suddenly she felt it, the delicious pressure as he eased that part of himself within her, impaling her. Moaning, Jessie instinctively lifted against him, accepting him even as her body refused him entrance.

Cursing, Christian withdrew just a little, but the incredible tightness was his undoing. It seemed he’d waited for this moment a bloody lifetime.

A lifetime too long.

Crying out hoarsely, he lost control, surging down against her, tearing her maiden’s flesh in one fell swoop.

The fierceness of their joining drowned Jessie’s pleasure with such unbelievable pain that she instinctively recoiled with the shock of it. “Christian!’’ she cried as he began to thrust wildly. “Christian! Oh God!” But he would not stop. His movements were swift and hard and his handsome face contorted as though in pain.

Suddenly Jessie felt the heat again, and understood completely this deep joining of the flesh, for he’d somehow touched her all the way to her womb... and it seemed to ease the bittersweet ache so deep within her.

He filled her completely, her body, her heart, her soul.

His hands moved to her buttocks, lifting her slightly, as though to raise her more evenly for his thrusts, holding her immobile as he pumped savagely, furiously, within. Jessie tried to give back full measure, but he was too strong and too quick, and his thrusts too unbearably sweet, and then he stopped, crying out savagely, casting his head back to reveal the taut cords of his neck. He held her so tightly that she thought he would crush her as his body shook, violent spasms wracking his entire form. After an eternity, he fell listlessly atop her, though he supported the majority of his weight upon his arms. His cheek was to her bosom, his breath ragged and spent.

She wanted to demand that he continue, for she’d been on the brink of something wonderful, something exquisite, but the muscles of his jaw tautened against her breast, and he whispered fiercely, gravely, “Pardonnez-moi... pardonnez-moi... forgive me, Jessie.”

And then the warmth and the need were suddenly gone, replaced by an anguish and disappointment so great that Jessie could scarcely bear it. Her heart hammering without mercy, and anger surging through her veins, she shoved him from atop her. He went willingly enough, giving a low, tormented growl as he turned from her to face the door.

Frustrated, and too furious to care that he was angry once again, Jessie turned her back to him, facing the blasphemous window. As she stared out at the inky black sky and pale moon above the oak tree, ignoring the figures beneath, she felt more bereft than ever.

Chapter Twenty Two

The rap upon the door awoke her at once—or so Jessie thought, for when she opened her eyes she saw through the shadows that Christian had already readied it and was turning the knob. She wondered then if he’d slept at all.

Frantically she searched out the discarded sheet to cover her nakedness. Scarcely had she found it and shielded herself when the door opened. The light from a single lantern spilled into the cabin. It was McCarney. A frisson passed down Jessie’s spine as the man spoke.

“Hawk, ye asked me to tell ye when we’ve arrived at the mouth o’ the Ashley. We’ve come in as silently as the mist, as ye said we should—none ha’e seen us, I’m certain.”

Christian nodded. “Lower the boat... we’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Aye, sir, will do.”

When McCarney would have peered into the cabin, Christian slammed the door in his face. Turning to the bed, he saw that Jessie was sitting, facing him, the sheets pressed protectively to her bosom. His head pounded fiercely—his conscience worse. Unable to face her, he turned from her, seeking out his breeches in the darkness, not bothering to light a lantern.

The less light, the better, for they were not so far from land that they might not be discovered yet.

“Get up and get dressed.”

“I don’t understand... It is the middle of the night,” she protested.

“Just do it,” he directed. “Or I shall do it for you.”

She moved hesitantly from the bed, drawing the coverlet away, and came away with a torn fragment of her gown within her hand. Her face contorted, and his heart twisted. “Why must we go about in the dead of the night, when only thieves and rogues prowl about? I cannot bear to be part of such depravity!”

Christian had no need of light to know that she was weeping now. He could hear the sorrow plainly in her voice, and he had the sudden urge to go to her, but then she spoke again and her anger kept him at bay.

“How can you do treason against the Crown, Christian? And my cousin—my God! I cannot fathom what would make Ben follow—”

“The likes of me?” The implication was clear. “Can you not?” Hearing only her grief for Ben’s sake, he taunted, “Poor, poor Ben. And so you believe I’ve corrupted him?”

Jessie turned away, unable to face him, but it was an unnecessary gesture, for the room was too dark to see more than shadows. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Well then, allow me to enlighten you, mon amour.”

Fastening his breeches, he came closer, until he could see her face more clearly—pallid in the light of the moon. “Like me, Ben is appalled by the lack of justice in The Colonies. But I cannot begin—nor have I the time or inclination—to give you all the arguments for what I do. I make no apologies for what I am, Jessamine.”

And yet, giving lie to his words, he sat beside her upon the bed. Prying the tattered gown she held from her hand, he stroked it meditatively between his own fingers, looking down upon it with genuine regret. “I’m sorry, Jessie... this should never have happened between us.”

He peered up at her then, dropping the tatter of her clothing in favor of a strand of her hair, rubbing it wistfully between his fingertips. Her eyes were such a brilliant green, luminous with unshed tears. For a long instant their gazes held, and he felt himself transported in time, to a sweeter moment he’d found beneath an old elm tree. He’d loved her even then, he realized, for she’d made him yearn to be that man she saw in him. Only that man didn’t exist. He almost looked away then, so much sorrow and regret did he feel... and still...

Ah, but Christ... even now, he felt the need to explain himself to her when never before had he even thought to doubt his motives, or himself. He tried to conceive of a way to explain... some way to make her comprehend.

Recalling a certain conversation they’d had once, so very long ago, he said, “Do you remember, Jessie... once, some time ago, we discussed at length Adelard of Bath’s questions on nature?”

She nodded and Christian lifted her chin gently with a finger, searching her eyes through the shadows. “What did he speak of? Being guided by reason? Of authority as a halter?” As he spoke, he never lifted his gaze from her shadowed face. “‘For what else should authority be called but a halter?’“ he recounted, his tone soft but impassioned as he spoke. She closed her eyes, refusing to see him, but he continued nonetheless, “‘Indeed, just as brute beasts are led by any kind of halter, and know neither where nor how they are led, and only follow the rope by which they are held, so the authority of your writers leads into danger not a few who have been seized and bound by animal credulity. For they do not know that reason has been given to each person, so that with it as the first judge he may distinguish between the true and the false. And whosoever does not know or neglects reason,’” he finished, “‘should deservedly be considered blind.’ Is that not what he wrote, Jess?”

A tear slipped through her lashes, silent and wretched, and it tugged at his heart.

She opened her eyes to him then.

“Well, I am not blind!” he told her with feeling, gripping her jaw a little harder to gain her full attention, though not hard enough to hurt her. “Nor am I an animal to be led blindly by a halter to my grave! I am a man, Jessie, and only a man, but with a heart and mind that tell me things are not as they should be. I merely do my part to change what I cannot abide—and I am not alone! Our number is great. Your cousin is only one of many, so do not fault him—nor myself—if you would, until you know and understand our grievances.”

She gripped his wrist firmly. “Then tell me,” she pleaded. “Explain them to me... Make me understand, because I do not!”

He let his hand drop from her face, but still she did not release his wrist. “I’ve not the time just now, but aye, I shall... and soon... just not now.”

Freeing himself from her grasp, Christian rose to stand before her. Jessie averted her gaze, staring at her hands. She clasped and unclasped them, holding them fast in her lap.

Christian shook his head, his jaw working. He couldn’t be weak, knew he couldn’t be weak, but he was. “Dress yourself. We are awaited and the hour grows late. Morning comes swiftly, and I would see you safe at Shadow Moss before the first light.”

She turned her face upward in question, her brows furrowing softly. “Shadow Moss?” She shook her head, uncomprehending.

“My home, Jessamine; ’tis where you’ll stay until such time as Ben heals... and then you’ll return to your uncle.”

“Oh.” Her gaze skidded away.

He studied the shadowed contours of her face a long moment, but there was no emotion discernible there, and he turned from her finally, going to the door, opening it. His hand on the knob, his back to her, he told her, “I shall await you above deck.”

Only silence answered him, but he knew she would come, and he left, closing the door softly behind him.

The double-storied plantation house was clearly visible from the Ashley. Its whitewashed brick facade reflected the moonlight, making it glow—a silent beacon to those who would navigate the foggy river. Enormous white columns buttressed the stately portico. It was a magnificent house, Jessie admitted to herself as she stood before the massive oak front door, stunningly so, but it seemed oddly unbalanced. In the darkness she couldn’t quite discern why.

No sooner had Christian opened the front door when he again seized hold of her arm, guiding her within. She would have protested save that she was rendered speechless upon entering the house. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight within. Certainly not the perfectly constructed classical architecture of its exterior.

The entrance hall was in a lamentable state at best. At least five hastily constructed scaffolds occupied the room. The ceilings and floors completely lacked decorative molding, and the walls were unsightly, bare of everything save for the gas lit lanterns that now gave the room light. There was not a single stick of furniture within the room.

Jessie could scarcely hide her stupefaction. She peered up at Christian with furrowed brows and saw that he was watching her intently, as though he anticipated her reaction and was bracing himself for the worst.

“It is under construction,” Ben told her when he saw the look that passed between them.

She lifted a brow. “So I’ve gathered.” She cast Ben an amused glance. Did he think she could not tell? Splotches of white paint garnished the wall that faced them, and wood pieces of all sizes and shapes littered the bare wood floor. This, she thought, was likely where Christian had procured the oak for Ben to fashion his walking cane from, and it struck her then that he should have been so attentive to such a small detail, and then again, one so grand. She swallowed, secretly moved that he should be so thoughtful of Ben. And she couldn’t help but recall the cheval glass he’d brought to her aboard the Mistral; she never had thanked him, nor had he ever mentioned it.

Her gaze returned to Ben, for it seemed to her he did, indeed, walk with a slight limp, though his leg was much improved. She watched her cousin hobble before them, trying to clear away the clutter from their path, and her heart felt burdened for him.

Christian left her to aid Ben, and no one spoke another word as they attempted to wade through the chaos of his home. Again to her surprise, Jessie was led up the spiral staircase to a fully furnished chamber decorated in much the same manner as the cabin she’d occupied upon the Mistral. Here, however, there were no stained-glass windows. Instead, there were six full-length panes, one set of them being a double door that led to what she assumed was a balcony.

She went to it, unlocking it and opening the doors. Leaving the lantern behind, upon a table, she stepped out into the black night, taking a deep, calming breath, for it had not escaped her just where Christian had brought her.

For a long moment she merely stood, staring into the darkness, unsure of what to say or feel. He came up behind her, his footfalls soft and almost inaudible; she sensed more than heard him.

“I take it this is the master’s chamber?” she said after a moment.

“It is.”

“And where am I to sleep?” she dared to ask, her tone dauntless, though she wasn’t quite brave enough to look at him as yet.

“Here, of course,” he said firmly. “As was the case upon the ship, there is no other place but here. As Ben said, the house is still under construction—only the kitchens are complete as yet, the dining room, my office, and the entrance hall. Upstairs, there is this room, and one other, and Jean Paul and Ben will utilize the other. You shall sleep here.”

“And where will you sleep?” She braced herself for his answer. “Here?” she persisted, turning to face him. She shook her head. “If so, Christian, I’ll not stay with you! In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve already ruined my life once—I’ll not let you do so again!”

Christian sighed regretfully. “It’s too late for that, don’t you think?”

Her vision blurred at his insinuation. “You are heartless!” she choked out, refusing to cry.

“The truth is, Jessie, that you have no choice.” He sighed deeply, shaking his head. “You cannot leave Shadow Moss, as you well know. Everyone believes you’ve sailed to England with Ben. If you go back now, you’ll raise suspicions—not to mention the fact that your reputation would surely be in tatters then. After all, there were no other women aboard the Mistral.”

“Yes!” she hissed, her lips trembling in her fury. “Though what difference does it make if I go now, or wait until Ben heals? Either way my reputation will be ruined—and ’tis all your fault!” Her face twisted with grief. “Why couldn’t you have simply let me be? Why? You didn’t need me.”

Christian averted his gaze, his jaw working. “It seemed the thing to do at the time. I thought Ben and Jean Paul were injured more seriously than they were.” He met her eyes once more, his own sparkling with some emotion Jessie couldn’t quite decipher. He shuttered it quickly, masking it with sarcasm. “Aren’t you pleased I was wrong?”

Jessie shook her head, unable to speak, and he cast his head backward staring into the sky, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said without opening his eyes. The rigid planes of his face were so taut, he seemed carved of stone. “I wish...” He shuddered and said slowly, “I wish I’d left you alone, but I did not. What we’ve done cannot be undone, much as I wish it.” His eyes flew open, piercing her with their blue intensity. “And now... much as I loathe to... I must insist you stay.”

“And will you build a gaol for me?”

His tone was unyielding. “Nay, Jessamine, but you will, indeed, remain here. The only way back to Charlestown is by boat—my boat,” he pointed out coldly, “and everyone already knows you are to stay as my guest, willing or nay. You might make the best of it. After last eve,” he added cruelly, “what have you left to lose?”

Jessie gasped in shock and outrage. Her palm cracked furiously against his shadowed jaw. “How dare you say such a thing to me?”

He caught her wrist as she retreated. His jaw taut, he clenched his teeth, rubbing his face with his free hand. His eyes flashed with anger. “Because,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “’tis the bloody damned truth!”

Jessie tried again to slap him with her free hand, but he caught that wrist too, encircling it with fingers of steel. “Once,” he allowed, “but never again, mon amour.” His whisper was frightening in its violent intensity. Had he shouted, Jessie doubted his words would have been more ominous. “Never think to strike me again.”

Their gazes clashed, warring—Jessie refused to cow before him this time—and then he suddenly released her, pivoted about on his boot heels, and left her upon the balcony.

Chapter Twenty Three

Only when she heard the door slam behind him did Jessie re-enter the room.

He’d left the lantern beside the bed. By the light of it, she removed her cloak and slippers. She was so weary by the time she put out the lamp and climbed into the bed that her lids seemed heavy as lead.

She’d gotten so little sleep during the night, for it seemed the moment she’d managed to close her eyes, they’d been awakened again by McCarney’s knock. She didn’t like the man—could scarcely bear his presence. There was something about him... something she couldn’t quite place—aside from the fact that he was violent when he had no cause to be. Before she could contemplate it further, she drifted to sleep.

When she awoke hours later, she was alone, sunshine filtering through the windows; dust motes danced in their brilliance. She turned to peer at the far side of the bed, and reached out to touch the cold sheets. As far as she could tell, he’d not slept there. Nor had he come to her. And then she spied her trunks against the far wall. Had he brought them? Or had he sent them, instead, unable to bear the sight of her?

God’s truth, she didn’t want to think about him. Rising at once, she washed her face in the small basin of water that had been supplied for her, then dressed, spying the green silk gown that was once again spread out over a chair. So... he’d come after all.

And then had left her alone.

As she’d asked him to.

It was evident he favored that particular gown, but Jessie couldn’t quite bring herself to wear it for him. Instead, she chose a soft lavender-dyed calico with white lace peeking out at the bodice. Without her petticoats, this particular gown was far too large, but it couldn’t be helped. It didn’t matter; what need for such propriety now? She brought her hair away from her face, securing it low upon her nape with a strip of lavender ribbon. And then, feeling an overwhelming craving for fresh air, she went in search of it.

In the broad light of day, it was perfectly discernible why the house seemed imbalanced, for the right wing, for some odd reason, was still under construction. The brick walls were complete, but in place of the roof, only the framework stood, like a wooden skeleton against the greenery behind and above it.

The extensive lawn boasted only overgrown weeds and felled trees, and then closer to the riverbank, golden-tipped marsh grass swayed with the breeze. The dodder grass seemed to grow as far as the eye could see. Lord, she missed England suddenly. Nay, not her brother or his wife, for they had made her life intolerable before banishing her to this godforsaken place, but she missed the comfort to be found in her family’s ancestral home, the sprawling, manicured gardens in which she so often took refuge. There was no order to this place, no order at all, and it made her feel strangely out of sorts.

Finally, finding repose amid a small cluster of trees, upon a half-buried, half-rotten log near the marsh’s edge, she sat and, for the first time since her banishment, allowed herself to grieve for all that was lost in her life. She had lost everything, and it was all his fault—Christian, or Hawk, or whatever the devil his name was! This instant she loathed him, despised him for every shred of her lost dignity. He’d taken her greatest possession without a single word of love, or even comfort. Her eyes blurred with tears she refused to shed. How could she have allowed it?

A flock of seagulls swooped silently toward the water in the distance, all of them flying out of formation. She watched them, curiously mesmerized by their graceful, airy dance. One sailed just above the surface of the water, so close that it seemed its flapping wings were skimming the water’s edge, and yet never did it so much as immerse a talon into the river. One bird led the flock above the trees, and the three behind made the ascent as though it were a dance they’d choreographed and rehearsed. In their wake, a small fish vaulted into the air. So quickly did it do so that by the time she turned in its direction, all that was left to show of its hasty retreat was a small circle of ripples that filtered its way past the waterlogged marsh grass and ultimately faded into nothingness.

For a long while, Jessie sat in that nothingness, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. When suddenly she heard Christian’s voice calling her, so close, she started, and nearly panicked. God’s truth, but she had no wish to see the lying cur just now! Searching about desperately, she spotted the low limb upon an enormous oak behind her, and made her way quickly toward it. The trunk itself must have measured at least twenty feet in circumference, and massive, weepy limbs stretched groundward, grazing the leafy ground as though their groaning weight were somehow too much for the poor oak to bear. Its majestic stature reminded her of a protective old grandfather, arms outstretched and bending earthward to pluck even the tiniest of insects from the perils of the forest floor. Just now, it was she in need of shielding.

Starting at the lowest point, shoving the hem of her gown between her teeth, she scrambled upward upon the thick limb until she was perched safely out of sight. She was probably behaving foolishly, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to face Christian this moment. Sheltered here, she didn’t have to worry about it. Nope, she thought somewhat flippantly, and almost giggled at the absurdity of the situation. She would simply wait until he was gone and then hurry to the house; surely there was someplace in his accursed mausoleum where she could find sanctuary?

It was only another moment before Christian found his way to the decaying old log she’d been sitting upon only an instant before. As though by instinct, he stopped there, gazing out over the expanse of river, shading his eyes with a hand. Then, as though sensing her presence, he turned, and Jessie held her breath as he scanned the area. Cursing him under her breath, she watched his movements.

Good Lord, but even now he was much too handsome for her peace of mind. His hair caught the glow of afternoon sun, making it seem lighter than it actually was. He stood there a long instant and his profile mesmerized her, with his thick, lightly whiskered jaw, and those deep-set blue eyes that could liquefy her limbs with scarcely a glance.

“Jessie!”

She bit into her lip, refusing to answer.

“Jessamine!”

Jessie remained perfectly still, unwilling to be discovered now in such an absurd place... unwilling to be caught spying, for spying, she was, whether she liked to admit it or nay. She sat there without moving, watching him search the area as he shouted her name at the top of his lungs, and the inanity of the situation struck her all at once. Good Lord, what was she worried about? Christian would never think to search a tree for her, and here she was, hanging like a chimpanzee directly above his head!

“Damn it!” he muttered to himself, coming closer. “Where the devil has she gone?”

He never even bothered to look up, and when he walked to the lower end of the very limb she was perched upon and then sat, arms crossed and deep in thought, she was suddenly giddy with the hilarity of it all. They were sitting upon the very same tree limb, yet he could have remained there an eternity and never thought to search up here for her. She couldn’t help it. For the first time in days, she felt like laughing hysterically. Lord, what if she started to cackle and fell out? Never could she bear that! Suddenly a vision of him as he’d looked when Mrs. Brown had toppled him from the fence assailed her. She tried desperately not to giggle, but her laughter burst forth.

As though unsure his ears had heard correctly, Christian slowly turned his head up, and the surprised look upon his face made Jessie giggle all the harder.

“What the devil are you doing up there?”

She couldn’t help herself, she started to laugh without restraint. She held on tightly to a small tree limb for support and resisted the urge to clutch her aching sides as she shrieked with laughter.

“Get down here!”

Overcome with glee, Jessie shook her head, refusing him, even as another bout of laughter overcame her.

“Whatever possessed you to climb up there?” His brows cocked. “Come down from there, Jess, before you fall.”

Biting her lip to keep from shrieking once more, Jessie shook her head again. “Nay,” she refused, choking on her giggles.

“For Christ’s sake, if you won’t come down,” he advised her, “I shall be forced to come up after you.” Even as he issued the warning, he was making his way up the oak branch. Yet when he reached the spot where she sat, he merely hauled himself onto the limb beside her, instead of dragging her down as she’d expected him to do.

“You had everyone worried.”

She sobered at that.

“I didn’t mean to,” she admitted, still smiling, though her eyes remained melancholy. “I simply needed to be alone.”

“You couldn’t do that safely within?”

Jessie choked on her reply. “Safe... within?”

He misunderstood her.

“I’m sorry for the disorder.”

That wasn’t what she’d been referring to, but she asked, “How can you live like that?”

“Actually, I haven’t been.” He yielded a lazy grin that sobered her completely. That smile had been her downfall once upon a time. But not this time, she swore—not if she could help it. She would not allow herself to melt like a giddy schoolgirl falling under his devil’s spell.

“It was my intent to stay in Charlestown during the construction,” he explained, reaching out and plucking a leaf. He stared at her. “Circumstances, of course, have dictated otherwise.”

She nodded knowingly. “If you’ve been inconvenienced,” she informed him at once, “’tis your own fault.”

Christian’s jaw tautened, but he said nothing in response to her accusation.

The silence between them grew awkward, but he found himself unwilling to abandon their unlikely refuge so soon. Nor could he end this bittersweet diversion as yet.

There were traces of tears in her eyes and upon her cheeks, but he attributed them to her laughter, and ignored the flash of guilt that stabbed at him.

Nor could he deny the fear that had gripped him when he’d found her gone. “Jessie,” he began, his words carefully weighed so as not to frighten her. “Do me the dubious favor of not leaving the house again—not without apprising someone of your whereabouts, whether it be Jean Paul... or even Ben,” he suggested reluctantly, raking his thumbnail over the spine of a leaf. He gazed at her with narrowed eyes as though to see into her thoughts, then sighed heavily. “So I’ll know... where to find you, if... if I need you.”

She averted her gaze. “What if I’ve no wish to be found?”

“Just give me your word,” he demanded, overlooking her flippant response. He tossed the leaf before him. “We’ve had reason to be concerned over gators here,” he lied, looking away. “ ‘Tis for your own well-being I ask this of you.” He turned again to face her. “’Tis true,” he insisted, seeing her wide-eyed expression. “We’ve a few animals missing with no sign of a carcass to be found. I should loathe that fate to be yours.”

A shiver passed down Jessie’s spine, but whether it was over his grisly disclosure, or the way he was gazing at her so solicitously, she could not discern. “And what makes you think ’tis a gator?”

His eyes held hers, unblinking. “For one... ’tis their way to haul their prey back to their nest and dispose of it there, thus no carcass would be found.”

Jessie made a disgusted face. “Gruesome!” she declared, tearing her gaze away. “They are the vilest of creatures.”

He smiled ruefully. “I rather thought you believed I was the vilest of creatures?”

“Yes, well... it seems you have a rival, after all, my lord.” She cocked a brow at him, unable to reassure him, though she was tempted. “Tell me,” she said on a sigh, glancing away, then back, somehow more composed, “are they always so vicious?”

He shook his head, his eyes alight with some unnamed emotion.

Christian’s heart began to pound, for it had not escaped him that she’d managed to call him “my lord.”

“Of usual,” he said, clearing his throat, “they keep very much to themselves.”

“Really? Why not now?”

“Perhaps because their hunting ground has been overrun—or because there are too many, possibly. I dunno. Of usual, they are rather docile creatures.” He smiled, thoroughly amused over the way her brow rose at his disclosure.

“’Tis true,” he asserted, his smile deepening when she cocked her head as though considering. “In fact, I once stood so close to a gator as to be nearly standing upon its snout.” He chuckled softly at the memory, shaking his head in wonder. “It did nothing... nothing at all. In fact, the lazy beast did not so much as stir from the spot where it lay sunning. However,” he continued on a dire note, “those to be found here upon the Ashley seem more vicious than those found inland. They seem to prefer fresh water, and ’tis my guess that if they are found in these salt rivers, such as the Ashley or the Cooper, it is because they are hungry and foraging.”

Shivering, she told him, “I believe I’ve heard quite enough, my lord. I shall suffer nightmares as it is.” She turned her gaze away, seeming suddenly bored by his presence.

“Perhaps ’tis not the most pleasant subject, but it is for that very reason you should not wander about unescorted.”

He couldn’t bear it if anything were to happen to her.

Jessie turned to frown at him. “If it is such an awful place, then why did you choose to come here, my lord? I thought you were so enamored of Rose Park.”

Gazing into her eyes, he again marveled that they never lost their power to captivate him, to reach into his soul. He could never admit to her how he’d felt that day after leaving her at Westmoor—that he’d felt nothing but revulsion for anything that reminded him of her. And Rose Park reminded him of her more than he would have thought possible. He’d envisioned fathering their children there... in the bedchamber he would have eagerly shared with her. He could almost picture her there now, as he’d so often imagined her... lying thoroughly loved within his bed—their bed—her dark curls tousled and softly framing her face... a child’s voice calling to them from the hall... little feet scurrying to greet them... and Jessie... scrambling to repair herself in order to face their... son? daughter?

His tone carefully devoid of emotion, Christian told her, “I’d as soon not discuss Rose Park. Enough to say I sold the estate months ago. Shadow Moss is my home now.”

Could she love him?

Aye, she had given herself to him last night, but lust was one thing and love another entirely.

When Christian looked at her once more, his expression was solemn, his eyes questioning, and Jessie longed to ask him what he was thinking. But she had gone that route once before, and that had been her first mistake. He’d made her care so very much, and then he’d ripped her heart out from her breast. She didn’t want to know anything more about him. Didn’t want to care.

They were probably all lies anyhow.

She found herself staring at his lips, remembering how they’d felt upon her body, and her heart lurched.

“Jessamine,” he whispered. “If you don’t stop gazing at my mouth just so... as though you would devour my lips... I might have to kiss you senseless, love.”

Startled by his words, Jessie dragged her gaze from his mouth to his laughing eyes, and her face flushed crimson. “I—I wasn’t staring at your lips!”

Was it so obvious she yearned for his kisses?

Could he read in her eyes that she wanted him to touch her again? to make her feel alive once more?

Her head reeled at the possibility, and she felt a tiny thrill at the memory of his lovemaking, bitter as it might have been.

His answering grin infuriated her. “I see... and you weren’t wishing that I might lean forward... like this,” he asked. His hand slid behind her neck, though instead of drawing her toward him, he only supported her as he came the distance to her. She didn’t resist him, couldn’t, so dazed was she by his boldness and his nearness. “And you weren’t wishing that I would touch them ever so softly to yours...” His lips brushed hotly against her own. Jessie closed her eyes, helpless to answer. “Like this?”

Jessie was dizzy with wanting him, but she opened her mouth to deny it still. Her negation came out a wistful sigh that made him groan in response. Her body became suddenly liquid, her limbs lethargic and heavy. She felt as though she would die from the sheer pleasure he was offering her. Her belly fluttered nervously as his breath mingled with hers and she caught the scent of sweet brandy.

Their lips separated briefly, and then his mouth descended upon hers once more, tentatively at first, then moving urgently as he suckled her lower lip before raining more kisses upon her delicate chin, moving down ever so slowly to the heated flesh of her throat.

Lord, Jessie thought, his kiss was searing her clear unto her soul!

Had she no pride?

Had she no will?

“Jessie...” He groaned. “You taste so very sweet, my love.” His words felt like delightful caresses to her ears, sending shivers of anticipation down her spine. Desire swept through her, making every inch of her body sensitive to his nearness. Heaven help her, but if the truth be known, she hoped he would never stop. Even against her will, she had dreamed of this, ached for this, wished for it—even at the high cost of her dignity.

God save her, he’d given her the sweetest taste of heaven, and it was not such an easy thing to forget.

Cupping her face within his hands, he turned her cheek, kissing it hungrily as he nibbled her face and whispered softly against her throat, “Come back to the house with me, Jess... Let me love you as I yearn to.” A shiver coursed through her.

It was a long moment before her mind registered his words. But when finally it did, she felt much as though she’d been slapped and then called a whore. He did not love her, she knew that well enough. Did he think she would lie with any man who asked it of her any time it was asked of her? Surely he did, if he thought for one moment that she would allow him to touch her again after all that had passed between them!

Anger filled her breast, and she reared back and shoved him, hard. Somehow, he managed to remain rooted to the tree limb, and it made her all the angrier. It would have served him well to break his neck, or leg—better yet, his pride. Curse the man! “You mean to ask me if I would lie with you, do you not? Unless you mean love, then do not speak of it, my lord! Say what you mean instead!”

As though he were privy to her thoughts and was now taunting her, Christian suddenly grinned, a slow, lazy grin.

Eyeing him wrathfully, Jessie scooted around him and down the stout limb, and in her haste nearly tumbled to the ground. When she was far enough away that he was no longer a threat, she turned and screamed, “I do not like you Hawk!” But his expression remained smug and it reignited her temper. “In fact, I loathe you!” she shouted and wished fervently that she were near enough to scratch his accursed eyes out. Then she turned and marched away.

Smiling still, Christian never moved from his perch within the ancient tree, only watched, chuckling softly. “I’ll bet you do,” he replied glibly, rubbing his jaw as he watched the saucy sway of her hips.

His curiosity was more than appeased.

Chapter Twenty Four

If it was the last thing Jessie did, she was going to find her way back to Charlestown!

She was not—absolutely not—about to remain in this crude hollow even one more instant! In the short time she’d been out of the room, someone had managed to unpack her trunks.

Angrily she now searched the bureaus for her personal items, and when she found them tucked neatly away into Christian’s wardrobe, she snatched them out at once, stomping across the room and shoving them wrathfully back into the trunk in which they belonged. She would not remain near that man for even one more accursed moment! Not if she could help it!

She didn’t bother to turn as the door opened, knowing very well that Christian was the only one who would dare enter while she was within without knocking. She was ready for him now, she swore. If he came near her, if he dared to touch her, if he so much as dared utter a word, she knew just what to say to the man, besides, of course, I loathe you. Good Lord! What was wrong with her that she would lose even her ability to speak coherently when in his presence?

She was startled speechless when it was Quincy who spoke behind her instead.

“Anythin’ else I can do fer ye, mum?”

She turned abruptly, her eyes wide with surprise, though she recovered enough to fix the old man with a wrathful glare. If her eyes had been pistols, Quincy would have tumbled lifeless to the oak floor. “Did—you—do—this?” she ground out fiercely, each word sharper and more hostile than the last. She waved a handful of her clothing at him, and the old man nodded warily, backing away a pace.

“Well! I never gave you permission to unpack my belongings, now did I? And it is because I do not—I repeat, do not!—intend to stay!”

Cramming the green silk dress Christian had chosen for her earlier and a pair of matching slippers into the largest trunk, she slammed it shut and fastened the tarnished brass clasp.

“Now, Jessamine,” Christian appealed as he sauntered into the room at last. “There is absolutely no cause for you to be taking your frustrations out upon poor Quince. He did only what I requested he do.” She spun about to face him, ready to do battle.

Nodding discreetly to Quincy, Christian commanded the old man to leave.

“Now,” he directed, “unpack your trunks. You’re not going anywhere.”

“You can’t keep me here!” she shouted madly. “And I won’t stay!”

“And you loathe me. So I’ve heard.” He laughed then, the mirthful sound infuriating. “Unpack your things, Jessamine,” he said again, still chuckling.

“I will not!” She turned and slammed the lid down definitively. Her breathing labored and her heart hammering, she stood an instant, weighing her options as she stared blindly at her trunks. Truly, there were no options available to her, for how would she go back? She gritted her teeth in outrage. God curse him, but she certainly didn’t have to share the cad’s bed, now did she? Nay! She didn’t! Seizing the side handle of the smallest trunk, she jerked it into movement. With some effort, she pulled it toward the door.

Christian leaned against the doorframe, watching her with unconcealed interest, eyeing her as though she were some novel curiosity. Not until she’d moved the trunk into the hall did he speak.

“Would you care to tell me what you’re doing?”

“Picking gooseberries, can’t you see!” He chuckled, and she said, “I’m not sharing your filthy bed!”

Brows raised, Christian glanced at the newly made bed, his gaze returning to her. “Actually,” he countered, grinning, “It is a perfectly clean bed.”

Jessie had made little progress back into the room since moving the one trunk into the hall, and he thought it might be because she’d managed to trap her skirt beneath the unwieldy baggage. With some difficulty, he resisted the urge to aid her, and the greater urge to laugh.

Unable to keep himself from it, he chuckled when Jessie finally discovered her skirt pinned and uttered an almost inaudible groan of mortification. He might have asked her if she needed his help, but he rather doubted she would accept it. Besides, he was thoroughly amused watching her struggles at the moment.

“You might at least tell me where you intend to go,” he said much too jovially.

She gave him a very unladylike snort, a deadly glare, and turned again to the stubborn trunk upon the bed, shoving it with all her might. She said nothing until she’d passed him by, and was in the nail.

“’Tis none of your concern where I intend to sleep!”

Christian’s smile faded and his gut twisted as she halted beside the only other door along the corridor. His tone warning her, he asked, “Surely not with Ben, my love.”

Her gaze flew to his angry blue eyes. “Oh! You would think such a despicable thing, wouldn’t you? Nay!” she shrieked. “Not with Ben! And not with you, for certain!”

She had the bloody trunk halfway to the stairs now, and shaking his head, Christian wondered just how she expected to carry the thing below. “You do recall,” he told her presently, “that there are no available rooms beyond this wing... unless, of course, you count the entrance hall.”

“I shall take my chances, my lord. Surely I would prefer to sleep outside—in the rain,” she added with a cutting smile, “to your delightful company!”

No matter that he’d braced himself against her anger, her stinging words, expertly flung, cut him to the quick. “Suit yourself, then.”

He muttered an inaudible curse and then turned his back on her hapless struggles, reentering his room and slamming the door so hard that it shook the walls.

Later that night, Jessie was forced to admit the truth of the matter: Christian had been right, and he had warned her, so she had not even the solace of blaming him for her misery.

There had, in fact, been no other rooms available for her use. Only the one wing was complete. Below stairs there was the dining hall and Christian’s study, both of them without doors or even curtains on the wretched windows. Anyone could have peered within.

The other wing, the one she now occupied, remained only partially constructed, but at least this room was windowless, because the windows were as yet boarded up. Here, at least, no one could spy her—unless, of course, the person somehow managed to climb atop the high brick walls. She shuddered at the thought.

A strong, sturdy, lockable door separated this one wing from the rest of the house. The only problem, however, was that it locked from the other side, probably to keep out prowlers, judging by the size of the bolt. She’d managed only to drag the one trunk out of his chamber, and it now sat flush against the door, barring it from any who would enter.

Striving for a comfortable position, she fidgeted upon the pallet she had made from scraps of wood in the hall and a lone blanket she’d borrowed, but try as she might, she couldn’t find relief from the stone-hard bed she had made for herself—much less sleep!

Staring despondently through the skeletal roof, she spied the half-moon peeping through a muddy night. It seemed to be eyeing her sleepily. She sighed at her fancy and shivered. The night air was much too cool for comfort. Heaven help her, she wanted desperately to close her eyes and forget where she lay, but she could not. Oh, that man, he was insufferable!

Crickets trilled softly. An owl hooted in the distance. Jessie listened intently to those peaceful night sounds, the tender music of nature, and despite the chilly November air, she felt at last the inexorable lure of sleep. Exhausted by the trials of the day, she closed her eyes, but even as she did so, an ominous roar sounded in the near distance. Her eyes flew wide to see the skies suddenly burst with light.

“Oh, dear God... don’t let it rain! Not now! Not tonight! please, please…” But He was not to hear her; a mere instant later, she felt the first tender droplets, carried all the way to her pallet by the rising wind. Staring incredulously at her hand, at the glistening moonlit raindrops, she felt suddenly like weeping.

She lay there for the longest time, wishing the rain away, telling herself that it was but a dream and mat she would awaken snug and dry and safe in her cousin’s home. “Oh, God,” she sobbed. “’Tis a bloody nightmare!”

Once the rain had thoroughly soaked her blanket, she moved onto the crude unfinished wood floor, into the far corner, but that spot was no better than the first, and she moved back to her pallet to lie there, resigned to her misery. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she remembered her pledge to Christian, that she would prefer the cold, bitter rain to his company. God was surely punishing her now for her cruel words.

And curse Christian, for he’d merely smirked at her before turning his back and leaving her in the corridor to fend with her trunks alone. By God, she would not go crawling to him now, even if it rained all blessed night, even if she sickened from it, even if she died of exposure. But she would not die! she told herself firmly. She would not!

She would live to regret this.

Chapter Twenty Five

In his chamber, Christian lay within his bed, listening to the rain pelt the roof. In his hand he held a near-empty flagon of whiskey. Bringing it to his lips, he gulped the last of it. Against his will, he found himself wondering just where Jessie had encamped for the night. He had fully intended to give her his bed, to sleep in the room across the hall, as he’d done the previous night, but her cutting words had angered him, and he’d let her go.

Damn her! A thousand times, damn her! How was it that she could rile him so easily? Tossing away the flagon, he closed his eyes, groaning. God’s teeth, but she could drive a man to drink!

Ignoring the prick of his conscience along with the increasing patter of rain, he strove for sleep. By God, he should let her suffer out the night in misery. It would serve her right. Perhaps tomorrow she would agree to take his bed without a bloody battle of wills. He smiled ruefully then, for he had to give her her due; she had mettle enough for an army of patriots.

A bolt of lightning lit the sky, illuminating his window with a bright, ghostly light, and seconds later came an ominous rumbling.

Lightning.

What if she’d stupidly ensconced herself within the unfinished wing? Stubborn wench—it was likely exactly where she was, trying to prove a point, no doubt.

Cursing her beneath his breath, Christian rose from the bed, found his breeches, and tugged them on, buttoning the top button. With angry strides, he reached the door and threw it wide.

The corridor was dark, but he knew his way well enough by now. Thunder cracked once more, shaking the rafters, and he quickened his step. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to the hall, but halfway down, lightning flashed, illuminating the entrance hall for the briefest second. And he froze, catching the silhouette of a man standing next to the temporary door to the unfinished wing. His eyes searched the impenetrable darkness. Another bolt of lightning came quickly on the heels of the first, and the figure was suddenly gone.

Had he imagined it, then?

He cursed the whiskey, then cursed himself for drinking it to dull his senses. Searching the shadows with keen eyes, he listened for any sound to alert him of danger. He could hear nothing, yet the hair on the back of his neck continued to prickle. After a long moment, he began a cautious descent down the winding staircase, his gut burning.

Reaching the hall without incident, he crossed the room and heaved a sigh of relief when he spied Quincy sprawled across the floor in front of the door. Stooping, he checked the old man’s breathing; his chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of sleep. Could it have been Quincy he’d spied? He shook his head. More likely, there was no one about and it was simply his overwrought imagination. He loathed to, but he had to wake Quincy in order to open the door. He shook the old man’s shoulders.

Quincy came awake with a start. “Who? What?” He squinted through the darkness. “M’lord!”

“Yes, Quince, ’tis me. Move now so I can open the door.”

“Aye, m’lord, but she’s barred it.”

“Barred it?”

“With her trunk, I think.”

Christian sighed, shaking his head in exasperation. “She’s a damned stubborn wench.”

“Aye and ’tis rainin’,” Quincy added.

Christian grunted in answer, irritated beyond measure.

“She’ll catch the devil of a chill,” Quincy added plaintively. “Thought I’d climb to the rooftop meself and fix it where she wouldn’t catch the rain, but these rickety old bones wouldn’t allow it, m’lord.”

“I understand, Quince. Don’t worry, she’ll be fine once I get her out of that blasted wing. Now, get yourself back to bed afore you catch the ague yourself.”

Stiffly Quincy rose from the floor, groaning his discomfort.

“Oh... and Quince,” Christian called out, “my thanks to you for watching over her.”

“It was nothin’, m’lord. Slept better out here on the bare floor than I would’ve up there with those two bickering auld fools.”

Christian chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

Quincy’s voice now sounded from the stairway, his tone forlorn. “Aye, m’lord, that bad, it is.” His footsteps stopped abruptly. “Are ye certain ye won’t be needin’ me help, m’lord? I did tell ye the door was barred?”

“You did,” Christian assured him. “G’night, Quince.”

“Night, m’lord.”

Jessie’s shoulders trembled from the cold as the rain drummed its icy fingers upon the back of her head and body. Straining, she listened to the faint mumbling beyond the door and felt only a strange sense of relief at hearing Christian’s voice there.

When the doorknob had jiggled softly only moments before, she’d been wholly terrified. Assuming it was Christian, she’d called out his name, but when he’d not replied, she’d become alarmed. Hearing his voice now, she decided he was not only a knave but he was rude as well!

The voices finally quieted and he again jiggled the knob. She didn’t bother to rise as the door burst open and her trunk went skidding across the floor. Protecting her face from the rain, she huddled into a protective ball, turning away from the door. His footsteps thundered across the wet wood and halted beside her.

Towering over her, Christian told her, his words slightly slurred, “You’re quite resourceful, my love, but ‘tis asinine to make yourself ill merely to spite me.”

Jessie remained silent, but the simple truth made her eyes sting. He knelt beside her, turning her gently toward him, and she closed her eyes. Against her will, tears spilled shamelessly onto her cold cheeks, scalding hot in comparison to the frigid rain that was now striking her full in the face.

Closing his eyes only for the briefest moment, Christian ignored the stirring of his heart. She seemed so very fragile lying there before him, her pale green eyes now open and bright with her tears. Moonlight spilled through the rafters, illuminating the sopping midnight strands of her hair. Damn, but she was soaked to the bone.

He felt entrapped by her gaze, unable to look away. Nor could he find his voice to speak just then. It was her eyes, he acknowledged. They seemed a beacon in the dim light of the room, drawing his gaze even as a moth was lured to the flame. The light of it was irresistible, and he felt suspiciously ablaze this moment. It was not at all an unpleasant sensation, nor was it unfamiliar to him, and he determined that this night might not end so unpleasantly, after all. Droplets of rain glistened upon her flesh, and he had the sudden urge to kiss every last one of them away. He was not about to argue with her, nor would he remain here and make himself ill simply because she lacked the bloody sense to come out of the rain.

Without a word, he swept his hands down to lift her into his arms. She didn’t protest, nor did he bother to explain his intentions. He carried her silently from the room, somehow managing to draw the door closed behind them before sliding the bolt loudly into place.

Cradling her chilled body close to his thundering heart, he bore her through the entrance hall, his breathing labored as he swept her up the stairs to his chamber—though not from the burden of her weight, for she was light as the breath of spring... and her scent more intoxicating than any liquor.

He set her upon her feet on the floor before his bed, uncertain whether to stay or go. Curse her, for even now, after all that had transpired between them, he found himself wanting to play the noble for her.

However... he was anything but an honorable soul, and they both knew that fact well enough, so there was no reason for him to pretend any longer. He was what he was... and she was no longer a virgin besides.

The damage was done.

Lighting a candle to better see her, he placed it upon the nightstand. She was shivering. The pristine white gown she wore dripped with rain, bonded with her flesh, revealing dark nipples to his greedy eyes. “You’re sopping wet,” he whispered.

Jessie nodded, and her tears began anew.

Christian moved a finger to sweep her tears gently away, and Jessie couldn’t find the words to protest as his hand reached for the tiny bow at her throat, then slipped down to the next one, and the next. She felt suffocated by uncertainty. She didn’t loathe him, but how to keep herself from loving him?

Or was it far, far too late for that?

Boldly he slipped her gown from her shoulder, and all she could do was gape at him stupidly, her heart pounding madly. Christian wore no shirt at all, and the light curling hair upon his chest streaked lightly downward to vanish within his breeches. Her gaze slid up to meet his penetrating blue eyes once more. And neither of them moved.

Neither of them so much as blinked.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said, as a flash of white light lit the room and flickered over his swarthy flesh. Her breath caught at the beauty of him, and a burst of anticipation snaked down her spine, shocking her.

“Aye,” he murmured thickly, “what of it?”

Thunder struck somewhere near, resounding throughout the room.

Her voice catching, she whispered, “If you were a gentleman... you would leave... this moment..”

Christian’s hand reached out to grasp her bare arm, in order to draw her toward him, and Jessie felt dazed by that mind-jarring contact. She whimpered, and her lips parted unconsciously for his kiss.

“I think we both know very well that I’m no gentleman,” he said low. His hand then slid to her shoulder and he drew her slowly to him, groaning as the shock of her wet gown touched his bare chest.

Jessie’s heart slammed against her breast. Christian seemed to revel in the feel of her, pressing her immediately closer and clasping her more firmly against him. His hand slipped down to boldly cup her bottom, urging her closer, kneading her flesh feverishly, making her tremble with longing. She felt utterly helpless, dizzy with desire, breathless with anticipation.

And dear God, so very, very much afraid.

Christian was afire, and the sopping wet material of Jessie’s gown was soaking through his breeches. He longed to strip her naked and press her down into his soft bed, fall greedily upon her, ride her like the ruthless ruffian he was claimed to be. But he would not. He placed a hand to her waist, tugging gently at her rain-sodden gown. It slipped down just far enough to expose the creamy flesh of her breasts. He stood as though transfixed by the sight of her for the longest instant, and then his lips descended to her mouth.

His kiss was gentle, coaxing, just a tiny teasing peck, and then another, and another, until her face was finally upturned, her lips trembling, waiting eagerly for more, beseeching him, even. He needed no further urging, he kissed her thoroughly, exploring the depths of her mouth with his tongue.

Jessie’s legs would have given way, but Christian held her steady as his lips trailed searing kisses along her throat... to her breasts. He suckled them each in turn, lavishing the soft but firm flesh with tender care.

Dropping to his knees, Christian kissed her thighs through her wet gown. His hands clutching at her cool, wet bottom, he drew the V of her body close to quench his burning lips against the rain-soaked gown.

“Nay...” Her protest was a breathless gasp. She tried in vain to pull away, for he held her fast.

Jessie was lost to him once again, but she didn’t care, couldn’t think to care. She quivered with pleasure as his lips worshiped her in places she’d never dreamed a man would want to taste.

He groaned against the wet gown. “You are so blessed sweet…” He buried his cheek against her, and murmured again, “So sweet...” He slid up her body then, rising, stroking her provocatively as he went. He urged her to the bed and lowered her gently down upon it, and then merely stood there, towering over her, gazing down upon her with those fathomless blue eyes, and Jessie felt paralyzed. She swallowed convulsively, but was unable to contain her startle as his hands then slid upward, across the bulge in his breeches, to the top button of his trousers, popping it quickly, impatiently. Then, as she watched, he simply shrugged out of them, never taking his eyes from her as he did.

Her breath caught at the sight of him.

Grinning, he brought one knee down beside her, and the bed sank beneath his weight; then came the other until he was sitting gently astride her, careful not to crush her beneath him. And she continued to stare, both frightened and incredulous, at that peculiar male appendage that confronted her once again, for she vividly recalled the pain he had given her the first time.

Jessie swallowed again as her gaze lifted to his in silent appeal. The candle positioned beside them left one side of his face deep in shadow and bathed the other in golden light, making him appear almost sinister. Lightning flickered for the briefest instant, illuminating his features fully.

One last bow held Jessie’s gown together, and Christian reached for it, his blue eyes dancing with hypnotic fire. Very slowly, he peeled the rain-sodden garment from her body, then tossed it away. It landed with a wet thump upon the bare wood floor.

The fierce determination in his blue eyes sent a shiver down her spine. His lips curving with sensual promise, he lowered them to her body, and again his mouth covered her breast, suckling first one nipple, then the other, and all the while he peered up at her seductively, silently pledging to her things that, strangely, her body seemed to comprehend—and even more, seemed to revel in.

Moving with slow, easy finesse across her flesh, his hands affected her in ways she’d not thought possible. His fingers caressed her as though he would commit every inch of her to his memory, then slid beneath her, to rest between her shoulder blades, lifting her bodily to better taste of her. She quivered as his tongue swept across one nipple, then traced deliberate circles around it, before searching out the other.

She moaned deep in her throat, and Christian drew her closer still, nibbling at her throat languidly. Some tortured sound escaped him then, a hiss that sent gooseflesh racing across Jessie’s skin.

Tears stung her eyes. How could she want this so desperately if she loathed him so much? “Oh, God... I—I d-don’t understand what you d-do to me!”

Between bold, fiery kisses and shocking caresses, he whispered, “’Tis not... so difficult... to comprehend... my love…

Her heart cried out at his endearment. But I am not your love. “You... you don’t love me,” she whispered brokenly. “Nor do I you,” she lied.

Her honesty wrenched his gut.

“Nay, but I want you,” he said, “and at the moment, wanting is quite enough, I assure you.” But was it the truth? he wondered, even as his hands sought the sweet, tantalizing wetness between her thighs. He thrust a finger within her body, preparing her.

“Christian,” she sobbed.

“Don’t talk anymore, Jessamine! Don’t say another bloody word!”

Lord help her, though his words pierced her heart as surely as a blade, she was powerless to resist him. She wanted this. She wanted this so much...

Taking his hand, she guided it boldly to her breast, and then reached out to tangle eager fingers into the crisp hair upon his chest.

Slipping one warm knee between her trembling thighs, he nudged them apart, and then fell upon her, pressing himself slowly into the very depths of her. She was at once swept into a maelstrom of feeling and emotion.

The heated place where their bodies had fused was now the only place she was fully aware of... there and her temple, where his whiskered jaw pressed against her face. His breath was ragged, and dear God, the explosive joining of their bodies made her mad with wanting.

Meeting his powerful thrusts with her own eager ones, she allowed instinct to guide her now. Their bodies met, the rhythm almost as violent as the thunder and lightning ringing in her ears.

Groaning with pleasure, Christian stroked her body with his own, giving her ecstasy in return. And when Jessie’s culmination came suddenly, shattering in its intensity, and she cried out her release, he was shocked to his core by her words.

“Oh, God—I love you!” she sobbed, and her whispered declaration was followed with a tormented moan of pleasure. Then again, as though she could not quite help herself, she murmured obliviously, “I love you...”

Christian’s entire body convulsed violently at her words, but he froze above her, the jolt to his heart painful. She tilted her hips and pressed against him, her body seeming to cry out for more, and again his heart leapt against his ribs.

“Who am I?” He withdrew slightly, and then thrust forward, unable to keep himself from it. The arms that supported his weight trembled and threatened to give. Sweat erupted upon his brow. His voice was strained. “Speak my name—who is it you love?” Her eyes were closed against him.

“You,” she cried out, still undulating softly beneath him. Tears slipped through her sooty lashes.

Thunder cracked, drowning out her voice, but he held her crushed to him as she sobbed, losing his control, even his reason. Still, he needed to hear his name upon her lips, and he dared not stir, not wanting to miss her declaration. Amazingly, despite that he had stilled himself within her, he watched as she came to another soul-consuming completion. The incredible look of bewildered passion upon her face was his undoing.

His hands swept down, seizing her buttocks, and he withdrew almost entirely, thrusting again, almost savagely, burying himself completely into her warmth. His body beset with spasms, he again held fast, needing her sweet words far more than his own release, afraid that she would give them and that he would miss them in the throes of his own white-hot climax.

“Who?” he demanded, losing what was left of his control. He withdrew slowly, torturously. “Say it, Jessie! Say it!”

Lightning erupted, its light brilliant white, but it was his oppressive need that blinded him to his surroundings. In the ensuing darkness, his ears strained to hear her words.

“Christian,” she whispered, and his heart leapt with the booming sound of thunder. Reveling in his victory, he surged forth with such ferocity, such fervor, such glee, that he cried out almost as though in pain. And in that soul-consuming instant, he poured more than his seed into her, he dared to give her everything—God, everything—including his soul.

Chapter Twenty Six

When the storm abated finally, Christian lay, reverently stroking her cheek with the back of his knuckles. He brushed the hair from her face. Through the balcony doors, he could see the sky brighten in the distance, but the sound of thunder never carried to his ears. He thought perhaps it was because his mind was still ringing with her confession. He listened closely, but could hear only her soft breath. She exhaled and it blew gently across the hairs of his arm, sending a delicious chill across his flesh, making him stir yet again. He ignored the insatiable hunger of his body for the yearnings of his heart.

Had he imagined her sweet profession of love?

Ah, Christ—he swallowed, battling the great sweep of emotion that threatened to crush his chest—he hoped not.

He wanted nothing more than to wake her now and ask her, but he knew she was exhausted and he had no wish for her to sicken from the rain. And then again, he wished she’d never waken, that they could stay thus forever. Because once the morning came, he would have to tell her everything.

Everything.

He wanted nothing more between them—not lies, not half-truths, nothing. Yet, for the first time in his life, he feared the truth. His heart rebelled at the thought of telling her his most damning secret, for it might very well destroy the love between them forever...

Even before it had begun.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep some time later, holding Jessie close... as though to be certain she’d not leave him whilst he slept.

God help him, he couldn’t bear to be without her.

Morning light streamed through the balcony doors, falling short of the massive bed.

Jessie stirred, stretching lazily, smiling, and then, as she seemed to remember, heat stained her cheeks. She opened her eyes to find Christian gazing down into her face, his eyes searching.

“No need to feel ashamed,” he assured her, noting the color that bloomed upon her cheeks. He brushed a dark strand of hair from her face, gently, tenderly, wanting nothing more than to ask her now, but he was, by his own admission, afeared of her answer. Perhaps her love words were nothing more than nonsense uttered during the heat of passion?

And then there was the lie between them.

He couldn’t bring himself to speak the incriminating truth.

“You asked me once,” he said, “why I chose to make Shadow Moss my home instead of Rose Park. I’d like to show you today, if you wish?”

For a moment she said nothing, and then, “I’d like that very much.” Her eyes shone suspiciously.

“First,” he whispered, giving her his most engaging grin, “there is something else I would show you.” If she would despise him... he wanted this one last time... this one last memory to carry him through.

One arm encircled her waist and he drew her close against him, kissing the tip of her nose, her cheek, her closed eyelids, and her brow with a fever that could not be denied. She was so beautiful, and the feel of her warm bare flesh beneath him made his heart pound and his breath strangle. He refused to let her feel regret—refused to feel any himself.

God’s truth, this morning he had not the stamina for foreplay, and when he found her wet and ready for him, it nearly unmanned him where he lay. He needed only to undulate into her softness and she opened to him willingly, wrapping her legs about his hips and closing her eyes.

Sliding up, he entered her, and no sooner had he done so when she began to undulate softly of her own accord, instinctively, moaning beneath him. He held himself fast, letting her guide his strokes at first, but when her hands moved to his buttocks to urge him deeper into her sweet warmth, he at once lost his resolve.

Driving himself into her, he loved her as though there were no tomorrow, as though in truth this were their last joining. Her nails dug painfully into his flesh and he reached back to grasp her hands, unable to bear the sweetness of it, bringing them above her head and holding them fast against the headboard. With a mindless fervor he withdrew and thrust, sweat breaking upon his brow, and still he held his own release until he felt her quiver and moan beneath him. The sweet sound of her release wrenched away the last vestiges of his restraint and he went headlong into his own climax, crying out savagely.

The path that brought them to the stables was wide, with oaks lining both sides of it, their sweeping limbs arcing and meeting above them, forming a leafy underpass of sorts. It was fall, but the weather was so mild that the flora was still inclined to bloom.

“’Tis lovely,” Jessie said with a sigh. “Truly lovely!”

“Aye,” he agreed, pride in his tone. “Rose Park cannot begin to compare, though I swear there was a time when I was blind to this splendor. No more. I can see now, quite clearly, that I was not meant to make my home in England. Come now, there is more I would show you.” He took her firmly by the hand, releasing it only when they entered the stable itself.

A youth came forth from the shadows, a straw broom in hand. “My lord, you wish to ride?” he asked, his brown eyes flashing with obvious admiration.

“Aye, Peter, aye,” Christian replied. “Fetch my mount, if you would, and then give my lady the finest mare to be had—the bay, I think.”

“Very well, m’lord.” When the fair-haired youth would have turned away, Christian stopped him with a gentle hand to his shoulder. “On second thought, she’ll ride with me... Leave off with the mare and simply fetch my own.” Turning to Jessie, he said, “The area is still somewhat unknown to me and I would not put you at risk.”

Jessie nodded, though the thought of sitting so near him made her heart flutter wildly and her breath quicken painfully. Even now, in the full light of day, he affected her so.

Peter brought forth from the stall a great black beast with a white streak blazing down its forehead. It was a beautiful specimen of a horse with eyes set wide apart and an exquisitely formed muzzle. The lad prepared the mount while they waited, and then led it outside. Its blue-black coat shone brightly in the daylight. Jessie followed them out, and Christian lifted her upon the animal without a word, mounting behind her, bringing her close against him as he urged the steed into a slow canter.

Instead of taking her back through the tunnel of trees whence they’d come, he chose another path that led briefly through a dense thicket of pines.

They rode in silence, and after some time, came to a clearing, a meadow so green and lush that it seemed chimerical. In the center of the grove stood the gutted remains of a brick building.

She turned to him, her brow furrowing. “What is it?”

He kissed her temple, smiling slightly, but said nothing until they’d circled the ruins, halting abruptly at what appeared to be the front steps. “It is the remains of someone’s home,” he answered at last. “Though whose, I cannot rightly know, but this land before us was the first site of Charlestown. ’Tis private property now, but have no fear, I know the holder.” He winked at her then.

“Yours?”

He chuckled softly. “Nay... at least not as yet, though it borders my land and the proprietor is presently weighing my offer for purchase. If he sells to me, it will give me access to Old Town Creek as well as the Ashley.”

“Does he live here still?” Her curiosity was piqued.

“Aye.” He pointed out a direction. “His plantation lies beyond that small copse of trees.”

Jessie nodded, but could see nothing.

Pointing out the river that glittered like diamonds on the horizon, he continued, “That was once known to us as St. George’s Bay, named so by the Spaniards, for the Indians themselves did not name the waters. They called this land Kayawah—all of it—after their tribe.” He hugged her as he spoke.

He kissed her neck affectionately and then his gaze lifted to the horizon. The tall grass grazed his boots, tickled the horse’s belly. The breeze riffled through them, lifting her hair into his face. Before them, the remains of the house were only partially visible through the weeds. Most of the masonry lay in ruin. Weeds and moss worked at the rest of the structure. Before long, if not taken into hand, the wilderness would reduce it to little more than piles of mortar and stone.

“’Tis a beautiful, wild country, still in its birth,” he mused aloud, “and I mean to be a part of it, Jessie.”

Jessie turned to him, hearing the note of pride in his voice, and saw that his eyes were glittering strangely with his words.

Christian looked down into her face and smiled warmly, his harsh features softening into a wry grin as he scrutinized her. With his hair so dark and long, falling unbound behind him, Jessie thought he seemed as primitive as the very natives of whom he spoke.

“’Tis an incredible feeling,” he admitted, “to be involved in the shaping of this wilderness—an experience I might never have known had I clung so stubbornly to Rose Park and to England. And that, mon amour, is the truth of it. I fear I’ve grown to love this savage place, for it suits me better than any I’ve known.”

“I can well believe it.” Her tone held a smile.

Unable to keep himself from it, Christian lowered his head and touched his whiskered jaw to her cheek, savoring the feel of her within his arms. He closed his eyes, hugging her, remembering her fire, and felt again that stirring of his blood. If he lived an eternity, he doubted he would ever have his fill of her. She was as beautiful and unmanageable as the wilds before them.

He savored this moment with her. It was such blissful torment to hold her so close and not be able to love her as he yearned to do. It was just as well... for there was that which needed to be said between them, and he could not bear to delay the inevitable any longer.

Closing her eyes, Jessie leaned back against him. In his arms she felt so alive, so cherished, so loved. As she recalled what she’d said to him during their lovemaking, a small pang tugged at her heart, for he’d never returned her love words. True, he was kinder now, more attentive, but the fact remained that she loved alone. Unrequited love. And yet, so long as he would give her this incredible tenderness, she told herself she cared not whether he reciprocated ever.

So long as he held her thus always.

Christian’s hand slipped down suddenly, pressing at her belly firmly as though he would draw her within himself somehow and never let her go. The moment was excruciating in its tenderness. Breathing deeply, he moved his hand up to rest just beneath her breast. And then, as though he could not help himself, his other hand came around her as well and slid down to the apex of her thighs, caressing her there softly, boldly, kindling her inner fires once more.

Jessie arched backward against him, moaning at the unexpected assault upon her senses, but he halted suddenly, inhaling a breath, shuddering as though only just recalling their surroundings. He stilled his hands, bringing them about her waist, locking them there to keep them from roaming, though his body remained taut.

“Jessie, love... I’ve something to tell you... though you might despise me for it after.”

Jolted by his declaration, Jessie turned to look at him. Though his lips were smiling slightly, his eyes held no mirth at all.

She smiled sweetly, teasing him. “Are you so certain I do not still?’“

He stiffened, though his hands never left her middle, and his smile disappeared wholly. “Do you, Jessamine?”

She shook her head slowly. “How could you think so, after all?”

He laughed then, the sound hollow, and shook his head. A chill traveled her spine. “How could I think so? ’Tis God’s own truth, you only said so a hundred times,” he reminded her.

“Aye... but I did not mean it,” she confessed, her eyes misting. “I truly did not mean it.”

“Jessamine,” he began again, his tone grave now. “Listen to me, love, and do not speak until I’ve finished... ’Tis a difficult thing I must say.”

She wanted to tell him that nothing could be so terrible as what they had already endured. “Christian—”

“Hush, my love, listen... know that I do not wish to lose you, ma belle vie. Yet there is that part of me that would have you know everything, for I wish no more deceit between us—not ever!”

Christian fought the almost irresistible urge to tell her that he loved her and then to plead with her not to detest him for what he was about to reveal, but he could not find a way past his accursed pride. If she despised him, then he wanted at least that small part of him left intact.

He sighed then. “It has to do with your father. You see...” There was no gentle way to put it. The truth was damning and there was no way around it. “It may be my fault that your father killed himself.” She stiffened before him suddenly, and he knew his fears had not been unfounded.

“Aye, I know that he did; ’tis no secret, love.”

He forced Jessie to look at him then, turning her face gently to his. Her eyes were wide with shock... and then revulsion, he thought, but she remained silent just as he’d asked, and so he knew nothing for certain of her thoughts.

“I impoverished him Jessamine, thwarted him at every bend in the road, all in the name of vengeance. I drove him to his death,” he admitted bluntly, regretting his retaliation in whole for Jessie’s sake. The silence lengthened between them and her face lost all color.

“I see,” she said finally, her tone devoid of emotion, her green eyes vacant and unseeing.

“Jessie...”

“I don’t think I wish to hear any more.” She turned suddenly away from him, as though she could not bear to look upon him.

“I... am... sorry,” he said, his voice catching. His apology seeming inadequate.

Unable to prolong the torture, for her sake, he clicked the reins, urging his mount away from the glade.

Not another word was spoken between them.

Hours later, Jessie found herself pacing the length of the woven carpet that graced the master’s chamber.

Not even the distant muddle of voices from below stairs distracted her from her deliberation. And her musing was interrupted only once, when Quincy came to deliver the trunk she’d left in the unfinished wing.

After a while, she wandered out onto the balcony and she watched, barely noticing a small boat paddling away from the pier. Briefly she wondered who it might have been. But in truth, she thought little more of it, for Christian’s confession weighed heavily upon her heart. At last she came to the conclusion that Christian might have, in fact, been partly responsible for her father’s death. Though still, the blame fell to her father, and her father alone, for it certainly was not as though they’d been left completely destitute. Nay, it was none other than her father’s decision to end his miserable life—if, in fact, he had.

And she was certain now that he had. It was that realization more than aught else that had kept her tongue tied all the way back. The truth was that her father had been a weak man, cold and mean on the exterior to conceal his feebleness within—she could see that now.

Having thought it over, she washed herself, splashing her face with the cool water for courage. Opening her trunk, she drew out the green silk dress Christian seemed so fond of and dressed carefully, brushing her hair, and in her haste, not even bothering to fix it properly. She left it down instead, the length of it reaching her hips. And then she sought out Christian.

He was nowhere to be found. The house was intensely quiet, as though forsaken of all life. At long last, on the way back to the master’s room, she spied Quincy in the chamber across the corridor, the one her cousin and Jean Paul had used for their own. He started at seeing her, both of his brows lifting in surprise.

“Where is everyone?” Jessie asked without preamble. “I need to speak with Christian.”

“They’ve gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, mum, gone.”

Jessie bristled at his uninformative response. “Where? I saw a boat leaving the dock, but I thought it might be some of the men returning to the Mistral and I thought nothing more of it.” Worry furrowed her brow as she asked, “Is that where they’ve gone? Back to the Mistral?”

“Well,” Quincy hedged. He looked heavenward, one eye closing slightly, as though to consider an answer, and Jessie knew to doubt his next words. He surprised her by speaking what sounded to be the truth. “They’ve gone to Charlestown,” he confessed. “M’lord said I should stay here wit’ ye and see to ye—didn’t want to worry ye none.”

Confused, Jessie said, “I don’t understand. I should think he’d have wanted Ben to remain as well. After all, he and I were to have sailed for England together. He shouldn’t risk being seen, should he?”

“Aye, mum,” Quincy yielded, “but yer cousin wouldn’t hear of it. He went and there was no keeping him from it. God’s truth!”

Jessie sighed. “I see, and what, pray tell, could have been so urgent as to draw him into such dangerous folly?” She didn’t truly expect an answer because of the frown that appeared upon the old man’s face, but to her surprise, she received one, despite Quincy’s tortured expression. It was obvious he didn’t want to say.

“Well, mum... y’see... ’tis the Mistral,” he revealed. “While you were away this morn... news came that it was arrested last night. M’lord was summoned to appear before Daniel Moore straightaway.”

Jessie felt suddenly ill. “My God! What for? What on earth could he want with Christian?”

Quincy’s eyes held hers. “Well, you see, mum... the Mistral’s been accused of bearing unauthorized goods into Charlestown harbor. They said—”

“Absurd!” Jessie exclaimed. “’Tis ridiculous—why?”

“Because, mum... we set anchor in the dead o’ night, nor did we report to the customs house straightaway, that’s why.”

Jessie’s head reeled as she recalled that they’d departed late in the night, as well. Then, too, they’d sailed into the Dutch West Indies, reportedly a smugglers’ and pirates’ haven. And they had, in fact, returned in the deepest hours of the night. Heaven help her, but all at once it came clear to her. How could she not have suspected before? Lord, she hadn’t dreamed he would conduct his business while she was aboard. Even knowing who he was—what he was. Placing a hand to her brow, Jessie leaned back against the doorframe, feeling weak of a sudden. The Mistral... Dear God, she’d sailed all that time aboard a smuggler’s vessel—one carrying an illegal cargo, no less! She felt sick with the shock of it all.

Quincy advanced upon her suddenly. “Nay, mum,” he said, as though he’d read her thoughts and meant to acquit his master of her silent accusations.

Jessie backed away from him, out into the corridor, as though to escape his knowing gaze. Had everyone known, save her? Ben, too? Aye, even as she asked herself that question, she knew it was so.

“M’lady,” Quincy protested, “It is not what it seems, at all! M’lord did sail into St. Christopher to clear his cargo with the authorities, and he has his papers to prove it!” He nodded fervently. “Aye, he does, an’ he’s carryin’ ’em with him to see Daniel Moore—told me to tell ye ’e’d be back before eventide. He didn’t wish to worry ye, is all.”

Relief swept over Jessie like a flood tide, dizzying her. Her knees buckled slightly and her eyes shimmered with tears. “Thank God!” she whispered fiercely. “But what of Ben? Why need he have gone? Why should he have risked himself if Christian bears proof?”

Quincy shrugged. “There was no one to stop ’im. Yer cousin is a fierce one, he is, and loyal to m’lord, besides.”

“I see. As you are?”

“Yes, mum.”

She took a deep breath and asked, “How long have they been gone?”

“Little more’n an hour,” he declared.

“Very well, then. Thank you, Quincy.” Still somewhat dazed by his disclosure, Jessie left him staring after her and made her way down the corridor quickly, down the spiral steps to the entrance hall. She intended to await Christian at the docks, so anxious was she to see him. She hurried, though halfway down the steps she halted abruptly.

Jessie was momentarily stunned by St. John’s unexpected appearance. “H-How did you manage to find me?”

Chapter Twenty Seven

“McCarney, of course. The man is a veritable font of information... quite helpful.”

Jessie bristled at his smug tone. “Well, sirrah! Now that you’ve discovered what you came to, you should leave,” she apprised him, straightening her spine. “Lord Christian should be down any moment,” she bluffed. “I don’t believe he would relish your presence unbidden in his home. Indeed, I should loathe to see you—”

“Please, Jessamine,” he interposed, “spare me the duplicity. I know perfectly well where Haukinge has gone, as I also know you’re alone in this”—he glanced about, waving a hand in disgust—”place.” He took another step forward, removing his tricorne and clasping it to his chest.

Jessie was on the verge of informing him that she was, in fact, not alone, but something in his expression suggested she should hold her tongue. Quincy was no match for him, and she certainly didn’t want the faithful servant to be hurt.

“How would you know such a thing?” she asked instead, stalling, knowing the answer before it was given. Instinct told her he was up to no good, but beyond that, she was at a loss. It would help if she knew what she was up against.

“McCarney,” he disclosed, smiling a thin-lipped smile. “Actually, he made certain of the fact for me. Oh, and of course, I should thank my good friend Moore, as well, for it was his writ that McCarney delivered unto him.”

Jessie shook her head in disbelief. “But why, my lord? Why would you do such a thing?”

His jaw turned taut and he answered her inquiry with one of his own. “The question is, I fear, where will you go once it is known that you’ve not gone to England as Robert claimed? Aye, I kept your dirty little secret once, m’dear, but I’ll not do so again. It cost me my pride—dreadfully high price, that was.” He shook his head musingly, thumping his tricorne as he spoke. “To become the object of pity, the laughingstock...” He cocked his head at her, his eyes gleaming strangely. “Do you realize they are all spinning tales that you spurned me?”

Jessie shook her head in denial, thinking him mad suddenly. “I hardly think you’re any of those things, my lord. If so, then ‘tis only in your own mind, for I’ve heard nothing to that effect at all.”

“If only it were so,” he demurred. “At any rate, I’ll not under any circumstance be made to look the fool again—leastways not alone! Too many times before has your lover—aye, Jessamine spare me your words of denial—your lover succeeded in doing just so. I’ll not allow you to do so, either—never again!” he swore, his anger rising. His dark eyes narrowed, and for an instant Jessie thought she could see the hurt he was feeling, and she felt for him.

“By God!” he bellowed suddenly, startling her enough that she retreated upward a step. “I would have thought better of you, Jessamine! Aye, to my mind ‘tis mighty poor thanks you would give me for all that I have done for you!”

He shook his head, and Jessie remained silent, watching him warily as he approached her.

She hesitated to speak, but her curiosity won the best of her. “Why did you keep silent, then? If ‘tis the truth that you speak, my lord, then you need only have revealed the facts, and it would have been me they would have scorned, instead. Why do you not simply tell them and be done?”

“Nay, m’dear,” he said, smiling coldly. “Either way, I’d be the object of pity, for it would be said then that you desired another over me... even at the expense of your own ruination. I might have suffered that well enough had it been any other man but Lord Christian Haukinge. You had to choose a man such as that!”

“I did not choose him! My father did. I can no more help that than I can commit who my heart should love!”

His shout reverberated through the hall. “You chose him!”

She was taken aback by his fury. “How can you say such a thing? My father chose him, not I.”

“Your father repudiated the contract! I gave him choices, damn it all! And then the bastard went and cocked up his toes! All that money I lost, but I was willing to pay again, and it was you who chose him then, even against your brother’s will!”

Jessie’s expression was incredulous. “You paid my father to repudiate the contract?”

He gave her a self-satisfied smirk and replaced his tricorne to his head.

“Why, pray tell?” He didn’t respond and she moved down a step in her fury to confront him. “This isn’t about us at all, is it, my lord? This is about your hatred for Lord Christian. Why? Why should you despise him so?”

He ignored her question. “Of course, you might come back with me now,” he proposed, “leave Shadow Moss... and return to Charlestown with me. If so, I should be more than willing to keep your confidence in such case.” He eyed the empty hall meaningfully. “I daresay your life would be a sight better if you did. I can guarantee as much.”

“Why would you wish me to, my lord? What good could come of it now?”

He guffawed at her, the sound bitter and hard. “Apart from the fact that I might get a decent little tumble now and again? Why, absolutely nothing, of course. Except that perhaps I need not lose face entirely.”

Truly, St. John was not an unattractive man, but at the moment the sight of him literally made Jessie ill. How could she have thought to feel sorry for him? Bile rose in her throat and her fingers tightened upon the bare wood rail. “My lord, you may go and tell people anything you so desire. There is nothing you can give me that is worth my becoming your wife.”

He burst into laughter. “Wife!” he said, aghast. “Why, whoever said I wished you to become my wife, Jessamine dear?”

Jessie chafed at his words. “You were, in fact, courting me, my lord, only a short time ago. Does your memory fail you so? Surely you might ask anyone in Charlestown and they would be very pleased to refresh your memory.”

Her dart had been expertly pitched, and his face suddenly became flushed, his eyes narrowing to angry slits. When he laughed again, it sent chills down her spine.

“Perhaps ’tis you who needs enlightening, my dear girl. Didn’t you realize? The wife, you simply buy; ’tis the mistress you woo.” He laughed then and Jessie cringed at the hateful sound of it.

“I’d as soon be drowned in the Ashley as to become your mistress, my lord!”

He shook his head, smiling still, though his lip suddenly curled contemptuously. “Very well... have it your way.” He sounded bored now. He started away, and then stopped abruptly, turning once more. “Though perhaps I might still persuade you as yet... You didn’t happen to wonder how Daniel Moore knew to arrest the Mistral, did you? Or why he would think to suspect Christian? Did you wonder if he knew of Hawk? Aye,” he replied to his own question when her eyes widened. He rubbed his chin pensively. “I see that perhaps you have contemplated such things.” He smiled benevolently. “Well, then, you might be interested in knowing that I also know about Ben. Tell me, how is his limp now? Does he fare well?”

Jessie’s face paled.

“Improved, I hope.” He lifted a brow. “I’d like to see him walk tall and proud to the gibbet, m’dear.” He turned from her once more, leaving Jessie confused and speechless. “Oh,” he said, turning to address her yet again. “And you will give my felicitations to Hawk, will you not? that is, if you ever happen to see him again.” With a dirty little laugh, he turned and strode confidently to the door.

“Wait!” Jessie implored. She could not simply stand by and see Christian hanged—and Ben! She shuddered to think what punishment would be meted them both. “I’ll go with you.”

“I rather thought you would,” he said with little surprise, and laughed hideously.

Despite the way things had been left between them, Christian found himself eager to return to Shadow Moss—to see Jessie.

While her silence had not been promising, he realized, neither was it hopeless, and bearing that in mind, he made his way quickly up the staircase, his footfalls echoing throughout.

“M’lord!” Quincy exclaimed, appearing in the landing above, his face contorting miserably. Christian halted in his step, sensing something was wrong.

“’Tis Miss Jessie!”

Christian took a step upward, then another, staring expectantly at Quincy as he ascended the stairwell. The hair at his nape prickled.

“St. John was here, my lord.”

Christian’s jaw grew taut and his eyes began to burn with fury.

“He took her with him, my lord.”

Christian halted in his step. “What the hell do you mean he took her with him?”

“She didn’t go willingly,” he said, and then, as quickly as he was able, related all that he’d overheard.

“When?”

“Not long ago, m’lord—just before you arrived.”

Even before Quincy was finished speaking, Christian had turned and was bolting down the stairwell, racing for the docks.

“I hope you’re not overly attached to him,” St. John said, lifting an imperious brow as he rowed. “I cannot simply allow him to go free.”

Cold prickles swept down Jessie’s spine.

She knew precisely to whom he was referring, but asked nevertheless, “Him?”

His smile was forbearing. “Hawk, of course.”

“But you swore you’d leave him be if I returned with you, my lord—you gave me your word! Would you break it now?”

“I know what I said, Jessamine... but it is out of my hands, m’dear. Hawk is a traitor to the Crown and he’ll hang for his crimes. ’Tis as simple as that—Moore would never set him free. Certainly not now that he has proof against him at last.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Ben, on the other hand, is another matter...”

Jessie resisted the sudden uncontrollable urge to fly at him and thrust him overboard—lying, misbegotten cur that he was! She wanted to tell him that Christian had proof of his innocence—at least this time he did—but what if St. John had already named him as Hawk? She had to know. “Have you accused him as yet?”

“Not as yet,” he admitted. “There was no one to come forward till now... not with Hawk free to wreak his vengeance upon them. Now, of course, with him in gaol, it shouldn’t take much to convince McCarney to step forward. He wants revenge, you see, because Hawk killed his brother. Still”—he smiled coldly—”you must take comfort in the fact that your dear cousin is free... for now,” he added in cautioning tones. “Though perhaps he shan’t be for long if you don’t prove worthy of my troubles. Perhaps you should remember that,” he taunted, his face flushing slightly. “Perhaps you should remember that tonight.”

Jessie shuddered with revulsion. Panic burst through her, for in that instant she knew Ben would never be safe. St. John had lied to her. And Christian—she couldn’t bear to stand aside and see him hanged. Well, she wasn’t about to! She had to warn them. Her mind raced. But how?

She glanced around wildly, and to her surprise, she spotted a small boat approaching swiftly from behind them. Her heart leapt, for somehow she knew it was Christian. Her gaze reverted to St. John, and she wondered if he’d spied the skiff as well, but when he continued with his crowing, she decided he was too full of self-admiration to be aware of anything but his own voice as he spoke. If only she could catch him unawares... jump into the river... but her clothing would make it impossible to out swim him should he decide to come after her...

She worried her lip, for jumping seemed her only option. She forced herself to inhale slowly and calm her ragged nerves.

One, two, three, four, she counted silently, trying desperately to quell her fears.

Five. Six. Seven.

Could she do this? Lord help her, it didn’t seem to be working. She wasn’t calm at all. In truth, she felt weak with fright. Would Christian reach her in time? Would St. John come after her?

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Perhaps there was no need to jump, after all, she reconsidered, for she had every faith in Christian. Hazarding another glance behind her, she drew in a deep breath and released it, for it seemed he would never close the distance. And then, her gaze reverting to St. John, she happened to spy the gleaming silver of his pistol beneath his frock coat, and she froze at the sight of it. God help her, she knew instinctively he would kill Christian if given the chance, his hate was so deep. It was there in his eyes. Christian would reach them, she was certain, but somehow... before then... she had to seize the weapon from St. John...

Recalling that night so long ago when Christian had been so concerned that she would tip the boat, she lit upon an idea. Not daring to spare the time to think it through properly, she stood abruptly and screamed like a shrew, hurling herself at St. John, scrambling toward him, feigning hysteria. “Oh, my Lord! Something... there’s something in the boat!”

Snatching at his leg frantically, she attempted to stand.

The small boat tipped precariously, and St. John bellowed in fear, his face paling. “Nay! Jessamine, do not—be still! You’ll topple the boat!” Jessie ignored him and threw herself at him once more, as though seized by panic. “Nay, but I cannot swim!” He threw up his hands to gain his balance. Catching him unawares, she suddenly snatched away his pistol, and St. John, comprehending too late her ploy, lunged at her to retrieve it. Heaven help her, but Jessie, refused to give him the opportunity to murder Christian in cold blood! She tossed it within the water, but he seemed not to notice, for he continued to struggle. The boat rocked treacherously as she fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Christian’s heart lurched as he recognized Jessie’s petrified screams. Rowing furiously, he turned to watch from his own skiff as she lunged at St. John, then toppled backward into the small boat with St. John grappling over her. For an instant his blood ran cold as he stared at their struggling forms behind him, and then suddenly their boat pitched violently and overturned, toppling them both into the river.

There was no time.

“No!” he exploded, rowing faster, losing precious seconds as he turned again to watch the boat drift away from the struggling pair. “Jessie! Noooo!” All he could think of was that by some sordid twist of fate, he would lose her now—and God help him, he could not bear it!

Sputtering and kicking wildly, Jessie tried to free herself from St. John’s fatal grip. He wouldn’t release her! Try as she might, she couldn’t break free.

Dear God, she was going to die here!

She wasn’t going to make it!

Her sodden skirts weighed her down... down... and with sudden inspiration, she took a deep breath, allowing herself to sink with them. Her ploy worked. St. John released her at once, catapulting desperately toward the rippling surface, freeing her.

Relief flooded her—short-lived, for as she tried to resurface, the impossibility of it struck her like a blow to her breast. She panicked. And still her skirts carried her down ... down... down . . .

Nay! She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it!

But nay—she refused to!

God help her, but she refused to die! Her breast ached terribly with her pent-up breath, but she remained composed enough to know that she needed to dispose of her sopping skirts. Tearing wildly at her garments, she struggled free of them. It seemed to take a lifetime, but with that done, she shot back toward the surface, desperate for even a small breath of sweet, lifesaving air.

Yet the light was too far now! The air, too far! And her lungs felt near to bursting.

Breaking through the surface suddenly, she sucked in a desperate breath, but it was immediately stolen from her when St. John once again seized her by the shoulders, climbing atop her, pushing her down, struggling to remain aloft at her expense.

His words came back to her then: Nay, Jessamine... I cannot swim.

Oh, dear God! What cruel fate! She and St. John were going to die here together! She would breathe her last without ever having told Christian that she loved him first and foremost, that nothing else mattered as long as they were together, that she did not blame him for what he claimed to have done to her father.

Oh God, Christian, I love you... I love you so very much, her heart cried out, but she couldn’t speak the words, for her lungs were burning for air... and she was entombed in ice-cold water...

“Son of a bitch!” Christian roared. “Get off her, bloody whoreson!”

Christ! He was so close now, so close—yet not nearly close enough! And then he spotted the gator, gliding swiftly through the water, converging upon its struggling prey, and he lost priceless seconds over the shock of the sight.

His blood pounding through his temples, he began to row more furiously still, shouting warnings, cursing the beast at the top of his lungs. Jessie and St. John were so involved in the effort to stay afloat that he doubted either of them heard a word or sensed the danger. His gut twisting, he realized there was no way he could make it in time; but his heart would not surrender. A strangled, keening sound escaped him as he rowed, hoping against hope, watching with pent-up breath as the gator sped in Jessie’s direction.

God help him, he had the sudden urge to stand and hurl the oar at the beast, but that would be the worst thing he could do, he knew, for if by chance the gator chose St. John instead, he would need both oars to reach Jessie still.

“Ah, God,” he prayed aloud, casting his head back as he rowed, “she doesn’t deserve to die! If You’ve never listened to me before... please... please... please... listen to me now.”

Even as he spoke, the enormous beast submerged, and Christian watched over his shoulder, fear gripping him as never before. An instant later, both Jessie’s and St. John’s heads jerked beneath the surface, and then an explosion of bubbles ripped the water as the river churned violently against the deadly struggle.

There was little blood, for the gator’s kill was a clean one. Clamping its jaws about its victim, it thrashed over, and over, and over again, beneath the water, until every last trace of air emptied from the victim’s lungs. Christian could little bear it were that fate Jessie’s.

Neither St. John’s nor Jessie’s head resurfaced, and Christian rowed toward them with all his might, muttering angry curses at God, at St. John, at Jessie for going with the bastard to begin with!

His relief was tangible as he spied Jessie’s glistening locks rising from the silvery water, at last. Her face upturned, she gasped for air, and he nearly cried out for joy. Just then, another splash caught his attention and yet another gator slipped into the river. Christian swore he’d kill the son of a bitch if it touched even a hair on her head. He reached her as the beast approached the midway point in the river. Tossing the oars into the skiff, he hauled Jessie quickly aboard, and drew her into his arms.

Her hands clutched at him wildly as she sobbed, not quite mindful of her surroundings. She was like a dreamer in the throes of a nightmare, unable to wake. She was drowning still, clutching for life.

“Jessie!” he shouted, anger vying with relief. He held her so tightly that he wondered she did not cease to breathe. “Damn you! Why did you go with him? Why did you go?” He released his hold only slightly and shook her gently, his eyes stinging raw with tears he couldn’t shed. Tears he didn’t know how to shed. “Jess...” His voice broke. “Jessie... love... listen to me, you’re safe. I have you now,” he crooned, clutching her desperately.

She struggled a moment longer, and then as his words penetrated, she stopped abruptly and threw her arms about his neck and began to cry. Her hands slipping from his shoulders to clutch at his shirtfront, she set her wet face against his chest. She was soaking him to the bone, but he didn’t give a bloody damn. She was alive, and he loved her—and God help him, he would strangle the life from her if she ever did something so witless again!

“That’s it, love,” he soothed, his voice choked with emotion. “ ‘Tis over now...”

“S-St. John!”

“He’s gone, love,” Christian told her, grimacing as he searched the river over the top of her head. There was no sign of St. John anywhere. As much as he loathed the man, he couldn’t help but feel for him; he wouldn’t have wished such an end for his worst enemy—and St. John, though far from being a saint, had never been his worst. He knew instinctively that a search would prove futile—and yet he would search, despite the incredible sense of justice he was feeling this moment. The bastard might have killed her.

“H-He w-wouldn’t l-let me g-go! I couldn’t b-breathe!” she wailed, and then her words were jumbled and incoherent as she hauled herself up and buried her wet lips against his neck. He sat there upon his knees, stroking her soggy mop of hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. Clasping her cold, damp body tightly against him, he thanked God and vowed never again to let her out of his sight.

Chapter Twenty Eight

The cool breeze brought Jessie awake shivering.

The nightmares had been horrid and so very real, but when she opened her eyes, it was to find bright morning light streaming past her face. Shadow Moss. Christian. She was alone as far as she could tell, but she could sense his presence still... like a comforting heat in the chill of the room. His musky male scent lingered, and she knew he’d not been gone long.

In the peaceful morning surroundings, with the birds chirping merrily outside, she could almost believe it had all been no more than a gruesome dream, but her ruined gown, the one Christian had liked so well, sat drying upon a wooden chair in the sunlight, providing indisputable evidence. She shivered at the memory. And then she noticed the balcony door was left ajar, and she rose. Wrapping herself within the dressing gown Christian had left for her, she walked toward the open door.

She found him outside, gazing silently down upon the crush of new workers who were busy this morning laboring over the unfinished wing. Sensing her presence, he turned to her, a lit cheroot in hand.

“Jessie?”

Her eyes focused upon the smoking cigar, for she’d never seen him smoke before now, and yet when the odor reached her, she recognized the rich scent at once. It was part of him, part of his mystique and part of his person.

“Should you be up?”

“I’m fine,” she replied. “Truly.” The way he stared made her heart trip painfully, for he seemed so lost somehow, so sad. “How long have I slept?” Self-consciously she wrapped the robe more tightly about her.

His face was more deeply stubbled than usual this morn, giving his swarthy complexion an even darker shadow. Smoke-colored stains rimmed his deep blue eyes. He was carelessly dressed in snug black breeches and a white shirt that was properly buttoned while left untucked, and it appeared to Jessie as though he’d not slept in an age. Indeed, he seemed vanquished somehow, and yet never more hardened.

“Since yester eve,” he disclosed, smiling slightly. He shrugged. “If you might call it sleep. You tossed and turned more’n a boulder down a mountainside.”

“I was dreaming.”

“Aye,” Christian acknowledged, averting his gaze. He’d tried his damnedest to soothe her, but she’d begun to prattle... about him... about her father... Ben. He’d understood mere fragments; had to go... hang you... Ben .. .father’s murderer... Christian. Yet those fragments had been more than enough. They twisted his gut. Even now.

“You stayed with me?”

“I wouldn’t have left you,” he said without turning. And he wouldn’t have. He didn’t wish to even now, but he would if it was her wish. He couldn’t bear to hurt her any more than he had already.

“What came of your meeting with Daniel Moore? Quincy said you had papers ..

“I did. St. John’s accusations were dismissed with the proof I brought before him. He had no grounds to hold me, or Ben either; no matter that he might have suspected us. Your cousin has gone back to the city, and I was returning to tell you that you were free to go, as well.”

The moment of silence lengthened.

“Christian,” she began, and he winced at the solemn tone of her voice. “There is something I wish to say to you—something I meant to say before you left for Charlestown...” He turned to face her, hurling the smoking cheroot upon the balcony floor. He tamped it down with his boot and mentally braced himself for her pain... her disdain.

“You see... I was looking for you when St. John—oh, God, this is so difficult!” She shook her head, averting her gaze. “I’ve no idea how to say this, so I shall simply do so and be done with it.”

Christian’s chest constricted painfully.

Her gaze returned to him. “I refuse to allow you to blame yourself for my father’s death! If in fact he...” She swallowed and hugged herself, holding his gaze with her lucid green eyes. “If he ended his own life... then it was his own decision to do so, his alone. That would be his sin to bear, not yours, not mine, not Amos’—though I very much doubt my brother will ever be free of the guilt!”

Christian swallowed, shook his head. He wanted to stop her before she said something she would regret. “Jessie...” He took a shuddering breath, moved as he was by her generosity. “You need not absolve me... I am what I am. I did what I did.” He shook his head. “Much as I wish it, I cannot, in truth, be judged innocent.”

“Please,” she said, holding up her hand in protest. “I listened to you when you confessed yourself to me. Now... please, do me the courtesy. Aye, ’tis the truth you bear some responsibility, but even still, the burden of his death falls solely upon my father. It was not as though we were left completely destitute, after all,” she reasoned. “Nay, for my father had resources to draw on—myself, for one—had it suited him to do so. Amos certainly had no qualms over using me,” she added somewhat bitterly. “The truth is that my father chose not to do so.” She sighed heavily before continuing.

“It seems to me that when my brother Thomas died, a part of my father died as well. You see, he was of the mind that Thomas was the perfect one; Thomas was his hope; Thomas was the wise one; he was courageous and diligent. And yet... Amos was the one most like him. I never understood why my father seemed so displeased by him, nor why he thought him unsuited to the dukedom.”

Christian’s jaw clenched visibly. “And so you would have me believe he would end his life because he lost his best son, and thus give the dukedom all the sooner to his most unworthy? I find that hard to credit, Jessamine.”

“So do I,” she agreed. “But you didn’t know him as I did, and I tell you true that when my eldest brother died, so, too, did my father’s will to live. I saw the change in him from the very instant he was apprised of Thomas’ death—not even my mother’s passing affected him so.”

“Still...”

“Nay! You did only what you felt you must, and the truth is that I might well have done the same given your circumstances. None of it matters anymore.”

“The devil it doesn’t.”

Jessie stood there before him, her hands clasping and unclasping at her sides, angry tears glistening in her eyes. “What do you wish me to say? Do you wish to hear that I despise you, after all? Do you truly wish to know my hatred when you can know my love instead? Nay, but I can lie to myself no longer—nor to you! I cannot!” she cried with feeling. “’Tis impossible! Sweet Lord—do not ask me to deny what I feel, because I cannot! I love you, Christian,” she told him, her eyes misting.

He stared at her a long moment, and then said, as though he’d not heard a word she’d spoken, “The unfinished wing...” His voice broke. He turned from her, staring down below, leaning against the railing as he watched the men work. “No sooner had it been constructed when it was destroyed by fire. Did you know that, Jess?”

Jessie blinked at his words, staring at his back as though he were mad. Her heart felt as though it were wrenching. How could he change the subject so completely, all but ignoring her declaration of love? “Fire?” she repeated. Good God, what did she care about that now? “I... I didn’t know,” she relented, discomposed now. “Th-There are no signs... The walls are not—Good Lord, Christian!” she cried, shaking her head at the absurdity of their conversation. “Whatever has this to do—”

“Originally,” he said, without bothering even to glimpse over his shoulder at her, “my chamber was in that burned wing.” He continued to watch the workmen below, and Jessie felt like flying at him and striking her fist upon his back, screaming like a madwoman.

She swallowed, dosing her eyes. He didn’t love her... couldn’t... “Really?” she replied, and choked down a sob.

“I learned yesterday that it was burned apurpose. McCarney admitted to it.” There was a moment of silence as Jessie weighed his words before he continued. “He was somewhat emboldened by my arrest, I assume. He confessed to starting the blaze while I slept in revenge for something I’d done to his brother. It was an accident Jessamine; flash fire. I didn’t kill him, though I might as well have. I didn’t stop it, either. He was no more than a boy. I should have put a halt to it at once. You see, he was afraid of the cannons, and I thought I was doing him a favor by allowing the crew to force him into firing a volley. He had to learn—he wanted to. God’s truth, he needed to learn. But the men were more drunk than I realized; they misloaded the gun.” He was silent a long moment. “I didn’t realize McCarney still held me responsible, but I might have known, for it took me a long time to acquit myself.”

He shook his head. “’Tis been more than three months since the fire and I’ve had the bricks scrubbed. I’d had it in mind to leave them their natural color, you see, but they had to be whitewashed. It doesn’t really look so bad as I thought it might.” He turned to face her, his eyes gleaming strangely. “What do you think?”

She thought he must be daft! Her brows collided. “I’m sorry. ‘Tis beautiful, Christian—did you not hear me?”

“Tell me, Jess,” he broke in once more, smiling slightly now.

“Did you not hear me?”

“Can you see yourself as mistress here?”

Jessie’s temper rose. “Can I—” And then his question penetrated, and her jaw dropped. She clamped her mouth shut, not entirely certain she’d heard correctly. Gazing skeptically into his face, at his lopsided grin, she ceased to breathe entirely. She was terrified to voice the question, but forced herself. “Did you... did you just ask me to marry you?”

He nodded, and her heart tripped. “Not for the first time, I fear. I only hope you’ll reply more positively than did your brother.” He smiled at her then.

Jessie was momentarily stunned by his disclosure. Her brows rose and her heart soared. “You asked Amos for my—”

“I did.”

“He... he told me you had not! He said you’d come only because he’d paid you!”

“To begin with, it was true,” he confessed, his tone soft and laden with guilt. “But after having met you, Jessie, nay.” He shook his head. “In truth, I never intended to follow through with it... Curiosity, and curiosity alone, prompted me to accept when I wanted nothing more than to batter your brother’s agent to a bloody nub instead. But you see, I never considered I would fall in love with you,” he admitted, coming forward. He closed the distance between them. Jessie’s heart lurched as he reached out to brush her hair back from her face. He cupped her chin, lifting it to his gaze. “Do you remember that I did not return for some time... and you wondered that I had gone?” His eyes glistened suspiciously. “The truth is that I never intended to see you again, only I was drawn back... even against my will—God, you were so beautiful... so very beautiful...” He bent his head to brush her lips with his own.

Jessie closed her eyes. “Christian,” she murmured, and he kissed her again, gently, his tongue coaxing her lips, and delving within as he lifted her up into his arms. He carried her within his chamber. Jessie clung to him, her heart beating fiercely.

Halting before the bed, holding her possessively, he whispered against her hair, “Jessamine Stone, will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”

Unable to speak, Jessie nodded, burying her face into his shirt, drenching it with her joyful tears.

“I love you,” he swore. “Always have, always will...”

God only knew—how long had she waited to hear those words? How much grief had she suffered and caused for them? Her eyes were liquid with tears as she gazed up into his face. At last she was unafraid to face the truth, unafraid to give her love, and her heart swelled with joy unlike any she’d ever known. “And I,” she whispered fiercely, “have always, always, loved you, too!”

He lifted a brow. “Always?”

She wrapped her arms about his neck and drew his face down to hers. “I love you, Christian... and yes,” she murmured, “always.”

“And?” He kissed her throat with promise.

For a moment Jessie couldn’t speak, didn’t understand what it was he was asking, and then she did at last, and sighed contentedly. “Yes, my lord, I can see myself as mistress here.”

“Gators and all?”

Jessie shuddered. “Nay,” she said with a wan smile and a trace of good humor, “those, you must send away!”

He grinned. “And if I cannot?”

She sighed. “Well, then... I suppose I shall have to learn to live with them, after all!”

“Ah,” he said waggishly, “then you do love me!” His smile deepened and he chuckled with unbridled pleasure as he lowered her to the bed.

Epilogue

“Jessamine!”

Jessie laughed as she bolted across the bedroom. Her slender body thoroughly enshrouded within the sheets from their bed, she ignored her husband’s lighthearted rebuke. He feigned a charge, but she dodged him easily enough, despite the fact that she tripped over the tail of her blanket. She had the distinct suspicion her husband was merely allowing her to escape him, for he might have overtaken her any number of times already. He dove suddenly, tackling the floor instead of her legs, and Jessie scrambled towards the bed, laughing, tripping over her white train and landing unceremoniously upon the bed.

She stood at once, shifting her weight from foot to foot as though to leap away, but Christian merely sat upon the floor, watching her, his eyes twinkling and his sensual lips curving with unconcealed pleasure. “Jessie, love, ‘tis been months now... There is nothing you would hide from me that I’ve not already seen. Come,” he coaxed, his voice turning husky. “Spare my bones the chase.”

“Nay,” she said with an impish smile, “you mistake me, for I’ve no wish to hide a’tall.”

To prove her point, she suddenly dropped the sheets from her body. They slid slowly down the length of her, and she sighed at the way her husband watched so hungrily. “’Tis simply that I would have you listen to me... now... before neither of us can think clearly any longer.”

He chuckled at her brazenness. “And so you would torture me that I might listen to you?” Jessie nodded, and he laughed outright. “How very cruel of you, you little vixen. Very well, I’m completely at your mercy. Still... I think I should make you a sweet little bargain, if you would.” He rose, approached the bed cautiously, and perched upon the edge. When she remained, looking interested, he reached out to stroke her bare calf with his fingers.

Jessie’s heartbeat quickened as he caressed her; his fingers moved slowly up her thigh. Trying not to forget herself with the pleasure his touch promised, she said breathlessly, “The bargain, husband?”

He flashed her a roguish grin and lifted a devilish brow. “Sit here upon my lap, so that I might pleasure you while you speak your mind.”

She seemed skeptical, so he snatched her into his arms, and cradled her within his lap. His fingers skimmed her belly as he whispered into her ear, “Now, speak to me, if you would... if you can...”

“You take unfair advantage! I cannot think when you touch me so!”

He flashed her a satisfied smile. “If I torture you, my lovely wife, then I torture myself all the more, for I want nothing more this instant than to lay you back upon this bed of ours and love you madly. Are you certain you wish to talk?” He raised his brows in question.

Jessie smiled coyly. “Alas,” she replied, sighing dramatically, “but we must, you see.” She hesitated a moment, and announced, “I wish you to speak with Jean Paul today.”

“God’s bloody teeth! Not this again!” He made to drop her.

“Nay! But he’s your father!” she protested at once, and he lifted her up. “I shall never understand the two of you—both of you aware the other knows, but neither willing to admit the truth of the matter! Really! I simply cannot comprehend such mulishness!”

“Can you not?” he asked with a crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He sighed then. “Aye, I shall speak to him, in due time. And ’tis you who is the stubborn one, I fear, for bringing this up yet again.” He winked at her to soften his rebuke, and murmured, smacking her thigh, “Even so, mon amour, je t’aime.”

Jessie waved a hand at him crossly, scarcely missing the tip of his nose. “And I love you! But there’s no more time! I’d have my children know their grandsire for who he is, and not merely as your captain. You must tell him!” She cocked her head at him then, narrowing her eyes. “Do you take my meaning?”

He froze. “Are you?” She nodded. “Now?”

She smiled. “I cannot believe you’ve failed to notice!”

“And I cannot believe you’d frolic with me so carelessly when you’re carrying my child! Have you been ill?”

She lifted a brow, in much the same manner he liked to do, and asked pertly, “Do I seem ill to you?” He shook his head. “There is simply... shall we say... a roundness to me now that is quite difficult to overlook,” she pointed out.

He laid her gently back upon their bed to better inspect her. “How imperceptive of me,” he muttered with a frown. “I suppose I shall have to remedy that at once!” When his mouth suddenly lit upon her belly, Jessie squealed and tried to wriggle free of his embrace.

“You would look with your lips?” she asked, scandalized, laughing softly.

“Aye, my love, for I see very well with them, indeed...” He tried once more, and this time she arched backward for him, her eyes closing with unabashed pleasure.

She sighed. “Yes,” she murmured in agreement, “you certainly do... Look again if you please...”

Later, in the drawing room, the argument continued. “You’ll tell him now, won’t you?”

“God’s teeth, Jessamine! I said I would!”

She frowned at him. “You never call me Jessamine!”

He locked his hands behind his back and peered at her, eyeing her pointedly. “I do now.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because you’re an impudent little wench!”

“Aye, well, it cannot be helped! I should remind you that you’ve promised near a dozen times before and never have spoken to him yet!”

He grunted, turning from the window long enough to give his wife a thoroughly disgruntled glance. “I shall tonight,” he promised, and turned to peer out the window once more to see that Ben and Jean Paul were approaching the house.

“Christ,” he muttered. “Here they come—sit, Jessamine! And don’t you speak another blessed word!”

Undaunted, Jessie sat upon the blue damask settee to await Jean Paul and her cousin’s entrance, eager for the scene to come. Her gaze wandered while she waited. The house was complete at last, the rooms furnished, some sparsely, others richly. This room was particularly grand, the ceiling high, and from the center hung a great ironwork candelabra. Two spiral staircases led abovestairs, one to each wing. The floor was polished oak, with an immense woven carpet stretched across its length. By the hearth sat two gold damask chairs along with the settee Jessie now occupied. She oft imagined them, she and Christian, sitting here along with their children, enjoying a blazing fire in winter. Soon it would be so.

She sighed, for so much had transpired since that day upon the Ashley. Lord St. John’s body had never been found, though the river had been dredged. She tried not to think of that much, for in truth, there was much to be thankful for in St. John’s death. It was a dreadful end for any man, one that she wouldn’t have wished upon anyone, but the fact remained that if Lord St. John had lived, Christian might have hung for the sins of Hawk. She couldn’t have borne that.

With the changing tide, Daniel Moore had fled to England in fear of his life... and there were whispers of war in the air. She tried not to think of them either. Many had chosen to return to England—McCarney included—before the tide turned completely. Jessie sighed, watching her husband at the window, thrusting the dark thoughts aside. For the time being, Hawk did not exist, there was only Christian, husband to her, and father to their unborn child.

The door swung open and both Jean Paul and Ben entered, wiping their boots upon the threshold. Jessie frowned at them, and considered rebuking them for the mess they created between them, but she sat patiently instead, her gaze reverting to Christian. He stood watching her, scowling really, and she lifted a brow in question.

“I haven’t done or said anything yet!” she apprised him. “Now, have I?”

“Faugh!” Jean Paul exclaimed as he came within. “Lies, all lies, I tell you!”

Jessamine shared a look with her husband and laughed softly. Some things had changed; some things remained the same. More oft than not, Ben and Jean Paul were at one another’s throats.

“If you say so, old man,” Ben yielded, “though I’m glad ’tis your own hide you risk, not mine!”

She smiled at that and said pertly, “Please! Do come in! Quickly! Quickly!”

“Jessamine,” Christian warned, eyeing her sternly.

Jessie ignored him, smiling brightly. “My husband has something he wishes to say to Jean Paul before the two of you commence to butchering one another.”

“Jessamine!” Christian said. “Allow me, if you please!”

She sat, but her smile remained and was contagious. Ben found himself grinning as he came to sit beside her. Taking her hand, he patted it affectionately.

Jean Paul stood, staring expectantly not more than two feet from his son. Christian, on the other hand, seemed to be pleading with her, or perhaps he was glaring at her and Ben. She couldn’t tell. When she returned his regard with a saucy smile, he grimaced and turned to face his father.

“’Tis my wife,” he began sourly, his face coloring slightly. He shifted uncomfortably. “I... she—” His voice faltered. “Damn it all, I! I would have you know...” He swallowed, turning to meet Jessie’s gaze briefly before continuing. “I would have you know... that you... you are soon to become a grandfather,” he finished scarcely loud enough for Jean Paul to hear.

It didn’t matter; one might have heard a mouse walk in a room as silent as this one had become. He took a deep breath and lifted his chin, looking more like a little lost boy than Jessie knew he would have liked. “What think you of that, old man?”

Jessie’s heart swelled with pride for him, but she held her breath, waiting for Jean Paul’s reply.

Jean Paul turned to Jessie, seeming to understand that she was the one responsible for this long-awaited acknowledgment. His eyes glittered suspiciously. And then, in a sweeping moment that brought tears to her eyes, he turned to Christian and said, choking on his words, “You make me proud, son!” Further words failed him and he moved forward, daring to embrace Christian.

Tentatively at first, Christian returned the hug, unsure of what to do, what to say. His grimace held a wealth of emotions, Jessie knew. Even so, the arms embracing him were not so easy to refuse, and finally he was clasping his father with as much force as was offered. Jean Paul peeled himself away, patting

Christian’s shoulder, seeming embarrassed now by his show of affection.

Unable to bear not being a part of the hug, Jessie laughed and hugged Ben beside her. Ben reacted rather startled at first, looking quickly to Christian, and then again to Jessie. After another instant, he returned her hug somewhat cautiously and bent to whisper in her ear. “Felicitations, sweet coz! I shall carry the news to Mother and Father. They shall be del—”

Suddenly there was a hand wedged between them. Startled by the abruptness of it, both Ben and Jessie gazed upward to spy Christian’s scowling face.

“Good God, man,” Ben exclaimed, “but you are as jealous a husband as they come! She’s my cousin!” he protested lamely.

Jean Paul laughed, his eyes gleaming still.

“Aye,” Christian admitted without qualm. “That I am, and don’t you go forgetting it!”

“Does that mean I cannot congratulate my new daughter?” Jean Paul dared.

“If you mean to embrace her, it does,” Christian told him without hesitation “Father or nay, you’re a man first, and I’ll not have her embraced by any but me. At least not tonight,” he added, and having declared it so, he swept Jessie up into his arms. She squealed, part in laughter, part in protest.

“If you’ll excuse us,” he said, winking at his wife. “There’s a matter of some compensation to be had for my troubles this eve.” His smile deepened when Jessie blushed, and he bore her quickly up the stairs, leaving two mouths agape behind them. He didn’t bother to offer Ben or his father so much as a by-your-leave.

“But we have guests!” Jessie protested.

“Aye, well, devil hang them both!” her husband proclaimed, and even as he ascended the stairwell, he managed to kiss her soundly, silencing any further protests.

The sight of them brought a hearty chuckle from the pair below.

“Have you ever seen the like!” Ben exclaimed, shaking his head in wonder as he watched the two disappear from the landing above.

“Mais oui,” Jean Paul said softly. “But of course.” And his look was wistful and distant as he stared up at the empty landing above. Voices could be heard faintly from the corridor, giggles, and then a door slammed shut in the distance, echoing throughout the grand house.

There was a deep hush and an air of profound contentment in its wake.

Tears filled Jean Paul’s eyes, but he seemed unaware of them until one slid conspicuously down his weathered old cheek. He swiped at it quickly and turned to see that Ben was staring. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said, his voice catching strangely, “but I am an old man, and sometimes I find myself weakened by paltry emotions.”

His dark eyes twinkling, Ben assured, “I saw nothing, my friend.”

Jean Paul nodded. “And so you’ve not,” he agreed. He placed a hand to Ben’s shoulder. “So you’ve not.”

ABOUT TANYA ANNE CROSBY

Tanya has written seventeen novels, all of which have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and two moody cats in North Michigan.

BOOKS BY TANYA ANNE CROSBY

The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon's Bride
Lyon's Gift
On Bended Knee
Lion Heart
Highland Song

The Medievals
Once Upon a Kiss
Angel Of Fire
Viking's Prize

The Impostor Series
Impostor's Kiss
The Impostor Prince
Happily Ever After
Perfect In My Sight
Kissed
Sagebrush Bride

Novella
Lady's Man

Romantic Suspense
Speak No Evil

Look for Tell No Lies early 2014

TANYA ANNE CROSBY'S
CONTACT INFORMATION

Email: Tanya@TanyaAnneCrosby.com

Website: http://www.TanyaAnneCrosby.com

Newsletter: http://bit.ly/TanyaNewsletter

Facebook Author Page: http://www.facebook.com/TanyaAnneCrosby

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