June 23, 1799

Somewhere in the world, time no doubt whistled by on taut and widespread wings, but here in the English countryside it plodded slowly, painfully, as if it trod the rutted road that stretched across the moors on blistered feet. The hot sweltering air was motionless; dust hung above the road, still reminding the restless of a coach that had passed several hours before. A small farm squatted dismally beneath the humid haze that lay over the marsh. The thatched cottage stood between spindly yews and, with shutters open and door ajar, it seemed to stare as if aghast at some off-color jest. Nearby, a barn sagged in poor repair about its rough-hewn frame and beyond, a thin growth of wheat fought vainly in the boggy soil for each inch of growth.

Inside the house, Heather wearily turned potatoes against a dull worn knife that more scraped than peeled. Two years she had lived in this cottage, two years so miserable that they seemed to blot out her life. She could barely summon the happy times prior to that weary day she had been brought here, the softer days spilling over the years as she grew from baby to young woman, when her father, Richard, had been alive and she lived with him in a comfortable London house, wearing stylish clothes, having enough food to eat. Oh yes, it was better then. Even the nights her father left her alone with servants didn’t seem so frightening now. She could understand now his agonies, his loneliness for a wife long dead, the sweet, beautiful Irish lass whom he had fallen in love with and married and lost giving birth to their only child. Now Heather could even comprehend her father’s need to gamble, that cruel sport which had robbed him of life and her of home and security, leaving her at the mercy of her only kin, a pluckless uncle and a shrewish aunt.

Heather wiped her brow and thought of Aunt Fanny lounging in the other room; the straw mattress would be flattened under her more than generous frame. Fanny was not a woman easy to get along with. Everything seemed to displease her. She was without friends. Not a soul ever came to call. She liked no one. She had thought the Irish woman her brother-in-law had married was inferior because of her people, a race she declared was always warring against the crown because it was their nature to fight, and now Heather bore the brunt of that malicious hatred. Not a day went by that it wasn’t thrown up to Heather that she was half foreign. And with the prejudice was an emotion that ran deeper, twisting Fanny’s reasoning until she half believed that like the mother, the daughter was part witch. Call it jealousy perhaps, for Fanny Simmons had never been pretty, not even remotely so, whereas the colleen, Brenna, had possessed great beauty and charm. Men’s heads turned when she walked into a room. Heather had inherited her mother’s exquisite loveliness and, sadly enough, the aunt’s criticism along with it.

The gaming houses had claimed payment for Richard’s losses at their tables, taking every material possession he had had but a few personal artifacts and some clothing. Fanny had hastened to London to declare her husband’s right of blood, snatching up the orphaned niece and her meager inheritance before a protest could be made. She had grumbled because Richard had not shared his wealth nor left it behind for them, then sold the goods, all but one gown, a pink one that Heather was not even allowed to wear, and greedily pocketed the money.

Heather straightened her aching back and sighed.

“Heather Simmons!”

The words rang from the other room and the bed creaked as her aunt rose from it.

“You lazy flit, stop your daydreaming and get to work. Do you think your chores will be gettin’ done while you mope around here? I swear a body would think that lady’s school you went to would’ve taught you something useful instead of reading and all those high-handed notions what fill your head!”

The huge woman padded across the dirt floor into the room, and Heather mentally braced herself. She knew what was coming.

“See what good it done you—‘aving to live off your only kin. Your pa were a fool, that he was, throwing away his money without a care o’ nobody but hisseif, all on account o’ that flip he married—that Irish girl.” She spat the words out in distaste as if she could think of nothing worse. “We tried to warn him against wedding her. But he wouldn’t listen—‘e had to have Brenna.”

Heather lifted her gaze wearily from the shaft of sunlight drifting in from the open doorway to the large bulk of her aunt. She had heard the argument so often she knew it by heart; it failed to shake her kinder memories of her father.

“He was a good father,” she said simply.

“That’s a matter of opinion, missy,” the woman sneered. “See what fix he left you in. No dowry an’ eighteen you’ll be next month. Ain’t no man what’ll marry you without one, though they’ll be wanting you all right—to fill their beds. I got me poor hands full, trying to keep you decent. I ain’t wanting you to spill no bastards in me home. Folks here is just waiting for that. They knows what trash your ma was.”

Heather flinched, but her aunt ranted on, turning her narrowed eyes upon her and shaking a damning finger.

“The devil done his work when he made you just like her. A witch, she was. ‘Taint natural for you to have the same looks. And so she ruined your pa, so you’ll be ruining every man what lays his eyes on you. ‘Tis the Lord’s will what brought you to me. He knew I could save you from the fire an’ brimstone you were meant for, and I done me duty in selling those fancy gowns you had. You were too vain an’ uppity for your own good. Them old dresses of mine have done nicely for you.”

Heather could almost laugh. If it weren’t so sad she would. Her aunt’s clothes hung about her worse than any sack, for the woman outweighed her twice over. This was all that she was permitted to wear, old rags that made a mockery of style or design. Fanny had even forbidden Heather to take in the seams to make them fit better, only to shorten the hems, so she wouldn’t trip.

The woman caught Heather’s contemplation of her hand-me-down and sneered. “Ungrateful little beggar. Just tell me where you’d have been today if your uncle an’ me ‘adn’ t taken you in? If your pa would ‘ave ‘ad good sense, he’d ‘ave married you off with a nice dowry. But no, he kept you to hisself, thinking you too young to wed. Well, it’s too late for you now. You’ll be buried a spinster when you die—and a virgin, too, that I’ll see to.”

Fanny returned once more to the cottage’s only other room, giving Heather a warning that she’d best hurry with her chores or suffer under the bite of a switch. Heather’s fingers sped at their task. She had felt the sting of that branch. Red welts usually criss-crossed her back for days following a whipping. Fanny seemed to take special delight in marking Heather’s bare flesh.

Heather dared not release another exhausted sigh, for fear it would draw her aunt’s attention again, but she was weary of her labors. She had been up since before dawn, preparing a feast for Fanny’s anxiously awaited brother, and she doubted her ability to last much longer. A letter had arrived several days before, informing Fanny that he would be coming this evening, and she had ordered Heather to start preparations immediately upon receipt of the note; she had even lifted a finger or two herself to arrange a treasured cup on a saucer. Heather knew the man was someone her aunt held very dear indeed. She had heard many glorious tales about him, and guessed that Fanny’s brother was the only being, human or otherwise, that she cared anything about. Uncle John had confirmed Heather’s beliefs when he told her there was nothing Fanny wouldn’t do for the man. There had been only the two of them, and being ten years her brother’s senior she had raised him from a babe. But it was very rare nowadays that he came to call.

The sun was a red ball flaming low in the west before everything lay ready. Fanny came to give her final approval and directed Heather to set out more candles to light later.

“It’s five summers since I laid my poor eyes on my brother, and I want everything to be nice for him. My Willy’s used to the best of London, and I won’t be having him find fault with what’s here. He ain’t like that uncle of yours nor your pa. My brother’s got lots of money cause he uses his head.” She gestured to her own large head to make her point. “You don’t see him in no gaming houses throwing away his wealth nor sitting on his prat like your uncle. He’s a man what makes his own chances, he does. Ain’t no finer clothier’s shop than what he’s got in London. He even has a man what works for him, he does.”

She finally gave the blessed command for Heather to go and freshen up.

“An’ Heather, wear that gown your pa give you. It’ll do nicely. I want my brother’s visit to be a happy occasion without the likes of those rags you’re wearing marring it.”

Heather turned around, eyes wide with surprise. For two years her pink gown had remained tucked away, untouched and unworn. Now she would be allowed to wear it. Even if it was for the pleasure of her aunt’s brother, she was delighted. It seemed an eternity since she had worn anything pretty, and now she smiled in anticipation.

“Aye, I see you’re pleased. Always thinking how pretty you look in those fine dresses, you are.” Fanny pressed close and wagged her finger under Heather’s nose. “Satan is at his work again. Mind you, the Lord knows what a task you are for me.” She sighed heavily, as if tired of her burden. “It’s better that you were married and off me hands. But I pity the man who would wed you, though there ain’t no chance of that without a dowry. You need a strong man to keep you tied down and burdened with his babe every year. You need it to take the witch from your evil soul.”

Heather shrugged her shoulders and continued to smile. She longed for the nerve to frighten her aunt into believing she was really a witch. It would be a heathenish thing to do and the temptation would have been great for a braver person, but for her the idea quickly ebbed away. The consequences would not be light.

“Another thing, missy, wear your hair coiled round your head. It’ll do nicely indeed,” Aunt Fanny smirked slyly, knowing how much her niece disliked being told how to wear her hair.

The smile quickly faded from Heather’s face, but she turned away murmuring an affirmative answer. Her aunt waited for disapproval of her commands to be expressed in the slightest way; she took it upon herself to hand out discipline with harsh methods.

Heather crossed the room and moved behind the curtain separating her small corner from the rest of the living area. She heard her aunt leave the cottage and it was only then she dared allow a mutinous pout to show. She was angry, but more at herself than at her aunt. She had always been a coward and the way things were going she would always be one.

The dreary cubicle held but the barest necessities, yet it was here she sought succor from the brutality of her aunt. She sighed and bent to light the short candle on the shoddy table beside the narrow rope cot.

“If only I were stronger and braver,” she thought, “then I would set her back on her heels. If just once I could retort in kind to her needling.” She flexed a slim arm with a wry smile fleeting across her lips. “But I’d have to be Samson to wrestle her!”

Earlier she had set an ewer of warm water and a washbowl in her room and now Heather stretched in anticipation of the bath. With a distasteful grimace, she half tore the hated dress she wore from her body. Standing naked, she relaxed and ran her hands down her slender body, wincing when her fingers touched a bruise. Aunt Fanny had flown into a rage the day before when she had accidently knocked over a cup of tea, and before she could flee the woman had laid the bundle of a straw broom heavily across her buttocks.

With tender care Heather removed the pink gown from its bundle and hung it where her eyes could caress it as she bathed. The water was refreshing and she scrubbed vigorously until her skin blushed with a youthful glow. She worked the cloth over a small sliver of scented soap she had scavenged and lathered herself liberally, reveling in the pungent fragrance.

Her toilette complete, she drew the gown carefully over her shabby chemise. The bodice of the gown had been made for a younger girl. The fabric was tight across her breasts, and she pondered on her growth and considered the daring swell above the low décolletage, then dismissed the problem with a shrug of her shoulders. It was her only gown and it was too late an hour to contemplate alterations.

In delightful luxury, she brushed her hair until it gleamed in the candlelight. This had been her father’s pride, something he had treasured and often stroked in absent thought as, she surmised, he had done with her mother. More than once he had stared at her as if dreaming and in deep longing, murmured his wife’s name before he had consciously shaken himself and turned away with misty eyes.

As directed, she coiled her hair around her head, but left a few stray curls to tumble down the back in feigned disarray and another on each temple in rare defiance. She surveyed herself in the piece of broken glass that served as a mirror and nodded her head. She had done better than she expected with the crude materials at hand.

On the other side of the curtain, Heather heard someone enter the cottage and move about the room; there was a deep hacking cough. She stepped around the drapery, knowing it was her uncle. He was lighting his pipe with a wood splint from the fire and he coughed again as it took light. Swirls of smoke filled the room.

John Simmons was a broken man. He had little to care about in his life but his miserly guarded money and the doubtful companionship of Aunt Fanny and had ceased to worry about his appearance. His shirt was grease stained and dirt was thick under his nails. He had lost the good looks of his younger years and now stood before Heather a stooped and withered man who appeared well beyond his two score and ten years. His eyes held a lackluster film of broken dreams and crushed hopes and frustration-filled days under his wife’s heckling. His hands were gnarled and twisted with the years of backbreaking labor eking a shallow subsistence from the marshy land, and his weather-thickened skin held the pain of the passing seasons etched in deep lines that furrowed his face.

He glanced up and saw the soft beauty of his niece and something of a new pain seemed to fleet across his features. He sat back in his chair and smiled.

“You’re looking lovely this evening, child. I’m supposing it be for William’s visit?”

“Aunt Fanny gave me permission, Uncle,” she answered.

He sucked on the pipe a moment as his teeth tightened upon it. “Aye, I can believe that,” he sighed. “She goes to great lengths to please him though he’s a cold man. Once when she journeyed to London to see him he refused to speak with her. Now, she dare not go for fear of angering him, and he’s satisfied with it thus. He has his wealthy friends and wouldn’t think of claiming her his kin.”

A slightly blurred portrait of his sister, William Court was even the same height as Fanny, which was a full head taller than Heather. Perhaps he was not quite as obese, but Heather surmised that difference would diminish in a few years. His pudgy face was ruddy, with heavy jowls, and he possessed a protruding underlip which was constantly wet with saliva. He dabbed at it continuously with a lacy handkerchief, making sniffing noises as if it were his nose he wiped. When he held Heather’s hand in greeting his was sickeningly soft, and when he bent to kiss her hand, she had a vague feeling of revulsion.

The clothes he wore bespoke of elegant taste, but his mincing manner did little to enhance a masculine mien. The suit of soft gray, liberally piped with silver, and the white shirt and stock seemed to accentuate his pinkish hands and wheezing red face. William Court may have been wealthy, but Heather could find little to attract her. His trousers were extremely tight, almost to a point of discomfort it seemed, and it could be guessed that they had been deliberately cut thus to display to the casual eye his otherwise questionable manhood.

He had arrived in a rented landau with a precisely dressed coachman who was sent to the barn to bed down with his two dapple-gray horses. Heather sensed the driver was put out with his lowly accommodations since he himself was better dressed than the occupants of the cottage. The barn was hardly fit for his animals. But if he were annoyed he said nothing, going silently about his work, tending the horses and carriage.

Aunt Fanny, with her grey hair pulled tightly against her large head, looked like a forboding fortress in her stiffly starched gown and apron. In spite of her past ranting and raving about how fancy clothes were the work of the devil, she was openly pleased to see her brother prosperously dressed and bustled about him like a hen over a baby chick. Heather had never seen her so affectionate to any individual, and it was kindly received by William Court who obviously enjoyed being waited upon hand and foot. She ignored her aunt’s drooling endearments and didn’t attend closely to their conversation until at dinner it drifted to the current news from London. Then she began to listen intently in hopes of hearing news of old friends.

“Napoleon escaped and now everyone believes him to be on his way back to France after his defeat in Egypt. Nelson taught him a thing or two. He’ll think twice before tangling with our seamen again, by Jove!” William Court swore.

Heather noted that his speech was considerably better than his sister’s and she wondered if he had attended a school.

Aunt Fanny wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and snarled. “Pitt didn’t know what he was talking about when he said leave the French be. Now he’s up to his bloody neck with them and those Irish too. I say kill ‘em all!”

Heather bit her lip.

“The Irish! Ha! Pack of animals they are, if you ask me! They don’t know when they’re happy and well off!” Aunt Fanny continued.

“Pitt is trying to form a union with them now. Perhaps next year it will go through,” Uncle John said.

“Per’aps we’ll have our throats slit by the bloody lot of them, too!”

Heather glanced hesitantly to her uncle, uneasy as always with her aunt’s prejudice. John lowered his eyes and drained his ale in one breath. He sighed and cast a longing glance to the jug Fanny guarded, then set his mug upon the hearth and silently returned to his pipe.

“The Yankee’s the same! They’ll cut your throat rather than look at you. We’ll have them to fight again, mark my word.”

William chuckled, his jowls quivering with amusement. “It would do you no good to come to London then, dear sister, for they come into port as if they owned the place. A few get snatched for impressment, but they’re a careful lot and stay to themselves. When they venture into the city they go in numbers. They don’t like the idea of sailing on the British ships. Aye, they’re a careful lot and some have the audacity to think themselves gentlemen. Look at that fellow Washington, for instance. And now they have that other fool, Adams, whom they’ve elected as their king. It’s outrageous! But it won’t last. They’ll come back, whining like the dogs they are!”

Heather didn’t know any Yankees. She was simply glad that her aunt and Mr. Court were discussing them instead of the Irish.

She let her attention slide from the conversation. As long as they did not talk of London society or her ancestors she was not interested. If she dared speak up and declare her loyalty to them or ask if there was social news of London, she knew her aunt would descend on her viciously. As it was, her thoughts wandered elsewhere and she sat for what seemed an eternity.

Aunt Fanny brought Heather out of her shell; she reached across the table and maliciously pinched her arm. Heather jumped. She rubbed her arm, where a red welt was forming, and looked up at her aunt, blinking back tears of pain.

“I asked you if you wanted to teach at Lady Cabot’s finishing school. My brother thinks he may be able to find you work,” Aunt Fanny snapped.

Heather could hardly believe her ears. “What?”

William Court laughed and explained. “I’ve very good connections with the school, and I know they’re looking for a young lady of quality, and you do have excellent manners and good speech. You would, I believe, be perfect for the position, and I understand you also attended a school in London which will be of much help.” He dabbed at his massive lips before continuing. “Perhaps in the future I could arrange a suitable marriage for you with a prominent family in town. It would seem a shame to waste such ladylike grace on a farm yokel here. Of course, if I do arrange such a contract, it would mean supplying you with a substantial dowry which I’ll expect to be repaid when you have your man secure. It’s a slight trick, but could be profitable to each of us. You’re in want of a dowry, which I can supply, and I’d favor the interest on the loan which you can provide afterwards. No one need know of such an arrangement and I know you’re wise enough to obtain the money after you’re married. Would this position at Lady Cabot’s be acceptable to you?”

Heather was not sure about William Court’s marriage scheme, but—to get away from this farm, Aunt Fanny, her boring existence! To once again be near London society—it would be marvelous! If it weren’t for the stinging of her arm, she would think she was still dreaming.

“Speak up, child. What is your answer?” plied William.

Hardly able to suppress her glee, she did not hesitate further. “The offer is most kind of you, sir, and I’ll be happy to.”

William laughed again. “Good! Good! You’ll not regret your decision.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, we must journey to London tomorrow. I’ve been away from my business too long and I must get back to relieve my assistant. Do you think you can be ready, child?” He waved a lace handkerchief under his nose and dabbed once again at his thick lips.

“Oh, yes, sir. Whenever you choose to leave I’ll be ready,” she said happily.

“Good, good. It’s all settled then.”

Heather cleared the table and it was with a new feeling she did so, knowing it would be the last meal she would clean away in this cottage. She was too caught up in her happiness to bother making conversation with her aunt as the woman watched her, and when she was to herself behind her curtain she thought of all the delights of being free from Aunt Fanny. Any position in London would be superior to living under that woman’s thumb and taking her abuse. Heather would be free of the harsh words, the violent anger, and maybe, somewhere, there’d be someone who cared.

Little preparation was necessary for the next day’s journey for what she possessed was what she had worn that night and what she would wear again tomorrow. She slipped naked beneath the blanket on her cot. It was rough against her flesh and when the wind brought the chilled air of winter it failed to keep her sufficiently warm. She giggled with pleasure when she thought of not having to contend with it any longer. In less than a twelve month it would be a new century and she wondered what its years held for her now with this new chance to live and be happy.

The next afternoon they journeyed to London in William Court’s carriage and Heather found it a most enjoyable ride. The countryside along the way was green and lush in June. She had not noticed the same moors when she traveled to her uncle’s home two years before, but, now that she went south toward London, she thought it beyond comparison in its beauty.

Mr. Court proved a kind host and very attentive. She was able to talk with him at last about the current events of London society and she laughed gaily to hear his tales of the regency’s court. Once she glanced up to find him watching her with an intensity she could not fathom, but he quickly looked away. For a moment she had some slight qualms about going to London with him alone since, after all, he was not a legal guardian but a most distant cousin. The uneasiness soon faded and she mused that he was studying her for what future marriage contract he could arrange.

It was dark when they reached the outskirts of London. The ride had made Heather uncomfortably sore and weary from being bumped around and thrown against the side of the coach every time they hit a sink hole. She was greatly relieved when they arrived at the shop.

Within the place, silks, muslins, lawns, velvets and satins of all colors and textures were stacked high on tables and shelves. There was everything a woman could desire for the making of a stylish gown. Heather was amazed at the vast selection, and in her excitement hurriedly felt one cloth, carefully examined another and failed to notice a man sitting at a desk near the rear of the shop.

William Court laughed as he watched her move about the room. “You’ll have more time to examine everything later, my dear, but now you must meet my assistant, Mr. Thomas Hint.”

Heather turned and saw a strange little man who she instantly decided was the ugliest creature she had ever seen. Large, liquid eyes bulged from a round face and the nose was a short, flattened thing with flaring nostrils. His tongue continually flicked over thick, scarred lips, reminding her of lizards she had seen on the farm. His grotesque, hunchback figure was clothed in a rich, scarlet silk that was spotted, like his shirt, with food stains. When he smiled at her it was lop-sided, with one whole side of his face compressing into a tight, horrible smirk. She thought he would look better if he didn’t try to smile. In fact, she couldn’t see why William had him in the shop. She was positive he frightened more customers away than he attracted, and if he attracted anyone they were persons whose minds were deranged.

As if in answer to her questioning thoughts, William Court spoke. “People are used to Thomas. We have a good trade here because they know we’re well skilled in our business. Is that not so, Thomas?”

He was answered with a non-committal grunt.

“Now, my dear,” William continued, “I want to show you my apartments upstairs. I believe you will be pleased.”

He led her toward the back of the shop, through a doorway hung with draperies and into a small room where a meager window gave off the only light. There was a stairway to one side and it led them to a dim little hallway with a single door leading from it. It was a massive wooden door, ornate compared to the dreariness of the hall. William smiled and opened it for her and Heather caught her breath in surprise at what lay behind it. The apartment was luxuriously furnished with pieces of Hepplewhite and Chippendale. A red velvet settee was grouped with two matching chairs upon a splendid Persian rug. Oil paintings and rich tapestries hung from light colored walls and a chandelier reflected prisms of light on red velvet draperies and their trim of gold braid and tassels. Fragile porcelain figurines were placed upon tables with candelabras of pewter, and toward the rear of the room was a place to dine. Every appointment had been carefully chosen and obviously no cost had been spared.

William opened another door within this room and stepped back to allow Heather to enter. Inside she found a large four-poster bed draped in royal blue velvet. A small commode was convenient to the bedside with a large candelabrum upon it and a bowl of fresh fruit. A silver-handled paring knife had been placed beside it.

“Oh, sir, it is elegant,” she breathed.

He took a pinch of snuff and smiled slowly as he watched her move toward a mirror standing near the bed. “I pamper myself with a few luxuries, my dear.”

If she had turned at that precise moment, Heather would have been aware of what he had taken care to conceal before. His desire for her was plainly visible in his eyes as they traveled down her slender body. He turned lest she swing round and find the lust within his gaze.

“You must be famished by now, Heather.”

He went to a wardrobe and flung open the doors. A vivid and wide assortment of lady’s gowns hung within and he searched among them until he found a beige gown of lace sewn with tiny sparkling beads and lined with a clinging flesh colored material. It was a gown of much cost and beauty.

“You may wear this for dinner, my dear,” he smiled. “It was made for a young girl your size but she never came back for it. I’ve often wondered why she failed to, seeing it’s one of the loveliest I’ve ever designed, but I suppose the girl found she couldn’t afford it after all.” He gazed at her from behind lowered eyelids. “It is her loss but your gain. It is my gift to you. Wear it tonight and you’ll please me greatly.”

He moved to the door and there turned again to her.

“I’ve sent Thomas to tell cook to fetch us dinner. It should be here shortly so I beg you not to keep your sweet company from me too long, if there are other articles of clothing you need, the wardrobe is at your disposal.”

Heather smiled hesitantly, holding the treasured gown to her as if unable to believe it belonged to her. When William closed the door behind him, she turned slowly to her image in the mirror, still clutching the dress to her.

During the years she had lived with her aunt, Heather had not looked upon her reflection except for glimpsing it in the piece of broken glass and in occasional pools of water. She had almost forgotten the way she looked. She was now as she had seen her mother in her portrait, the very image of her. Yet she was perplexed over why people thought and remembered Brenna as being beautiful. The tall pale blond beauties who visited court and whom she had read about in her girlhood had always seemed to her to be the very essence of loveliness, not small, dark-haired women who looked like herself.

Heather washed the day’s grime from her body and found a fresh chemise in the wardrobe. Donning it, she blushed at its indecent display of her body and felt more than a little wicked wearing it. It was of the softest batiste, transparent to the eye, and it completely revealed her body. Its low bodice barely covered her bosom. She was too accustomed to the childish garments of her younger years to be totally at ease in the chemise, yet she could not bear to even think of wearing her own badly frayed one under such a beautiful gown.

She smiled in amusement at herself.

Who will see me? Only my eyes will gaze upon this reckless creation, no one else’s.

She laughed at the nonsense of it and gaily set about to do her hair. She twisted, twirled, curled and pinned the glossy black tresses into a fashionable coiffure, pulling it up and away from her face. Instead of a plain coiled hair-do, she chose to catch it into a mass of soft ringlets that cascaded over each other down the back. Concentrating a moment over her artistry, she picked up the paring knife from the table and began to cut little wisps of hair in front of her ears until each had a soft curl dangling in front of it. With a smile of satisfaction, she thought of how her aunt would shriek in rage and call her loathsome names if she could but see her.

Very gently she touched her finger to the knife to test its edge, as she idly thought of her aunt. At once a drop of blood stained the blade. Grimacing and holding her finger to her mouth, she put the instrument down, commenting to herself that she would be careful in the future if she wanted any fruit sliced or peeled.

The beige gown caused as much surprise as the undergarment she wore beneath. Wearing it she no longer looked the young girl but the woman full grown. Indeed, her eighteenth birthday the following month would prove she was. But there was something else about the gown that made her seem strangely different. As the chemise, it barely concealed her bosom, and the lining gave the illusion she was without even that questionable undergarment. She looked the temptress, seductive, without innocence, a woman knowing her way among men instead of a maiden still untouched as she was.

William was waiting for her when she came from the bedroom. He had taken some time with his own appearance, changing his traveling garb for richer, more elegant clothes and curling short wisps of his thinning hair around his fat face, succeeding only in making it appear rounder.

“My dear sweet Heather, your loveliness does make my heart wish for younger years. I have heard tales of such great beauty as yours, but never, never have I seen it with my own eyes.”

Heather murmured a gracious comment before her attention slid to the food that had been brought. She sampled the tantalizing aromas that filled the air. The table had been set with crystal, china and silver and a feast lay on the sideboard. There she found roast game bird, wild rice, buttered shrimp, sweet pastries and candied fruits. A light wine was in a decanter conveniently placed at the head of the table.

William, at the moment, filled his eyes with other pleasures as he allowed his appraising gaze to sweep over Heather slowly, no longer attempting to hide his lust. His devouring stare remained momentarily upon the décolletage where the higher curves of her breasts swelled above the gown. His tongue passed over his thick lips as he surveyed those soft curves, impatiently anticipating the taste of that sweet, young flesh.

He held a chair for her near the head of the table and smiled. “Sit here, dear lady, and let me wait upon you.”

Heather complied and watched as he filled their plates.

“Cook is a bashful sort,” he commented, dipping a generous portion of rice upon his plate. “She delivers my food promptly at my command then hurries away before I barely catch a glimpse of her. She whisks everything away again with the same silent efficiency and I’ve hardly known she’s come. But as you will soon find out, she’s a most excellent chef de cuisine.”

They began the meal, and Heather was amazed at the amount of food the man consumed. She found herself wondering if he would be able to move when he finished. His bulging jaws continually worked to chew his food and as he devoured the delicious partridge and sweet tarts he licked his greasy fingers and almost incessantly smacked his lips. Several times he gave a loud belch, startling her.

“When you begin at Lady Cabot’s, you’ll have great opportunities to meet some of the men from the wealthier class of people, and with your beauty it will not take you long to become the most sought after girl that ever entered that establishment.”

He laughed, peering glassy-eyed at her over his goblet.

“You are more than kind, sir,” she replied politely, though she thought the wine had made him a little daft. Few men visited ladies’ schools and those who did were usually well beyond marriageable age and had some business there.

“Yes,” he grinned tipsily. “But I expect to be paid well for my efforts.”

He looked at Heather hard now, but again she did not notice, watching instead the wine glass he held unsteadily in his hand. He spilled some of the drink down his waistcoat and some dribbled down his chin when he took a deep sip.

“You’ll find Lady Cabot’s quite a different place than you’ve ever known before,” he slurred. “The madame and I are partners and we take care that only the comeliest maids live behind its doors. We must be very particular, for it’s frequented by the very rich and they do have such high standards. But with you I think there’s a fortune to be had.”

Heather decided the poor man was too inebriated to know what he was rambling about. She stifled a yawn, feeling the effects of the wine herself, and longed to crawl into bed.

William laughed. “I fear I’ve exhausted you with my chatter, my dear. I had hoped you would not be too tired from our journey to permit us a long, friendly chat, but I see our conversation must continue tomorrow.” He put up a hand when she tried graciously to protest. “I’ll hear no arguments. You must go to bed. As a matter of fact, I’m beginning to feel in need of that favored spot myself. It would please me greatly to know you’re reclining upon those soft downy pillows.”

Heather more or less glided to her bedroom, the warmth of the wine relaxing every nerve, every limb. She heard William chuckling to himself as she closed the door behind her, and she leaned against it and laughed too, knowing all was changing in her life. She danced over to the mirror, feeling a little giddy, and bowed low before it.

“Tell me, Lady Cabot, how do you like my attire? If you view this with pleasure, you must see the gowns my aunt gave to me.”

Laughing, she whirled and threw open the doors of the wardrobe to inspect the assortment of gowns within, deciding William wouldn’t mind if she feasted her eyes on them. She had always enjoyed beautiful clothes and it had been hateful wearing those old dresses of her aunt. She selected a few gowns to admire further, took them to hold before her in front of the mirror, dreaming a little of owning such fine clothes.

She did not hear the door open behind her, but as it was pushed wide she spun around with a start and saw William standing on the threshold, wearing a dressing gown. Doubt grew rapidly to sweep away her confidence. It dawned on her why he was there and it came as a great surprise, having associated him with Aunt Fanny and her rigid views of such matters. She stood staring at him, stunned, feeling the weight of the trap he had sprung upon her. She had fallen into it like a lamb for slaughter. His eyes burned bright in his ruddy face and a repulsive smile twisted his thick lips. He turned and locked the door behind him and leisurely held the key to tantalize her before he dropped it into his pocket. His gaze roamed over her and he seemed to enjoy the fear he saw in her face.

“What do you want?” she breathed.

He leered. “I’ve come to collect my due for taking you away from that dreary life in the country. You are such a tempting wench I couldn’t resist you. And you were so trusting it was easy to snatch you from my poor sister. When I tire of you I shall allow you to join Lady Cabot’s lovely group. You’ll not find boredom there. And in time perhaps I’ll even let you wed some rich soul who fancies you.” He came a step closer. “There’ll be no need for you to worry, child. Your husband will be a bit disappointed when he takes you to his bed, but he’ll not complain too loudly.”

He moved forward and Heather backed fearfully against the table by the bed.

“I plan to have you, my dear,” he said smugly. “So there is no reason why you should fight me. I’m a very strong man. I do enjoy force if that is what it is to be, but I prefer willingness.”

She shook her head. “No,” she choked through her fright. “No! You’ll never have me! Never!”

William laughed in a terrifying way and Heather braced herself to flee. He was deeply flushed from the great amount of wine he had consumed and the fire raging through his veins. His raking gaze unclothed her and she pressed her hand to her bosom as if to ward off his penetrating gaze. She made to dart past him, but he was quick despite his fleshy bulk and he caught her round the waist. He pressed her backward over the table, enfolding her in a bone crushing grip. His lips, wet and sticky with wine, sank to her throat, and a sick feeling of nausea rose within her. She struggled with him, but her strength was no match for his. As his lips traveled upward she strained her face from him and tried to kick out, but his weight increased, pinning her legs against the table. She was held in an iron grip that left her breathless, and she wondered if her ribs could stand the pressure without cracking. In a panic she remembered the candelabrum on the table behind her and reached for it to protect herself with. She almost had it within her grasp but she was too hasty and it fell to the floor. Then her hand brushed the knife and she clutched at it in desperation.

William was intent on spreading his hot, moist kisses over her throat and bosom, paying little heed to what she did until he felt something sharp press against his side. Glancing down he saw the knife and with a startled oath snatched at her arm. She winced in pain as his fingers closed cruelly about her wrist, yet she held on in blind desperation. His anger soared that this small slip of a girl should dare threaten his body. Heather fought back with all the strength she could muster. His obesity forced her backward until it felt as if her back would break. Her hand grew numb and she knew she must soon yield the blade to him. Pressing his weight against her, William freed his other hand and, reaching across, twisted the small knife from her. Fearing the worst, Heather ceased her struggle and fell to the floor at his feet; deprived of her support, less than agile William Court staggered forward and fell headlong upon the polished planks. He gave a growl with the impact. Heather had risen and stood poised to flee when William slowly rolled over. The small hilt of the fruit knife protruded from a slowly blooming spot of red on the shoulder of his gown.

“Pull . . . it out . . .” he gasped.

She bent and put a cautious hand to the knife but shuddered and recoiled from him, twisting her hands against her mouth in blinding fear.

“Please,” he croaked. “Help me.”

She sank her teeth into her hand in panic and looked wildly about the room. He groaned, louder now; confusion shook her every fiber and fear and hatred raged within her body. If he were dying . . .

“Heather, help me. . . .”

His voice trailed off and his chin quivered as if with the effort of drawing another breath.

From some inner source, strength welled forth and calm returned. She leaned forward and drawing a ragged breath, took the knife with greater determination. Now she braced her other hand against his chest and pulled.

The blade resisted a moment then slowly came out with a grating feel to it. Blood welled forth and with a gasp William fell back unconscious. Heather snatched a towel from the table, opened his robe and pressed it to the wound. Absently she laid her hand upon his chest and could detect no movement. Now she searched for some sign of life in earnest. Holding her hand beneath his nostrils she could feel no breath, and laying her ear to him she could hear no beat of his heart. Her own began pounding in her ears. She felt panic rise again and now could find no reason nor strength to battle it.

“Dear Lord, what have I done?” she murmured.

“I must get help!” The thought flared across her mind. But who would believe her, a stranger in this city now? Newgate was crowded with women who claimed men had tried to assault them—and the block got its share too. They’d not believe it was just an accident! In her mind she held a picture of a stern judge in a long wig sneering down from his high bench, and then the face beneath the white hair became that of Aunt Fanny, sternly pronouncing sentence.

“. . . and at sunrise the next day following shall be taken to Newgate Square and there . . .”

Her mind would go no further, yet the echo of the stentorian voice fanned the flames of terror until they seared her very soul. Her body shook and had she not been kneeling she would have fallen. Her head slumped and for a long time she sat not even thinking, then at last she looked up and a thought came to her.

“I must get away from here.”

It was as simple as that. She must escape. She musn’t be here when they found William’s body. She must flee.

Still gripped in panic, she forced herself to search his pockets for the key. She trembled, but it had to be done. Her own fear now fed her strength.

She wrapped her own clothes in a scarf she found and clutching it to her, hurried to the door. She paused there for a moment without opening it, picturing the scene behind her. Again fear gripped her. She flung open the door and began to run as fast as her legs could carry her, through the parlor, the hall doorway, down the stairs, and toward the curtained doorway to the shop. As she put out her hand to fling open the draperies her panic increased. Someone was there behind the curtain. Her already fast pace was quickened by sheer terror. Someone was after her. She ran swiftly, not daring to turn, her heart pounding hard in her bosom.

She tore down the street, fearful of glancing back. She had no idea where she was going. Perhaps if she lost herself she could lose whoever was behind her. But why couldn’t she hear anyone running after her? Was her own heart beating so loudly in her ears that she could hear nothing else?

Through the streets of London she raced, past shops of business, past great houses that loomed large and menacing in the darkness, past houses of lesser importance. She did not pay any attention to the people who stopped and stared after her.

Soon she was exhausted, and in spite of her fear she stopped to lean against a rough-hewn stone wall. Her lungs burned with the effort of each breath she sobbed. Gradually she became aware of the tang of salt in her nostrils and the fetid smell of the waterfront. She raised her head and opened her eyes. Dense fog lay close upon the cobblestone street and the darkness pressed in until she could hardly breathe. A torch burned on a distant corner and she sought its light and could not bring herself to leave the small circle and go again into the dense black-grey night that surrounded her. Had she the courage, she knew not which way to flee. There was no hint of direction. She could hear the slow lap of water against the pier and the measured creaking of masts and an occasional muffled voice, but the sounds came to her from all around and she could see no spark of light anywhere.

“There she be, by Jove! That’s the one! That’s her! Come on, George. Let’s get her.”

Heather started and whirled about and saw what appeared to be two seamen coming toward her. They knew about her and were coming for her. They were the ones who had been following her. For some reason she had thought it was Mr. Hint. Her legs could not move. She could not flee. She had to wait there for them to take her.

“Hello, miss,” the older one said and smiled at his companion. “’Tis sure the cap’n will like ‘er, eh Dickie?”

The other one passed his tongue over his lips and lowered his gaze to Heather’s bosom. “Aye. This one will suit him fine.”

Heather trembled under the scrutiny of the men, but from the present time on she knew she would have no liberties. The only thing left her was to be brave.

“Where are you taking me?” she managed.

Dickie laughed and punched the other in the ribs. “Kind o’ receptive, ain’t she? He’ll like her all right. Makes me wish I was him an’ could afford such.”

“Just a little ways, miss,” the older one replied. “On board the merchant ship, Fleetwood. Come on.”

She followed the man and the younger fell in behind, giving her no chance to escape. She wondered why they must take her on board a ship. There must be a portreeve there. It didn’t matter. Her life was nothing now. Meekly she climbed the gangplank after the fellow and received his hand as he helped her down from it. He led the way across the deck to a door which he opened and she was ushered through a short companionway and after a light knock, through the door at its end.

As they entered the captain’s cabin, a man rose from the desk where he had been sitting and had it not been for her bruised state of mind, Heather would have noticed his tall, muscular build and piercing green eyes. Fawn colored breeches were fitted snug about his narrow hips and a white ruffled shirt, opened to the waist, revealed a chest wide and firmly muscled beneath a mat of crisp black hair. He had the look of a pirate about him, or even Satan himself, with his dark, curly hair and long sideburns that accentuated the lean, handsome features of his face. His nose was thin and straight except for a slight hook in its profile just below the bridge. His hair was raven black and his skin darkly tanned. White teeth flashed in contrast as he smiled and came forward, sweeping her with a bold gaze from top to toe.

“Aye, you’ve done a handsome night’s work with this one, George. You must have searched hard and wide for her.”

“Nay, cap’n,” the old man returned. “We found her walking the streets of the waterfront. She came most willingly, cap’n.”

The man nodded and walked slowly, deliberately, completely around Heather as she stood rooted to the floor, not touching her with anything but those emerald eyes and they were enough, boldly, rudely evaluating every angle of her visible assets. A coldness grew deep inside her and she clutched her small bundle to her bosom. She felt naked in the thin gown and wished for some sack of heavy black that would cover her from neck to wrist to toe. He paused before her for a moment, smiling, but her eyes would not meet his. She kept them cast downward and stood humbly awaiting some indication of her fate. Behind her the two men grinned, extremely pleased with themselves.

The tall man moved aside with them and the fellow, George, spoke in a low voice. Heather’s eyes moved about the cabin but saw nothing. Outwardly she appeared calm, but the emotional strains raging within her further sapped her strength. She was exhausted, bone tired, confused. She found it difficult to reconcile a magistrate of the law on board a ship, but knowing little of the processes of justice, reasoned that she was probably to be sent to some penal colony, for in her own mind she was guilty of murder.

“Oh God,” she thought, “that I should be raised from a sty by the temptation of a life of ease and for my sin plunged into a prison. I killed a man and I’ve been caught and I must now accept whatever fate decrees for me.”

Her mind stopped and held and was trapped by these final facts. She was guilty. She was caught. Justice had done with her and she had no further word. She did not hear the door close behind her as the seamen left, but words from the man who stood before her roused her from her thoughts. He laughed gently and made a sweeping bow.

“Welcome back, m’lady, and I repeat, what is your name.”

“Heather,” she murmured softly. “Heather Simmons, sir.”

“Ah,” he sighed. “A small, tempting flower from the moors. It’s a most lovely and fitting name, m’lady. Brandon Birmingham is my name. Most of my friends call me Bran. Have you dined this evening?”

She made a small nod.

“Then perhaps some wine—a very fine Madeira,” he’ commented, lifting one of several decanters from a small table.

She shook her head slowly, dropping her gaze to the floor. He laughed softly and came forward to stand close before her. He took the bundle she clutched and tossed it in a nearby chair as he stared down at her, dazzled by her youthful beauty and the gown that seemed only a sparkling veil over her body. Her ivory skin glowed softly in the candlelight, and by the golden flames he saw before him a small woman, gracefully slender with breasts full and round, generously and temptingly swelling above her gown. They rose and fell slowly with her breath.

He moved closer and in a rapid movement slipped his arm about her narrow waist, nearly lifting her from the floor, and then covered her mouth with his, engulfing Heather in a heady scent, not unlike that of a brandy her father had been fond of. She was too surprised to resist and hung limp in his embrace. She saw herself as if from outside her body and felt with mild amusement his tongue parting her lips and thrusting within. From a low level of consciousness there grew a vague feeling of pleasure and, had the circumstances been different, she might have enjoyed the hard, masculine feel of his body against hers. He stepped back, still smiling, but with a new fire kindled in his eyes. As he took his hands from her she gasped in stunned surprise for her gown fell in a heap about her ankles. She stared at him for a split second before she hurriedly bent to retrieve the garment, but those hands caught her shoulders and straightened her and she was again enfolded in his arms. This time she fought, for with sudden clarity it dawned on her just what he had in mind. She realized her disadvantage as her exhausted body struggled weakly against him. If William Court’s grip had been of iron, this man’s entire being was of finely-tempered steel. She could not free herself and her hands pushed in vain against his chest. Her struggles pulled his shirt loose and then his furred chest lay bare against her with only the thin film of the chemise between them. She was left breathless each time his mouth took hers and passionate kisses seemed to cover her face and bosom. She felt his hands go up her back and with an easy tug he separated the shift and snatched it from her. Her naked breasts were crushed against his chest and in fearful panic she pushed hard and for a moment was free of him. He gave a deep throaty laugh and used the interlude to rid himself of boots and shirt and as he shed his breeches he grinned.

“A game well played, m’lady, but have no doubts as to the winner.”

His eyes burned with passion’s fire as he stood enjoying her now unbridled charms, far lovelier than he had imagined or even hoped, and she stared in horror at her first sight of a naked man. She stood fixed to the floor until he stepped forward and with a frightened squeak she turned to flee but found her arm seized in a grip that was gentle yet as unyielding as a band of steel. She ducked under his arm and sank her teeth into his wrist. He grunted in pain and she jerked away, but in her haste she stumbled and fell full length into his bunk. Almost immediately he was on top of her, pinning down her writhing body, and it seemed that every move she made only abetted his intent. Her hair came loose and seemed to stifle her in its mass.

“No!” she gasped. “Leave me alone! Let me be!”

He chuckled and murmured against her throat. “Oh no, my bloodthirsty little wench. Oh no, not now.”

Then he moved upward and she was relieved of his heavy weight, but only briefly. She felt his hardness searching, probing between her thighs, then finding and entering that first tiny bit. In her panic to escape she surged upward. A half gasp, half shriek escaped her and a burning pain seemed to spread through her loins. Brandon started back in astonishment and stared down at her. She lay limp against the pillows, rolling her head back and forth upon them. He touched her cheek tenderly and murmured something low and inaudible, but she had her eyes closed and wouldn’t look at him. He moved against her gently, kissing her hair and brow and caressing her body with his hands. She lay unresponsive, yet his long starved passions grew and soon he thrust deep within her, no longer able to contain himself. It seemed with each movement now she would be split asunder and tears came to her eyes.

The storm at its end, a long quiet moment slipped past as he relaxed against her, once more gentle. But when he finally withdrew, she turned to the wall and lay softly sobbing with the corner of the blanket pulled over her head and her now used body left bare to his gaze.

Brandon Birmingham rose in bewilderment and for a moment stared at the flecks of blood that stained the sheet on his bunk. His eyes coursed slowly over Heather’s figure, now turned away from him. He could not but admire the well turned hips and graceful thighs that had, a moment past, been his. He almost reached out to caress the gently curving back, but his mind was confused by the turn of events—her calm, reserved acceptance of the situation when she first entered the cabin, her light and playful resistance, and then the sporadic, inexperienced assistance she had given him in bed and now this endless weeping and the blood on the sheet. Was she some girl compelled to take up this occupation by poverty? Her clothes and manner did not bear this out, yet her hands, though slender and white, were not soft as a lady of leisure’s might be.

He shook his head and shrugged into his robe and went to pour himself a healthy glass of brandy. He took a long drink and stared pensively out the windows from which he had viewed much of the world. He was a foreigner to this land which his parents had once called home. It had ceased to be theirs shortly after their marriage when his father, an aristocrat but an adventurer at heart, had looked upon America with interest. Now they were both ten years dead, his mother of a swamp fever, his father only a few months later of a broken neck suffered when thrown from one of those wild horses he loved so much. They left behind them two sons and a goodly fortune—a plantation home and land to the eldest, being himself, and to their younger, Jeff, a share of the money and a prosperous warehouse in Charleston, a city which they had loved and called home as he did now. Born to these parents, a father who had been many times stubborn and more than willful, and a mother whose quiet, serene gentility had been the backbone of the family, he, Brandon Birmingham, had known a rigorous, adventurous life. His schooling had always come first but as a young lad, and at his father’s insistence, he had hired on as cabin boy to a salty old sea captain. He had learned the ways of the sea, ships, and the world, enabling him to take a commanding position in that occupation when he had found it useful. But not all his time had been spent sailing the seas. Before that, he had been taught the workings of the plantation, from soil to market, and had never ceased this pleasant toil through his years of growing up.

That was his main interest now, at the age of five and thirty—to settle down upon that land for good and enjoy the everyday world of it. Before leaving Charleston he had made a decision that this would be his last voyage. With France as unsettled as she was, it might prove unprofitable to continue. So he would take upon himself the responsibilities of a plantation and begin raising a family. He would be content—he hoped.

He smiled thoughtfully to himself. Strange how fondness for a land could make a man do things which didn’t sit well within his mind. He was marrying Louisa Wells, although he didn’t love her and knew her morals were not those of a genuine lady, for the simple reason he wanted back the land she possessed that had once belonged to the Birmingham family. His father had been granted the land that now made up the Wells and Birmingham estates from King George, and to begin building his plantation he had sold a small portion to that family. Brandon’s father had severed ties with Britain years before the war, and because of his service as an officer in that struggle against the crown had been able to keep his estates. Now, since Louisa had been left alone by the death of her parents a few years back, her land was being neglected and misused. Louisa was badly in debt. She had spent the fortune her father had left her and had sold all but a few of her slaves to keep up her high standard of living which had become only a front now. The merchants in Charleston had long ago refused her credit. So she was quite pleased with herself at having caught one of the city’s richest, most eligible bachelors. But she had caught him, knowing the land was bait. Several times he had attempted to relieve her of it for a goodly sum, which she had needed badly, but she had refused and played her woman’s part to the hilt. She acted the virgin when she enticed him to her bed, but he was not that kind of fool, and there was much gossip about this woman he and his younger brother had grown up with. Her experience in bed did prove entertaining, however, and he was not too displeased.

A frown wrinkled his brow. It seemed odd to come from a family where jealousy and possessiveness for one’s mate were but a matter of fact and he, looking so much like the father who had possessed those traits, was not even jealous of the men who had shared his fiancée’s bed. Was he too cold and unfeeling to love or be possessive about the woman he was to wed? It wasn’t even comforting to know that he cared more for her than he had for any woman in his lifetime. But it wasn’t love. If he had ever suffered the slightest twinge of jealousy when she looked at another man, he would feel different now, at least a little more hopeful of learning to love her. But since he had known her all of her life, some thirty-two years of it, he was skeptical of any radical changes after their marriage.

Jeff had declared him insane at the news of their engagement. Well, perhaps he was, but he had a mind of his own and if he hadn’t inherited his father’s jealous moods, he had inherited his stubbornness. His father’s determination and willful disposition had always been his. Even when his parents had died, leaving him with a prosperous plantation and the wealth to back it, he had not sat back and reaped the harvest. Instead, he had asked Jeff to take charge of the plantation and had bought this merchant ship and begun to sail the seas, bringing even more wealth to himself and his brother.

He looked across to his bunk, then moved closer to stand beside it. The sobbing had finally ceased and sleep had come in its stead, but it was not an untroubled slumber. It reminded him more of an exhausted one. He reached down and gently covered Heather’s lovely body and pushed back the blanket from her head.

The last thing he had expected to walk through his cabin door this night was a virgin. Knowing they were a troublesome lot, he had made it a habit throughout his life to avoid them, playing his leisure time upon those well versed creatures of gay, carefree living, in and out of bawdy houses, expensive and otherwise. This night, his first night in port after a long voyage across the ocean, he had freed his men to seek their pleasures, keeping only his manservant, George, and Dickie on board. But the urge had already been strong within him and he had bade George find him some lively vixen for the night, with emphasis upon cleanliness and comeliness. No, he had not expected a virgin, and one so lovely, never. It was strange to find her here. Young innocents like her usually had marriage in mind, trying coyly to entice a man into that trap with their charms. How else had he managed so successfully to remain single through his years of manhood had he not known their ways and avoided them? But now when his bachelorhood was about to end and a marriage to begin to a woman well known by other men, he had had this fresh young thing for his pleasure and her reasons were still a mystery.

He slowly shook his head, then leaving his robe on a chair, doused the candles and stretched out beside her. The last thing he thought of before he dozed off was the gentle fragrance of her perfume and the warmth of her close beside him.

* * *

The first faint streaks of dawn had breeched the eastern sky when Heather roused and then came fully awake, aware of her surroundings. She stirred and sought to move her head but found her hair caught beneath Brandon’s arm where it was bent under his dark head. His other arm was flung across her chest and his knee rode casually between hers. Cautiously she tried to ease herself from beneath his weight but succeeded only in awakening him. Before he was fully roused, she lay back and fearfully closed her eyes and breathed deeply as if in slumber.

Brandon opened his eyes and quietly studied the face beside his own, taking great pleasure in its fine beauty. Long, sooty black lashes lay on skin, fair and flawless, and fragile eyelids hid from his view eyes that were clear and deep and the color of sapphires. He remembered them well. They had a most captivating slant, as did the soft brows that were like straight, upward slashes across her face. Her mouth was gently curved, pink and temptingly soft, her nose straight and delicately boned. Louisa would turn green with envy if the two ever chanced to meet, which was highly improbable. He smiled at the thought. His fiancée was quite proud of her own good looks and would not like to take second place to this slight nymph. Some people had even claimed Louisa as the most beautiful woman in Charleston, though there were many beauties there. He hadn’t thought of it much, but he supposed it could be true. Louisa’s golden hair and warm brown eyes were quite easy to look upon and her tall, buxom figure pleasant to ride. Still, this Heather here, in her soft and delicate beauty, would leave no doubt in the city as to who was the fairest.

He leaned closer to kiss her ear and lightly nibble at its lobe. At his touch and before Heather could think, her eyes flew open.

“Good morning, love,” he whispered softly and rose above her to kiss her lips.

She lay perfectly still, fearing any movement might stir his passions. He needed no stirring. The fires in his loins were already burning high and growing hotter with each passing moment. His kisses passed from her lips, over her eyes, down her throat and paused at her shoulder where his teeth made tiny nibbles, sending shivers down her spine. She stared horrified as he pressed his bearded mouth to the pink crest of her breast and lightly teased it with his tongue.

“Don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t do that!”

He raised his heated gaze, smiling. “You’ll have to get used to my caresses, ma petite.”

She withdrew from those amused eyes and fought to turn away, pleading with him. “No. Please, no. Not again. Don’t hurt me again. Just let me go.”

“I won’t hurt you this time, sweet,” he breathed against her ear, pressing soft kisses to it.

The weight of his body held her on her back in the bunk and now Heather began to fight in earnest. She held her knees tightly together while she sought to scratch or claw him anywhere she could, but always a hand or elbow was there to stem her effort. He laughed as if enjoying her struggles.

“You show considerably more spirit this morning, m’lady.”

Then her arms were slowly drawn upward on either side of her head and held there easily in one of his hands. His other hand cupped a breast and he played with it to his pleasure while she twisted and fought against his overpowering strength. His knee slowly forced open her thighs and spread them and again she felt his manhood deep within her.

There were no tears this time, but a hatred and a fear began to build apace in her mind. When he rolled from her she scurried from him and cowered in the corner of the bunk, her eyes wide and filled with the hurt and fear of a wounded fawn. He watched her with a puzzled frown furrowing his brow and sat up close beside her. He reached out to caress her cheek, feeling the need to comfort her, but she cringed from his hand as if it were a red hot iron and he realized with some surprise that it was he who frightened her. His frown deepened and his fingers slid through her hair, gently combing the silken strands that seemed now only a wild, mass of soft tangles.

“You’ve aroused my curiosity, Heather,” he murmured gently. “You could have gotten a king’s ransom for what you lost to me a few hours ago and yet you were wandering the streets like any ordinary strumpet and, so I hear, you came willingly, without even trying to bargain for your worth, nor did you last night even hint that you were still intact, a virgin, or try to set a price with me. The gown you wore is costly, valued at more than some creatures of the streets might make in a year, though you, I guarantee, are of a different status entirely—so different I can’t even imagine why you peddled your virginity as you did, taking the chance that you might have been raped and lost it for nothing.”

Heather stared at him speechless, unable to fully comprehend the impact of his words.

“You seem gently born and not the type to be wandering the streets or engaging in this profession. Your beauty is uncommon, few women have such, and you wear expensive clothes, and yet,” he murmured, taking one of her hands into his and turning it over, “your hands show the effects of toil.” He lightly ran a finger over her palm then pressed a kiss into it. Still gazing at it, he spoke again softly. “When you arrived last night you were calm and reserved, but just a moment ago you fought me tooth and nail and would not permit me to be gentle.”

As he spoke her mind flew. He was not the law? Good God, what price had she paid for her fear and panic? It would have been better if she had stayed and faced the regency’s men than to be here, deflowered and shamed to her very bone, or better yet to have remained where she was than to have sought the city at all.

“But you need have no fear, Heather. I’ll provide well for you and you’ll live in comfort. I just arrived yesterday from the Carolinas and I’ll be a long time in port. You’ll stay with me while I’m here. I’ll see that you’re established in a house of your own before I . . .”

He was interrupted by a shriek of high, shrill, hysterical laughter, as Heather yielded to the shock of the situation. It dwindled gradually into sobs as tears streamed down her face. Her head dropped forward and her hair tumbled over her shoulders to mask her body. Tears fell on her hands folded in her lap as sobs jerked her tiny frame. Finally she threw her head back and looked at him with reddened eyes.

“I wasn’t peddling my wares in the streets,” she choked. “I was simply lost and couldn’t find my way.”

He stared at her a long moment in stunned silence before he frowned in confusion. “But you came with my men.”

She shook her head in agony. He didn’t know. He didn’t know about her at all. He was just a seaman from a foreign country. She choked on her tears, vowing he must never know of her greater sin.

“I thought they were sent after me. I became separated from my cousin and lost my way. I thought your men were from my cousin’s.”

Her head fell back against the wall and tears made wet paths down her face and plunged to her naked bosom which quivered with her silent crying. He watched those pale round breasts and his frown deepened as he wondered what repercussions there would be for this deed. Perhaps she was kin to some high official. He could almost feel the cold steel of the ax biting into his neck. He rose from the bed and stood by its edge, his back turned to her.

“Who are your parents?” he asked hoarsely. “Someone as beautiful and well bred as you must have many friends at court or come from a very influential family.”

Her head rolled wearily back and forth against the wall. “My parents are dead and I’ve never been to court.”

He walked to her gown where it lay on the floor. He picked it up and turned to her holding it. “You must have wealth. This gown cost no few pence.”

She looked at him and laughed, a bit amused. “I’m without a farthing, sir. My cousin gave me the gown. I work for my mere existence.”

He looked down at the sparkling beads on the gown. “Won’t this cousin be worried about you and be out trying to find you?”

Heather grew silent as her eyes dropped to her nakedness. “No,” she murmured. “I doubt that now. My cousin isn’t one to worry long over the matter.”

Brandon smiled in relief and draped the gown over the back of a chair. He walked to the washstand where he began to wash. He turned a few moments later to watch the girl rise from his bunk, and his eyes moved over her body slowly, taking in every detail of her alluring curves. She felt his gaze and clutched her arms before her to shield her womanhood from him, and he laughed softly and turned back to the mirror and prepared to shave while she hurriedly sought her old chemise from her bundle.

“There’s no reason then, Heather, why you can’t stay with me and be my mistress. I’ll find you a house in town where you may live in comfort and where I may take my leisure. I’ll furnish you with a goodly sum so you will not have to seek out other men nor would I allow you to do that. There’ll be times in the future when I’ll want to return and will need feminine companionship while I’m here. I’d like to think that matter is taken care of.”

For a moment Heather was almost overcome by her hatred of the man. The emotion was beyond anything she had ever felt for anyone before. His casual attitude toward her and the whole affair infuriated her so much she wanted to shriek in rage and fling herself upon him and claw his handsome face to ribbons. But she thought better of it as she saw, now that he had his back to her and the door, her chance to escape. Wearing nothing more than her shift, she bit into her lip to keep it from quivering and eased her gown from the chair. She clutched her bundle to her. She stepped toward the door cautiously, her heart in her throat, and took another step.

“Heather!” he said sharply, startling her and sending all hopes of escape fleeing. She turned fearfully and found his fierce green eyes upon her as he casually stropped his razor, and she knew terror—horrible, soul-shaking terror.

“Do you think I’m going to let you sneak away from me? You’re too unique to find a replacement for and I have no intentions of letting you slip through my fingers.”

The deadly calm in his deep voice was more frightening than Aunt Fanny’s violent shrieks had ever been. She trembled before him as the color drained from her face. He picked up the strop and the pounding of her heart almost drowned out the noise the leather made as he sharpened his razor. Her eyes grew round and she cringed fearfully away. A small, satanic smile curved his lips and he snapped his fingers and pointed to the bunk.

“Now get back in that.”

She was well conditioned to taking orders and she did so now, terrified of what he might do if she didn’t. Still clutching her bundle and gown, she sat down on the bunk and stared up at him as if she expected to be flogged. He dropped the strop on the table and wiping his face on a towel, came to the bunk and stood for a moment looking down at her. Then he threw the towel in a chair and took the things from her. He pointed to her shift.

“Get that off.”

Heather swallowed hard. Her eyes flew down his body and widened even more. She was fast losing her innocence.

“Please—” she gasped.

“I’m not a patient man, Heather,” he said and his voice was very menacing.

Her fingers shook as she untied the ribbons and unfastened the tiny buttons between her breasts. She caught the hem and raised it over her head. Her eyes lifted shamefully to his as she felt his fiery gaze upon her body.

“Now lie down,” he directed.

She slid down into the bunk and her whole being quaked with fear of him and of what was to come. She tried to cover herself with her hands, feeling the awful humiliation of being naked and a coward.

“Don’t,” he said and slid in beside her and drew her quaking limbs to his.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Aren’t you satisfied that you’ve taken the one thing that was only mine to give. Must you keep torturing me again and again?”

“You might as well accept your lot as a paramour, my sweet, and become aware of the finer arts of the profession. The first thing I’m going to show you is that it doesn’t necessarily have to be painful. You fought me twice now and the last time caused your own misery. This time you will relax and let me do as I want without a struggle and though you may not enjoy it yet, you’ll see what I say is true.”

“No! No!” she cried, trying to struggle free, but he clamped his hand tightly on her waist.

“Be still.”

Again he commanded, again she obeyed. She hated him but her fear was greater by far. She trembled violently with it.

“Is this the way you treat your wife?” she asked miserably.

He smiled and bent over her lips. “I’m not married, sweet.”

She had no more to say when his kiss ended but lay tense and waiting. He made no move to mount her. Instead he played gently with her, caressing, softly titillating, cupping her breasts and pressing kisses over her body.

“Relax,” he murmured against her throat. “Just lie still and don’t fight me. Later you can learn what pleases a man, but for now just lie still.”

Her mind tumbled over itself in its frenzy and no words sought her tongue. As she lay and submitted to his pawing, her life passed before her as if she were dying, and she wondered what great evil she had done that the past years should have abused her so cruelly. Yet even Aunt Fanny’s endless heckling would be better than having to lie here under this man’s hands while he pleasured himself with her. Trapped! Caught! Like a bird in a snare and now, plump and roasted, she must wait on the platter while he whetted his knife for the carving. And when the feast was done, what then? The same table? The same dinner? Again and again? Surely no simpleminded fowl ever suffered its fate but once.

Her thighs were parted and she could not suppress a gasp as he drove home.

“Easy, sweet,” he breathed.

She closed her eyes tightly and stilled her careening fears. There was nothing to do now but let him have his way. When he lay finished above her, he whispered against her hair.

“Any more bruises, m’lady?”

She kept her eyes shut and turned her head aside. She loathed the very thought of him. He moved against her, urging her answer.

“Did I hurt you this time?”

“No,” she choked out.

He laughed softly and freeing her from his embrace, sat on the berth beside her and drew the sheet over her.

“You don’t appear to be a cold wench, ma petite,” he said, running his hand over the curve of her thigh and waist, “only for the moment a reluctant one. Soon you’ll learn to enjoy it. For now just learn to accept it.”

“Never!” she half sobbed. “I hate you! I loathe you! I despise you! Not in a million years!”

“You’ll change your mind,” he laughed. He stood up. “Someday you’ll be begging for it.”

She turned in a huff, presenting her back to him and jerked the sheet over her shoulder. He chuckled again and reaching down, caressed her buttock.

“Just wait, Heather, and we’ll see which one of us is right.”

Anger shook her. He was so confident of himself, of her, of the future. He had it all neatly planned. And what did she have to say in the matter? All she could do was beg for mercy and that would fall on deaf ears. But given the opportunity she would escape.

She smiled to herself, thinking of that, and her spirits rose if only slightly. Her chance would come sooner or later and she would not hesitate to take it. The mere thought of escape soothed her frayed nerves and she relaxed into the pillows, listening to Brandon move about the cabin behind her. Her eyelids grew heavy and sleep pushed aside even those more requitable thoughts.

When Heather woke, she opened her eyes without moving. The room was still and quiet and she thought herself alone at last, but when she rolled on her back she saw Brandon at his desk with quill in hand, reading over his ledgers. He was dressed and seemed for the moment to have forgotten her, engrossed in his work as he was. She might have been some stick of furniture for as much attention as he paid her. She watched him quietly. There was no denying that he was handsome, physically magnificent. She might have even dreamed once of such a man. But never in those innocent dreams of romance did she imagine that her love would fly to her on the wings of violence, or that she would be kept against her will to fulfill base desires.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, looking up to find her eyes on him. He smiled and rose from the desk. “I hope you’re hungry. I waited to breakfast with you.”

She sat up in the corner of the bed, clutching the sheet over her bosom, and her hair fell in soft disarray over her shoulders.

“I want to get dressed,” she murmured, watching him cautiously as he came forward to lean against a timber above the bunk.

He smiled warmly. “If you must, my love.” His eyes went over her. “Do you want any help?”

Heather almost climbed the wall to escape from him. “Don’t you touch me!” she cried.

“Ah-h, I see my little kitten has her claws bared.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Shall I make you purr, my sweet?”

“I’ll scream,” she whimpered. “So help me I will.”

His white teeth flashed as he reached out and took her by the wrists and pulled her to him. His eyes held hers prisoner.

“Do you think that would do you any good?” he asked, as if amused. “Unless called for, my men stay away from this cabin when I’m entertaining. Besides, my dear, I can stop your screams quite easily with my kisses.”

She shrank from him and a shudder of revulsion passed through her as his gaze went down her body, but he only laughed. Catching her around the waist, he swung her to her feet.

“You’re very tempting, m’lady, but it isn’t time for your second lesson yet. My servant is waiting to serve us our meal.”

He left her to open a locker by the bed, and drew out a man’s dressing gown which he handed to her.

“It’s a trifle large, but it’s the best I can offer at the moment.” He smiled. “I’ll take you this afternoon to purchase some clothes. If you’re like most other women that should perk you up.”

She quickly wrapped the robe around her and found herself lost in it. There was no doubt it was his and it was far too big for her. The sleeves trailed below her hands and the bottom dragged the floor, so she had to gather in a good foot of it to walk.

A smile played lightly about Brandon’s lips and his eyes gleamed as he observed her. He helped her fold back the sleeves.

“If it’s possible to be jealous of a simple garment, m’lady, then I am of this one, and if it had life I’d warrant it would be aquiver now with its good fortune.”

She glanced away nervously. “May I be allowed privacy to wash, sir?” She clutched the robe tightly at her throat and whispered, “Please.”

He made a sweeping bow and grinned. “Your slightest wish is my command, m’lady. There are matters concerning the cargo that need my attention anyway so you may have some time.”

She eyed him covertly as he walked to the door and before he opened it he glanced back at her and grinned quite devilishly, then made his exit with a laugh.

Heather released a small sigh of relief and went to the washstand where she poured water in the bowl. She scrubbed every inch of her body until her skin glowed a healthy pink. She longed for a steaming tub bath so that she could soak in it and remove from her body every trace and remembrance of him, of the fine mist of sweat that had moistened his body and then hers, the feel of his hands upon her, the memory of his smothering kisses. Everything. Every tiniest bit of evidence that she had been his.

The cool water helped a little to revive her downtrodden spirits, and she donned her shabby shift and pink gown, feeling a trifle better. She raked her fingers through her hair, combing it as best she could in that manner, then returned his robe to the locker, noting as she did so the well chosen and obviously costly clothes within. It was irritating to think that she couldn’t secretly laugh at his choice of apparel.

Her nerves stretched taut with her toilette complete, and needing some task to occupy her thoughts, she began putting some order to the cabin, which was littered with clothing. His were thrown over the back of a chair, her beige gown in another. The torn chemise was still where he had dropped it after ripping it from her. She picked it up and found it irreparable.

His hands destroy well, she mused.

With renewed anger she marched to the bunk and began smoothing the sheets until her eyes fell on the blood that stained them, and she realized it was her blood, her proof of virginity. In a high rage, she jerked the sheets from the bed and threw them to the floor.

Her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed, she whirled around at a soft laugh from behind her and faced Brandon who stood in the open doorway. He had returned silently and without her knowing. His eyes dropped from her angry face to the sheets behind her, then he raised his eyes again as he closed the door and leaned against it. He smiled at her mockingly, and with an infuriated groan, Heather turned her back. She heard him laugh. He was laughing at her and she hated him. He was detestable.

He came up close behind her, slipped his arms about her waist and drew her back against him.

“Do you think you could have remained chaste for long with the face and body you have, my sweet?” he murmured against her hair. “You were meant for love, and I am not saddened because I snatched you before other men tried you, nor do I feel guilty over the pleasure you’ve given me. Pray do not blame me for being infatuated with your beauty and wanting you for my own. It would be a task for any man not to. You see, in truth, m’lady, I am your prisoner, caught in your spell.”

She trembled as his searing lips pressed against her throat and beneath her breasts her heart thumped wildly.

“Are you void of a conscience?” she choked. “Doesn’t it matter that I do not wish to be here? I am not one of your strumpets, nor do I have any desire to be.”

“You do not wish it now, my love, but later you will. If I allowed you to go now I’d never see you again because of what has passed between us. If we had met differently, I could have courted you gently and wooed you into my bed with tender words. But here we started backwards and frightened you and as a bird flees from its captor, so would you fly from me. To keep you I must show you that it is not so bad being my mistress. You’ll have everything your heart desires.”

“I have heard tales of Yankees,” she said snidely, “but I never guessed that all those aspersions could be true until I met you.”

He threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Spoken like a true Englishwoman, m’lady.”

She jerked angrily away and faced him. “Just tell me why you want me?” she demanded. She threw her arms wide. “Heaven above, tell me why I must suffer your affections when you can find many a maid more willing than I anywhere you should happen to look! Wouldn’t your romps in bed be more entertaining with a woman who appreciates your advances than with one who loathes the very sight of you?”

He chuckled at her anger. “You have a sharp tongue, m’lady. You wound me to the quick. But the reasons are quite simple. Take a look at yourself and you’ll see a very excellent one. You’re like a breath of fresh spring air after a night in an overcrowded tavern.”

He took a seat at his desk, relaxing in the chair as he regarded her.

“I find you very desirable, Heather, truly worth having—a jewel among pebbles. The challenge of winning you excites me. I’ve never been denied before.”

“You should have been,” she spat vindictively. “Perhaps then you would have learned to be a gentleman.”

His eyes sparkled. “I’ve found with you, sweet, that when I want you badly enough I can overlook being a gentleman.”

She turned her back on him in frustration. There was no talking to the pompous, arrogant scoundrel. He made his own rules to fit his own games. She couldn’t think of enough names to do justice to the way she felt about him. All she knew was that she’d leave him and his miserable cabin if it were the last thing she ever did.

A few moments later George entered the cabin, carrying a large tray laden with their morning meal. The servant smiled rather sheepishly at her as he placed the tray upon the table, but she glared at him and presented her back where in turn he looked to his captain, quite confused. A small smile curved Brandon’s lips and he nodded to the servant to continue with what he was doing. When the table lay set, Brandon held a chair out for her.

“If you please, Heather,” he smiled mockingly. “I can hardly dine while you stand and glower at me. Now sit and be a good girl for a change.”

George looked between the two, becoming more perplexed, and hurriedly poured coffee in the mugs. Heather grudgingly took her place and adjusted a napkin irritably over her lap. She sipped the coffee, though she preferred tea, then grimaced at its strong taste and pushed it away from her. Lifting her eyes, she found Brandon watching her with an amused smile.

Nothing was said and she attacked her small steak of beef as if it needed yet to be slaughtered, though in truth it was quite tender. She found it strangely prepared, not boiled nor cut into tiny bits for a stew but simply cooked in its own juices and left still rare. She tried a small piece and found it tasty, but her appetite was far from hearty and she simply picked at it.

George watched her for a moment in indecision, wishing to please but not knowing how. He turned finally to leave, and noticing the sheets upon the floor, went to pick them up. His eyes widened as he saw the stains and he glanced quickly to his captain, who was watching him, then to Heather whose back was turned to him and once more to Brandon who met his look and nodded once to his unasked questions. The servant’s eyes widened even more and he hurriedly gathered the sheets in his arms and made a hasty exit.

Brandon regarded Heather’s display of temper and casually sliced off a bite of steak.

“I will not tolerate your spiteful mood at my table, Heather,” he said calmly, “nor your treating my man unkindly. In his presence you will be a lady.”

Fear rose within Heather and every muscle in her body drained of strength, leaving her quivering in her chair. She grew pale and even her small desire for nourishment left her. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed down at them, unable to meet his stare.

Brandon swallowed some of the hot coffee as he continued to study her, this time concentrating on the gown she wore. It was a garment a younger girl might wear and pretty though it was, he didn’t care for its girlish lines. It made him feel uncomfortable, as if he had stolen a babe from its cradle. The only thing about it that found favor with him was the snug bodice which pressed her bosom upward, reassuring him that she was no child. But it was hardly the sort of gown he wanted his mistress to wear, and the frayed chemise he had seen on her earlier would have to go. She was too beautiful to wear rags.

The meal at its end, he returned to his desk to work at his ledgers while Heather, not knowing what to do with herself, paced the floor or fidgeted at the window seat and felt like climbing the walls. He left the cabin for a time, long enough for her to gather courage to try the door, but her thought of escape was badly timed for she found him in the companionway giving orders to one of his crew. Angrily she slammed the door closed when he glanced up and smiled at her mockingly.

When George came with the noon meal she was polite, but not to the point of being gracious. Silently she cursed the man.

Brandon pushed his chair back from the table, a time later, his hunger for food satisfied, and Heather felt his eyes sweep her. A silence filled the room and she swallowed hard, keeping her gaze averted. She knew his affections had warmed again and her heart refused to slow to a regular beat. His voice when he spoke was low and rich with passion.

“Come here, Heather.”

She froze in the chair. She would not go to him. She would stay where she was. He could not bully her. She shook her head and managed to croak a weak, “No.”

His eyelids lowered and he smiled slowly. “I admire your spirit, ma cherie, but do you think it wise to resist me? You know as well as I that you do not possess the strength to stop me from taking what I want. Would it not be better to acknowledge defeat and come willingly?”

Heather shook and terror could not be denied. Her courage failed her. Slowly she rose on trembling legs, her teeth tugging nervously at her bottom lip, and went to stand before him. He smiled at her leisurely and sliding his hand up her arm, pulled her between his legs and down upon his knee where she sat rigidly as he pressed his lips against her throat.

“Don’t be afraid,” he breathed. “I won’t hurt you.”

His mouth moved over her shaking lips and parted them as his arms slid tightly around her, one hand settling on her back while the other sought her hip. With a half sob, Heather went limp against his chest, trembling violently within his grasp. His kisses went on it seemed to her without end. When his hand slid from her hip to her thigh and moved slowly upward along the inside, caressing it, she groaned under his kiss and strained against his chest. But the embrace could not be broken. His lips left hers to kiss the corners of her mouth, her chin, her ear.

“Don’t fight me,” he murmured. “Let yourself enjoy it.”

“I can’t,” she choked.

“Yes, you can.”

His lips as they traveled from her throat to the rounded curves above her gown were moist, parted, drinking in the sweetness of her flesh. They caressed her breasts unhurriedly, moving from the deep valley between to the pointed peaks which rose up beneath her gown. His breath came more rapidly and touched her skin like a hot iron. Aroused, he unfastened her bodice and pressed passionate kisses on her naked flesh.

From the cabin door came a hesitant knocking and a black scowl crossed Brandon’s face. Heather frantically clutched her garments together over her bosom in shame and tried to leave his knee when he loosened his hold upon her, but he tightened it again, forcing her to stay where she was. When he called out to the intruder, there was no doubt of his irritation.

“Blast you, come in!”

George opened the door and stood red-faced as he looked across the cabin at them, shuffling his feet in embarrassment.

“Beggin’ your pardon, cap’n, but a messenger’s come from a merchant who wants to speak with you about the cargo. His man says he’s interested in buying the whole lot of rice and indigo if the two o’ you can meet and agree.”

“He wants me to go to him?” Brandon asked, almost incredulously. “Why in hell’s name can’t he come here to the Fleetwood as the others do?”

“The man’s crippled, so his messenger says, cap’n,” the servant replied. “If you’re willing, his man will look over the cargo to see its value and then take you to him.”

Brandon muttered an oath and the scowl deepened. “Ask Mr. Boniface to give him a tour, will you, George? Then send the man in here when he’s through.”

George skittered out, closing the door behind him and Brandon reluctantly turned Heather loose. She ran to the window seat and hurriedly fastened her clothes as he moved behind his desk and sat down. She felt his eyes on her and the color rose high to her cheeks.

Some time later the messenger was admitted and she turned her back to the occupants of the room and sank to the cushions of the seat. That anyone should find her in Captain Birmingham’s cabin embarrassed her to the bone. Her face flaming with the shame of it, she wanted very much to die. Through the windows she watched the water lap against the sides of a merchantman docked nearby and mused how, if she but had the nerve, the water might put her problems to an end. She thought she might welcome its liquid fingers snuffing out her life. She leaned forward to gaze more intently at the dark swirling river, unaware that the messenger had left and that Brandon had come up behind her. He dropped a hand to her shoulder and she jumped with a start. He laughed softly and sank down beside her on the cushions and touched a curl over her breast.

“I’m afraid I must leave for a few hours, Heather, but I’ll return as soon as I’m able. George has been instructed to keep an eye upon you so I beg you not to make it difficult for him. He’s a gentle soul where ladies are concerned despite what you may have thought last night. I have informed him that I want you here when I return, so do not try to get away. I’ll have his skin if you succeed and I’d find you again if I had to tear down all of London.”

“I don’t care in the least if you skin your man,” she replied heatedly. “But if the opportunity to escape presents itself, I’ll take it.”

Brandon raised an eyebrow. “In that case, Heather, I shall take you with me.”

She almost panicked. “Oh, don’t!” she cried. “Please. I beg of you. I would die of shame if you did. Oh, please do not. If you wish, I’ll read while you’re away. I swear.”

Brandon studied her with a great deal of interest. “You can read?” he asked.

“Yes,” she returned softly.

He smiled down at her. Not many women could read, and he felt a new respect for the girl.

“Very well,” he said finally. “I will leave you here, and I’ll stop at a clothier’s on the way back so that you may look like a woman. Now stand up and let me judge your size.”

Self-consciously, Heather complied and slowly turned around before him as he directed. His eyes moved over her appreciatively.

“You’re hardly bigger than a mite.”

“Some people say I’m thin,” she commented softly, remembering some of her aunt’s insulting remarks.

Brandon laughed, “I can imagine the jealous old crones who said that. They were probably wallowing in their own fat.”

A small smile broke across Heather’s features as he seemed to describe her aunt, and then it was gone, almost as quickly as it had come, but it did not go unnoticed.

“Ah-h,” he grinned. “I knew I could make you do that sooner or later.”

Heather turned away and lifted her nose high in the air. “Because of you, I have little to be happy about.”

“Now it’s that again, is it?” he chuckled. “Your moods are very changeable, m’lady.” He rose and came to stand behind her. “Now let us see if some of that ice has thawed from your lips. I wish to feel some warmth for a change. Come, kiss me as a mistress should. I’ve not time for more.”

Heather released a quivering sigh of relief at not having a repeat performance of his lovemaking. She concluded a bit of effort on her part, as if yielding to his protestations, would do much to allay whatever fears or suspicions he might be harboring over leaving her. She turned and with a new determination, slid her arms behind his neck and pulled his head down to hers. His brows lifted as if he were considering this new change in her and Heather, not wanting him to dwell too long upon the matter, pressed moist, warm lips upon his and seizing upon her meager experience, kissed him long and in a loving fashion, arching her body against his.

Brandon savored the honey taste of her lips and the intoxicating nearness of her body and all logical thinking fled his mind. His arms went around her and held her tightly as he enjoyed the unexpected warmth of her response. His body demanded he do more with her. She was too tempting, this slight wisp of a girl. Her lips were too warm, her body too desirable. It was becoming extremely difficult to think of leaving her. Damned if it wasn’t.

With an effort he set her from him.

“I will be hard put to go anywhere if you kiss me like that,” he said huskily.

Heather’s face pinkened. The kiss had held some surprises for her, too, for she had not found it such a loathsome task.

“And now I fear my departure will be delayed after all. These tight breeches leave nothing to the imagination,” he grinned.

Her eyes traveled downward innocently to his pants. She was instantly sorry. Her face flooded with color and she jerked around with a moan, mortified.

Brandon chuckled behind her and then with a pensive sigh, turned to the business of dressing, mumbling wistfully, “Had I but the time, madam—”

Seething, Heather began stacking dirty dishes at the table, thinking many ill thoughts of the man behind her. She decided he was more than detestable.

Brandon was giving a last adjustment to his stock when Heather turned to him again, her temper somewhat abated. For all the hatred she felt for him, she could not deny what a fine specimen of a man he was. His garments were immaculate and well chosen, in the height of fashion, and they fit his tall, broad shouldered frame superbly. His breeches were tailored so well they clung nearly as tightly as his skin. They did nothing to disguise the bulge of his manhood.

“He’s so handsome he probably has to fight the women off,” she thought bitterly.

He came forward and, in a casual but possessive and intimate manner, pressed a light kiss upon her lips and gave her buttock a fond pat.

“I’ll be back soon, sweet,” he smiled.

Heather could hardly hold her tongue, wanting to scream at him in rage. She watched him leave, all too confident of himself for her state of mind, and then heard the click of the lock on the door. With frustrated anger rising in her veins, she whipped her arm across the table and sent the stacked dishes flying.