The sun rose cold and bleak on the fourth day out and the easterly winds began to pick up. The first two days had been relatively mild and with every inch of canvas spread the Fleetwood had plowed along over lightly rolling seas. Now the rigging sang in the wind and the ship strained as it chopped its way through frothy white caps. The ship was heavily laden and rolled low in the water, yet she handled well and responded smoothly to the helm.

Brandon cast a weather eye ahead to a low bank of clouds on the horizon, stowed his sextant and folded away his charts. The wind was biting cold this morning and boded ill weather ahead, yet he smiled to himself as he went below for they were making good time, almost forty leagues a day. He entered the cabin, put away the charts and sextant and poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the small stove. As he sipped the hot brew he looked at Heather still asleep in his bunk. Her hand, partly concealed by the lace on the sleeve of her gown, lay across his pillow and her softly curling hair was caught beneath it. He thought of her warm and soft against him, and he wondered briefly how much of a fight she’d put up if he tried to take her now. She stirred slightly as if aware that she was being watched, and he forced the thought from his mind. She stretched lazily under the quilts, and her eyes fluttered open slowly. She saw him and smiled a timid morning greeting.

At that moment George knocked gently on the door, and she flew out of the bunk, giving Brandon a glimpse of a slender thigh before she snatched the gown down and hurriedly pulled on a wrapper. At Brandon’s call the servant entered with a tray bearing their morning meal. From his pocket George passed Heather an orange, and she thanked him graciously. Brandon, seeing this movement over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow, wondering if the servant was becoming enamored with his wife’s beguiling innocence.

“We’ll be having guests for dinner tonight, George,” he said abruptly, turning round. He felt Heather’s surprise but he didn’t look at her. “I have asked Mr. Boniface and the mate, Tory MacTavish, to join us. You will attend to it please.”

“Aye, cap’n,” the servant replied as he cast a quick glance at Heather. She had already turned away and seemed intent now on warming her hands above the stove. But there was no mistaking that she was upset, and George shook his head in consternation at the younger man’s boorish manner. The captain could not stubbornly maintain his independent bachelorish ways as a family man.

The night seemed colder and Heather stood arrayed in one of her new gowns with her back to the little stove, waiting for Brandon to finish dressing. She had chosen the gown more for warmth than anything else. It was of a burgundy velvet with long sleeves and a high, close fitting neck and a bodice embellished liberally with black jets and tiny sparkling beads. She had swept her hair into a fashionable coiffure, and she presented now a most enchanting contrast in this otherwise totally masculine setting. As he gave her a critical appraisal Brandon decided she made a very fetching sea captain’s wife. He smiled with amusement as she sidled closer to the stove and lifted her skirts to let the heat rise under them.

“The way you’re hugging that stove, madam, I doubt if you’ll favor the weather that lies ahead.”

He glanced down at her slim ankles appearing beneath the lifted hem and thought of the icy winds that would ruffle her skirts and send her shivering to find warmth. Her daintily made chemises would be little protection when the wind billowed under them and touched on her bareness. He made a mental note to himself that he’d do something about that later.

“Will it be that much colder, Brandon?” she inquired, a little forlornly.

He laughed softly. “Indeed, madam. We are taking the northern route just south of Newfoundland so that we may gather time lost in our delay at leaving England. As it is, I do not expect to be home before the new year, though I have reasons to hope that we might make it before then.”

The mate and the purser seemed to enjoy the evening and in particular her presence aboard the ship. If they were aware of her circumstances they gave no indication. Upon entering the cabin they had presented her with a tiny replica of the Fleetwood and thanked her graciously for her invitation. Brandon was somewhat taken aback by their assumption that the invitation had come from her and stood aside half mockingly as she accepted the gift, saying that she would cherish it.

The evening progressed smoothly as they entertained her with amusing tales from the English Court. They seemed eager to make the event gay and engaged in lighthearted buffoonery as they made mock battle of retrieving a napkin she had dropped and positioning her chair at the table. Occasionally she felt Brandon’s scowl upon her as she giggled her delight with their humor and sensed his strange possessiveness. Under cover of the meal she glanced often to his face and pondered on his moods. His rage at a boy in a dressmaker’s shop, his cold anger with two thieves who would steal her from him and with herself when she would have a servant fasten her gown. Yet on every turn of hand he left no doubt that he felt no great love for her. Indeed that he sorely felt the bite of ball and chain. What reason then? Greed? Hardly. She had ample proof of his generosity. The lavish wardrobe, the food they dined upon. The best wines graced the table, the best cigars waited to be smoked. No. It was not greed. But some strange anger grew when other men enjoyed her gay companionship and lightest repartee. What manner of man was she wed to? Would life with him ever be a normal thing, or just a game of guess with her always wrong?

The meal was over, the table cleared, the cigars now lit with profuse apologies to her, and the talk turned to business. Mr. Boniface asked if it would not be safer to take a southern route. Brandon sipped his wine thoughtfully for a moment and then replied.

“A week before we lifted anchor,” he told the younger man, “two merchant vessels left for Charleston with their holds full. Each took the southern route. If they reach port before us our cargo will be worth half of what it will be if we can beat them. It is my hope that we reach our destination prior to their arrival. This is my last voyage and I plan to make a good profit from it for all concerned.”

“That’s fair thinking, captain,” Tory MacTavish grinned, being a man fond of money.

Jamie Boniface nodded his agreement.

“Jeff and I both invested heavily in the cargo,” Brandon continued. “I’d like to see our money doubled. If we make it back in time it will be.”

Mr. MacTavish fingered his heavy, tawny mustache. “Aye, captain. It’s worth the gamble. My own share will be a lot bonnier if we make it on time.”

“As mine will be,” the purser admitted, smiling.

“Will Jeffie be settling down now that you’ve taken yourself a bride, captain?” MacTavish inquired with a lively sparkle in his blue eyes.

Brandon quickly glanced across the table at Heather before he chuckled and shook his head. “As far as I know, MacTavish, he prefers to lead the bachelor life despite Hatti’s constant nagging for him to do otherwise.”

“Seeing that you’ve done so well for yourself, captain,” Mr. MacTavish replied, turning a warm, friendly smile upon Heather, “he may be tempted to change his mind.”

Her cheeks pinkening, Heather returned the smile. She felt Brandon’s gaze fall on her and stay as if he were contemplating this statement and studying her for its truth. Her hands began to tremble and finally her eyes raised to his, and their gaze met across the table.

Mr. Boniface and Mr. MacTavish exchanged knowing grins. The two men silently agreed not to delay their departure. But when the door was closed behind them, Brandon once more returned to his desk and his books and Heather to her sampler, sitting as close to the heat as she could. The small iron stove was insufficient, and she shifted her position often in an effort to keep all parts at a reasonable temperature. Her movements finally distracted Brandon, and putting away his quill, he turned away from his work. For a while he sat glowering at her with his elbow on the desk and his other hand upon his knee. Finally he rose and came to stand over her, and with his hands folded behind his back, his feet braced apart, he stood for some time while Heather grew increasingly apprehensive at this undue attention. She laid aside the sampler and looked up at him.

“Is there something wrong, Brandon?” she questioned, no longer able to bear his perusal.

He didn’t seem to hear her. He turned on his heels and went to his sea chest and raised the lid. He began to remove bundles from within, placing them carelessly on the floor until he came to a small one with which he rose and returned to her.

“You may find these uncomfortable at first, madam, but I think their refinements will soon become apparent.”

She opened the bundle cautiously and stared in complete confusion at the contents. Grinning at her dumb foundedness, Brandon reached down and lifted one of the lightly quilted garments from the stack and held the piece up for her inspection.

Totally bewildered, she asked, “M’lord, you doubt my chastity? You’d bind me up in these?”

His shoulders shook with laughter. “They’re like a pair of men’s breeches, but they’re to be worn under your gowns to keep you warm.”

She just stared at them.

“You don’t know the difficulty I had getting these made for you,” he grinned. “Every tailor thought me mad when I described what I wanted, and no one believed that I desired to put them on a woman. I had to pay a good sum to have them made.”

“You say I’m to wear these under my gowns?” she inquired incredulously.

He nodded, amused at her dismay. “Unless you prefer to feel the cold wind up your skirts, madam. I assure you I had these made with all good intentions in mind. You need not fear that I make sport of you. I wish only to see you warm.”

She touched the garment in wonder and finally a timid smile shaped her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Another five days went by and as each day passed the weather grew colder. Heather no longer doubted the comfort of the odd garments Brandon had given her. She was more than grateful for them now. The first day she had worn them she laughed quite hard at herself when she put them on, never having seen anything so strange before. They reached to her ankles and were tightened at the waist with a drawstring. To her they looked quite ridiculous. She had still been laughing when Brandon came down for lunch, and she had lifted her skirts to show him while he admired the sight with glowing eyes.

It was only where she was now, in bed, that she did not wear the undergarments, and there was no need with Brandon’s warmth near. His body heat was like a magnet, drawing her close while she slept, and often she found herself snuggled against his back if she woke during the night. Several times she had awakened to find him lying on his back and she with her head on his shoulder or her knee raised and resting across his legs. This caused her some shock and dismay, that she could abandon herself so completely to sleep. He was on his back now, but they were both awake. They had retired early to combat the coldness in the cabin, finding the bunk a cozy haven they could share when the little stove was not enough to warm them. This night she had told him of her life before they met, though she suspected he had learned a great deal about her from Lord Hampton, but he listened with interest and asked questions now and then to make the story more complete in his own mind.

“But how did you come to be in London that night we met?” he inquired when she had concluded her story. He turned his head on his pillow to gaze at her and lifted a glossy curl from her shoulder to play with it.

Heather swallowed hard and averted her eyes. “I came with my aunt’s brother,” she murmured. “He was going to help me get a position at a school for girls, but I got lost when he took me to see a fair the night we arrived in London.”

“What manner of man was he that your uncle let you go with him?” he asked abruptly.

She shrugged her shoulders nervously. “A prosperous one, Brandon.”

“Blast it, that’s not what I mean, Heather. Was your uncle the fool to let this man take you with only his word that he would find you work? Don’t you know he could have sold you to men or even used you himself? It is perhaps best he lost you.”

Heather lay very still beside him, listening to his anger. She began to wonder if he might be the one person to understand about William Court. She was safe from England now and prison. But would he take kindly to the thought that his wife was a murderess?

Fear chased the thought of confiding in him away, and the truth of that awful night stayed within her. What more could one expect of a coward?

“We just put into port that morning,” he murmured softly, winding his finger through a curl. “I might have thought more clearly if it had been otherwise. But I was feeling restless so I bade George find me a little sport. His choice has been full of surprises—a very fertile virgin with influential friends.”

Heather blushed profusely and turned her face from him, and Brandon’s eyes ran to the nape of her neck where the fairness of her skin shone against her dark hair. It was a most tempting spot and one he craved to press his mouth to. It was difficult to think coldly at times and forget that she was his. He owned that soft, delicate spot he wanted very much to caress, to kiss.

“Now I will have to explain you to my brother,” he said softly.

She turned back to him with the surprise of learning she possessed a brother-in-law.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” she said.

Brandon raised an eyebrow and regarded her for a few moments impassively. “I’m quite aware of that, madam. There is yet a lot you have to learn of me. I do not blurt out my life’s story as you seem fond of doing.”

Heather did not take kindly to the insult. Letting out an infuriated groan, she snatched her hair from his grasp and rolled from him as far as she could go. She lay seething while he laughed at her, and tears of rage filled her eyes. She cursed him silently.

Brandon came awake slowly, as if swimming upward from the bottom of a deep pool. His mind was filled with the feel of Heather warm and soft against him. Those tender breasts seemed to bore holes in his back. Her thighs were snuggled under his buttocks and her silken limbs were bare against him. His manhood rose as he thought of taking her, not with force, but with gentle coercion. Her face swam in a vision before him with eyes dark and sultry, and small tongue darting about moist lips. In his half dream her hair seemed to beckon him closer and caress him as he kissed her. Her arms were open and welcoming and her fingers caressed him as his hands found those sensuous breasts and titillated them to excited peaks. He pressed his entry home and she arched her back and writhed in ecstasy as their fervor mounted.

His manhood and mind linked to betray him. Honor, pride, vengeance became as wisps of grass before the whirlwind of his passions. He started to roll over, determined to relieve his masculine persuasion. His hip pressed against her small, rounding belly and there a faint movement caught his attention. He slid his hand over her abdomen and felt it again, this time stronger. His baby kicked within her as if in protest to his thoughts. The hot blood waned and a cold consciousness replaced it. He recoiled with some distaste at having nearly lost his self-control.

He rose from the bunk, taking care not to disturb Heather and donned his robe. The moon was bright and there was no need of a candle to show him his way. He poured himself a brandy and began to pace the room, now wide awake and greatly disturbed. His body commanded him where his mind did not, and lately these dreams were recurring with more and more frequency. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to wake one night after the thing was done.

He found himself beside the bunk with his elbow braced upon a beam above his head, and gazing down, he saw her innocent and tender, still deep in slumber. He thought of the cruelty and violence that had bred such gentleness, like iron which, when subjected to extremes, blends and emerges finely-tempered steel. She had withstood the worst he could offer in anger and the abuse of Aunt Fanny, yet there was a naïve gentleness that seemed inborn to her.

Louisa came to mind, the full-blown woman awaiting his return. She was of a different mold from this slender girl occupying his bunk and not only in physical stature. Having had everything given to her at her asking by doting parents, she had never known cruelty nor violence. Her personality was open and easy, almost nothing could insult her. She was almost bold where men were concerned and enjoyed most thoroughly the pleasures that could be found in a bed, while Heather had expressed her complete contentment at not having to perform the more intimate duties of a wife. And it seemed strange, now that he thought of it, that all the times he had bedded Louisa she had never come with child. The direct opposite had been true here. The first time he had laid hand upon this unwilling creature before him his seed had struck fertile ground.

Now here he stood. All his worldly ways and high self-esteem had been set aside, and he was trapped by a guileless virgin like a young farm lad barely old enough to stroll alone from stable to store. And each day her unsought hold upon his very thoughts grew stronger, and he would before long be hard pressed to withhold his more amorous attentions.

In the bunk Heather stirred and began to shiver, no longer having his warmth beside her. She wrapped her arms about herself and huddled deeper under the quilt.

Brandon smiled wryly and removed his robe. Taking care not to wake her, he slid under the quilts again and took her into his arms to warm her. For this brief time he would forget his passions and his vengeance and just think of her as a little girl in need of someone to care for her.

He was gone from the cabin when Heather woke the next morning. Another quilt had been drawn over her, and noticing it, she smiled a little to herself, thinking how kind he could be sometimes. He came down for lunch in a quiet, thoughtful mood, and hardly a word was spoken between them as they ate. His face was reddened by the cold wind, and he wore a bulky seaman’s sweater with a rolled collar, dark breeches and polished boots. He had put aside a knit cap on entering and had taken off a heavy wool coat. He was ruggedly dressed but Heather realized suddenly that clothes had little to do with his good looks. He was handsome in anything he wore, be they these or rich garments, and if anything these rough clothes seemed to accentuate his manliness.

Later that afternoon Heather left the cabin with a heavy cloak wrapped tightly about her and climbed to the quarter-deck. He was nowhere to be seen. She moved to the taffrail beside the helmsman, a sturdy youth with a fine fuzz of a youthful beard upon his face. Bashfully the young man kept his eyes upon the compass and pretended that she was not there. She almost had to shout to be heard above the wind.

“I thought the captain was on watch.”

The helmsman raised his arm and pointed upward, and following his direction, she saw Brandon straddling the main topyard, closely inspecting the ropes that held it in place. She gasped and stepped backward, frightened at the dizzy height of his perch. To her the high mast appeared spindly, scarcely able to bear his weight. Her heart seemed to rise in her throat as she stood transfixed with sudden fear. She watched, unable to drag her eyes away. A gust of wind caught the sails and made them clap loudly. The ship heeled slightly and Brandon, caught unawares, grabbed for support. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, swallowing a scream, and bit into a knuckle.

Brandon, looking down toward the helmsman with a scowl, spied her and stopped his work immediately. He shinnied down the mast to the crosstree where he seized two back stays and wrapping his legs around them, slid slowly to the rail and then jumped lightly to the main deck. Coming aft, he climbed to the quarter-deck where he spoke rather gruffly to the young sailor at the helm.

“Let’s watch those gusts, man. We’ll be putting her through a test soon enough without straining her now.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the seaman mumbled, shamefaced and quite put down.

Brandon swung his coat from the taffrail and shrugged it on as Heather found her breath.

“Oh, Brandon, what were you doing up there?” she asked, almost angrily. The scare had brought her near tears.

Somewhat surprised at her tone of voice, Brandon glanced at her and saw the distraught face. He stared at her for a moment in wonder at the emotion he saw and then he chuckled.

“Calm your fears, madam, I was in no real danger. I was merely inspecting the rigging.”

She frowned in confusion. “Inspecting the rigging?”

“Aye, madam,” he replied. Lifting his head, he squinted at the horizon. “Before three days are out we’ll be in a good roaring storm, and I’d rather not be surprised by a parting cable then.”

“But can’t somebody else do that?” she quested worriedly.

His gaze dropped to her again and he grinned as he reached to snuggle her cloak about her chin. “It’s a captain’s worry, sweet, so therefore it’s a captain’s job.”

Heather wasn’t sure she was satisfied with his answer but she could not plead with him to stay from there. “You will be careful, won’t you, Brandon?”

His eyes gleamed as he looked down at her. “I intend to, madam. You are far too lovely to be made a widow.”

The next day dawned with a blood red sun, an ominous portent of the storm to come. The wind blew brisk but changeable and the men were sent again and again into the rigging to retrim the sails, to reef this one or let out that one. The sea ran choppy and contrary and the heavily ladened ship lurched and bucked. Low clouds boiled and raced. The sun shone through in fitful spurts, lighting the hazy gray sea with spots of translucent green. The night came ebony black and the only light on deck came from a lantern above the helmsman.

Heather ventured out once to the main deck. It was pitch black and she could hardly see her hand before her face. She stumbled across the lurching planks to the main mast and clung to it. She looked back toward the quarterdeck and gazed upon an eerie scene. The mate and the helmsman stood beneath the lantern by the wheel, and as the Fleetwood tossed, they seemed to float about against the darkness as if detached from the ship. She swallowed convulsively and hurried back to the cabin, determined to venture out no more until the storm had passed.

Before dawn the winds died and the new day was heralded only by a gradual lightening. Dense black gave way to shades of gray. The sails flapped loosely in the near calm wind, and the sea heaved smooth and glassy as if heavy grease floated upon its surface. No horizon was visible for the sea blended into the clouds, and occasional low layers of mist obscured the topsails. The ship barely made headway and rolled with a sickening motion on the low swells. Night crept in on silent feet and a tense air pervaded the Fleetwood as the men rested for the battle ahead.

The wind gained ground as the night grew old. It seemed a long and restless night, and several times as the wind grew stronger, the crew was roused and sent up to take in sail. The ship was tended carefully that she might be kept in the best possible trim as the storm built around her. When the morning watch came on deck the seas were running high and the craft ran gallantly before the ever stronger gusts, clawing through the crest of each wave, then sliding down into the troughs. To Heather the ship became a world unto itself, a small outpost cast adrift in the churning elements of a crashing, surging chaos. The final sails were set and lashed tightly in place, ropes were strung across the decks to provide hand holds for those who must venture upon them. The main topsail only was spread full and the topgallants were taken in to the last reef, a single sprit sail forward to keep her heels to the wind, and thus she would ride out the storm. From now until the gale was spent no man would dare climb the rigging.

The day wore on and the seas grew higher and the wind raked cruelly everything it could touch. Inside the ship the timbers creaked and moaned as the Fleetwood tossed upon this seething mass between sea and cloud.

Heather ceased to know where day began or darkness reigned. It seemed that every rag of cloth aboard was damp and cold, and she rarely saw Brandon except when he stumbled in shivering and chilled to the marrow of his bones. Getting little sleep, he ate and drank his coffee as if in a stupor. When he entered the cabin she would help him strip away his sodden clothes and wrap him in a blanket that she kept warm before the stove. His eyes grew red with strain and his temper jagged. She quietly did what she could to ease his hardship, and when he dozed she let him rest. Usually he soon roused himself to dress and go again on deck to guide his ship between the crushing blows of the rampant sea.

Several days so passed when rising to another angry dawn, she found the deck was thick with slippery slush. The wind blew snow and sleet upon the straining ship and great, long festoons of ice bedecked the rigging. Brandon came below with frost upon his brows. His cheeks were white and stiff and a long time thawing. He sat close to the stove, huddled in the blanket with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of rum-laced coffee. The brew was finished before his joints began to soften and it no longer took a great effort to move.

Heather was turning the clothes spread to dry before the stove when she was startled by a loud thump and turned to see the mug rolling gently to and fro on the floor. Brandon sat slumped in exhausted slumber. Very carefully she drew another quilt over him, and when MacTavish entered to speak with his captain, she shushed the man and sent him out again. Only the creaking of the ship could be heard in the cabin as she sat with her sampler, jealously guarding her husband’s sleep. It was several hours before he stirred and stared blankly about the cabin then finally rose to full awareness. He set himself somewhat refreshed to his duty and his ship, leaving Heather satisfied in knowing that he had rested.

Darkness had descended when George came to tell her the storm was finally beginning to abate and they were heading out of the worst of it. Brandon came in long after midnight to get some badly needed sleep, and waking, she made to rise from the bunk to help him undress, but he told her gruffly to stay where she was. A moment later he slid shivering under the quilts, and she pressed close to help warm him. Gratefully he accepted her efforts, drawing her even nearer as he shook with the cold. Gradually his trembling subsided and he drifted to sleep, too tired even to turn on his side away from her.

At dawn he woke and dressed while she still slept and once more returned to his work. Though the storm still raged that afternoon he came down to the cabin and did not hasten back. He sat before the stove, knees spread, coat wide, enjoying the heat, but Heather had sidled closer to the stove and stood now in her favorite stance, the back of her skirts raised high, exposing her pantalets to the warmth. Brandon casually watched her through half-closed eyes, feeling vaguely sorry he had bought her the underwear. At a knock on the door she dropped her hem and whirled to face the stove. Brandon called out for admittance and George hurried in with a fresh pot of coffee and several mugs on a tray. He poured his captain a cup and turned to her.

“I’ll be brewing you some tea in a moment, mum.”

Brandon scowled at the servant, thinking how the man pampered her, and turned the same expression on Heather. She felt his tacit disapproval and hurried to smooth his temper.

“I’ll just have coffee this time, George.”

The servant poured her a cup, looking at her doubtfully. He knew she did not favor the brew.

Conscious of both men’s eyes on her, Heather stirred sugar into the coffee and bravely gulped a mouthful, then fought back the shudder that followed. Unthinkingly she looked at George with a distressed smile and asked:

“May I have cream, George?”

Brandon choked and blew a mouthful of coffee back into his mug as he came upright in his chair.

“What, madam?” he choked. “Do you think we’ll find a herd of cows in the middle of the North Atlantic?”

She started at his brusque manner and turning away, bent her head low over the cup to hide the rush of tears that welled up within her. He had no right to speak to her in that manner, especially before a servant.

Brandon drained his cup in one long pull as George glanced from one to the other in confusion, wanting to comfort his mistress, yet not daring to. He decided it was time to beat a tactful retreat and picked up the tray and left. Brandon stood up and slammed his cup down on the table and as he followed his man from the cabin he buttoned his coat and muttered something about women under his breath.

When Heather heard the door slam behind him, she sniffed and glared at the offending portal, then snatched up her needlework and began to sew, venting her anger again upon the poor sampler.

“He treats me like a child,” she fussed, her lips pouting. “The stupid oaf expects me to know all about his ships and seas! He rants and raves at me in front of others as if I were expected not to feel the jibe.”

She threw her sampler aside, seeing that she was ruining it and came to her feet angrily, tears almost blinding her. She fought to control herself, realizing this was not the mood to have him find her in. She must learn to think of her child only and bear what hardships she herself might encounter.

But it was not easy to play the docile wife when, her emotions raged as turbulently as the storm without. When he returned to the cabin late in the day, she was still smarting from the bite of his words. He shed his storm-soaked clothes and donned a robe, stretching himself in a chair before the stove to warm himself, while behind his back Heather glowered at him. Before him her manner was cool and uncommunicative. She hardly spoke to him, only to answer when he asked a direct question.

The evening meal came and went without a murmur from her, and George, seeing her untouched plate, for the first time in his captain’s service, doubted the wisdom of the man he had so loyally served. The table was cleared away and she sat down again beside the stove and began to undo the havoc she had heaped on the sampler. Brandon contemplated this task with a sidelong gaze, watching her slender fingers pick the threads from the piece and wondered what had brought about this foul mood of hers.

Some time later she rose and went to her sea chest when he made no move to dress and go again on deck but sat instead before the stove reading a book. Turning away from him, she slid out of her gown and chemise, and Brandon’s eyes lifted from the pages of the book and viewed her disrobing with a slow, unhurried regard. Her slender back was bared to the waist and there was a glimpse of a round breast when she bent to pick up her nightgown, and the flame within his eyes burned still brighter, then she quickly drew on the garment and wrapper and let the pantalets fall to the floor, and his eyes went back to the book.

She came back to the stove to brush her hair after turning down the covers on the bunk, and Brandon, losing interest in the book, closed it and put it aside. He watched her openly, enjoying this moment when she freed her hair and allowed it to fall in loose curls about her shoulders and down her back. The candles behind her on the desk silhouetted her slender shape as she stood in profile to him, and his attention was drawn to her abdomen, and for the first time he realized she was beginning to show her pregnancy. By the time they arrived home there would be no mistaking her condition, and questions would be aroused in people’s minds, seeing her that far along with child. They would soon decide that he hadn’t wasted any time getting her that way after reaching the port of London. He could just imagine their startled faces when he presented her to them. But those who were friends or acquaintances would not dare inquire about her for fear of tempting his anger. It was just family and fiancée who would ask, and what would he tell them, considering she had conceived within twenty-four hours of his arriving in port?

He chuckled over his thoughts and got up and went to her side, giving her a start. The brushing stopped and she turned wide eyes up to him. He grinned at her and put his hand on her belly, resting it there.

“You’re rounding quite well, madam,” he teased. “Charleston will know I wasted no time in mounting you. It will be most difficult explaining you to my fiancée.

Heather gave a quick, infuriated shriek, decidedly miffed at his words, and shoved his hand away angrily. “Oh, you beast!” she raged. “How dare you speak of explaining me to your fiancée! Had you a heart you’d be explaining her to me! I’m your wife, mother of your child, and you treat me like the dirt you tread upon!”

She brushed past him but whirled again to face him, her blue eyes flashing. “It matters little to me what you speak of to her. I’m sure your words will be soft and sweet as you tell how I forced you to wed me, a woman already breeding. You will paint yourself the innocent, taken advantage of by a scheming woman, and you will not care about your child. Be sure to say, too, my love, that you dragged me from the gutters and gave me your name only because you were blackmailed into doing so. Your words will be very convincing, I have no doubt; and before you end, you may have won her virginity too!”

He scowled at her and took a step forward, and Heather quickly skittered about to put a chair safely between her and him.

“Don’t you lay a hand on me!” she cried. “If you do, I swear I will throw myself overboard.”

Brandon reached out and sent the chair sliding away and Heather backed away fearfully as he advanced. She stopped only when she could go no further with the wall to her back.

“Please,” she whimpered as he took her by the arms. “Please don’t hurt me, Brandon. You must think of the child.”

“I have no intentions of hurting you, madam,” he growled. “But your waspish tongue does sting my anger. Be warned, wife. I have other ways to make you miserable.”

Heather swallowed hard. Her eyes were wide and uncertain and her mouth quivered. Seeing her fear, Brandon turned her loose with an oath and went to the bunk.

“Come now to bed, madam. I have been too long without sleep, and I intend this night to get my rest.”

Heather’s head snapped up as anger replaced her fear. How dare he suggest she lie beside him after all he had said to her that day. She was not without some pride.

Though there were tears in her eyes she held her chin defiantly high and went to the bunk beside him and dragged her pillow and quilt from it. She took them to the stern gallery, and Brandon turned with a raised eyebrow and watched her over his shoulder as she spread them upon the window seat.

“Do you intend to sleep there, madam?” he inquired with disbelief.

“Yes,” she murmured, taking her wrapper off. She settled herself down on the cushions and pulled the quilt about her.

“It’s not a fit place for you to stay the night,” he informed her quickly. “The storm is not over. The window is damp and cold. You’ll not find comfort there.”

“I will manage,” she said.

Brandon swore under his breath and shrugged his robe off and threw it down in a chair. He turned and sat down on the edge of the bunk and stared at her. She twitched and turned, trying to get comfortable, and a sudden lurch of the ship almost deposited her on the floor. Brandon chuckled despite himself, and she glowered at him and snatched the quilt tighter about her. She wedged herself between the beams, bracing against them to hold her precarious perch. She achieved some security, but her position was anything but comfortable.

Brandon sat for a long time watching her before he finally turned to lie down. He saw the empty space where she had slept since the start of this voyage home, and he suddenly realized that he was going to miss her beside him. Just the night before she had shared her body’s heat to take the chill from him.

He turned again to look at her and his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Madam, there’s precious little heat to waste aboard this ship. I suggest we combine ours beneath the blankets here.”

She lifted her nose primly and settled her shoulders into the corner. “I am so dumb, sir, that I believe there are cows in the middle of the Atlantic and my poor simple brain does not prompt me to rise from this window seat and spend the night in bed with you.”

Brandon threw the quilts back angrily. “Well then, my fine feathered lass,” he retorted, “I’m sure you and the icy sea will find ample companionship on that oaken sill. I will not beg you again to join me. Just let me know when you’ve had enough of playing games and I will make room for you. You’ll not last long there.”

Heather seethed with rage. She would freeze to death before she’d crawl back to his bed and let him mock her.

The night aged and the quilt about Heather slowly soaked in the dampness that seeped in through the window. She began to feel the cold and she huddled deeper in the wet cover to seek warmth. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and every muscle in her body tensed to stop her trembling. She longed for the warmth of the bunk, but her pride whipped anew the memories of his cruelty and would not let her go to its comfort. Her nightgown was no protection against the sodden chill and soon was plastered to her body. Near dawn she finally dozed fitfully, but only because she was near exhaustion.

She roused with a jerk as the cabin door banged shut and through bleary eyes she saw the bunk deserted and her husband gone. She strained to sit up and the cabin rocked and pitched more violently than could be explained by the heavy seas without. She felt no coldness, indeed a dry warmth seemed to enfold her. She sought to fling the sodden quilt aside but it was caught beneath her and her arms began to tremble at the effort. She cleverly changed her tactics and slid her feet to the floor and there she sat while the cabin lurched and swung, then finally slowed to a gentle rhythm. She thought she could manage then. She fought to stand up and shrug away from the quilt, but it clung with the determination of a living thing, and she slid to her knees and found herself beneath its weight upon the floor. Breathing hard from the struggle, she lay still to regain her strength. A chill seeped through from the deck below and the quilt above and she began to shake and shiver violently. She raised her head wearily and spied the stove and thought of its warmth. There was a chair near it. If she could but stand erect, this icy weight would leave her. She dragged herself across the heaving deck. The chair seemed to swim in a fog and retreat before her. The struggle drained her but she fought on, the quilt still clinging like a frosty mantle upon her back. She reached the chair and grasped its legs and painfully drew herself up until she could rest her head upon the seat, and there she lay panting with exhaustion. The room reeled about her and she saw it as if through a long, dark tunnel. She seemed to fall down that tunnel until only a pinpoint of light remained and then it too vanished with a startling abruptness.

Brandon came down from the quarter-deck, somewhat improved in mood. His luck had held and his gamble had paid off. The storm had pushed them south but gained them several days. Having vented its fury upon the ship, it passed beyond, leaving the weather cold and the seas rough but grudgingly breathing its winds upon their sails to speed them on. Yet for all his good fortune, he remembered the night before and his temper turned. He smiled darkly to himself. He’d not allow that stubborn twit to vent her wrath upon him and dance away. She had a lesson still to learn if wife to a Birmingham she sought to be.

He snapped at George to hurry the meal as he passed the galley, and stalked to the cabin door, determined to set her back upon her heels and lay the law before her. He pushed the door open, his face black with rage, then stopped short, all anger draining away as he saw Heather sitting on the floor with her head and arm lying limply in the seat of a chair, a quilt twisted about her hips and her other hand lying palm up upon the floor.

She opened her eyes as he gasped her name and saw him rush toward her. She lifted her head and tried to speak, but her shuddering made her speech incoherent. He dragged the heavy quilt from her and picked her up in his arms. Her head rolled listlessly before dropping on his shoulder. She heard him yell for George and then he was placing her in the bunk and drawing quilts over her. The servant came running in and Brandon turned and barked orders to him, but Heather’s muddled mind heard only a jumble of words. Again he was bending over her, this time pushing the covers away. Still shaking violently, she whimpered and fought weakly to keep them over her, thinking he meant to punish her. He was always punishing her.

“Let me, Heather,” he said hoarsely. “Your gown is damp. You will be warmer without it.”

Her fingers relaxed their grip and she lay unresisting as he unfastened her gown and slid it from her shoulders and down her body. Then once more she was wrapped in the bedcovers.

Heather felt a hand placed to her brow and its coolness was to be treasured. She opened her eyes slowly to look at Brandon, but it was not he who stood above her with his hand on her brow. It was her father.

“Heather Brianna,” he coaxed. “Finish your broth like a good child or papa will not be pleased.”

“But I do not wish it, papa.”

“How do you think you will grow into a fine young lady if you do not eat, Heather Brianna? You are much too thin for a child of six.”

The vision blurred and cleared again.

“Must you go again, papa?”

He smiled at her. “You’ll be all right here with the servants. This is your tenth birthday. What child that age fears to be left alone?”

She watched his receding back, and her bottom lip quivered and her eyes filled. “I do, papa. I do. Come back, papa. Please.”

“Your father is dead, child. He died at the gaming tables. Don’t you remember?”

“Don’t take my mother’s portrait. It’s all I have of her.”

“It must go to pay the debts. Your father’s portrait, too. Everything must be taken.”

“We’ve come for you, Heather. You’re to live with your aunt and me.”

“So you’re the girl. ‘Tain’t likely you’ll be doin’ your share of work, lookin’ as frail as you do. My dresses will do for you fine. You’ll bear no bastards in my home. I won’t be letting you out of my sight. You’re a witch, Heather Simmons.”

“No. I’m not a witch!”

“This is my brother, William. He’s come to take you to London.”

“How sweet looking you are, child. Meet my assistant, Thomas Hint. He’s not the sort who tempts a woman with his beauty.”

“Please stay away from me. Don’t touch me!”

“I plan to have you, my dear, so there is no reason why you should fight me.”

“He fell on the knife. It was an accident. He tried to rape me. Somebody is after me. He does not know I killed a man. He thinks I’m from the streets.”

“Do you think I’m going to let you sneak away from me?”

“It was the Yankee who took me. It’s his child I carry. No one else has laid hand upon me. He thinks to make me his mistress and have me bear his bastard child while he weds another in his land. He is so pompous. Let it be a girl. I did not mean to cry out. You startled me. Please don’t hurt me. He left his hat, George. Will he be back soon?”

“The captain is a good man.”

“Oh Brandon, what were you doing up there? He treats me like a child. He pats my belly, then talks of his fiancée.”

The heat was unbearable. She thrashed about to escape it. Something cool and wet slid over her body again and again with slow, unhurried motion. She was turned by strong yet gentle hands and her back exposed to the cooling caresses.

“Swallow,” she heard a voice. “Swallow.”

She saw her father again holding a cup to her lips as he held her up, and always obeying his slightest wish, she drank the warm broth.

Aunt Fanny appeared before her and she screamed as she saw the woman holding her dead brother in her arms, a knife plunged firmly in his chest. She tried to explain that it was an accident, that she really didn’t kill him, that he fell on the knife. Thomas Hint came to her aunt’s side and shook his head and pointed a finger at her accusingly. She saw the executioner’s axe and saw his hooded head and his bared chest. He pressed her head down on the block and smoothed her hair from her neck. The cooling movements returned and her father brushed her long hair up from the back of her neck.

“Swallow. Swallow.”

“Is she any better, cap’n?”

She was possessed by shivering. She was cold. Something warm was placed around her, and she was weighted down once more by heavy quilts.

“Papa? Don’t leave me, papa. Henry, I cannot marry you. Please don’t ask the reasons. There is so much blood. It was only a small wound.”

William Court laughed and leered drunkenly at her. Mr. Hint was by his side and they were coming for her. Their claws reached out to catch her, and she whirled and ran from them straight into the Yankee’s arms.

“Save me, please! Don’t let them take me! I’m your wife!”

“You’re no wife to me.”

She tossed about in suffocating heat and the cooling motion began again. She saw Brandon above her and he stroked her body with a cool, wet cloth.

“Don’t let my baby die, Brandon!”

His large hand slid over her belly and he looked at her. “It lives, my love.”

Aunt Fanny laughed behind him. “Do you hear that, missy? Your bastard still lives.”

The faces of William Court, Thomas Hint, Aunt Fanny and Uncle John bore down on her, all laughing loudly with their mouths gaping wide.

“Murderess! Murderess! Murderess!”

She flung her hands over her ears and thrashed about wildly. “I’m not! I’m not! I am not!”

“Swallow this. You must.”

“Don’t leave me, papa,” she whimpered.

The fields were green with spring grass, and she laughed as she ran from the person behind her. She was caught and swung upward in sturdy arms, and laughing gaily she looped her arms about the man’s neck in gleeful abandonment, and his face pressed close as he bent to kiss her. A scream was torn from her as she recognized Thomas Hint. She fought the arms about her waist and turning, saw the figure of a man retreat across the brow of a distant hill.

“Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here with him! Don’t leave me!”

She was being drawn down into darkness, peaceful, peaceful darkness. She floated, she glided, she swayed, and a mist rolled upward around her and consumed her.

Heather opened her eyes and saw the timbers of the bunk above her and everything was calm and peaceful, only the slight creaking of the ship could be heard. She lay unmoving for a moment, trying to recall what had happened. She had been trying to reach the bunk, but she must have fallen. She moved slightly and winced. She felt bruised, as if every inch of her had been beaten, and she was so weak. She turned her head on the pillow and saw Brandon. He was asleep in a hammock hung between the quarter-deck beams.

A hammock? Here? In the cabin? And he looked so gaunt. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was badly mussed and shaggy. Strange, he usually took great pains with them.

Her frown deepened as her eyes went about the room. It lay in complete disorder. Clothing was flung over chairs and boots lay askew on the floor. There was a pan of water near the bunk and rags hung on lines above the stove. She mused vaguely at what disaster had swept the place and why George had not tidied up.

With a painful effort she rose on an elbow and instantly Brandon’s eyes flew open. He swung himself from the hammock and hurried toward the bunk but slowed when she looked up at him with sanity in her eyes. He smiled broadly and came to sit down on the edge of the bunk. He reached to feel her brow.

“The fever is gone,” he said, as if in relief.

“What has happened?” she asked softly. “I feel so tired and I ache all over. Did I fall?”

He smoothed her hair from her face. “You’ve been ill, sweet, for several days now. This is the sixth day.”

“Sixth day!” she gasped. Everything was a flurry of confusion with her. Six days had gone by. It seemed but a few hours.

Suddenly her eyes widened with fright and she grabbed for the quilt over her belly. “The baby! I’ve lost the baby, haven’t I?” she cried. Frightened tears sprang to her eyes and panic bleached her soul. “Oh, Brandon, tell me true. Oh, Brandon!”

He smiled gently and placed his hand upon hers. “No,” he murmured. “The child is still with us. He moves often.”

She choked on tears and would have hugged him for his answer had she not caught herself. She brushed the wetness from her cheeks and smiled at him as she relaxed and lay back in the bunk, feeling relieved but exhausted.

He grinned. “I’d never have forgiven you, madam, if you had lost my son after all I’ve been through with you,” he teased. “I have great plans for him.”

She searched his face, hardly able to believe what her ears had heard. “You have plans for him?” she questioned. “You will be proud of him—of my child?”

“Of our child, my dear,” he corrected warmly. “Did you think I would not be—my own son? Fie on you, madam, for believing otherwise. I told you once I was fond of children—and of my own I will be doubly so.”

She continued to stare at him, her eyes wide and uncertain, then for the first time her lips spoke of a matter which had haunted her of late.

“Brandon, am I the first—” she began hesitantly. “Is this your first—I mean, have you ever sired a child before by another woman?”

He sat back and raised a startled eyebrow at her, making her flush scarlet. She quickly dropped her gaze and murmured an apology.

“I’m sorry, Brandon. I didn’t mean to pry. I don’t know why I asked, really I don’t. Please forgive me.”

He chuckled suddenly and her eyes met his again as he drew her chin up. “For a man five and thirty years, I can’t very well say I’ve never bedded another woman, can I?” He grinned. “But with reasonable certainty I can assure you that no woman before you has ever borne a child of mine. I pay no support for bastard children to any woman. Does that please you, my sweet?”

She smiled brightly. For some strange reason it pleased her very much. “Yes,” she replied happily.

Feeling much better now, she struggled to sit up, and he quickly slid his hands behind her back to help her, and she clung to him as he drew her up and fluffed the pillows behind her.

“Are you hungry?” he questioned softly, still holding her. The quilt had fallen from her, leaving her bare to the waist with her hair streaming wildly over her shoulders and breasts. He was reluctant to turn her loose. “You should try to eat. You’ve lost a little flesh.”

Her eyes lifted to his face. “So have you,” she whispered.

He chuckled then and helped her back to the pillows as she drew the quilt over her breasts. “I’ll tell George to prepare us both a lunch. He’ll be quite pleased to see that you’re better. He has become quite attached to you, and I’m afraid you worried ten years off his lifetime.” His eyes sparkled. “Needless to say, my sweet, you won’t be sleeping in the window again.”

She giggled. “I’ve never had a more horrible night,” she admitted.

“You have a most stubborn nature, madam,” he grinned. “But next time you’ll have little chance to prove it.” He grew serious again. “From now on I shall allow my better judgment to dictate, and will enforce it accordingly.”

She smiled uncertainly, knowing he was not jesting. Another thought crossed her mind as he rose and turned to leave. Halfway to the door she stopped him.

“Brandon?”

He turned and waited for her to continue. In confusion she wrung the quilt in her hands, not wishing to broach the subject, fearing his reaction, yet knowing she must. Again she murmured.

“Brandon—I—” She summoned her courage and looked straight at him. “Will you tell your family that you were forced to marry me?”

He stared stonily at her for several seconds, then without word or nod, turned on his heels and left. Heather rolled her head to face the wall in embarrassment at having asked the question. He had not answered her and the reply was now most clear. She wondered if she could bear the shame she would suffer.

When Brandon returned she had recovered herself and had vowed never to reopen the subject. He took one of her nightgowns from her sea chest and brought it with him to the bunk.

“Heather, if you will allow me, I’ll help you put this on.”

She let him draw it over her head, and as he pulled it together over her breasts and fastened it her eyes moved over his face. He looked so tired and so ill kept. His hair had always been neatly trimmed before, and the dark circles under his eyes were deep. He hadn’t taken care of himself at all, and now she longed to reach out and touch his face and smooth away the lines of fatigue.

“George hasn’t been taking care of you,” she murmured softly. “I must speak with him about that.”

He ducked his head away from her hand, embarrassed by his unsightly state, and stepped away from the bunk. He turned his back, but his attention returned again when she moved in the bunk, trying to get comfortable. He saw her wince.

“Ugh,” she grimaced. “This bed has made me sore.” She raised her eyes to his. “May I sit up please, Brandon?”

He took a quilt from the bunk and smoothed it upon a chair by the stove, bringing back her slippers which he placed upon her feet. He gathered her up into his arms, and Heather did not resist this time, looping her arms about his neck. She was rather sorry it was such a short distance to the chair. He was just tucking the quilt about her when George knocked on the door. The servant entered, carrying a tray of food and smiling broadly.

“Aye, mum, you had us all frantic, you did,” he said, gently rebuking her. “We thought sure it were the last of you, and the poor cap’n never left your side one moment night or day, mum. He wouldn’t let no other touch you.”

Brandon scowled at the servant. “You have a loose tongue, George,” he growled.

The man grinned at him. “Aye, cap’n,” he replied, not greatly rebuffed, and set about placing the meal before them.

Heather felt no urge to eat although the soup sat temptingly before her, but in good manner she took a taste and then another. A gnawing appetite grew within her, and she ate with increasing gusto. She paused and found the eyes of both men quietly upon her and felt daintily disposed at this display of her own hunger. She lowered the spoon and feeling the need to say something, raised an eyebrow to the servant.

“By what I can see, George,” she said, nodding to the disheveled room, “you’ve not been taking good care of your captain.”

Brandon snorted and turned away, and George shuffled his feet and rubbed his hands together.

“Aye, mum. ‘Twas a terrible fit he was in. He wouldn’t even let me past the door.” And nodding rapidly to emphasize his point, he said again. “’Twas only himself what tended you and brought you through, mum.”

A low growl came from Brandon, and he stepped forward as if to seize the grinning man who bobbing, hastily withdrew on a parting comment.

“’Tis good to see you up and about, mum, and I’ll be bringing you some harder vittles later.”

Heather tasted the soup and began to eat but kept her smiling eyes upon her discomforted husband.

That night he was undressing for bed when she moved over in the bunk and pushed the covers aside for him expectantly. He gave the inviting space a sidelong regard then finally looked away.

“I’d better not sleep in the bunk anymore,” he said. He glanced at her, saw her confused frown and cleared his throat. “It’s warmer weather now and we need not share the heat, and I—ah—I’ve been concerned that I—in my sleep—might roll upon you and injure you or the babe. There’ll be more room for you without me.”

And in clumsy haste, he swung into the hammock and settled himself to take the rest he sorely needed. With lower lip thrust out in a petulant pout, Heather fluffed the quilts, gave him a last sidelong glare, turned her back and pulled the cover close about her neck.

The days grew into weeks and after making their turn at Grand Banks the weather began to warm as they sailed further south with the strong northerly breezes behind them hastening their journey. Under the ever warming sun the natural color returned to Heather’s cheeks and all signs of illness faded away. She bloomed more beautiful than any flower, and to look at her one could surmise motherhood definitely agreed with her. Whenever she was about on quarter-deck, close under Brandon’s hand, every man’s eyes were drawn to her at one time or another, and with the wind whipping her cloak about her and teasing a stray lock of hair she was something to behold. But never was there anything said nor done to suggest they thought of her as anything but the finest of ladies, and her delicate condition brought about many helping hands when she climbed to the quarter-deck.

The new sleeping arrangements seemed to agree with Brandon. His eyes dropped the signs of strain. His face no longer appeared gaunt, and the shadows faded from beneath his eyes. His skin darkened under the sun and wind and turned a deep coppery brown, and Heather, being very much a woman, found herself watching him more and more.

They were nearing Bermuda and soon would be expecting to make a landfall on the island when a rain storm drenched them, and Brandon came up to the quarter-deck to find that George had lashed an empty barrel in the corner of the rail and was rigging a large piece of sail to funnel water into it.

“George, might you be going mad, man?” Brandon quested, shouting over the pounding of the rain. “What the hell are you doing with that up here?”

The servant came to attention and squinted up at him through the pelting downpour. “Your lady, sir. I thought she would be liking a bath what she would enjoy. Fresh rain water will be a relief from the salt, cap’n.”

Brandon looked at the barrel with a critical eye and George rubbed his feet together in agony as he waited, hoping his captain would not order it from the quarterdeck. Brandon turned his gaze on the servant, then moved it again to the rain barrel and slowly back to George. His cold scrutiny held his man for several seconds, then an eyebrow raised and a half smile softened his face.

“Sometimes, George, you amaze me,” he said, and strode off the quarter-deck.

George heaved a sigh of relief and whistling to himself, rechecked the lashing.

Heather eased herself into the warm water, taking great delight as the delicious heat crept up her body. Brandon sat at his desk, completely distracted by her hurried disrobing upon discovering the steaming tub. George had discreetly prepared it while she was on deck taking a breath of the refreshing evening air. On seeing it she had squealed with delight and kissed the old man upon his pate, and the servant had fled from the cabin, blushing in pleased embarrassment.

She breathed a great sigh and lay her head back against the rim of the tub. She dipped her arms into the water then lifted them up, letting the sweet fluid cascade over her shoulders. Brandon swore beneath his breath as he totaled a column of figures incorrectly for the eighth time. His wife was completely engrossed in her delightful interlude and missed his silently mouthed curse. He thrust the quill into its well as if this might relieve his agitation and closed the ledger. He rose from the desk to pace about the room and gaze out the windows upon the moonlit sea in an effort to redirect his attention to something less frustrating. He failed abjectedly, and found himself gazing down upon his wife, watching her breasts tease the water as she bathed. He ran his finger lightly around her ear and brushed the nape of her neck with his knuckles. She turned liquid eyes up to him and smiled and rubbed her cheek against his hand. Brandon groaned and gritted his teeth and withdrew to a safer sector of the cabin. And having grown accustomed to his unreliable moods, Heather ignored his plight and continued with her bath, unconcerned.

“Brandon,” she sweetly plied to his ignoring back. “Will you pass that bucket of water from the stove?”

He turned eagerly, relieved to have some task to occupy his mind. He poured the water into the foot of the tub and stood clumsily holding the pail as he watched her luxuriate in this new warmth. She sank her shoulders beneath the water then rose again with rosy breasts agleam as if with a morning dew. Brandon turned abruptly, mumbled something about fetching more water, and retreated from this torture chamber.

Heather lay relaxing in the tub, almost purring with her contentment. She dribbled water from the sponge across her knees and splashed it on her face. The water seemed as satin against her skin, and she luxuriated in the feel of it, having long grown tired of sea-water baths.

A persistent sound from above drew her attention and for a long while she listened to the footfalls pacing back and forth across the quarter-deck. She recognized them as Brandon’s and each time his shadow fell upon the small skylight above as he passed in front of a lantern hung alight on the quarter-deck, she wondered if he was impatient to be off the ship and at his home.

Her bath concluded and the water emptied from the tub, she sat now before the stove in a nightgown, the quilt she had wrapped about her having fallen away as she brushed her hair. She was still at this task when her husband returned, and she smiled warmly at him as he entered.

Seeing her thus Brandon paused at the door in indecision. The dainty night garment was like a hazy cloud over her body, holding little from his regard. Her round breasts swelled generously over the top of the gown, and seeing their softly veiled peaks, he was again at odds with himself, not knowing how to keep himself from staring at her. He began to pace about the cabin, finding its small space even more confining than usual. He ceased his agitated pacing by her sea chest and noticed her robe lying across it. He stared for a moment at its deep red hue and touched the soft velvet fabric, his fingers casually caressing it as if it held her within its folds. Suddenly he realized what he was doing, and stopped, muttering an oath. He took up the garment and went to her and spread it about her shoulders. She smiled up at him again, murmuring her thanks, but made no move to put her arms through the sleeves or pull it closed. He waited, chafing at her delay at doing so, and finally bent and drew it together himself.

“Heather, for God’s sake,” he groaned, “I’m not a suckling babe to think nothing of your scanty attire. I’m a man and I cannot bear to see you so displayed.”

Obediently she slid into her wrapper and fastened it snuggly about her neck, keeping all emotion from her face, but inwardly she smiled.

As they neared Bermuda, Brandon grew restive and constantly rechecked his navigation. He and MacTavish compared notes and knew approximately when they would arrive, but neither would say a word for fear of being wrong. It was a week into December and the men discussed whether they would make port before Christmas. The two ships that had departed before them were due to dock around the New Year. If the Fleetwood could make Charleston before they did, she’d be the first ship from England in several months and her cargo would bring a high profit. The crew knew that Bermuda was not more than twelve days out, thus the islands would bring the end of the voyage in sight. It was nearly noon the next day, the eighth of December, when a lookout’s voice rang from the top of the main mast.

“Land ho! Off the port bow.”

From the deck nothing could be seen. Brandon glanced at his timepiece and made an entry in the log but held course until the islands were firmly in sight, then gave the long awaited order to bring the ship about on the last leg home.

The Fleetwood bucked and heaved to the new course and seemed to strain forward as the men leaped into the rigging and spread her last inch of sail to catch the gentle southern breezes.

One week before Christmas, after more than a month and a half at sea, they entered Charleston Bay. At sight of land they had hoisted signals, giving the word that the Fleetwood was coming into port, and Heather wrapped a cloak about herself and came up to have her first glimpse of this new land. Her first sight of the continent was a blue haze on the horizon and she had to squint to identify it as land at all. As they drew closer and could finally pick out features of the coast, it was apparent that they had made landfall some miles north of Charleston Bay and Brandon brought the ship several points aport to correct. This brought them angling down the coastline to the main channel and Heather viewed a vast panorama of what was to be her new homeland. From the books she had read and the people she had listened to she had formed a mental picture of a rather dingy settlement squatting in the midst of a steaming coastal swamp. She stood amazed at the clear blue water curling beneath the bow of the ship and the white sandy beaches stretching for miles. Beyond them stood great forests of mangrove and cypress, cottonwood and live oak, marching for endless leagues into the distance. When they finally rounded the point and entered the bay, she gasped at the sultry beauty of the whitewashed city sprawling before her like a handful of white pearls on the sunlit beach. A log fort on a small sand island swept by the port beam and sails were taken in and other preparations made to warp the ship into her berth.

As the Fleetwood dashed the last mile home, Heather saw that a large crowd had formed on the dock, and almost with a start she realized that in that throng were Brandon’s brother, his friends, and—his fiancée. Her heart froze in her throat at the thought of facing them all, and she fled below to make herself as presentable as she thought fitting for a captain’s wife. She dressed carefully, donning a pink wool gown and a highwaisted coat of the same hue, cut on the fashion of the Hussars and trimmed with silk braid and frogs. Her apprehension grew as she worried with her hair and finally coiled it about her head and stuffed it beneath a dark mink hat. At last she was ready, and with nothing else to do she sat in the familiar chair by the now cold stove and stared into the gloom of the cabin, her hands gripped tightly in her fur muff. Fear ran with spiked hooves across her nerves, and her composure became a matter of sheer will. She felt the ship grind against the dock and some moments later started when Brandon opened the door and entered the cabin. His eyes passed over her, and with face set he crossed to his desk. He removed the ledgers and tied them with a ribbon and then reaching back into the drawer, withdrew a bottle of brandy. Chewing her lip nervously, she rose and went to stand beside him as he tossed off a healthy portion. He glanced at her, frowning, poured himself another and gulped it down before setting the glass upon the desk. Feeling in need herself of something to barricade her wits against the scene so close at hand, she took the glass and raised it to him. His eyebrow lifted doubtingly, but she stared up at him until he finally poured a dainty draught into the tumbler. Aping his casual manner, Heather raised the glass to her lips and downed it all in a single swallow. Her eyes flew open in surprise, and she wheezed in air, trying to catch her breath against the searing, choking fire that burned its way into her stomach. She gasped and coughed and thought she would never be the same. But at last she was able to draw a deep breath as the fire died into a warming glow. She raised watery eyes to Brandon’s amused expression and nodded bravely, ready now to venture forth and face the crowd that waited on the quay.

Brandon tucked the ledgers beneath his arm, replaced the bottle and riding his hand on the small of her back, guided her through the door and out across the deck to where the gangplank awaited. He handed her over the small step onto the plank and stepped up beside her. Their eyes met briefly before he presented his arm, and Heather, taking it and a deep breath, let him lead her down the gangplank. As they descended, a couple separated themselves from the crowd and hurried to meet them. The man was as tall as Brandon but of a slighter build. There was no mistaking him. He bore a great resemblance to his brother. And the woman, tall, buxom, beautifully blond, was undoubtedly the fiancée. Her warm brown eyes were filled with happiness, and as the couples drew near she rushed forward to fling herself upon Brandon and kiss him long and more lovingly than seemed proper for even engaged couples. He bore her affections with arms spread, determined to make no concession to her advances, and cast a glance awry at Heather who observed the whole thing rather brittlely. As her greeting subsided, Louisa looked into his face for a moment, somewhat taken aback by his coolness, then seizing his arm, hugged it close to her bosom. Finally she turned and her cold appraisal swept Heather.

The two women regarded each other for a moment with mutual and immediate hostility. Heather saw before her the well rounded, experienced woman of the world, at ease with men and determined in her goals, while Louisa viewed a young, exquisitely beautiful girl, barely attaining that full blossom of youth that she herself would soon be yielding. Each woman saw in the other the things she feared most, and in this first moment of meeting they became enemies.

Louisa completed her calculated assessments and turned again to Brandon. “And what’s this you’ve brought back, my darling?” she questioned. “Some poor thing from the streets of London?” Her tone of voice carried the implications home.

With discerning eye, Jeff had drawn his own accurate conclusion and smothered a chuckle when Brandon made his reply.

“No, Louisa,” he said rigidly. “This is my wife, Heather.”

Louisa gasped as her eyes flew open and would have crumpled had she not still held Brandon’s arm. The color drained from her face, and she stared at him, open mouthed.

Brandon hurried on, hoping to bypass the storm. “Heather, this is my brother, Jeffrey. Jeff, my wife.”

“Your wife!” Louisa shrieked, regaining her tongue in a fury. “Do you mean to say you married this little bitch?”

Ignoring her outburst, Jeff smiled broadly and took Heather’s hand into his. He bowed low over it and straightening, spoke. “I am most pleasured to meet you, Mrs. Birmingham.”

Heather returned his smile, accepting him as a future ally. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Jeff,” she murmured demurely. “Brandon has spoken of you.”

Jeff cast a doubting eye to his brother. “Well, knowing him, I—”

“You roving bastard!” Louisa choked, glaring at Brandon. “You left me to twiddle my thumbs around your empty promises while you, the great hunting stud, strolled about the streets of London!” Her clenched fist flashed a large stoned ring in front of his eyes. “You bade me wait and cool my heels until you sailed this one last time, then you return and gift me with your wife! You present this common slut to take my place after you’ve played the round with my affections! Damn you, you crusty bull! You’ve pleased your brother fine. He stands there and drools and smirks as if he planned this underhanded act himself!”

She took a step toward Heather and eyed her coldly. Her voice became a feline mew. “You conniving wench, what brothel did he find you in? Indeed, what cradle? You took the promised of another!” She advanced another step as Heather stared at her. “And look, so young, so gentle, so very talented you are. You must have spread yourself upon his bed with glee, you high-flown whore!”

Louisa drew her arm back to strike but found it seized in Brandon’s hand. He spun her about and caught her by the shoulders, almost lifting her clear of the dock.

“Be warned, Louisa,” he stated slowly. “She is my wife and carries my child. I wronged you, true, so wreak your vengeance upon my frame, but never—ever lay one hand upon her head!”

Louisa’s pallor increased and fear was evident within her eyes. Brandon released her and moved between the two women, but there was no need. Louisa now stood cowed.

“Your child?” she wheezed. Her eyes slid past him to Heather and down to the rounded belly as if noticing it for the first time. She turned away, silently making a vow to revenge herself upon her rival.

“Now that we’ve become the center of attention here at the dock,” Jeff grinned, “shall we go to the carriage?” He glanced toward the fair-haired woman. “Louie, old girl, will you be journeying with us to Harthaven or shall I tell James to let you off at Oakley?”

She turned and gave him an ugly look, then whirled to Brandon again and smiled sweetly. “You must stop at Oakley, darling. I had planned a nice tea for us.” She lifted sultry eyes to his. “Of course you will not disappoint me. I do insist.”

Jeff glanced between them and saw Brandon raise an eyebrow at the woman. Smiling devilishly, the younger brother reached out and pulled Heather from behind Brandon’s back and winked at her as he spoke to Louisa.

“Tell me, Louie, does that invitation include the rest of the Birminghams, or is it a private affair? I’m sure my sister-in-law is not anxious to be parted long from her husband.”

Louisa’s glance at him shot daggers. “But, of course, darling,” she cooed sweetly. “You’re all invited. I’m sure the child would enjoy some nice warm milk in her condition.”

Jeff’s grin deepened as he reached up to tease the fur of Heather’s hat with a finger. “Do you like warm milk, Mrs. Birmingham?”

“Yes,” she replied softly, smiling up at him. His charm had already won her. “But I really do prefer tea.”

Jeff turned to Louisa and his eyes gleamed. “I do believe tea would be more fitting after this long voyage, don’t you, my dear?”

Louisa fixed him with a venomous glare. “Yes, of course, darling. We must do everything to please your new house guest,” she returned, emphasizing what she considered to be a temporary arrangement. “The child may have anything she desires.”

Jeff laughed softly. “Why, dear Louie, it would seem to me that she already has everything she could desire,” he quipped.

Louisa spun from him in a huff, and Brandon cast a warning glance to Jeff who grinned with glee and turned his back and gallantly presented his arm to Heather.

“Come, Mrs. Birmingham,” he said. “We must be careful of your condition, and I’m sure you’ll be much more comfortable in the carriage.”

As he cleared the way for her through the crowd he plied her with questions, using again and again the form of address that seemed to irk Louisa so.

“Mrs. Birmingham, did you have a good voyage over? The north sea can be quite boisterous this time of year, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Birmingham?”

Louisa trailed them, hanging on Brandon’s arm. Her eyes were narrowed and her anger seethed anew for by the time they cleared the mass of people the air was buzzing with whispered conjectures, and she knew that word would spread like wildfire of Brandon’s marriage and her thereby broken engagement.

Brandon, who had once strutted with Louisa through this city’s streets, now found the woman’s clinging nearness burdensome and he took exception to Jeff’s open courting of his wife. But he knew his brother had heartily disapproved of Louisa as a possible sister-in-law and would play this charade to its end. He concentrated on the small, slender figure of his wife, watching her skirts swing jauntily ahead of him, and his eyes glowed.

With great aplomb Jeff handed Heather into the carriage, and as he pointedly sat beside her, he met his brother’s aggravated gaze with a calm and deliberate stare. Brandon assisted Louisa into her seat and took the only place remaining, beside her. She immediately slid close to lean against him and rested her forearm casually on his thigh as if declaring her intimacy with this man. With lips grim in vexation, Brandon crossed his arms and sat stiffly, glancing back and forth at the pair opposite him, wishing for mercy from his brother.

Heather looked askance to her husband’s lap and the possessive hand that had claimed it and finally raised her eyes to his face to see his reaction. Her regard was caught by Louisa and a bland smile twisted the woman’s lips.

“Tell me, darling,” she asked coyly. “Did Brandon tell you anything about us?”

“Yes, he did,” Heather murmured, and before she could enlarge upon the statement Louisa interrupted, raising an eyebrow mockingly.

“But of course he didn’t tell you everything about us.” She turned to Brandon, smiling coquettishly and blinking her lashes. “Surely you didn’t tell her everything, darling. I do hope you didn’t go that far.”

No slap on the face could have hurt so much. A sudden weight fell on Heather’s heart at this crude revelation, leaving her stunned. Her eyes dropped in bewilderment, and a thousand thoughts raced across her brain and crashed together in confusion. She had not thought of this at all—that Brandon and the woman had been lovers. No wonder he was so resentful of their marriage. And though she carried his name and his child, she was the outsider, not Louisa. Hadn’t he said before that she was just a servant in his eyes?

She bit a trembling lip and smoothed the fur of her muff with a hand that shook, and her dejection was caught by both men. The muscles worked in Brandon’s cheek as his jaw tightened. Jeff leaned forward with a somewhat forced smile and anger showing in his eyes.

“Regardless of what you say, my darling Louie, our Heather bears the proof of Brandon’s devotion.”

He stared hard into the woman’s eyes, and she withdrew a bit from Brandon, slightly miffed at being so put down. Brandon remained silent, content that his brother could keep Louisa in her place.

Laying his hand upon Heather’s, Jeff gave it a small squeeze in gentle consolation, but she looked away in perplexity to the carriage window, fighting the tears that threatened to come. She saw George approaching the carriage and somehow she managed a tremulous smile for him when he came to the door. He snatched his wool cap from his head and returned her smile.

“Why, lordy, mum, you look grand in all your finery. You seem to make the very sun shine brighter.”

She nodded her thanks and blessed him with a sweet look. Louisa sat back and watched them half sneeringly. She could not mistake the respect within the servant’s gaze as he looked up at his mistress, and she felt a twang of bitter jealousy that this man, so trusted and valued by Brandon, showed to Heather what he had never given to her. Now he even ignored her completely as he turned to Jeff.

“And you, sir. You’re looking fit to fight a brace o’ wildcats.”

Jeff grinned and gave him word for word. “Why you barnacle bottomed old sea dog, I declare you blind me with your shining head.”

He clasped the old man’s hand heartily and with the pleasantries exchanged, the servant spoke to Brandon.

“We have the trunks loaded on the wagon, cap’n, and Luke and Ethan want to get those mules moving before they fall asleep. With your permission, cap’n, we’d like to start.”

Brandon nodded. “Tell James to come and we’ll be under way. We’ll be dropping Miss Wells at Oakley and possibly spending a few moments there. If you miss us continue on home.”

“Aye, cap’n,” George replied. He gave Louisa a single passive look before stepping away.

An elderly Negro came running back a moment later to lift the tether stone into the footboards. He mounted the seat and, clicking his tongue, roused the horses from their dozing in the warm sun and shook them into a lively trot away from the docks.

The group within the carriage was silent. Occasional comments were made as an interesting item here and there was pointed out to Heather, and she, trying not to think at all, kept her mind occupied with studying the city as they passed through it. She was astounded by the elegance of the iron work and masonry and by the secluded estates that seemed to abound behind tall walls.

The journey progressed to Oakley with no further bickering among the passengers, and as the carriage drew up before the plantation house, Jeff made to rise in continuation of his solicitude of Heather and met a sturdy elbow which jarred him back into the seat. Brandon rose and, taking his wife’s hand, climbed down and assisted her from the carriage. Their gaze met briefly before she glanced away, and still holding her hand, he placed it firmly within his arm and led her into the house, leaving Jeff to grudgingly help Louisa down and most reluctantly hold her elbow as they followed.

Upon entering they found that the butler already had Heather’s coat and muff and she was being guided into the drawing room by her husband, who had placed a possessive hand upon her waist. With a grin Jeff joined them, leaving Louisa to be assisted by her manservant. Glaring at his back, the woman gave orders for tea and some small hors d’oeuvres to be served, then followed. Brandon had seated Heather in a corner of the settee and was close beside her with his arm behind her on the back of the sofa, leaving no room for his brother to further intervene. Jeff was anything but displeased with the situation, having succeeded in goading Brandon into providing his wife’s protection, and he stood before them exchanging idle chatter about the sea voyage.

As she went to the bar Louisa directed a question to Brandon. “The usual, darling? I know just how you like it,” she said smugly.

Heather folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them, not feeling particularly witty at the moment.

Louisa sought to set the spur deeper as she prepared the drink. “You have much to learn about your husband, my dear. He’s most touchy in his tastes.” She looked pointedly at Heather. “He prefers his drinks to be blended smoothly and this takes some experience. I could teach you much about his dislikes.” She smiled knowingly. “And his pleasures.”

Jeff joined the conversation, uninvited. “You do have much to teach, Louie darling, but nothing I would think appropriate to a young wife.”

She glowered at him and went to give Brandon his drink, standing behind the seated couple where she could stare down at Heather without having to meet her eyes. Jeffrey replaced her at the bar and poured himself a liberal drink of bourbon from her stock.

“It will take a great deal of experience to make your husband happy,” Louisa purred. “I know that well. Such a pity you’re so young and unknowing.”

Brandon’s hand moved to Heather’s shoulder, and with his thumb he lightly traced her jawline and gently caressed her ear. Rather bewildered by his attentiveness to her in front of the woman, Heather lifted her eyes to his face. The soft fur of her hat brushed his hand, and he fingered it lightly. From Louisa’s viewpoint it seemed a very loving exchange. She scowled down at them, stricken with jealousy, and she longed to pull them apart. She raised her eyes to find Jeff’s gaze fixed upon her. He smiled mockingly and nodded briefly, lifting his glass as if in toast, then sipped it slowly.

A young Negress entered whom Brandon greeted as Lulu. She served the refreshments. Louisa seated herself before them in a chair to continue her badgering and raised an eyebrow at Heather as the younger girl stirred her tea.

“Tell me, darling, how long have you known Brandon?”

The cup rattled on the saucer, betraying her discomposure, and Heather quickly put them down on the table beside her and folded her trembling hands in her lap. Brandon slid a large hand over hers and squeezed them reassuringly. She raised her eyes to the woman.

“I met him the first night he was in London, Miss Wells,” she murmured.

Louisa studied her, letting her eyelids fall lazily over her brown eyes. Her lips twisted in a shallow smile. “So soon? But of course, it must have been. How else could you be so far along with child? How long have you been married?”

Brandon smiled slightly at his former fiancée as he moved his hand on Heather’s shoulder, drawing her closer. “Long enough, Louisa.”

The woman glanced from one to the other and thought Heather looked a little pale. She went on, directing her questions to her.

“But however did you meet him, darling? I would have thought it extremely difficult for a well bred English girl to meet a Yankee sea captain.” She raised an eyebrow, stressing the words “well bred” as if she really doubted the fact.

Brandon regarded Louisa somewhat coldly for a moment, then again a small, one-sided smile appeared and he answered calmly. “Heather and I came together through the efforts of Lord Hampton, Louisa, a very good friend of my wife’s. He wanted us to meet and threatened me with dire consequences if I refused him. He is what you would call a matchmaker of sorts. Very willful old gentleman.”

Heather turned toward Brandon. He told no lie yet made it all seem so completely proper, saving her the pain of having them know the more embarrassing facts. She smiled at him, pleased with his answer, and as if the baby realized her pleasure, it moved strongly and abruptly. Her eye widened in surprise, and she knew Brandon had felt it also when his smile broadened into a grin. He bent over her, and his lips brushed her ear, causing every nerve in her body to tingle.

“Hearty little rascal, isn’t he, sweet?” he murmured softly.

Louisa was upset over Brandon’s display toward his wife. “What did you say, Brandon?” she questioned in a rather demanding tone.

“It appears, Louie,” Jeff grinned, “that it is none of our business. But I think their child approves of the match.”

The remark was lost upon Louisa. She looked in confusion between the two men who exchanged amused glances in brotherly communication. It was not the first time their wit had flown over her head, and it maddened her to be left out, especially now when that intruding chit of a girl seemed to know what her brother-in-law meant. But she could handle her.

“Brandon, darling, would you care for another drink?” Louisa asked.

He declined and the woman now looked to Heather. “I hope you don’t mind if I call your husband by his given name, my dear. After all, I’ve known him so long it doesn’t seem right to call him anything else, and we were to be married—remember.”

Heather turned her smile on Louisa, feeling some confidence now. “I see no reason why you should not remain on friendly terms with the family, Miss Wells,” she replied softly. “And please feel free to call upon us anytime you desire.”

Jeff chuckled with delight. “Well, Louie, I do believe the girl can teach you something of the good grace of a sincere hostess. Too bad you can’t appreciate the lessons.”

Louisa jerked upright and glared at him. “Will you please keep your dirty mouth shut and refrain from showing what a clod you are!” she spat.

Brandon laughed softly as he caressed his wife’s shoulder. “My dear brother, you’ll be fighting for your life if you continue with this madness. Have you forgotten Louisa’s temper?”

“No, Brandon,” Jeff grinned. “But apparently you have. If you continue fondling your wife in front of Louie, you’ll find that you’re the one clawed.”

The older brother chuckled good naturedly and almost sorrowfully withdrew his arm from around Heather, then rose. “We really must be going, Louisa. The voyage was most tiresome for Heather, and she’s anxious to get settled. I too am eager to get home.”

He thanked her for the refreshments and then, giving Heather his hand, assisted her from the settee as Jeff drained his glass. In the hall he helped his wife on with her coat and held her muff as she fastened the garment. Louisa watched his attentions with a sick feeling, knowing she had been preempted in this affair of the heart. She followed them out, at a loss for words to further torment the young wife.

Brandon handed Heather into the waiting carriage and said a polite farewell as Jeff climbed in and took a seat opposite his sister-in-law, leaving the space at her side for Brandon. As the carriage rolled away Louisa stood alone upon the veranda in the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon and watched them go.

Once upon the road, Jeff and Brandon conversed with an easy camaraderie, and it soon became apparent that these two brothers understood each other with a clarity not found in normal friendships. As the matched pair of horses clip-clopped along through the quiet afternoon, they renewed the companionship of a lifetime. Brandon pointed out to Heather a large squared stone that marked the boundary of his property, and she strained to catch some sight of the house from the carriage windows. Seeing nothing but endless forests, she drew her bewildered gaze within to find Jeff wearing an amused smile.

“It will be some time yet before we arrive,” he informed her. “We have nearly two miles to go.”

She turned to Brandon with blue eyes wide. “Do you mean you own all of this?” she asked, gesturing outside.

Brandon nodded slowly and Jeff grinned.

“You just didn’t realize what you were letting yourself in for when you married a Birmingham, little sister.”

Suddenly Brandon pointed. “That’s Harthaven.”

She followed his finger, leaning against him to see, but could glimpse only a slight haze of smoke rising above the treetops some distance from the road. Above the clatter of wheels and hooves she could hear the sound of happy voices. They approached a lane lined with huge live oaks from which gray streamers of Spanish moss hung swaying. The carriage turned into the lane and she gasped, for at its far end stood a house the likes of which she had never seen before. Huge doric columns held a roof level with the tops of the oaks and supported a wide veranda for the second floor. From the center of this veranda hung the huge antlers of some great buck of the forests. Both brothers sat smiling at her astonishment, and she realized that here was the place she would raise the child she had within her and, with great hopes—many more. She leaned back, now filled with a calm contentment and a new trust in the future.