LORD OF CHAOS

BY

DIANA SHELLY

(c) copyrighted by M.A. Morin Sept. 1996

cover art by Rolando Gonzales

South Georgia, Indian Land Cessions

1838

Chapter One

They were all going to die.

It wasn't precognition that convinced Mary Catherine of that chilling fact. It wasn't even a logical conclusion, though she had reason enough to consider it a strong possibility.

It was the unnerving feeling that she'd been here before, done this before.

She hadn't, of course. She had been as far south many times in the past, but never along this particular trail and certainly not with Horace Brooks.

These lands were relatively new to whites. The Indians had ceded them several years before, but not all of them had been in agreement over the loss of their lands. Renegades, driven south by General Jesup's troops to the reservation in Florida, had been terrorizing the area for the past three years, killing any whites foolhardy enough to linger on their newly claimed landlots and burning all that lay in their path.

At any rate, from the time her father had arranged her marriage more than five years previously, Horace Brooks had not taken her further from the ramshackle cabin he called home than the outskirts of the town of Augusta, and then only rarely.

The strange familiarity, she supposed, was due entirely to the fact that she had, once before, been in a situation uncannily similar. She had been with her father then, a man as physically different from Horace Brooks as night from day, but as characteristically the same as a mirrored image. The storm, the woods, even the death-defying danger of the flooded stream was eerily the same as then. She, her father, and her younger brothers had almost died that day when their wagon foundered in the swollen stream.

She supposed that was why she was so certain they would all die. They had fought death that day and won, all save for her baby sister, whom death had snatched from her arms. This time she knew death would scoop them all up.

Close by lightening flashed. For several heartbeats it shattered the gloom, illuminating the forest walls and the creek before them with its eerie white light. In sick fascination, Mary Catherine stared at the rushing water before them.

The creek could not be forded.

She was certain her husband must know that as well as she did. That thought might have comforted her if not for the fact that Horace Brooks seemed disinclined to behave at all rationally just now.

He had never been a very reasonable man and the journey seemed to have deprived him of what little sense he'd had before their trek south to claim their frontier landlot. The foul weather was only partially to blame for it, however.

Most of it was her fault.

It had been a poorly thought out attempt...to put it mildly. She should have known she couldn't escape him so easily.

Despite the fact that she'd fled as if the devil himself was on her heels, she'd scarcely covered a quarter of a mile when he'd run her to ground.

She had not been surprised when Horace had flown at her in a towering rage and beat her within an inch of her life for trying to escape him. She had known when she decided to flee that he might very well kill her if he caught up with her.

What she hadn't expected was the fetters.

Sometime before she regained her senses sufficiently to distinguish daylight from dark he'd hobbled her ankles with manacles. Those not only insured that she could not run. They insured that she had no where to run.

She was almost sorry now that he hadn't killed her when he'd caught her. She was sorry she'd ever allowed herself to hope or believe in freedom. Until she'd believed she held it within her grasp she had at least been able to find some acceptance of her lot in life.

She would never be able to merely endure and exist again.

From the look of things, she thought as lightening illuminated Horace Brooks' belligerent profile, it appeared neither enduring nor existing would be problems she would have to deal with long. She could tell by Horace's expression that he meant to attempt the ford.

"P..perhaps there's another f..ford further upstream?" she stammered through chattering teeth that clacked more from fear than from chill.

Either he failed to hear her above the roar of wind and rushing, splattering water or, more likely, he intentionally ignored her. In any case, she received no response. For once more frightened of nature than she was of her husband, Mary Catherine tried again.

"It seems a pity to st..stop again when we must be quite c..close now, but we certainly can't c..cross here."

He responded that time, swiveling around on the driver's seat so swiftly Mary Catherine ducked reflexively to miss the blow she expected and toppled off the cask she'd been using as a seat. "I've eyes in my head. I can see for myself. I don't need you telling me what to do. Mind your mouth, woman, or I'll shut it for you!"

Mazie, Horace's cook and sometimes bed mate, who occupied the other end of the wagon, cackled gleefully. The sound sent a spurt of fury through Mary Catherine, momentarily depriving her of caution. She rounded on the older woman, eyes narrowed in silent dare.

Brooks used the opportunity to grab a fistful of hair. Gritting her teeth, Mary Catherine suppressed the impulse to cry out as he dragged her across the space that separated them, driving her shoulder painfully against the sharp edge of the underside of the wagon seat. Releasing her hair then, he grasped her jaw in a hurtful grip and wrenched her head around so that she was looking up at him.

"Don't ignore me when I speak to you, woman, unless you're anxious for another lesson in manners!" he growled threateningly.

With an effort, Mary Catherine wiped all expression from her face, knowing that a show of any emotion at all might tip his anger over the edge. She was still sore and stiff from the last beating and in no condition to even attempt eluding him.

Unfortunately, neither was her mind terribly nimble at the moment. Try though she might to come up with some sort of response that might appease him, fear had turned her mind to mush. In the end she said nothing at all, knowing that in itself was enough to provoke him.

As she'd expected, he backhanded her, sending her reeling away from him. Fortunately, he was in no position to deliver more than a glancing blow and though it set her ears to ringing, the blow was only mildly stunning. Regardless, she lay where she landed, making no attempt to rise until she knew he'd turned away from her once more.

At any other time, she would have counted herself fortunate to have gotten off so lightly and allowed the matter to drop. To pursue it further would make no difference in the outcome, she knew, and yet she could not make herself sit quietly and entrust herself to fate.

"Do you mean to wait here, then, till the water goes down?" she said tentatively.

He rounded on her again, his face beet red with fury. "Wait? For what, fool? For the water to get higher?"

She shrank away from him. "You're going to look for another place?"

For several moments he looked as if he would climb over the wagon seat and come after her. As Mary Catherine frantically scuttled out of reach, however, he seemed to come to the conclusion that it was sufficient to have cowed her. After glaring at her in fuming silence for several moments, he merely returned his attention to contemplating the creek as if he could cow it with a look, as well.

Around them, lightening flashed twice in quick succession, lifting the deepening gloom for a handful of seconds. Deafeningly, an almost simultaneous blast of thunder exploded, splintering into echoes like the roar of multiple gunfire.

No. Not like gunfire. It was gunfire.

Horace Brooks realized it at almost the same instant Mary Catherine did, and although the decision had already been made to cross the raging creek, he abruptly threw every vestige of caution to the wind. Roaring like an enraged bull, Brooks brought his whip down upon the oxen's backs with such force and suddenness that the ordinarily plodding, placid beasts burst into a crazed frenzy of motion, lunging wildly against their traces. The wagon lurched forward in a series of neck-popping jerks before the mud abruptly yielded its grip upon the wheels with an audible sucking sound. The sudden surge of motion as the wagon abruptly shot forward sent Mary Catherine to her knees.

The contents of the wagon shuddered, wobbled and began to break lose from its moorings and tumble down around them. Mazie screamed. Instinctively, Mary Catherine covered her head with her arms, the sound of thunder, gunfire, and the crash of falling boxes and barrels filling her ears.

Picking up speed rapidly now, the awkward conveyance lumbered down the embankment and plunged into the dangerously- rushing waters. Mary Catherine, trying frantically to gain her feet to keep from being crushed by the debris raining down around her, was thrown to one side as the wagon lurched over a rock. Her hip struck a corner of the heavy oak bureau strapped against the side of the wagon. Her fingers clawed for a hold and found none as she was abruptly tossed in the opposite direction. She landed in the floor, that time with a splash as creek water began to fill the bottom of the wagon. She stared at the water in sick fascination for some moments before she could gather her wits and struggle to rise again.

Even as she shook her fear off and made the attempt, a fifty pound bag of grain was dislodged and toppled down upon her, striking her back. The blow was glancing. Nevertheless, it stunned her for several moments, pitching her forward where her shins came into painful contact with a sliding box. She cried out, shoving away only seconds before a barrel of molasses broke free and landed on the box with enough force to splinter its stout oak staves.

As she staggered to her feet once more, she realized the water was rapidly filling the wagon. Where moments before it had been no more than a thin sheet, it now swirled about her legs almost to her knees. In horror, she whirled to look out the front of the wagon past Horace's meaty shoulders.

Even as she turned, she heard simultaneously the ominous crack of splintering wood and gunfire at almost point blank range. Horace roared in pain and slumped back against the wagon seat, clutching his forearm, only to pitch head first from his seat in the next instant as the wagon abruptly halted all forward motion and began, crazily, to roll very slowly upon its' side. Mary Catherine's head struck one of the ribs supporting the wagon's canopy as she was tossed head over heels like a rag doll, landing in a crumpled heap.

Sobbing now with terror, her thoughts focused entirely upon the wall of water she'd glimpsed rushing toward her as she fell, Mary Catherine scrambled mindlessly for the rear of the wagon. Mazie, witless with panic, was fighting her way toward the front. They met halfway, fought each other like crazed things for several seconds and finally managed to pass one another.

Despite the rapidly-rising water that licked at her knees, then her waist and finally her chin, Mary Catherine had almost reached her goal when something heavy crashed at her heels. A scream of terror and pain erupted behind her, prompting a renewed burst of speed from Mary Catherine. Moments passed before she realized that she was no longer gaining ground.

She whirled a little wildly. Mazie's scream still rang in her ears and she became certain Mazie had grabbed her and was preventing her escape. Furious with fright, she determined to beat the African senseless if necessary to gain her release. Even as she turned, however, Mazie's scream was abruptly cut off with a second crash and became a sickening gurgle.

It was then that she saw what held her, what had silenced Mazie forever. The tools of Horace's trade, carefully crated and tied, had broken their restraints. The crate of hammers and awls had struck Mazie before coming to rest on the fetters Horace had fastened about Mary Catherine's ankles, trapping her. The anvil had quickly followed, crushing Mazie's skull like an eggshell.

Sickness rose in Mary Catherine's throat, the sickness of absolute terror as she realized she was trapped. Already she had to crane her neck upward to keep her head above water. The river still rushed into the wagon. In moments she would no longer be able to hold her head above water at all.

Frantically, she tugged at the chain and finally wedged her feet against the crate, braced her back against a trunk and began shoving. The heavy box shuddered, moved slightly. She strained against the chain again, pushed, pulled, hammered with her heels against the crate, gasping for breath, choking and spitting as water filled her mouth and nose.

As abruptly as it had caught her, the crate gave up its hold. Mary Catherine flew backward, teetered for a moment on the edge of the wagon, and then crashed into the creek. A shout filled her ears seconds before the water swallowed her up.

The madness of panic clutched her tighter still as she felt herself falling. It was instinct, not reason, that impelled her to fight her way upward once more. Even so, the manacles about her ankles dragged her down. Her heavy skirts bound her legs so that she had little, aside from her arms, to help her claw her way to the surface again.

When at last she surfaced, gagging and gulping air, she discovered the swiftly moving current had already dragged her several yards downstream. The banks on either side of her seemed as distant and unreachable as the moon.

She'd scarcely tasted air when she felt the pull of the deep once more, drawing her down, away from life-giving air and into the arms of death. Again, she tried to kick and failing that flailed her arms and beat the surface of the water to keep her head aloft. She succeeded in doing little more than bobbing up and down like a cork, snatching a crumb of air now and then, but rapidly became lightheaded and weak from her efforts.

Panic receded in the face of weariness. Her whole being quickly became focused upon one herculean task, bobbing to snatch an occasional breath of air. As the current swept her away, toying with her as it might a leaf or tiny bit of flotsam, she caught a glimpse of the carnage she left behind. However, it was long afterward before her mind began to grapple with what she'd seen.

She drifted, mind and body. Without warning, after what seemed aeons of time, something struck her a stunning blow. Instinctively, Mary Catherine caught at it, slipped and finally gripped it frenziedly as her mind assimilated the rough feel of bark. Minutes passed before her head stopped swimming sufficiently for her to realize that she'd ceased to move at last, realized that the tree she'd crashed into was still moored, more or less, on the creek bank.

Regardless, she could not find the strength to pull herself out. She could do nothing for some time but cling tiredly, gasping one painful breath after another. As her strength slowly ebbed away, however, her sluggish mind began to function again. Thoughts filtered through and connected, making sense at last: galvanizing, strengthening thoughts.

Fate, in the form of rampaging savages and a fierce storm, had accomplished what she had failed to do on her own. She was free of Horace Brooks at last.

And the animals who'd attacked their wagon had seen her even as the river swept her away. They had seemed very intent on making absolutely certain there were no survivors, which meant they would come looking for her.

Neither life nor liberty would be hers long if she didn't find the strength to pull herself from the river and leave this place as far behind as her legs would carry her.

Three days later

Chapter Two

A shrill whistle rent the air, rising above the wail of the wind and the thrashing of storm tossed limbs. Almost immediately a russet muzzle appeared through the tangle of underbrush and the little bitch spaniel wriggled through. Trotting forward, she lay her trophy at the man's feet, prancing about his boots as she turned huge, amber eyes up at him, searching for approval.

John Conyers St.Claire raised one finely arched, black eyebrow, his lips curling slightly at the corners. "I suppose you expect laurels and cheers simply because you've adequately performed your duty?" he asked dryly.

The spaniel sat back on her haunches. Her tongue lolled out as she seemed to smile up at him, though she cocked her head questioningly at his tone.

He leaned over to pluck the fat quail from the ground. Thrusting it into the bag that hung from a strap across his shoulder, he paused to scratch the spaniel's ears, a favor she accepted with a look of blissful idiocy. Straightening, he strode purposefully toward the huge black stallion that pranced nervously at the end of his tether beneath the shelter of a sprawling mulberry.

Having secured his game bag behind his saddle, Con rather absently soothed the jittery horse as he noticed the cause of the stallion's nervousness. The limbs of the trees shook frenziedly with the gusts of wind that rushed through them. The trees themselves swayed and bowed, like natives performing some ancient ritual dance. Sporadic showers had drenched them so that the sound of constantly dripping moisture added to the chaos of sound and motion around him.

Con's lips curled in self-depreciating amusement. "Not exactly the best of good weather for hunting, is it, Devil?" he murmured to the horse, running a hand that wasn't dwarfed in the least by the stallion's great size along the bulging, quivering muscles of the horse's neck. "My neighbors will think me mad." His smile widened to a grin. "Then again, they already think of me as the mad Englishman. Likely they'd do no more than shrug at this latest whim. On the other hand, it's highly unlikely I'll run upon them, even if they were demented enough to venture out in the teeth of a hurricane."

His amusement left him as he thought of the reason for his neighbors' continued absence. The area had been almost denuded of settlers since the Creek War began. Most had packed their wagons and abandoned their homesteads at the first sign of trouble. Those who hadn't had been murdered as they slept.

Some had returned the moment the militia first announced an 'all clear'. As it turned out, the militia had been prematurely optimistic. The returning homesteaders had been slaughtered for their pains. Small wonder that there were few anxious to reclaim their farms after that last rash of attacks.

Mentally Con shrugged. He knew that the situation was now well and truly in hand, whether his neighbors believed it yet or not. Having been a scout for the Lowndes volunteer regiment he was in a position to know the threat was past. All the same, since he was a prudent man, he reloaded his gun and checked it before shoving it into its leather case. There was no sense in taking stupid chances.

Rather more to the point, his situation was entirely too reminiscent of an attack only a few days before for him to dismiss the possibility of another one. He'd been hunting then and had been narrowly missed by a rifle ball by an unseen hunter. Shaking off his thoughts, Con tipped his head up to study the roiling gray clouds that scudded across the sky for several moments. Finally, he gathered his reins and mounted, urging the horse forward. The little spaniel trotted at their heels, making darting sorties into the underbrush, disappearing for short periods of time, then dashing back to peer up at her master with an air of pleased expectation.

Con finally glanced down at her sardonically. "Much as it grieves me to disappoint you, Lady, I've no intention of continuing to hunt in the teeth of a hurricane. And, unless I miss my guess, that is precisely what we are about to have to contend with."

Shivering from the chill of her sodden clothes and the fever that plagued her, Mary Catherine stared with revulsion at the iron fetters about her ankles.

The box that had nearly cost her her life had, paradoxically, given it back. Even though it had trapped her in the foundering wagon, it had broken her shackles, allowing her to run.

Still, it had not rid her of the manacles completely. She must do that somehow. The chain that now trailed from them would trip her up, just as it had repeatedly when she'd fled from the river. Moreover, it wouldn't be safe to seek help anywhere as long as she wore them. Just as surely as they'd deprived her of freedom before, they would again if anyone saw them. No one would believe her guiltless. No one.

She sat up slowly, leaning against the rough bark of the pine tree at her back as she contemplated the iron bands.

They were rusted. The catch on the band around her right ankle slipped up and down as she tugged at the broken chain. She glanced about for a tool but found only a thin branch. It broke as soon as she jammed it between the metal pieces.

Desperation seized her then and she clawed at the rusted metal, yanking and twisting at it. It gave way finally with a dull clank and she dropped it to the sodden earth. The other band resisted all her efforts till finally, exhausted, she leaned back against the tree and wept.

How long she allowed herself the luxury of wallowing in self-pity, she wasn't certain, but abruptly she knew she was no longer alone. She stiffened, sat up in sudden alertness, listening to the sounds around her as horror rushed through her.

Somewhere behind her, moving steadily in her direction, someone, or something, stalked her. It paused little more than a yard behind her, waiting. Galvanized by terror, Mary Catherine leapt to her feet and darted across the field of palmettos.

The shrill whinny of a frightened horse sliced across the clearing, followed in quick succession by the explosion of a gun and a startled oath from the man who fought to control his mount.

Neither sound checked Mary Catherine's flight. Indeed they sent such a surge through her that she fairly flew, bounding over palmetto shrubs, completely disregarding the possibility of landing square upon one of the rattlesnakes so fond of nestling beneath them.

It cost her. Her breath came in ragged, painful gasps, knifing through her lungs. As horse and rider bore down upon her, she swerved, making instinctively for a tangle of heavier underbrush. The horse blocked her way. She dodged and twisted, rushing upon first one side then the other in an effort to dart around it. No matter how she tried, however, the horse blocked every avenue of escape.

She stopped abruptly, panting for breath, blinking to dispel the swirling, gray mist that clouded her vision. Nothing met her gaze but the huge brute's barrel chest as he sidled and danced before her. After a moment, the horse turned sideways across her path and a boot came into view, a very large boot.

She closed her eyes, wondering if her wits were addled. Horse and rider seemed veritable giants. Perhaps her fear had magnified them? When she opened her eyes again, though, she saw that neither horse nor rider had shrunk to more believable size. She was tempted to touch the quivering hide of the animal to see if it was real and not some nightmare creature.

Instead, she curled her fingers in the folds of her skirt and forced her gaze upward, knowing the man astride the horse watched her, waiting for her next move. She would have to look at him to see if she could judge what he would do next. She had to know if he meant to slay her now.

The man's muscular calf was encased in black leather, his thigh clad in clinging, damp buckskins. His belly was flat, and looked as hard as the muscles in his thighs and calves. His chest, she saw, when finally her gaze reached that high, was massive, deep and broad and topped by shoulders broader still. A white shirt of some fine fabric clung damply, almost transparently, to his skin, showing patches of the flesh beneath. The fabric clung to his arms as well, faithfully conforming to arms massive enough they might have belonged to a Blacksmith. The hair that brushed his shoulders, curling in damp ringlets, was black with moisture.

She paused, willing herself to look up, to examine the face that might mean her doom. When finally she lifted her eyes, she was so stunned for several moments that all thought fled and the air rushed from her lungs as if she'd been punched in the chest.

The angles and plains of his face were sharply etched, boldly arrogant and beautifully molded. A sculptor might have created those finely drawn cheekbones, the decisive jaw and the chin with its faint cleft; that distinctly aquiline, noble blade of a nose; the sharply-etched lips. His eyes...

They were narrowed...With anger? Or merely against the fine mist? Perhaps both? Regardless, they sent a shudder through her when finally she nerved herself to meet his gaze. They were like the white hot blue flame of a smithy's forge.

His apparent indifference to the raging elements around him, the uncanny paleness of his gaze, made him seem almost otherworldly, like some pagan god of ancient times. Perhaps Loki, the lord of mischief and chaos?

Something touched her. She jumped, her head snapping around as she sought the source. A spaniel, paw lifted daintily, sniffed cautiously at her skirts. Having apparently assured herself that the prey she'd produced was legitimate, the dog sat back on her haunches and looked up at her master in search of approval for the new quarry she'd flushed.

Mary Catherine looked from dog to master, her mind darting desperately about, searching for possibilities of escape.

"You little fool! What possessed you to dart out like that? These are not times for idiotic games! I mistook you for a renegade and damn near blew your fool head off! Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Mary Catherine swayed slightly. She made no attempt to answer the questions she'd hardly understood. She kept her mind focused upon her search for escape.

She never actually registered when he let his guard down. The creak of leather and the jingle of harness as he dismounted sent her into instinctual flight.

Astonishment held Con for several moments when he turned from dismounting and discovered the young woman in flight. The girl could scarcely put one foot before the other. Where the devil did she think she was going? Hadn't the little idiot figured out yet that he represented rescue?

She'd managed no more than a few shaky steps and looked likely to collapse at any moment when he emerged from his surprise sufficiently to check her flight. Striding forward to grasp her arm, he snatched her back so abruptly she stumbled and crumpled against him like a rag doll. She began scrambling for balance almost at once, trying to thrust herself away from him, and finally began buffeting him with her fists when that failed to gain her release.

"What the hell?" Con muttered, briefly puzzled by her behavior until it dawned upon him that she was fighting for freedom for all she was worth. Before he could decide whether to release her or not, she collapsed in exhaustion against him.

"Hush now," he murmured, trying to soothe her with his tone. "I won't hurt you. I'm sorry I frightened you. But I assure you I've no evil designs on you. I'm only trying to rescue you. Only tell me who you are, where to take you? Tell me."

Even through the deepening fog that last registered. It was a demand. She responded to it, or tried. "Cat. I'm Cat...Mary Catherine," she mumbled, feeling herself slipping into oblivion.

"Where do you belong? Where?" He shook her slightly, trying to rouse her. Her head lolled weakly against his chest. "No where," she whispered.

Lightening lit the sky. By its eerie blue-white light, Con glanced down to examine his burden worriedly and saw that she was still unconscious.

It disturbed him that she'd only skimmed consciousness twice in the hour or more since he'd found her. More than that, the heat radiating from her concerned him. He hadn't realized until he'd gathered her close just how desperately ill she was. And he was caught in the midst of a storm that, after merely blustering for the past week and more, was showing every indication of now becoming a full fledged hurricane.

The arrival of the full brunt of the storm could not have been more poorly timed.

True, he'd expected when he left the plantation that the storm would likely intensify to a full fledged hurricane. He just hadn't expected to get caught in it when he'd yielded to his restless energy after days of being confined to the house by the weather. He had thought then that putting some distance between himself and his endangered crops might help to ease his anxieties.

It had to an extent. Now, however, his life-- and hers-- was at risk, not just his crops.

It began to seem foolhardy even to attempt to reach his plantation under present circumstances, particularly when it appeared to be highly unlikely he'd be able to get a doctor for her even if he managed to get through. In which case she would be little better off than she was now.

A second's warning of the sharp crack of a thunderbolt virtually overhead was all Con got as a claw of light reached from the sky, grasped the top of a pine not twenty feet away and snaked down its trunk and into the ground. The almost simultaneous blast as the pine tree exploded into fragments was like cannon fire.

Instinctively, Con's fist tightened on the reins. It was all that saved them both from being thrown to the ground as Devil reared and fought to break into a frenzied gallop.

Even so, it took some moments for Con to wrestle the horse to hand once more. When he'd regained control, he had come to a decision. Dragging the reins sharply right, he urged the horse toward the old log cabin that stood in a clearing near the boundaries of his land.

It had been his home when he'd first bought the place, until he'd built up a paying plantation and built the mansion he called St.Claire's Retreat. It had been unused for years now, except by the occasional traveler who stopped from time to time, stayed a few days and moved on. However, it was tight and dry, and likely well stocked, as well, since no one had used it in some time. He sincerely hoped that was the case, at any rate. The girl needed attention as quickly as possible and the storm had turned too dangerous to try for the plantation.

Some twenty minutes passed before Con spied the dim outline of the squat little building. Heaving a heartfelt sigh of relief, he guided Devil into the poled lean-to along the side of the cabin in the lee of the wind, and struggled to dismount with his burden. She began to mutter incoherently as he hefted her against his chest and made his way to the cabin door, thrusting it open with one shoulder.

"It's all right now. I'll have you dry and warm in a minute," he responded absently as he picked his way by memory across the room and found the bed in one corner. Settling her atop the covers, he moved away to secure the door against the storm and build a fire in the fireplace.

The logs that had been left in the box by the hearth were well dried and quickly caught flame, dispelling much of the gloom. Lady, after shaking herself vigorously, curled up on the hearth to warm herself, watching Con with hopeful eyes as he moved to the shelves of supplies to the right hand of the fireplace. When he did nothing more than collect a couple of tallow candles in brass holders, she voiced a gusty sigh that expressed a mingling of disappointment and acceptance and dropped her muzzle to her paws.

Having lit the candles, Con brought them to the table beside the bed to examine the girl. She had stopped muttering and seemed to be deeply asleep. He bent and shook her shoulder. "You need to get out of those wet things. Can you manage?"

She stared at him wide-eyed. Or perhaps, he mentally amended wryly, wild-eyed would be more accurate. He couldn't decide if it was her illness that made her behave so or if something had happened to her that was so horrendous that it had temporarily deprived her of rationality. He hoped temporarily.

At any rate, if not for the obvious evidence of his own eyes, he would have begun to wonder if he'd indeed captured a wild Indian. He could see now, though, that her wet, tangled mass of hair was not black as he'd first thought but rather a very dark mahogany brown. Nor was her skin the deep reddish brown of an Indian. It was white, far paler than his own, he suspected, beneath the dirt. If that was not evidence enough, then her eyes certainly were, for they were an unusually pale shade of green.

"You have to get dry," he repeated patiently. "Can you do it yourself, or do you need help?"

He'd begun to doubt he could shake anything coherent out of her when she nodded. He felt an immediate sense of relief. "Good."

Moving to a chest that stood at the foot of the bed, he raised the lid. In a moment, he'd unearthed an old shirt and a piece of bedding he thought would work well enough for drying. He slammed the lid shut once more and tossed the articles to her. "You can use the sheet to dry off. I have nothing for you to change in to but this old shirt, but it will keep you...er... warm, at any rate," he said over his shoulder as he retreated toward the door. "I'll just go out and see about Devil."

He chastised himself for his craven retreat as he attended the horse. He'd brought the girl to his cabin because he knew she needed attention. There was no one to give it but him.

On the other hand, he entertained some hope she would be able to attend her more personal needs herself, which would make things immensely more comfortable for both of them. That being the case, he made no attempt to rush back to her side, taking his time, despite the storm, in attending Devil and cleaning the birds he'd shot earlier for the cook pot.

When he could reasonably delay no longer, he approached the cabin door once more with some reluctance and tapped at the wood panel. After pausing for several moments and receiving no response, he shouldered the door open and entered. Without glancing toward the bed, he moved to the hearth, set the pails he carried in either hand down, and set about preparing a stew.

When he'd settled the caldron on the hook and swung it over the fire, he turned at last to the girl. For a moment irritation surfaced. Instead of discarding her wet clothes and drying off, she'd merely wrapped the linen he'd given her around her. She lay curled into a ball on the edge of the bed, shivering.

She opened her eyes just then, and his irritation vanished. Compassion replaced it. Her unguarded expression was one of abject misery. It was a lost, hopeless sort of look that he responded to instinctively.

Catching up the bucket of water he'd left warming on the hearth, he strode across the room and crouched beside the bed, taking hold of the sheet. "Here. Let me help you. You're in no condition to look after yourself."

She resisted his gentle tug on the sheets to dislodge them. He smiled at her reassuringly. "It's alright. I promise not to look, but we need to get you dry."

He realized immediately that it was the wrong thing to have said. Likely, it would have drawn a chuckle from his young son, John, and at least token cooperation. The girl...she'd said her name was Cat, or rather Mary Catherine, turned deathly pale and gripped the sheets for all she was worth. Her expression froze into a mask of guarded wariness.

It occurred to him then that the remark was more than wrong, it was downright asinine. It made him uncomfortably aware that he was acting as personal attendant to a young woman. Abruptly he gave up the tug-o-war over her sheet and sat back on his heels, studying her.

She could not be much above eighteen, if that. He was nearly thirty-five. Surely he could approach this thing with a paternal attitude.

"Look, child...Cat. You're going to die if you don't get out of these wet things. Either you do it, or I'll have to."

No response. Her face was now completely void of expression. He would have been inclined to think her witless if not for the watchful intelligence in her pale green eyes.

He grasped her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "Do you understand?"

Abruptly, her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp. "Well, hell!"

He lowered her to the bed and stood up, his hands on his hips as he studied her in consternation. In a moment, he dismissed his dismay and moved to the chest. Lifting the lid, he unearthed another sheet and tore off several strips. It would do for bathing her, and for bandages if he found he needed them. Returning to the side of the bed, he knelt, dropping the cloths to the floor beside the bucket and reaching to pry the sheet from the girl's fists.

The moment he stripped the wet gown from her shoulders, he saw her back.

There were ugly red welts crisscrossing it from shoulder to thighs. There was nothing accidental about the lacerations. She'd been beaten, and not so very long ago. Moreover there were scars that indicated repeated abuse over a period of months, perhaps even years.

He cursed in outrage, and saw her stiffen. Realizing she was no longer insensible, he grasped her shoulder, forcing her to turn to look at him. "My God! Who did this to you? Why?"

She merely gave him a long, unfathomable look then closed her eyes again, refusing to answer. After a moment, he released her and stepped back, searching for other injuries.

He found the manacle then.

Chapter Three

Mary Catherine became aware of light against her eyelids. The melodic chatter of birds pierced her consciousness next. Her mind, like questing fingers, touched her surroundings and alerted her to the fact that she was lying upon a mattress and, after what had seemed a lifetime of the torment of the damned, at last neither freezing nor burning. Finally, the weight upon her resolved itself into the heaviness of a man's arm and leg.

She came fully awake then with panic surging through her. Her eyes flew open, her gaze focusing upon the face so near her own.

The man beside her was not her husband.

She was certain he was no one she knew. In a moment, however, a tentative shaft of recognition pierced her chaotic thoughts. Despite the bristling black stubble that obscured the lines of his jaw and chin and formed the beginnings of a wicked-looking mustache, a vague memory surfaced.

She frowned. Was he the devil from her nightmares? No. He'd called that enormous black beast he rode Devil. She remembered that now, remembered, too, that she'd dreamed that Satan had snatched her up on a great black horse and taken her to hell. Somehow, it had all become entangled in her fevered mind.

Not that that negated the possibility that he was the devil incarnate, she thought, feeling her panic crest again. He'd caught her. She didn't know why she was here. He might have any sort of dark purpose in mind. He might have just been waiting to see if it was necessary for him to do anything else to help her on her way. It would look better, certainly, if she were found dead from natural causes.

It wasn't just those thoughts that caused the chaotic climb of hysteria once more, however. It was the realization that she hadn't imagined the weight upon her. She was as effectively trapped by the arm and leg he'd thrown across her as if he'd tied her to the bed. Moreover, the sense of stifling she always felt whenever Horace held her down, surged through her the moment she realized she was trapped.

Watching him warily, she began to carefully loosen the restricting folds of the coverlet that was wound so securely around her that she could scarcely have escaped even if not for the fact that he held her, as well. He stirred and she went still, holding her breath.

After a moment, she pushed at the coverlet again. She'd almost wriggled one arm free when his eyes opened. She froze, staring at him with the unblinking gaze of cornered prey as his cold blue eyes finally focused upon her.

She flinched when he lifted his hand from her waist and froze into stillness again when he grasped her nape and dragged her toward him. To her astonishment, he pressed his cheek against hers then touched his lips to her forehead. And, just when she was wondering what he would do next, he settled back and closed his eyes once more.

She was still staring at him when his eyes snapped open once more. Again he repeated the strange ritual. When he settled back this time, however, he stared at her thoughtfully a moment before a pleased grin dawned.

It looked relieved, even happy, that smile. It made his face look far less haggard, younger. It tugged at something inside Mary Catherine that prompted her to smile in return. She resisted the urge. The very fact that his smile seemed so disarming made her distrust it.

"Your fever's broken," Con said. The urge to snatch her into his arms and squeeze her tightly in celebration struck him. Something in her expression, however, killed the impulse almost as quickly as it arose. Doubt surfaced.

His smile faded. He frowned, sliding his hand from her nape to cup her cheek gently. "Cat?"

The word went right through Mary Catherine, cutting deeper than any knife. No one but those who'd loved her had ever called her Cat. And she'd lost them so very long ago it sometimes seemed to her that she'd never known what love was like at all. She closed her eyes against the pain, against the scalding tears that flooded her eyes, fearing he would see them and know how deeply and truly he'd struck.

Abruptly he withdrew his hand. Her pain forgotten on the instant, her eyes snapped open again with a renewed sense of panic. She didn't know whether to be relieved or not when she saw he hadn't moved, particularly when she saw his expression was now unreadable. That worried her. She had no way of knowing what thoughts might lie behind that mask, or why he'd donned it.

"Your pardon. I believe you told me your name was Mary Catherine, did you not?" Con said stiffly, feeling, suddenly, a perfect fool.

She stared at him, seeking her own self-control. When had she told him that? What else had she told him? "Did I?" she asked cautiously.

"You don't remember? When I found you in the woods? Unless I hallucinated the whole. I've no notion what your last name might be since you neglected to tell me that," Con said dryly. "So I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me for speaking so familiarly. At any rate, this has hardly seemed the time for formalities."

She resisted the urge to gnaw her lip. It would give away her frustration and anxiety and she didn't want to do that when she didn't know what to expect from him. Unfortunately, that also meant she didn't quite know how to respond to his remark. Her first urge was to tell him, but she'd learned to be cautious.

After a moment, she realized with relief that it was as well she hadn't given in to impulse. It would be safer for her if he didn't know who she was---assuming he wasn't one of the killers. And she was beginning to doubt that he could be. "I don't remember."

Con frowned at that, raising himself on one elbow and abandoning cool formality.

"What do you mean, you don't remember? You don't remember me finding you in the woods? Anything?" he prodded, fighting the unpleasant fear that her fever had addled her wits. It had very nearly cost her her life, but she seemed rational enough. Certainly rational enough he ought to be able to dismiss such qualms. He'd heard of people whose brains had been fried by their body's fever, but they'd been complete idiots once they recovered. Most hadn't even been able to talk.

Mary Catherine merely nodded. She didn't think she could lie successfully if she had to say she'd forgotten her own name.

"But you remember how you got there? What happened?"

She frowned, pretending to concentrate. The truth was, much that had happened was hazy and there were some rather unnerving gaps in her memory. Not that that disturbed her overmuch. She'd been too panicked at the time to recall anything afterward with any clarity. And when she'd become ill, the fever had distorted her perceptions so much that she knew she couldn't place much trust in the hazy memories from that time.

The events that were fairly clear in her mind were things she refused, at the moment, even to think about. She certainly had no intention of laying them out for a stranger to examine. Moreover she realized that regardless of whether or not this stranger was an immediate threat to her, it wasn't safe to give him anything. If he didn't offer her harm in any other way, he might give her away.

"I don't remember anything," she said finally.

"Nothing at all? Not even your name," he pressed.

"I don't remember that either," she responded bluntly.

Con stared at her, dumbfounded, feeling the beginnings of frustration. She was lying. She had to be. She couldn't have forgotten who she was.

He didn't know what to make of the fact that she hadn't even tried to make up a believable lie. She must be aware that he would have found the evidence of her captivity by now. She couldn't have forgotten that she hadn't been able to rid herself of both of the manacles before he came upon her. So why hadn't she at least tried to brazen it out with some sort of story that would make her seem innocent? Lack of imagination? Or outrageous audacity?

After a moment, he shrugged the thoughts off. He would get to the bottom of it, in time. At the moment, he was more interested in seeing to it that she was well enough to travel soon. Being confined in the tiny cabin was beginning to give him cabin fever, though he suspected much of that could be put down to worrying about what might be happening at home.

Accustomed as his son, John, was to Con going off on hunting trips and leaving him with his nurse, he would know that Con should already have returned.

All else aside, he was suddenly desperate to turn the girl over to someone else's care. She'd ceased to be a stranger he cared for only from compassion. Sometime in the rounds of tending her, he'd begun to see her as Cat, endearingly familiar, his to protect and comfort and care for. It had come as something of an unpleasant shock to discover that, as far as she was concerned, he was a stranger still.

It had jolted him into the realization that his exhaustion had effected his reason. She was as much a stranger to him as he was to her. Moreover, he had no business...He broke the thought off as a jolt of realization went through him.

He was still lying in bed with her! Vaguely he recalled that, in his exhaustion, it had seemed perfectly reasonable to seek his rest as close by as possible. But then he'd also assured himself he would be long gone before she came to her senses sufficiently to take exception to it.

Good God! No wonder she'd been looking at him with that frozen expression of shock when he'd woke up. It was a wonder she wasn't shrieking rape at the top of her lungs!

He came up from the bed as if he'd been catapulted from it. He'd already aimed his sights at the door before it occurred to him that he owed her some sort of explanation. He turned to glare at her. It disconcerted him when he discovered she'd sat up the moment he left the bed and flung her legs off the side___her bare legs. He stared at them a long moment, trying to remember what he'd been about to say. It wasn't until she'd snatched the sheet around her, however, that it came to him.

"Uh..." He gestured toward the bed uncomfortably. "Look. I was exhausted. I'd been tending..." He broke off again when he realized he couldn't remember just how many days he had been tending her. "I haven't slept in days, and it was the only damned bed. At any rate, you were cold and I had nothing...Hell! Forget it."

Mary Catherine stared blankly at the vibrating door when he'd slammed it behind him. In a moment she frowned, allowing her gaze to wander about the cabin. Her eyes lit almost immediately on the chamber pot beside the bed and relief flooded her. She'd been afraid she would have to ask him.

For several moments after she tried to push herself up from the bed she feared she would still be in the humiliating position of having to ask, for help, if not for locating the necessary. Gritting her teeth determinedly, she managed to see to her needs before wobbling back to collapse onto the bed again.

Once settled, she allowed her gaze to wander around the cabin while her mind picked at the confusing tangle of words the man had flung at her before he'd left the cabin. He hadn't slept in days. He hadn't spared himself the time to shave either. Or was that a normal thing?

She considered it a moment and decided it wasn't. As hazy as her memory was of that day, she could recall vividly how he'd looked when she'd first seen him. He'd been soaked to the skin, but he'd been clean shaven, his hair obviously well kept, as well. And, despite the wet, his clothes hadn't been soiled, nor had his scent offended. Obviously he was particular about his grooming.

He'd said days.

Her eyes, which had been slowly drifting shut, snapped open again. Days. She'd been with him for days. He'd tended her, for days.

She didn't know which thought caused her the most distress. The fact that she'd been as helpless as a babe and attended by a cold, uncaring stranger. Or the fact that she'd lain insensible for far too long. They would find her if she didn't move on. If they didn't, Horace Brooks surely would.

Scarcely had the thought formed in her mind when a gun shot erupted close at hand. The terror that surged through her on the instant brought her to her feet with scarcely a thought for the effort. Even with that to bolster her weakened limbs, however, it was all she could do to propel herself across the cabin.

She had scarcely covered half the room when the blackness began to descend upon her. She gritted her teeth and fought it to a standstill. Doggedly, she continued to place one foot before the other, though the blanket of darkness seemed to lay more heavily upon her shoulders with each step. In vain, she tried to pierce it as the door swung open. Blindly, she groped for some support, sought a weapon to defend herself.

"My God, woman! Are you out of your mind? Or are you determined to kill yourself?"

At the sound of his voice, relief flooded her, draining away her reserves of strength. Her knees buckled.

"Cat!" Con exclaimed, dropping both the turkey he'd just shot and the gun he still held to the floor with a clatter.

Mary Catherine felt herself falling. It was all right, though. The sensation didn't disturb her. She didn't even feel the urgency she'd felt before to flee. It was as if the darkness was wrapping her in soft folds that shielded her from everything.

She felt a strangely soft bump as she struck something with her shoulder and forehead on the way down. How very odd, she thought, that she'd heard whatever it was she'd knocked over hit the floor before she did.

"Cat! Are you alright? Oh God, Kitten, what have you done to yourself now?"

She felt him scoop her off the floor and into his arms, felt the hardness of his chest against her cheek. Dizziness assailed her as he stood up with her. She fought to hold it at bay. "Shot," she mumbled between oddly stiff lips, remembering the fear that had driven her into attempted flight. "..heard..shot."

"Hush. It's all right. It was nothing. Here, let me have a look at you," he muttered, striding rapidly across the room.

She'd thought he would put her back to bed. Instead, although she felt the sensation of dropping, she remained firmly in his arms. She blinked, trying to clear her vision, trying to see him. She could see nothing still, but it seemed the darkness was fading to deep gray, as if light was finally filtering into the cavern she'd fallen into.

She felt his hands on her face, in her hair.

"That's a nasty gash, Kitten." He was silent a moment, apparently studying her. "It doesn't seem to be deep. Lie still while I get something to clean it up and have a better look."

She closed her eyes as he turned to lay her against the pillows. The swinging sensation made her head spin. She felt oddly bereft when he'd moved away from her, oddly relieved when he returned. She drew in her breath sharply when he touched her forehead with a damp cloth. It stung. She was almost sorry she'd regained enough of a grasp upon consciousness to feel the beginnings of pain.

"Sorry. I expect it hurts like the very devil, but...There. All done. Hold still a moment."

She gritted her teeth while he probed the wound.

"It's not as bad as I thought. The bleeding has stopped."

He sounded relieved. She didn't know what to make of that. She finally decided to consider it later, when she could think straight. She wanted to rest now. She settled herself more comfortably but frowned after a moment. Something was missing.

She felt his hand skim her cheek, lightly, as if he was brushing her hair from her face. Dimly, it connected in her mind that that touch meant both comfort and safety. She wasn't certain when it had come to represent that or why. She only knew that it did and that it was reassurance she needed. She covered it with her own and settled deeper, feeling her senses begin to wander aimlessly.

"No, Kitten. Don't go to sleep now. Talk to me."

She frowned, rousing slightly. It took a great effort to move her lips and make sound. "Abou..wha..?"

Maybe that would satisfy him and he'd go away and leave her alone. Apparently it didn't. He scooped her off the bed again when she'd just gotten comfortable. She slitted her eyes a fraction to see where he was taking her and discovered that the grayness had retreated sufficiently that she could make out her surroundings.

"Anything. Just talk."

His voice was a deep rumble against her ear as he settled in a chair before the small fire on the hearth with her on his lap. It pleased her, oddly, his warmth, the sound of his voice so close, the hardness of the chest she rested against. His sudden desire for conversation didn't.

"Doan wanna. Wanna sleep. Need...rest," she mumbled sleepily.

"Not now. Talk to me. Just for a little while."

"You talk."

He chuckled. The sound caught her off guard. It made her smile. She didn't even realize she had until she felt the touch of his fingertip as it traced the upward tilt of her lips. Her eyes snapped open. She peered up at him curiously.

"You have a lovely smile, Kitten. It's a shame you're so stingy with it."

Mary Catherine stared at him, disconcerted. She couldn't think of a response to that remark. After a few moments of searching, she decided not to try. Instead, feeling a sudden surge of curiosity about him, she asked, "Who are you?"

It was his turn to look disconcerted. Finally, he smiled wryly. "John Conyers St.Claire of the county of Lowndes. Con to my closest friends, though I've few enough of those here about."

That last remark piqued her curiosity, as well, but she dismissed the temptation to question him further with the reflection that it might prompt him to question her. She discovered very quickly, however, that Con St.Claire was not to be so easily put off.

"Tell me about yourself," he commanded gently when she said nothing more.

Mary Catherine frowned, wondering now if she'd completely underestimated the man. She'd thought his sudden interest in conversation odd, but it wasn't nearly so baffling if he had thought to catch her off-guard.

"I can't remember anything," she responded slowly, concealing her sudden alertness.

"Cat?"

She tensed. "Yes?"

"I know you could not have been alone, and yet you've mentioned no one..." He stopped. That wasn't strictly true. She'd muttered several names in her delirium. Unfortunately, he'd been so exhausted himself by then that he'd caught little of what she'd said. "I couldn't have helped them before. You were in no condition to be left alone. But, if there are others out there who need help, I need to know."

She was silent, debating how much to reveal, wondering how much would be too much. To her way of thinking, revealing anything at all would be too much. "I don't remember," she said stubbornly.

He caught her cheek in his hand so that she was forced to look up at him. "They'll die, Mary Catherine, if they're not dead already. No one survives long in this wilderness without food or shelter or weapons to protect themselves. The Creek War might be over to all intents and purposes, but there are still renegades about."

She wanted to close her eyes to hide from the questions, but she knew it would give her away. She reached up to grasp his hand, intent on flinging it away. Instead, once she'd curled her hand around the edge of his she hesitated, suddenly excruciatingly aware of how he dwarfed her.

She suspected Horace Brooks would feel somewhat diminished to stand in this man's shadow. It occurred to her that he could snap her like a twig, could have at any time.

She felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to take that great hand in both of hers and study it, to try to understand how such tremendous strength could also be gentle. She resisted it, but she released her grip on his hand, slid hers over his. It wasn't just strong and gentle. It was warm, alive. She was warm and alive because of him. Could she deny him the little he'd asked in return for her life? Could she deny Horace Brooks an equal chance of survival?

She would be a murderer if she did. The idea repelled her and yet she began to rationalize it at once. She didn't know he'd survived the attack. She'd been swept away. She'd seen very little, really.

And yet, it was possible he'd gotten away. He might have been swept away, just as she had. She'd thought it a distinct possibility. And if he'd survived the massacre, he would certainly survive mother nature. It was one of the reasons she'd run, the fear, the certainty that he'd survived and would come after her, one of the reasons she still meant to run as soon as she was able. Horace Brooks didn't need her concern or Con's. He was far too mean to die.

"Was it an Indian attack?" Con prodded after a moment.

Mary Catherine studied him a long moment, but found she could not hold his steady gaze. She looked away. "I..I don't know...Maybe. I was alone. The others...if there were others, must be dead."

He studied her a long moment. "You're afraid I'll take you back to him."

Chapter Four

Mary Catherine felt the blood rush from her face. Her thoughts went chaotic. What did he know? What had she told him that she didn't remember? Oh God! Had she mentioned Horace in her delirium?

She wasn't just afraid he'd take her back. She knew he would. He would have to. As far as the law was concerned, Horace Brooks owned her as surely as he owned his horse, the tools of his trade, his land.

She shuddered. She couldn't go back to that. She couldn't bear it. She thought a little wildly that she would rather he took the hand that cupped her cheek and snapped her neck. It would be a simple matter really, over quickly, and far better than going back to what she'd left.

He must have read something in her expression. Perhaps all of it. He pulled her almost roughly against him, squeezing her tightly. She tensed, struggled for a moment and went still as she felt the warmth of his breath against her hair.

"Cat. I can't help you if I don't know what's going on."

Mary Catherine swallowed against the inexplicable knot of yearning that swelled in her throat, both at his words and his husky tone. She said nothing, still too caught up in the throes of panic to think clearly.

Little by little, as he realized she would not speak, he relaxed his tight hold upon her. Finally he rose, carrying her back to the bed and carefully settling her against the pillows. He stepped away then, studying her for a long moment in silence. When he spoke his voice was flat, almost cool. "You should rest. We'll be leaving tomorrow."

Mary Catherine's eyes widened in fright. His expression was closed now. She could tell nothing of what his thoughts might be.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Home. My home," he amended when he saw she'd turned so pale she looked likely to faint.

"You don't live here?"

"I don't," he said laconically and turned away.

Mary Catherine stared at his broad back as he moved to the fireplace. She'd been right, she realized, not to trust him. Why had he brought her to this remote cabin if he didn't live here?

The question returned to plague her with far more force the following day when she roused herself and discovered they'd turned upon a well kept drive. She'd woke that morning to the discovery that Con was already prepared for departure, the little spaniel he'd banished from the cabin sometime during her illness frisking happily about his heels as he secured the last of his belongings in his bedroll.

He glanced up, fixed her with an unreadable look and reached for the plate of fresh hoecakes he'd prepared for her breakfast. Striding toward her with it, he paused for several moments after he'd given her the plate, as if there was something he wished to say. In the end, he seemed to dismiss it. "Eat. We'll leave as soon as you're ready."

Taking up the bedroll, he left the cabin then. The spaniel glanced from Con's retreating form to Mary Catherine, as if debating whether to follow her master or approach Mary Catherine to beg for a handout. In the end, she dashed after Con, scarcely clearing the door before he shut it behind him.

Mary Catherine looked down at the plate, studied it a moment and finally set it aside. Rising, she attended her needs and washed her face in the bucket of water Con had left beside the bed. That done, she donned her faded calico dress Con had laundered and left at the foot of the bed, smoothed it the best she could and returned gratefully to the bed, picking at her food while she awaited his return. Her mind was attuned far more to the anxiety knotting her stomach, however, than to appeasing her appetite.

She didn't have long to wait. It seemed, now that he'd decided to go, Con was in a fever to do so. In moments, he'd straightened the cabin and returned to scoop her from the bed and carry her outside.

She didn't resist. She could scarcely complain that Con was behaving too freely with her when he lifted and carried her about with no more concern than he'd shown his bedroll. Still, she felt impelled to offer at least a token objection.

"I can walk."

He glanced down at her, lifting one dark brow. He didn't respond, however, intent on closing the cabin door behind them.

Mary Catherine felt a spark of irritation surface. Spawned partly by fear and partly by an irrational need to get any reaction out of him, even anger, so long as he ceased to look through her, she stubbornly persisted. "I can not regain my strength if you mean to be forever carrying me about."

"You can not faint and bark your head again either," Con retorted shortly.

Mary Catherine's lips tightened. "I would not have fainted yesterday except I rose too quickly. You startled me when you shot that bird," she added accusingly.

A muscle in Con's jaw tightened. "I frightened you half out of your wits. Would you care to tell me why?"

She didn't care to. She stared at him speechlessly, realizing it would be impossible to pursue the line of argument she'd begun without giving something away she had no intention of revealing.

"I didn't think so," he said tightly. With that, he grasped the reins and a handful of the horse's mane, shoved a foot into one stirrup and mounted the horse with Mary Catherine still tucked tightly against him.

Startled, she grasped fistfuls of his shirt, too frightened to think beyond the need to keep herself from falling until he was firmly seated and had settled her across his thighs. She hadn't expected that he would attempt to mount with her still in his arms. She wondered if the fact that he had denoted how deeply concerned he was about her health or a lack of faith.

The latter seemed more likely. But then he could not know she'd never been on the back of a horse in her life and had certainly had no designs upon stealing the huge brute. She had no illusions about her ability to control the horse. Desperate she might well be. She wasn't insane.

She fell silent as Con whistled for the spaniel and guided Devil across the clearing that surrounded the little cabin toward a narrow trail that led through the wood, her spurt of bravado having abandoned her along with her pique. Fear of the unknown, she'd quickly discovered, could be as debilitating as fear of the known. The fact that she had no notion of what Con's true intentions might be toward her did nothing to prevent her fertile imagination from supplying possible scenarios that left her feeling both weak and ill.

Despite her uneasiness, or perhaps because she wore herself out with worrying, she dozed before they had been on the trail much more than half an hour. She knew she could not have slept long, however, when she woke to find they'd turned along a carriage drive. She was certain they could not have been riding much above an hour, if it had even been that long. That realization made it seem all the more ominous that he'd chosen to take her to a remote cabin with no one but him to attend her.

She had little time to dwell upon it. They'd scarcely turned upon the drive when the Africanes toiling in the fields on either side of it threw down their rakes and hoes and converged upon them, laughing and waving and shouting. "Mista Con! Look yonda! Mista Con, home! Lawd hab' mercy, Mista Con! We thought sho' you wuz daid!"

Smiling faintly, Con nodded at them. "Not hardly."

Mary Catherine merely gaped at the thirty odd fieldhands and beyond them at the broad fields that seemed to sprawl out for untold acres before fetching up against the dark walls of pine that surrounded them.

An unpleasant sensation seized the pit of her stomach even before she saw the mansion Con called home. It magnified tenfold when they rounded a sharp curve in the drive and the whitewashed, two-story frame plantation house burst into view.

It commanded a slight rise in the ground, sprawling into forever. She suspected the cabin they'd so lately vacated could have been set comfortably, with room to spare, in one small corner of the Manor house. The ramshackle cabin that had been her home for the past five years would not even have compared favorably to the cabin they'd just left.

Truthfully, it would not have compared favorably to the line of white-washed cabins that made up the fieldhands' quarters behind the great manor house.

The house did not boast the fluted Grecian columns and broad porches so common among the plantation homes she'd seen before. The posts that lined the narrow veranda across its front were squared, the roof supported by them, gabled. Indeed, the house's lines as a whole, rather than gracefully flowing, seemed stark, somehow rigidly formal, perhaps even foreign.

For all that, the manor and its setting were breathtakingly beautiful in their own right, and she was certain she had never seen anything quite so grand, so imposing---so intimidating.

The uneasy tension of before heightened, a painfully twisted knot of sorrow, yearning and humility filling her. She did not belong in such a setting. She would feel as out of place as a weed in a flower garden.

She wished fervently that Con St.Claire had left her in that homely little cabin in the wood. She had not felt so miserably out of place there.

"I call it St.Claire's Retreat," Con said quietly. "I modeled it after the home of my boyhood, though of course that was built of brick and on a far grander scale."

At the sound of his voice, Mary Catherine turned to look up at him mutely, trying to come to terms with his view of the place, trying to imagine something far grander. "I can't imagine anything grander," she finally said.

He'd been staring at the house, but at that, he looked down at her and smiled faintly.

He said nothing, distracted almost at once by the sound of the door opening. Mary Catherine turned to look, as well, and saw that the servants had begun spilling from the house in eager welcome, alerted to their arrival by the yard boy. A young boy of perhaps five or six plowed through them shrieking, "Papa! Papa!"

It sent a jolt straight through Mary Catherine. Before she'd even begun to recover, she received another shock as Con reined Devil sharply and leapt from the saddle, seemingly in one motion. It reassured her little that he retained a firm grip on the reins. She wasn't at all certain Devil understood that his master still had control of him. Frantically, she gripped the saddle horn to keep the beast from tossing her to the ground. "John!" Con exclaimed as the youngster barrelled full tilt into him, a strange combination strain and joy in his voice. In the next moment, Mary Catherine understood why as Con gathered the boy close, lifting him into his arms. She realized, too, why Con had abandoned her so abruptly.

"Young demon! How many times have you been told not to launch yourself at Devil that way?" Con said, torn between laughter and despair. "That brute will nip you one day and teach you a painful lesson."

John paid the lecture little heed. He'd thrown both arms around his father's neck and looked likely to strangle Con with his enthusiasm. "But, Papa! You were gone so long! I wasn't worried though. I didn't cry once. Bessie kept saying you wuz gone to Glory Land. But I knew you wuzn't. I tole her you'd come home."

Con cupped his son's head, covering the child's ears as he gave him a reassuring squeeze. He slid Mary Catherine an unfathomable look, his lips tightened with anger. "I'll strangle that wench one of these days," he muttered.

John dragged his father's hand away. "What, Papa?"

"Nothing."

"Who's that?" he piped the next moment, eyeing Mary Catherine curiously now.

Con set him on his feet abruptly. "Mind your manners, John." He turned to Mary Catherine. To her relief he stepped up to the restive stallion and hooked his arm across the saddle behind her, settling one large hand upon her waist to steady her. "Mary Catherine, my son, John Conyers St.Claire." He turned to fix the boy with a look. "Make your bow, John."

Mary Catherine glanced from Con to his son as John made his bow. He was like a miniature Con. As folks were apt to say, his "spitting image". Though his locks were somewhat lighter, a dark brown instead of true black, he had a mass of curls every bit as unruly as Con's and it was obvious, even at his young age, that he would one day equal or surpass Con in size. He was not just tall for his age and sturdily built. His bones were already outstripping the flesh that covered them, making him as endearing awkward as a young colt.

Mary Catherine responded with wholehearted warmth when John looked at her and smiled with a gap-toothed grin that rivaled Con's in sweetness. She smiled back at him. "How do you do, Master John?"

He giggled, but he didn't forget the required response. "Very well, thank you, Mistress..." He hesitated, frowned in puzzlement, then grinned. "Mistress Catherine," he finished triumphantly.

Con opened his mouth to object and closed it again. John would have to call her something. If she couldn't, or wouldn't, give them her full name, Mistress Catherine would do as well as anything else. "Run along now, son, and tell Bessie to have a room made ready. Mistress Catherine has been very ill. She needs bed rest."

John cocked his head, studying Mary Catherine solemnly. "Is that why she looks..."

"John!" Con exclaimed, heading his son off, his voice a blend of command and dismay. "Go!"

"Yes, Papa!"

Feeling both amused and more than a little embarrassed, Mary Catherine watched him as he scampered off, stopping when he reached a massive African woman and giving her skirt a tug to gain her attention. Withdrawing her gaze from the child, she looked down to discover Con was watching her. "He's a beautiful child."

Con's smile was wry, but it was obvious he was pleased with the compliment. "But somewhat lacking in manners, I'm afraid."

Mary Catherine shook her head. "No. Just young."

He shrugged, dismissing it. "Ready?"

She bit her lip. She wasn't, not if ready meant being carried in with all the servants gawking at her. "I'd like to walk."

He lifted an eyebrow, studying her dubiously. It occurred to him quite suddenly, however, and with immense discomfort, that he wasn't nearly so worried that she would faint again and hurt herself as he was disappointed. When, he wondered, had he ceased to carry Mary Catherine about out of concern, and begun to do so merely for the pleasure it gave him to have an excuse to hold her, to touch her? After an uncomfortable moment, he dismissed his thoughts, forcing a shrug of unconcern.

"If you feel up to it." He grasped her waist and swung her down, steadying her before he released her and offered his arm. She studied his brawny forearm a moment, debated with herself and finally took the offered support.

To her relief, most of the servants had scudded back to their duties before she and Con had ascended the wide steps that led up to the broad pillared porch that fronted the house. One lingered, looking nervously out of place. Or perhaps he was anxious for another reason entirely. It seemed to Mary Catherine that some silent communication passed between him and Con even before they spoke.

Around forty, he was perhaps a half a head shorter than Con, but every bit as muscular or perhaps more so. He bowed as they reached him. "Mista Con."

Con smiled faintly, acknowledging the greeting, but got down to business at once. "Send someone into town for Doctor Moseley, if you please, Lincoln. And then await me in my study. You can fill me in on what's happened since I've been away."

Again Lincoln bowed. "Yas suh, Mista Con."

They'd already stepped away when his voice halted them again. "Mista Con?"

Con paused, turned. "Yes?"

A pleased grin split the man's face. "Ah sho is glad you ain't daid. We thought sho you wuz."

Con chuckled. "Thank you, Lincoln. So am I..glad."

Mary Catherine had managed to negotiate nearly half the stairs when she realized she wasn't going to arrive in the room Con had had prepared for her with her dignity intact. Evidently Con had been watching her for signs of wavering, for the moment she stopped to catch her breath and bolster her determination, he bent and swept her into his arms.

Despite her embarrassment, she was grateful for it. Her dignity, not to mention the rest of her, would have suffered more if she'd fainted and rolled to the bottom of the stairs. And she had the comfort of knowing that there was no one but the African woman, Bessie, to witness it.

At any rate, Mary Catherine forgot her embarrassment as soon as Bessie flung open the door to the room she'd readied, the first at the top of the stairs. Con came to a halt as if he'd been poleaxed. Glancing up at him in surprise, Mary Catherine discovered to her dismay that he was looking black as a thundercloud.

After a moment, he seemed to collect himself, check his fury with an effort. He swept into the room then and deposited her on the bed without another word, quitting the room as soon as he'd done so. She stared after him with a burgeoning sense of disquiet.

Lincoln was waiting at the foot of the stairs when Con returned. "What is it?" Con asked without preamble.

"Ah took a search party soon as de weather started to clear a bit, Mista Con."

"I figured you would."

Lincoln nodded. "Well, suh. De storm purt near warshed everything away, so it ain't much wonda we didn't find ya. Thing is we did find somethin' though, down by de ol' ford at de riber. Dey's a wagon, Mista Con. And some daid folks."

Despite the fact that he'd been expecting something of that nature, Con felt a jolt of shock. Following quickly on the heels of it was guilt. He wondered if he could have prevented their deaths if he'd tried harder to drag the information out of Mary Catherine. He was no longer completely certain of his motives in not searching more diligently for others.

Mary Catherine had been in no condition to be left alone at first, of course, but when her fever had broken and the delirium passed, he'd made short sorties to find food and look for other survivors. The question was, had he tried, really tried to find the others? Or had he feared, somewhere in the back of his mind, that finding the others in her party would mean losing her? Disgust welled up inside him at that thought. He could scarcely lose her. She wasn't his. "How many?" he asked grimly.

Lincoln turned a pasty gray. "Ah couldn't rightly say, suh. Ah ain't neber seed sech a terrible sight in all my born days. Dey been daid awhile, maybe a week. An' de 'gators and sech..."

"Never mind," Con cut him off, ignoring the relief that descended upon him. Quiet possibly it was premature. Lincoln was only guessing at the length of time they'd been dead. "Have you sent for the doctor?"

Lincoln nodded. "Jessie."

Con lifted his head to study the door at the top of the stairs for a long moment. "Send someone after him," he said grimly. "Tell him he's to bring the undertaker, one of the ministers and Sheriff Tate, as well."

Chapter Five

For some minutes after Lincoln had gone, Con remained motionless, his thoughts uncharacteristically indecisive. The moment he'd given the order to summon the sheriff he'd felt the urge, almost of panic, to call it back. But he wanted to know, had to know. At any rate, there was no certainty that Mary Catherine was connected in any way to the wagon Lincoln had found, however probable it seemed. The area where he'd found her had been very nearly midway between the river ford and the Thomasville Road. She might even have come from another direction entirely.

After a moment, he dismissed the plaguing qualms and moved to the stack of mail awaiting him on the foyer table. Flipping through it rather absently, he stopped abruptly when he came upon a letter from England that carried Lyle McGuin's careless scrawl. A jolt of uneasiness went through him the instant he recognized the direction penned on the front, however quickly he dismissed it with the thought that Lyle was a friend as well as his solicitor and might well have news of a pleasant nature to impart. Turning, he strode down the hallway to his study, ripping the missive open even before he'd reached the room and closed the door behind him.

Once he'd settled himself, he tossed the remaining correspondence to one side and unfolded the thick sheaf of papers on the desk before him, smoothing them carefully. Business? Or simply news from home? he wondered, allowing himself a few moments to savor the anticipation.

It was news, he found as he scanned the page cursorily to discover the gist of it before he got down to the business of deciphering his friend's hand, or rather gossip, about Anne. It seemed his former wife had embroiled herself in yet another scandal. Which was scarcely news, he thought wryly.

He was tempted to toss the letter in the refuse bin. He had no desire to learn anything at all about Anne, not even the malicious gossip about her latest scandalous behavior.

However, news from home, any news, was better than nothing at all. He missed his homeland, for all that he'd considered himself an American for nearly a decade and despite the fact that he had no wish to leave his new home and return to it. He still carried fond memories of England, of his childhood there. He missed his parents, his brothers. Sometimes he even missed what had once seemed the boringly pointless antics and parties of polite society. Not often, but sometimes. Instead of tossing it, therefore, he read.

My very dear friend,

I feel I should advise you at once that this is news, not business, as we corresponded so often concerning that ugly business some three years previously. Amazing! I hadn't realized till this moment that it had been so longthat we'd concluded that shocking mess.

At any rate, my news touches upon it. I've hopes it might amuse you to hear of it, perhaps lighten that glum face I noticed when last I saw you.

Your former better half has been at it again. You'll recall, I'm sure, that I wrote you that she wed our erstwhile friend, Jack Rawlings, before the ink was scarcely dry on the decree of divorcement? Well, rumors began flying scarce a se'night since that he was rolled up, his cupboards as bare as a babe's behind. And hardly had those rumors made the rounds, with half of London speculating on the truth of them, when we learned the poor fool had put a period to his existence. This, it's said, was due largely to the fact that his rib had not only helped him tremendously in his downfall but suggested he might just as well end it as he was of no more use to her.

It's speculation of the vilest kind, of course, and yet, knowing her as I do now, I suspect there's more than a grain of truth to it. I'm not so certain that I would even put it past her to have pulled the trigger herself, though there seems no suspicion on that score.

At any rate, to conclude the tale, the lovely has now disappeared, taking, it's said, the Rawlings family jewels, which would not even have begun to cover the man's debts. His creditors are scurrying madly about, threatening all sorts of dire consequences, crying thief to any who will listen. The ton seems evenly divided. Half are certain she has flown to you. Before you begin to quake in those barges you call boots, however, I must tell you I think it unlikely. The woman was never a fool, merely vicious and calculating. She can not think you would receive her now if she was on the point of breathing her last breath.

I think it far more likely, as many of the ton do, that she's flown to the continent to allow things to cool, perhaps even to Italy in hope of finding herself another dupe...

Con's lips twisted when he saw his friend had tried unsuccessfully to scratch that last out and replace it with husband. After a moment's search, he found the sentence he supposed followed it and picked up the tale once more.

..She did detest the Colonies, and reviled their lack of culture and sophistication so verbally to all and sundry that I can't help but think the others fools for believing she would return to them even if she were fool enough to believe you would welcome her.....

Con lifted his gaze from the page and focused it upon the space above the fireplace. A faint rectangle still marred the wall there, he saw with faint surprise.

There had been a time when he'd been tempted to burn the portrait that had hung there, after she'd deserted him, abandoned their infant son. Not just at first. He'd been too shocked, too frantic for his son's life then. Later, once he'd found a wetnurse for John, once the shock had worn off, he'd wanted to burn everything she'd left behind in the first surge of hurt and rage.

Pride, more than anything else, had kept him from it. If he destroyed it, he knew he might just as well hire a crier to announce to everyone in the county that his wife had deserted him and he was devastated.

Instead, he'd left everything just as she'd left it. He'd pretended, to himself, and everyone else, that she'd only gone off to England to visit her relatives.

Two years later he'd ordered the servants to pack everything. Crates and baggage were hauled overland to the nearest port at Brunswick and shipped to her family in England. The letter to his solicitor advising him to begin divorce proceedings left on the same ship.

Con had long since ceased to be furious or devastated or even frustrated. He no longer gave a damn. He had gone on with his life much as he had in the years before he'd sailed for England to find the perfect wife for the empire he was building in south Georgia with Sea Island cotton.

Looking back, Con wondered if he hadn't been somewhat relieved to have it end. If it hadn't been for her rejection of the most public, humiliating kind, would he have felt differently about it?

He thought that he might have.

Certainly he felt surprisingly little in view of the news he'd just received. It wasn't that he felt numbed, or shocked, by it. He simply felt nothing. He was a little surprised he didn't even feel a touch of triumph or vindication that Anne and Jack had finally gotten what they so richly deserved, besides each other.

After a moment, he dismissed it and turned his attention to the letter once more. There were two more sheets of gossip, none of it of any real interest to him. Many of those mentioned were completely unknown to him. Even the names that were familiar meant little. They were from another lifetime.

There was a bit of news, however, that he found disquieting. There had been an outbreak of cholera in the meaner parts of London. No one was particularly alarmed at the moment, but the ton had decided it might be a good year to visit their rural estates early.

Con tossed the letter aside abruptly and snatched up the missive he'd left for last with the intention of savoring it. It was from his father and dated nearly two weeks later than the letter from Lyle McGuin. After quickly scanning it, Con saw that it related the scandal concerning Anne, as well, but contained no mention of illness.

Relieved, Con settled back to enjoy the family news, dismissing Lyle McGuin's letter from his mind. It seemed he need have no concern for his family, and as for Anne...

It had obviously been intended as a kindly warning, but it wasn't particularly timely. If Anne had been brazen enough, or desperate enough, to have thought to seek his aid, she could easily have arrived weeks before the letter, for that had made an extended crossing.

He was reading the letter his mother had enclosed when his butler, Sherman, rapped on the paneled door of his study.

Con set his letter aside. "Come in."

"De doctor is here, Mista Con. Sheriff Tate sent word he'd be here terrectly wid de other mens you sent fo'."

"Good. I'll show Dr. Moseley up myself," Con said, rising.

"Jessie couldn't find Dr. Moseley, Mista Con. He brung Dr. Bealle."

Con's lips thinned with annoyance. He was tempted to have Sherman show the man out again. However, since his dislike of the man was personal, and didn't extent to distrust of the man's abilities, he finally dismissed the temptation. Mary Catherine was on the mend. She wouldn't need Dr. Bealle dancing attendance upon her. He'd only sent for a doctor at all to be certain there was no lingering chance of pneumonia.

"Very well," Con said, girding himself as he strode to the door to behave cordially toward the man he'd once suspected had done much to encourage his wife to leave him. He quickly discovered that Dr. Bealle meant to attempt nothing beyond civil, sparing him the necessity of voicing a welcome he didn't feel.

"Mr. St.Claire," Emory Bealle greeted Con stiffly.

Con was amused. It glinted in his pale blue eyes, though he firmly suppressed it from his expression. "Bealle," he responded with a nod, gesturing for the doctor to proceed him. "The patient is upstairs."

If possible, Dr. Bealle's demeanor became stiffer. Without another word, he turned and trod the stairs.

"I found her a little less than a week ago in the woods west of here. She was delirious with fever by then. She seems to be over the worst of it, but I thought it best to summon a doctor to be certain she was out of danger," Con said as they reached the upper hallway.

Dr. Bealle stopped abruptly in his tracks and whirled to face Con, his expression outraged. "Feverish to the point of delirium, you say? And you only sent for me now?"

Con's lips tightened. He owed the man no explanations. "I didn't send for you at all, Bealle. I sent for Dr. Moseley. However, since he was unavailable..." Con let the words trail off and shrugged. "If your principles are paining you, Bealle, I'm sure we can wait till Dr. Moseley is available."

"My objections have nothing to do with that and you know it," Bealle said, controlling his temper. "Your lack of consideration for the danger the girl was in was inexcusable and..."

"Unavoidable," Con broke in sharply, resisting the urge to lay the man out only by supreme effort.

Brought up short, Bealle collected himself. "How so?"

Con ground his teeth against the angry retort that rose to mind. After a moment, however, it occurred to him that while it was true he owed Bealle no explanation, there was also a defensive edge to his temper. Having no wish to examine it, he yielded to Bealle's request for an explanation with the reflection that the man was entitled to professional curiosity concerning his patient's illness, if he had no business demanding it on a private level. "The storm," he said succinctly.

Bealle frowned. "You found her in the midst of the storm?"

"Just before the full brunt of it. She was already burning up with fever when I found her and so delirious she tried to run from me. It could have taken hours to reach the plantation under those conditions, with no certainty even that we could, or that I could get a doctor for her if I did. I took her to my old cabin. It was closest."

Dr. Bealle studied him in silence for several moments. "And so you treated her fever?"

"There was nothing I could do but try to cool it, and keep her warm when the chills came, as Dr. Moseley advised me to do when John was so ill last year."

Dr. Bealle nodded. "I would have advised the same. It would have been better if you had had medicine to bring the fever down since very high, prolonged fevers can do much damage, even kill, but I suppose it couldn't be helped."

Con gave him a sardonic look. "If it could have, believe me, I would have." With that, he stepped up to the door and grasped the handle.

"She's in there?" Dr. Bealle gasped, outraged all over again.

Con sent him a narrow-eyed look. "You'll have to acquit me of evil designs. This was Bessie's way of letting me know she wasn't happy about having a guest to attend." He tapped on the door and pushed it open at Mary Catherine's call. "Dr. Bealle is here to have a look at you, Mary Catherine."

Mary Catherine stared at the two men who stood framed upon her threshold, wondering a little wildly if she was going to faint and give herself away.

Chapter Six

Mary Catherine felt her heart pounding with such enthusiasm against her chest wall and her ear drums that she was a little surprised neither man seemed to hear it. Still, she was so flushed they must surely suspect something?

She hadn't meant to eavesdrop...She broke off the thought. There was little sense in lying to herself. She'd had every intention of eavesdropping. She just hadn't anticipated that she would have the opportunity.

She thought, defensively, that she had no reason to apologize for it if they realized what she'd been doing. She had a right to defend herself, and she couldn't very well do that when she had no idea of what might be going on.

All the same, she had not struggled up from her bed strictly for that purpose. It was merely that she'd been conveniently located near the door when she'd heard the men approaching. She couldn't get her strength back lying in bed. She had to work the strength into her muscles by using them. Con seemed so adverse to it, that she'd begun to do so secretly from the time he began to allow her privacy for her personal needs. She had no idea why he might wish that she remain weak for as long as possible, but she didn't mean to oblige him if it was, as she suspected, a means of keeping her from running.

As if uneasy with the continued silence, Dr. Bealle surged forward, his face breaking into a smile. She thought he must be somewhat older than Con, perhaps a few years younger than her husband. He was tall, though not nearly so tall as Con and of wiry rather than massive build. His hair, which had receded to form a rather high forehead, was dark auburn. He was not a particularly handsome man, but there was something about his face and his expression that she finally decided was kindly. Certainly, if the conversation she'd overhead was anything to go by, he had only her best interests at heart.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Bealle, Emory Bealle. I hope you'll allow me to have a look at you. St.Claire tells me you've been desperately ill."

Mary Catherine stared at the hand he held out to her for a long moment before she placed her hand in his and offered him a tentative smile. "I don't..." She broke off and glanced at Con, who'd propped his broad shoulders against the wall near the door, crossing his arms. His attitude was more determined than casual, for all that he appeared entirely relaxed. "Really. I'm fine now. Much better. Surely it isn't necessary?"

It was impossible to tell anything from Con's expression, but she thought she detected a flicker of warning in his eyes. "It's just a precaution. I thought he should have a listen at your heart and lungs to make certain you're truly on the mend. I'm not at all certain you would survive a relapse." He paused and allowed his eyes to wander her length, his gaze lingering for a long moment on her foot. "If you think you'd be more comfortable, I'll stay while he examines you."

Mary Catherine gaped at him, for several moments so blank with incredulity that she didn't realize the warning in his glance or his suggestion. How could he possibly think she would be more comfortable with two men ogling her than she would with one?

In the next moment, it hit her like a ton of bricks. He wasn't staring at her foot. He was staring at her ankle, the one that had worn a manacle until he'd removed it. The flesh there was healing and yet it would be obvious to almost anyone that she'd been wearing a manacle about it.

"Now see here! You can't expect the young woman to allow herself to be examined in front of a complete stranger! You're not her kinsman!"

Con favored Dr. Bealle with a cold glance. "Neither are you her kinsman and I'm not as much a stranger to her as you are."

"I'm her physician!"

"Not unless she agrees to it, you aren't."

Mary Catherine had already opened her mouth to dismiss the doctor when Con continued.

"She might prefer Dr. Moseley. I know I would."

Mary Catherine closed her mouth again. If she was going to be examined regardless of her wishes then she didn't particularly care whether it was Dr. Bealle or Dr. Moseley who did it, but she rather thought she'd as soon have it over with.

"It's all right," she interjected before the men could renew their quarrel.

Both men turned to look at her. "I think I could be..." She hesitated and continued after a moment, "comfortable with Dr. Bealle."

It was a lie. She wouldn't be comfortable at all, but then she doubted she would be any more so with the other doctor. As for having Con present....As sullen and unhelpful as the African woman was that Con had sent to see after her, she rather thought she still preferred to have another female in the room with her. "And perhaps Bessie could..uh.. help."

Con stared at her for a long moment, as if he might discern her thoughts if he probed deeply enough. Was she as unconcerned about the matter as she seemed? Had she failed to catch his warning glance? Failed to realize the story her wounds would tell? Or was she telling him she'd take her chances?

It occurred to him that that was it. She'd missed nothing, forgotten nothing. She was allowing him to know that she would fight her own battles. She didn't need him.

The thought sent a surge of anger and frustration through him. He stood away from the wall and reached for the doorknob. "As you please."

"I'd be pleased not to be examined at all," Mary Catherine said tartly. "But since you seem to think it necessary..."

Con paused and turned to study her for a long moment. She was as well aware of the possibilities for disaster as he was, and she was no fool. She wouldn't allow Bealle's examination go beyond what was absolutely necessary. He nodded and left the room to summon Bessie.

Mary Catherine didn't, willingly. On the other hand, she'd been taught to respect authority unquestioningly almost from birth. She found it impossible to openly oppose him.

As soon as Con left the room, Dr. Bealle settled his case on the table near the bed with a decisive thump and opened it. Mary Catherine watched uneasily as he sorted instruments that looked like torture devises and finally produced a thermometer. The moment he placed her at a disadvantage by plugging it into her mouth, he began to question her probingly.

"St.Claire tells me he found you in the woods near his old cabin? You had an accident, I believe?"

Mary Catherine frowned, unable to decide how to respond to his questions. Neither could be answered with a simple yes or no. She had no clear idea of how near the cabin she had been when Con had found her, and she certainly couldn't explain an accident, even if she'd wanted to, merely by shaking her head. Finally, she simply shrugged.

Dr. Bealle frowned leaning forward to place his fingers on her throat. Startled, Mary Catherine jerked away from his touch.

He flushed. "I only meant to examine your pulse," he said soothingly.

Mary Catherine eyed him dubiously, but she held herself still as he again placed his fingertips along her throat. It seemed to take interminable minutes for him to do so. Uneasy with his nearness, Mary Catherine closed her eyes, counting in her head to try to divert her mind. She'd reached 200 when she heard the door open.

Dr. Bealle came erect on the instant, whirling at the sound. He seemed to relax when he saw that it was Bessie at last. "There you are," he said with a forced chuckle. "You were so slow to come, I decided to proceed without you. Just stand over there. I'm almost through now."

Keeping her expression neutral with an effort, Mary Catherine sent him a considering look. Slow to come? Perhaps Bessie had been, but Dr. Bealle had certainly not waited for her arrival even for a moment. She was relieved enough to hear he was almost through, however, to dismiss the comment as he plucked the thermometer from her mouth and examined it frowningly.

"You still have a touch of fever, but I don't think we need be overly concerned about it so long as it doesn't begin to rise again. Your pulse seemed a trifle rapid, but, perhaps you're just a bit nervous?"

Mary Catherine glanced at the black woman, Bessie, who'd come to stand beside the bed opposite Dr. Bealle, before she answered the doctor, smiling faintly. "A bit, I suppose."

"You were telling me about this accident of yours?"

Mary Catherine's smile faded. "I..uh..well, I don't really remember what happened," she stammered uncomfortably.

Dr. Bealle's eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. "What's this? You don't remember?"

Mary Catherine blushed. It had been difficult enough to lie to Con, and she could not consider that she had been successful in that attempt since Con had made it plain he didn't believe her. She could only think she must do far worse now if Dr. Bealle was determined upon a frontal assault. "Very little," she said finally. "I remember being in the woods for a very long time, it seemed."

Dr. Bealle's eyes narrowed. In a moment, he leaned forward capturing her head between his hands and tilting her face up as he examined the knot on her forehead. "I suppose this is from your accident?"

Mary Catherine said nothing, too unsettled by his grasp upon her to think beyond a desperation to be released. To her relief, he did so after only a few moments, frowning thoughtfully now. "I suppose that might have done it. You're certain you remember nothing more?"

Unable to lie beneath his probing gaze, Mary Catherine looked down at her hands. "Yes."

"Dizziness? Queasiness?"

Her head snapped up. "What?"

"Have you been suffering from either or both?"

Should she tell him she had? Or hadn't? Which answer would seem to support her lie?. "A little of both, I suppose," she said slowly, watching his face closely for his reaction.

Something in his expression told her that wasn't the best answer she could have given so she amended it. "That is, when I try to get up and move about. I feel fine now, though."

He looked shocked. "You've no business being up and about at all when you've been so ill! ...Ah! You're referring to the trip here, I suppose? Well, you're settled for now, so I don't want you attempting any nonsense. Complete bed rest. Bessie here can see to your needs."

Mary Catherine glanced at Bessie and saw that she looked anything but enthused by the suggestion. She needn't concern herself over the matter, however, as Mary Catherine had no intention of following Dr. Bealle's orders once he was out of sight.

For one, she didn't agree with him. Total bed rest would only make her weaker, not help her to get strong. She knew that from hard experience. In the second place, she fully intended to be gone the very minute and hour she thought she was strong enough to flee.

"Now. If you'll just loosen your shift and let me have a listen at your lungs we can be done with this."

Mary Catherine's startled gaze flew to his face. "What?"

He ignored her. "Bessie, give the young lady a hand with her dress."

"I'd prefer that you didn't," Mary Catherine said a little desperately. "My lungs are just fine. I haven't coughed even once."

Dr. Bealle smiled faintly. "Your modesty becomes you, my dear, but recall that I'm your physician. I must do what I think is best."

Modesty be damned, Mary Catherine thought with a mixture of anger and fright. She didn't particularly care for the idea of any man looking at her, clothed or naked, but she was far more concerned that he not see her naked back than with anything else at the moment.

Con was working on his estate books when he heard the rap he'd been expecting. He glanced up, wondering if it was Bealle or if Sheriff Tate had finally arrived. "Come."

Dr. Bealle opened the door and strode purposefully across the room, planting himself before Con's desk. Con leaned back in his chair and lifted one boot shod foot to prop it on the corner of his desk, crossing the other over it. "Have a seat, Bealle."

He gestured toward the seat behind the doctor.

"I'd as soon stand."

Con shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"She seems fine...except for the rather important circumstance you forgot to mention. She's lost her memory."

Con's dark brows rose. "I thought I should leave you something to discover on your own...to make you feel useful."

Dr. Bealle ground his teeth in impotent fury, but apparently decided to ignore the provocative remark. "I suppose it's due to the fever. Though, to be sure, the contusion on her head looks to have been a nasty bump. That may be the culprit. I confess I'd heard of such a condition, but I've never seen such a case and I didn't really believe it possible."

"But you do now?" Con asked, picking up his letter knife and examining it with spurious interest.

Bealle's lips tightened for a moment. He turned and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "Certainly. I see no reason why she should lie about it...Unless, of course, one takes into account the fact that she has been a captive. Doubtless she escaped from one of the roving bands of Indians that have been plaguing us with their migration pains."

Con sent the doctor a calculating glance, keeping his expression neutral with an effort. Inside, his emotions were a roiling, confused mass. Anger, disgust and dread sought for dominance and were firmly tamped. She'd allowed Bealle to examine her after all. Why? "So. You think her loss of memory is somehow tied to her..er..captivity?"

"Without a doubt! And it's obviously genuine. The poor young woman can't even remember her name. Doubtless the trauma of her treatment at the hands of those savages, combined with her injuries and the illness have caused her to blank those things from her mind that she has difficulty dealing with."

"Ah," Con said, nodding his understanding. "I wondered how you would explain her..er..selective memory."

Dr. Bealle halted in his perambulations abruptly, turning to fix Con with a hard glare. "If it's selective as you put it, then its certainly due to her trials. The human brain is a wonderfully perceptive organ. It not only motivates the body and collects information, it also protects one from the things that are so shocking as to cause it damage. Have you ever been involved in or seen a horrendous accident?"

"One or two," Con responded dryly.

"Ah!" Bealle exclaimed triumphantly, striding forward to splay his hands on Con's desk and leaning toward him earnestly. "Then perhaps you'll recall that afterward your memory was somewhat hazy, bits of information mysteriously missing that should have been there? Perhaps, at the time of the incident, you'll recall your perceptions were peculiarly slowed? Almost as if everyone and everything were moving sluggishly through water? Shock! The mind shuts down. It is too much for the delicate organ to handle all at once."

Con surveyed the doctor sardonically. It was possible, of course, but he didn't believe it and he wasn't certain that Bealle believed it as he claimed. Since he couldn't think of any motive for Bealle to lie about it and he had no desire to hear Bealle expound further on his pet theory, he changed the subject abruptly. "But she is on the mend?"

Bealle drew back and began his pacing once more. "As to that, I can't be entirely certain at this point. I found no indication of pneumonia, but that's not to say she's completely out of danger. I expect I should keep an eye on her for a bit. Regarding the other, I imagine her memory will return in time, as she grows stronger. I think there's a very good chance I should be able to remove her in perhaps a week."

"I beg your pardon?" Con asked coldly.

Bealle halted before Con's desk, his stance hostile now. "She should leave here, and well you know it, as soon as possible."

"She asked you to take her away?"

"Naturally she didn't. She scarcely knows me."

"Then you'll play hell removing her," Con said grimly.

"You mean to keep her here?" Bealle cried, aghast.

Con's lips thinned. "Hardly. She may go when she pleases. ...But it will be when she pleases."

Bealle's face reddened with anger. "You've already compromised her reputation beyond repair!"

Con fought a round with his temper and resisted, barely, the urge to do the man a physical violence. "If you're suggesting what I think you are, Bealle, I believe I must call you out."

Bealle paled but stood his ground. "I'm not fool enough to meet you, St.Claire, and I meant no insult. I was merely stating facts. If you spent a week alone with her, you compromised her regardless of your reasons."

"I saved her life."

"And ruined it into the bargain!"

"That being the case, it scarcely matters now whether she goes or stays, does it? At any rate, if its true, as you seem to believe, that she was an Indian captive, she was already damned in everyone's eyes."

"No one need ever find that out. You surely don't believe that I would spread it about!"

Con studied him a long moment, but it was true, so far as he knew, that the man was discreet. "Then perhaps you could consider keeping the rest to yourself, as well."

For several moments, Bealle looked likely to explode. "I've no intention of spreading any sort of vicious rumors about the young woman, but you can be certain the servants will have it about in no time. They've no way of knowing or finding out what we suspect about the Indians. They will all know she's living under your roof, particularly since she is now occupying your wife's room!"

Con's lips tightened. "Now I'm confused. Which distresses you most, Bealle? The fact that she's beneath my roof at all or that she's staying in my former wife's room? Surely I could ravish her as easily in any other room?"

"I might have expected you would make light of the matter!"

"Indeed you should have. I eat little girls like Mary Catherine for breakfast," Con retorted provocatively.

"If she were a 'little girl' I wouldn't be concerned. The fact is, she's a very attractive young woman."

"Afraid I can't keep my hands to myself, Bealle?" Con asked with a questioning lift of his dark brows. "Now, I wonder why? And this zealous defense! Could it possibly be that you've designs upon her yourself?"

Bealle stiffened. "As to that, I can assure you, if I had intentions toward her they would be of an honorable nature."

Con's lips curled in a faint smile, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Already? You were with her scarcely thirty minutes. I find it hard to believe a man your age could succumb so quickly to cupid's dart, particularly when you've eluded it thus far. But possibly you were bemused by wide green eyes and confused about those palpitations you experienced during your, no doubt, thorough examination of your lovely patient. I must tell you I doubt your heart had much to do with it. Very likely it was another organ entirely that inspired it."

Bealle's face mottled with rage. "If you are accusing me of lusting after a poor, confused young woman, ill..."

"Recovering," Con broke in to supply. "And, as you said, quite lovely, if a bit young for a man your age."

"I'm scarcely five years older than you..."

"More like eight."

Bealle ground his teeth. "And if anyone is to be accused of lusting after her..."

"I don't recall denying that I do..lust after her. Not that I can see that that comes under the heading of your business," Con responded calmly.

Chapter Seven

"Or having dishonorable intentions," Bealle continued doggedly.

"I don't believe that comes under the heading of your business either." Con reached for his desk drawer and snatched it open. He didn't miss Bealle's start when he did so. His lips curled in amusement as he flipped through the roll of bills he took from it, pulled several out and tossed them across the desk. "Will that be adequate for your services?"

Bealle stared at the bills for several moments as if they were serpents before he lifted his head and fixed Con with a baleful glare. "I would scorn to take money from you, for any reason."

Con's eyes narrowed dangerously, but in a moment he shrugged it off. "You must suit yourself, of course, but I feel I must warn you Mary Catherine's circumstances are such that it's unlikely she'll be able to compensate you in the near future."

Bealle studied him a long moment and smiled. "Perhaps, perhaps not. I think that is between her and me and fails to come under the heading of your business."

Con's feet struck the floor as he rose abruptly, splaying his hands on his desk and leaning forward, his manner threatening. "Wrong, Bealle. And if you pursue the matter you may find yourself dead wrong."

"Is that a threat?" Bealle demanded.

Con gave him a steady look. "It's a solemn promise."

Bealle glared at Con a long moment and finally turned and stalked to the door. He was a little disconcerted to discover Con had followed him. Briefly, it showed. "I believe I shall consider serving you with a peace warrant, St.Claire."

"By all means, do so if it will make you feel better. Perhaps you'd care to wait for Sheriff Tate? I'm expecting him momentarily," Con said cordially.

Bealle's lips tightened for a moment before he whirled without another word and wrenched the door open. Con escorted him out of the house, pausing on the steps as the doctor scrambled into his buggy and took the reins and buggy whip. He turned to Con again when he'd settled himself, as if he meant to say more. Before he did so, however, something must have caught his eye, for he glanced up, smiled and touched his hat in a gentlemanly salute. "You may be sure, Miss, that I'll check around and discover a place for you, just as I said I would." He gave Con a triumphant look then, flicked his reins and drove off.

Con stared after him, stone faced with fury. It took an effort to resist the urge to step into the yard and look up to discover if Mary Catherine was actually at her window or if he'd been hoaxed in an effort at retaliation.

"This wagon your man found, did it look like them folks was kilt in the accident? Or was there signs of an attack?" Sheriff Tate asked, swiveling his bulk around in the saddle and pinning Con with a sharp look.

Con, who'd been scanning the treetops for the position of the sun, glanced at him quickly, frowning. "Lincoln didn't say and I haven't seen it myself. Why? Has there been word of any escaped convicts in the area?"

Sheriff Tate looked taken aback. In the next moment, he frowned curiously. "Why no. You got reason to think it might have been an attack by white men?"

Annoyed with himself, Con's mouth flattened with disgust. "No. I've no reason to think it a result of attack of any kind. As I said, I haven't seen it myself. I merely thought, when you mentioned the possibility that the party had been attacked, that you might have reason to suspect convicts were involved. You would have heard if there had been any escapees recently?"

Sheriff Tate leaned over his pommel and spat a stream of tobacco juice. "Why, shore. As recently as yesterday, in fact. Stagecoach comes through twice a week, both ways. Ain't been none in a year or more. I was thinkin' about Redskins. How come you ain't been down to see this here wreck yoreself? For that matter, how come yore man found it?"

Con felt relief swamp him. Nevertheless, he kept it to himself, revealing nothing of what he was feeling in his expression. Neither did he spare the time to consider it at the moment since Sheriff Tate's questions were rather more probing than he liked. He lifted his brows and looked down his nose at the sheriff. He might have been long years away from the drawing rooms of London society, but he hadn't lost the knack for depressing encroachers. "I've only just arrived home this morning. The storm caught me out and I took refuge in my old cabin. When I was overdue, Lincoln took some men and went out to look for me."

"Oh," Sheriff Tate muttered, nonplussed. He threw an uncomfortable glance over his shoulder at the two wagons trailing them as the coffins in the back of the undertaker's wagon shook and rattled loudly over a particularly bad rut. "Spect we oughta considered staying to have a bite with you, after all. Spect this'll take most all day."

Con's lips curled wryly. It had been nearing mid-day when finally the sheriff arrived with the minister and the undertaker, the last driving a wagon loaded with several pine coffins. He'd thought it best himself to eat before they left, and had suggested it, since their business was likely to take them most of what was left of the day and he was reasonably certain none of them would have a wish to eat afterward. However, it was fairly widely known that Bessie, Con's cook/housekeeper was the worst cook in the county, and he hadn't really been surprised when they'd declined and insisted on forging onward.

On the other hand, one had only to look at Sheriff Tate to know he wasn't in the habit of missing many meals. The poor departed would be fortunate if they didn't find themselves tucked under the sod without a word uttered in their behalf. It seemed probable, regardless, that Sheriff Tate wouldn't be inclined to linger for more than a cursory investigation of the cause of death.

Their progress was slow, due in part to the wagons, which would have kept them to a snail's pace if they'd had good road to travel. The old trail they followed had seen little use in recent times, since the militia had cut a better northern road, and not only was it badly washed out from the recent storm, but the seedling pines that had sprung up in the road bed made the going rough for the wagons.

Even those unfamiliar with the old road knew they'd reached their destination long before the river came into view, however. For one thing, they heard the angry rush of water long before they saw it. For another, the odor permeating the air became worse with every step.

Con thought he'd prepared himself for what they came upon, but he discovered otherwise. The wagon wallowed crazily on its side, almost completely submerged, the two uppermost wheels spinning lazily with the flow of the current. The oxen that had been used to draw it were drowned in the shafts, still tangled in the traces. Debris floated on the water's surface, pieces of broken casks and trunks, bits of fabric, the cherished household belongings of the family who'd owned the wagon, caught in eddies that swirled them about the wagon carcass, tossed them haphazardly onto the river bank, or carried them downstream.

The stench intensified abruptly as the wind shifted. As one, the men dragged forth their handkerchiefs and tied them over their noses and mouths. For several moments, Con thought the men with him might turn tail and depart. He was tempted to do so himself.

Grimly, he dismounted and led Devil a little away, tethering the stallion securely before he pulled his rifle from its scabbard and took aim. He killed two of the buzzards before the others began flapping their wings awkwardly in an attempt to take flight, though some merely ambled away to take cover in the underbrush. The huge birds weren't easy to discourage from their feeding and were besides so large they were sluggish and clumsy on the ground.

Sheriff Tate, still mounted, got off four shots, and despite the wild jig his horse attempted, took down three others before they'd managed to do much more than launch themselves ungracefully into the air. The rest scattered, settling overhead in the trees or climbed upward to circle above the kill. They were too brazen, or too stupid, to go into full retreat.

Con and Sheriff Tate turned to look at each other. After a moment the sheriff shrugged, urged his horse forward and dismounted, tying it beside Devil. They left the other men in the wagons and walked down to investigate.

As Con had suspected, they were unable to tell anything about the circumstances of death. A body lay on the bank, half in and half out of the river. The condition made it impossible to determine anything aside from the fact that it had been a African male. They could tell nothing about his age. And the body was in such a state that it was impossible to tell if he'd drowned and been washed up or if he'd died by other means.

They found another body in the underbrush, led to it by a mad flapping of wings. Sheriff Tate shot both buzzards and kicked the carcasses out of the way before leaning forward to peer down at the corpse. "Another darky. Male."

After casting around for some time, they discovered a third male, this one white. Summoning the hands, who climbed rather reluctantly from the wagon, Con had them unload the coffins and line them up on the riverbank. The undertaker had disappeared into the woods to puke and the minister had settled beneath a tree to nurse a swoon. It seemed unlikely either would be of much help.

Leaving the men to their tasks, Con moved to the edge of the river, studying the wagon. Sheriff Tate ambled down the bank to stand beside him, peering toward the wagon, as well. "Don't see no signs of no attack atall. Looks to me like the damn fool tried to ford at flood stage and swamped the wagon."

Con turned to survey the sheriff with a mingling of disgust and irritation. Obviously the man had no intention of investigating further. After a moment, he sat on the bank and tugged off his boots.

"I shore hope you're a good swimmer," Sheriff Tate offered as Con trudged barefoot down the bank and waded into the chilling water. "Cain't swim myself or I'd have a look see," he added and turned to spit. Unfortunately, he forgot to lift the bandanna around his face first. "Well, shitfire and save matches," he muttered, jerking the handkerchief from his face and swabbing the tobacco juice off on his breeches leg.

Ignoring him, Con waded out till he was waist deep and struck off toward the wagon at a tangent. The swift current carried him into the wreckage with a force that drove the seeping numbness from his chilled limbs. He managed to catch a handhold and worked his way around to the rear of the wagon.

The canvas that had covered its top still clung in ragged tatters to the bent staves that had supported it. In the dim, water-filled interior, casks and other assorted debris floated, protected somewhat from the river's battering current. A hand, floating near the surface, brushed against Con's chest as he levered himself inside. Startled, he jerked away, losing his grip on the side of the wagon. He went under, came face to face with the bloated corpse of a African woman and shot to the surface again, gasping and choking on the water he'd inhaled.

"You all right out there, Mr. St.Claire?" Sheriff Tate called, sounding singularly unperturbed.

"Yes," Con lied when he'd caught his breath. He didn't feel all right. The nausea that had descended upon him from the moment the stench of decomposing bodies had hit him, had subsided when he'd gone into the water. It surged back now with a vengeance. He fought a round with his stomach and finally mastered it when he'd distanced himself from the corpse.

Once out, he made his way carefully to the front of the wagon. "We'll have to pull the wagon out. Do you want to drag the carcasses out and burn them or cut them loose?"

The sheriff scratched, lifted his handkerchief to spit and finally shrugged. Con supposed, wryly, that this was in the manner of meditation. "Cut 'em loose. Ain't much sense in hauling 'em out. Current'll take care of 'em. Got your knife?"

Con nodded and made his way carefully forward to saw through the traces. He had a bad moment with one. It had insinuated its way around his ankle and dragged him under as the ox he'd just freed began to float downstream. He fought it loose and surfaced, sucked in a deep lung full of air and promptly gagged on it. Coughing, he made his way to the wagon once more and struggled out of the water. "Toss me a rope and I'll tie it off."

Sheriff Tate studied him a long moment. "Don't see no need to haul that thing out neither."

Con ground his teeth. The wagon might contain clues, if not of what had happened, then possibly of who had died in it..or escaped it. He damned well wasn't leaving it where it was. "There's a body trapped inside."

Sheriff Tate nodded and turned away. "Spect we ought to see if we can find out who these folks were anyway. They might have relatives come lookin' to find out what happened to 'em."

"Good thinking," Con called dryly. It wasn't, he knew, that Sheriff Tate was lacking in intelligence. He was a shrewd man, despite his appearance and general attitude, as some had learned to their cost. However, he wasn't one to look for trouble. He figured enough came to look for him.

Catching the end of the rope the sheriff sent sailing out to him, Con tied it securely to the wagon tongue and swam at last for shore. Despite his powerful body, the current carried him downstream two yards for every yard he gained. By the time he reached the bank and trudged back, Lincoln and the hands had secured the teams of both wagons to the wreckage and were in the process of dragging it out.

He stood watching for some time before the circumstance that had been nagging at the back of his mind coalesced. None of the bodies they'd found had been far from the wreckage. He wasn't certain, however, of just how significant that might be.

It had been obvious that none of those found were situated as they'd died either since scavengers had been dragging them about. And he had no way of knowing if there had been some freak of current, perhaps caused by the wagon itself, that had swept the bodies ashore relatively near the wreck instead of carrying them further downstream. For that matter, since he had no idea of the size of the party, he had no way of knowing if others had been swept away.

After a moment, he moved around the plunging team and went to stand over the bodies the hands had placed in the coffins, loathe to touch them. When he'd steeled himself, he crouched between two for a better look. Despite the damage the scavenger's had wrought, he thought he detected deep lacerations that looked more like the work of a knife, or possibly an axe. He checked the other bodies and found similar marks.

"Found something?" Sheriff Tate asked, stopping several yards downwind.

Con rose and moved toward him. "Maybe. There are wounds on the bodies that look a little too regular to have been made by predators." He said nothing about the situation of the bodies. Sheriff Tate would likely have noticed that peculiarity, as well, and he seemed disinclined to remark anything less obvious than hard physical evidence of foul play.

"Think so?" Sheriff Tate angled himself forward for a closer look. He settled back after a moment. "Could be, I suppose. Ain't no saying for certain, though."

Con studied the sheriff a long moment. "Sheriff Tate, do you have some particular reason that you'd prefer to consider this nothing but an accident?"

Sheriff Tate eyed him a moment with irritation. "As a matter of fact, I do." He was silent for a moment, ruminating over his chew of tobacco. Finally he turned, lifted his handkerchief and spat. "Look, Mr. St.Claire, folks around here have had more'n their fair share of troubles these last couple of years. There's a lot of 'em 'bout to loose their places, seein' as how they ain't dared set foot on 'em in a while now on account of those theivin' Redskins was determined to kill and burn out everybody in their path.

They're just startin' to make their way back and take up things again. And I've got folks, new folks, comin' in to settle. I ain't about to git things all stirred up again unless there's a damn good reason for it. Far as I can see, these folks here wuz just plain out stupid and got theirselves kilt. It's gonna take a hell of a lot to convince me otherwise. So don't expect me to git all bent out of shape over no maybes. You got more'n a maybe, let's have it now."

Con felt his own irritation mount during the course of Sheriff Tate's monologue. By the time he'd finished, however, much of it had dissipated as Con acknowledged the truth of it. There was no hard evidence that anything more than an accident had happened here. And even if they found something, there was little that could be done about it beyond sounding an alarm, which, as Sheriff Tate had pointed out, would only succeed in rattling those returning at last. The chances were strong that, even if there had been an attack, it was an isolated incident that would have no bearing on anyone else.

It was more a gut feeling he had, that something was very wrong with the picture, coupled with what he knew of Mary Catherine's flight. If she'd been a member of this party, and he still had no evidence that she was, something had terrified her. She hadn't merely been seeking help when he'd found her. She'd been running. She was still running.

He shrugged the thoughts off. He would do his own investigating. He had personal reasons for trying to discover who the dead people were and if they were connected in any way to Mary Catherine. Not only did the sheriff have no reason to wish to investigate beyond cursory, but Con had no intention of giving him one.

"None that I haven't mentioned," he responded at last. He moved away as the wagon, with a groan of creaking wood, lurched up onto the embankment with a final heave and collapsed as Lincoln called, "Ho!" and the teams abruptly ceased plunging against their harnesses. For some moments, no one else moved, merely staring at the hulk as water poured forth from the rear of it. The body Con had discovered was now draped over the wagon's tailgate, having been dislodged from the trunks that had trapped it by the lurching motions of the wagon.

Selecting four of his men, Con set them to digging graves and with Lincoln, removed the woman's body and laid it out next to the others. They were short one coffin. After some debate, they decided to use the canvas as a shroud. The bodies had gone too long awaiting burial as it was and no one wanted to carry one back with them.

Con studied the wagon while the others moved off to attend the burial. There was no sign of bullet holes or arrows, though he checked the wagon bed thoroughly. One wheel was missing and likely was the culprit of the disaster. Con climbed inside.

There was little left to investigate. Much of what had been inside before had spilled into the river as the wagon was dragged from it. There was a trunk, however, of the sort generally used for personal belongings. Shifting through the debris, Con finally unearthed it and pried the lid up.

The clothes inside belonged to a man. Mildly disappointed if not really surprised, Con was on the point of continuing his search elsewhere when it occurred to him to look for a hidden compartment. Settlers sometimes had hidden compartments built into their trunks to hide their valuables from thieves. If the trunk had one, it might well contain papers with useful information.

It was as he emptied the trunk that he made the discovery. The clothes at the bottom belonged to a woman. Feeling his heart jerk reflexively with dread, he slowly drew one forth and held it up to examine it.

Chapter Eight

Mary Catherine came awake with a start, her eyes riveted to the slit where the door stood partially open. The eye pressed against the crack disappeared abruptly. In a moment, it was back, watching her with unblinking curiosity.

Recognition dawned. Relief surged through her and with it a touch of amusement.

"It's all right. You can come in. I won't bite," she said, repressing a smile.

The other eye joined the first, a bit of nose and a thatch of dark ringlets. Mary Catherine sat up, fluffed her pillows and patted the side of the bed invitingly. He'd been by twice the day before, watching her with shy curiosity from the doorway. She hadn't been able to coax him inside, though she'd tried. For each time she had acknowledged his presence by speaking to him, he'd looked as if he'd been caught at mischief and had scampered off.

It wasn't just that she felt drawn to the child because she sensed his loneliness. She was in need of company herself. She was indescribably bored.

She had never in her life experienced boredom before and she was inclined to think it a sort of slow, demonic torture, particularly since it left her with too much time to think and worry. She'd done nothing else for days.

She knew Dr. Bealle had pieced together far too much about her from his examination and the probing questions he'd asked her afterward. If that was not bad enough in itself, Bessie had made no attempt to hide either her curiosity or her conclusions. And the woman made no bones about resenting her presence. Mary Catherine wondered when her decision to have Bessie present during the examination would come back to haunt her.

Con had been conspicuous by his absence. He had not come near her in the three days since she'd arrived. She might have been relieved by that circumstance except that Bessie had been pleased to inform her he'd gone off with the sheriff that first day, and then had pretended afterward that she had no idea of what the purpose of that excursion had been.

She feared she knew. And yet, if something had been found, surely he would have confronted her by now?

She dismissed the worrisome question when she noticed John had nerved himself to push the door a little wider. She smiled at him encouragingly. "Come on. I know you've come to visit. You can't do it from there."

"Papa said I wuzn't to 'sturb you," he said, the words mumbled against the door panel.

"Well, you're not. So that's all right," Mary Catherine responded matter-of-factly.

His head appeared around the edge of the door. "Can Lady come too? She's missed you awful. She's been begging to come in ever since Papa brought you home."

Mary Catherine frowned. "Lady?"

As if taking it as a summons, the little spaniel Mary Catherine recognized as Con's hunting dog wriggled through the partially open door and danced over to the bed, her stubby tail beating a tatoo against her rump. Mary Catherine leaned over to give the dog a friendly pat. "Well. Hello to you, too," she said with a chuckle as the dog bounded up and licked her chin.

John, who'd darted into the room on Lady's heals, grinned as he hit the floor on his knees and threw both arms around Lady, either from affection or to subdue the spaniel's exuberant gyrations. Lady promptly turned her adoration on him, licking him all over his face. "See. She likes you!"

Mary Catherine wiped her chin ruefully. "Yes, I see. But she needn't be quite so enthusiastic about it."

John cocked his head to one side, eyeing her doubtfully. "What's that mean?"

Mary Catherine, who'd been petting the dog and fending her off at the same time, looked up and smiled faintly. "It means I'd as soon do my own bathing."

"Oh." He giggled. "She just does it 'cause she likes you. Papa says she thinks you're hers 'cause she found you. He said, when you wuz bad sick, she kept trying to hop in your bed and lick your face so he had to make her stay outside so she wouldn't bother you. Are you still sick?"

Mary Catherine suppressed a wry smile. She supposed, to a child's mind, three days were more than sufficient to be well again. "Only a little bit now. I think I'll be well enough to leave perhaps tomorrow or the day after that."

"Oh! But you can't do that! You only just got here!" John exclaimed, releasing the dog and sitting back on his heels, his face puckered with genuine distress.

Disconcerted, Mary Catherine couldn't think of anything to say for several moments. "It's very sweet of you to want me to stay, but I really can't."

John sat up and shuffled forward on his knees, propping against the bed, his expression eloquent of misery. "How come? Don't you like me and Papa?"

A hot blush flushed her cheeks. If she was disconcerted before, that floored her. Had her brothers been so blunt? She supposed they had, and yet they'd never pressed her into such a tight corner as this.

"Papa likes you. I can tell," he continued before she'd thought of a response that would satisfy him that would not also be improper.

Scandalized, Mary Catherine clapped a hand to her lips to stifle the sudden urge to laugh at his shockingly-outrageous remark. He was truly upset that she didn't seem as anxious to stay as he seemed to be that she do so. If she gave in to the urge he wouldn't understand that it was motivated by the audacity of the remark itself. He would think it denoted a disregard for his feelings.

"John! You shouldn't say such things!"

"Why?" John asked, frowning in puzzlement now. "He told me he did. I asked him and he said yes."

She bit her lip and reached impulsively to ruffle his curly hair and finally took his hand, resisting only by an effort the urge to gather him into her arms and hug him. She was a little surprised when he didn't draw away, he'd been so shy of her up till now. Instead, he sidled a little closer, propping one elbow on the bed beside her and dropping his chin into his hand.

But then she recalled that her little brothers, and Lizzy, as well, had seemed almost starved for the touch of another. Their father had not been an affectionate or demonstrative man, and it had been left to her to satisfy their hunger for love, just as it had been left for her to tend their hurts, fill their stomachs and see them clothed.

Con had seemed very open and loving to his son the one time she'd seen them together___amazingly so___and yet he must be a very busy man. She'd seen the sheer magnitude of his holdings when they arrived. He could not have much time to give the child even if he wanted to.

"Sweetheart..." She paused, trying to think how to explain it to him in a way he could understand without upsetting him more. "Of course he did. But..but sometimes grown-up people say things like that to be polite."

"Why?"

"Well..uh..Because it's better to be polite than impolite."

He thought that over for a moment. "I don't think that's why he said it. I think he said it 'cause he does. He don't usually tell me when he don't like somebody, just when he does. If he don't like them, he just says mmm when I ask him."

Mary Catherine couldn't think what to say in rebuttal to that bit of logic. It was surprising, if amusing, insight for a child, and yet she doubted he could grasp all the subtleties in such a situation. He lacked the maturity and experience for it. Certainly, he'd missed something important to have come to such a conclusion concerning Con's feelings for her.

Con had, to all outward appearances at least, shown her nothing but kindness and consideration. As far as she could see, however, that had been prompted by nothing more than concern for a stranger who'd been dangerously ill. Doubtless, he felt responsible for her simply because he'd been unfortunate enough to have been the one who found her.

After a moment of debate, she decided not to try to make him understand. Instead she turned her mind to dredging up a safer topic. Before she could introduce one, he continued.

"...And anyway, he must like you 'cause Bessie says he brought you home to be my new mama on account of I don't got one no more." He thought that over a moment while Mary Catherine was still gasping with shock and added, "Well, I don't guess I really had one at all 'cept sort of, 'cause I don't remember her. But Bessie said I had one 'cept she went away. And then Papa rode almost all the way over to Darien an' found Bessie and brung her home to be my nurse."

A fearful dread seized Mary Catherine at the child's remarks. She pushed it back, certain she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion entirely, and yielded to the impulse she'd felt before. She put her arms around him. When he didn't jerk away, but instead cuddled closer, she hugged him tightly, stroking his head.

"Poor baby. Did she...Did your mother go to heaven?"

He considered her remarks a moment, and finally pulled a little away to look up at her. "I ain't a baby."

Mary Catherine bit her lip. "Of course not," she murmured, stroking his cheek now. "You're a little man. I meant back then."

He studied that over a moment and finally decided to be pleased with it. "But Mama didn't go to heaven. Bessie says she went to London. Papa said she could go to hell far as he was concerned."

Mary Catherine clapped a hand over his mouth, but it was an instinctive thing. Her thoughts were chaotic. "You mustn't say that word," she admonished absently.

"Which word?" he asked, his words muffled against her hand.

Something about the tone of them reached her, however. She knew mischief when she heard it. Her brothers had been lively little devils. She hadn't raised them from babies without learning that the more angelic they spoke and behaved, the greater the likelihood that they were up to mischief. "You know very well which one."

He pulled her hand away. "I was only telling you what I heard Papa say," he responded with childish cunning.

"That doesn't make any difference. You're not to say it."

"Why?"

"Because he's liable to take a switch to you if he catches you repeating everything you've heard him say! That's why!"

"Oh," John said, immediately subdued at the thought. His father never had, but Bessie had switched him a couple of times and it hadn't been at all pleasant. He was certain he didn't want Papa to take up the habit. "You mean anything?"

"I mean anything you overhear. And don't try to look innocent. I expect you know very well what to repeat and what not to."

He pulled away and sat back on his heels. A wealth of expressions flickered across his face. Uppermost was resentment at being chastised and fear that he might be punished. Mary Catherine understood both all too well. Despite her own turmoil, she smiled reassuringly. "Don't look so downcast. I won't tell." She paused a moment, trying to judge what effect her words had upon him. "Why don't you run along and take Lady outside before your Papa discovers you've brought her in? If you'd like, you can come back then and I'll tell you a story."

Resentful as he'd been at being chastised, he'd been upset at being so summarily dismissed. At this last, he brightened once more. "I can come back? Will you?"

She chuckled. "Yes and yes."

Her smile faded as the door closed behind him, the emotions she'd been holding at bay surging forth to turn her bones to mush. Con's wife had run away. She felt ill. She realized she'd wanted to believe he was as wonderfully kind as he seemed. She'd wanted to trust him.

His wife had run from him. She must have been frightened, indeed, to have left her baby behind.

He was far worse than Horace Brooks. Brutal as Horace was, he'd never made any attempt to hide his true nature. She'd always known what to expect. To some extent, she'd managed to protect herself from him.

Con St.Claire hid his twisted soul behind a beautiful facade. It hurt to realize that, and it frightened her. Try as she might to protect herself, he kept slipping inside her defenses. She would find herself at his mercy if she wasn't very careful.

She began to look forward to Dr. Bealle's visits, despite her reluctance to be poked and prodded, despite his unceasing quest to learn what she remembered about her ordeal. He'd told her he would look for someone to take her in, and once she'd had the time and wit to consider it, she knew that was her only hope. While she'd been ill, she'd thought of nothing but running. That had been the product of hysteria, however. She could not simply strike out on foot. That would not take her far enough or fast enough. She would have to find someone to stay with and some way to earn money if she was to have any hope of escaping, even if that meant she must risk Horace catching up to her while she lingered.

When she realized a full week had lapsed without the trap springing shut, she began to have some hope that that risk was not so great as she'd feared at first. If he'd survived the massacre, and she couldn't convince herself that he hadn't, he could not have escaped entirely unscathed. He must have been far more ill than she, or perhaps severely wounded or he would surely have caught up to her long before now.

"How's my lovely patient today?" Dr. Bealle said cheerfully as he swept into the room.

Mary Catherine, who'd been dozing, jerked awake with a start and stared at him in sleep dazed confusion for several moments before struggling up on her elbows. Had he knocked? If he had, she'd been so deeply asleep she'd failed to hear him, which she found hard to believe.

Briefly, resentment stirred in her. She'd never known privacy until she'd arrived at St.Claire's retreat, but it was a luxury she'd quickly become accustomed to. "Bored," she responded a little stiffly.

Dr. Bealle cocked his head inquisitively and finally grinned broadly. "Recovering, I see. That would account for your sunny disposition this morning."

Mary Catherine blushed at the gentle rebuke, her resentment scaling upward a notch. It collapsed abruptly as it occurred to her that she was not in a position to quarrel with the only friend she had in the world. She forced a smile.

"I suppose so," she mumbled.

He chuckled as he produced the odd horn-like thing he had called a stethoscope from his bag. Without a word, he dragged the neck of her gown down and pressed the flared mouth of the stethoscope against her breast, listening.

Despite her determination to remain stoic, Mary Catherine flinched when she felt the cold metal touch her. When he pulled her gown lower still, pressing the thing beneath first one breast and then the other, she held her breath, gritted her teeth and endured in red-faced misery, focusing her gaze across the room.

"You must breathe if I'm to listen to your lungs," Dr. Bealle chided gently, dragging Mary Catherine's attention to him.

A wave of nausea clinched her stomach muscles as she looked down at his smiling face between her bared breasts. For a moment, she envisioned Horace's taunting face in his stead and thought she might be sick. With an effort, she dragged a shuddering breath into her lungs.

At almost that precise moment, the door abruptly swung open.

Mary Catherine's startled gaze zeroed in on it, her hands instinctively flying to the neck of her gown to jerk it up. Dr. Bealle's reaction, she realized much later, was equally damning. He jerked at the sound as if he'd been prodded by a hot poker, coming up off the bed guiltily, his head snapping toward the door.

Con stood framed in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as his gaze moved from Dr. Bealle to Mary Catherine and settled for a significant pause on her naked breasts. His face darkened with anger, his pale eyes glittering like molten silver as Mary Catherine shakily covered herself.

Dr. Bealle, red faced himself, though with embarrassment or anger, it was difficult to determine, checked himself abruptly.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion!" he demanded tightly. "Is this poor woman to have no privacy with her physician?"

A muscle in Con's jaw tightened, as if he was grinding his teeth. If possible, his expression hardened further to a mask of barely controlled fury. "It appears to me you've had more privacy than is seemly already," Con ground the words out.

"Just what are you implying?" Dr. Bealle demanded stiffly.

"I don't believe I implied anything. It has never been customary to examine a female patient without at least a servant in attendance, and certainly not to demand that she bare herself for perusal unless absolutely necessary. I hope you don't mean to insult my intelligence by suggesting you found the little display I just witnessed unavoidable."

Stunned by Con's revelation, Mary Catherine turned from Con to look at Dr. Bealle. She saw that he had paled. In a moment the color rushed back, however, and he clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "If you're implying that my behavior toward my patient is questionable..."

Con propped his shoulders against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. There was nothing casual about his attitude, however. The stance emphasized the breadth and depth of his chest and his powerful arms, making him seem more threatening instead of less so. "Just how blunt would I have to be to convince you I'm not implying anything I haven't stated in plain English? Would a horse whip do, I wonder?"

Mary Catherine tasted bile. "Don't!" she gasped faintly, before she even knew she would speak.

The sound drew both men's gaze, but it was Con who held her attention. She had no illusions of whom she feared, or feared for. She had not seen Con in such a rage before and was terrified that at any moment he would loose control of it and she would be caught in the backlash.

He seemed to realize that. Abruptly all traces of expression vanished from his face and he almost seemed to surge toward her, though Mary Catherine could not detect that he had moved so much as a hair's breadth.

"Now see what you've done!" Bealle said, his voice shaky, either from his own anger or from fear. "You've frightened the girl half out of her wits with your vile threats!"

Almost reluctantly, Con withdrew his gaze from Mary Catherine and fixed Dr. Bealle with a considering look. "Take care, Bealle. You're on thin ice," he said softly.

Dr. Bealle opened his mouth to speak, but apparently thought better of it. In a moment, he turned and began tossing his instruments haphazardly into his bag, a sure sign of his agitation since he generally treated them with loving care.

"I'll escort you out," Con said when he'd finished.

"I believe I can find my own way," Dr. Bealle said tightly, striding across the room toward the door Con still blocked.

Con's eyes narrowed for a moment. After flicking a glance at Mary Catherine, however, he came away from the door jamb and stepped aside to allow the doctor to pass.

Mary Catherine stopped him when he would have followed Dr. Bealle from the room. "Mr. St.Claire?"

Con frowned, looking anything but pleased as he sent her a questioning glance. When Mary Catherine merely stared at him, unable to recall why she'd stopped him or what she'd meant to ask, anger flickered in his eyes once more. "Don't worry, Cat. He'll leave today with both his dignity and his hide intact. But I'll make no promises for the future. If you value his life, take care what you allow him."

"Dey's trouble comin'. Ah seed de signs. Doan have to be no witch woman ter see dem. Brung it wid her. Lincoln done laid low on account of dat she-debil brung bad things hea. Dat hawse didn't stumble on bad air an' break his laig and near 'bout break his haid. It wuz dem haints, sho as de world. An' dems here fo' revenge. Makin' mischief wid de harvest. Makin' everbody nervous."

For the most part, Mary Catherine ignored Bessie's constant mutterings. Much of what she said was incomprehensible anyway. It was nothing more than a means of allowing Mary Catherine to know Bessie was highly displeased at having another bothersome task added to those already assigned to her.

She'd been pretending deafness since Bessie had come in, stomped over to the bedroom's other door that led into what appeared to be a storage room, and dragged forth a large, porcelain lined bathing tub. Mary Catherine had watched the woman's preparations for her bath with a mingling of pleasure and irritation.

The dark mutterings aside, Bessie never bothered to move the tub much beyond the storage room, certainly not to the hearth where Mary Catherine could have the comfort of heat to chase away the drafts. Mary Catherine wondered why she even bothered to drag it from the tiny room at all. If she was not to have the fireplace to warm her, it seemed the smaller room must at least offer fewer drafts.

But then, she never questioned Bessie either. She doubted she would receive anything more than sullen, evasive answers, and thought she might as well save her breath. In many ways, save her extraordinary bulk, the woman reminded her unpleasantly of Mazie.

These last comments, however, dredged up prickles of uneasiness. There had been accidents? What sort of accidents? And, if they were accidents, why did Bessie think there had been mischief about them? It was impossible, though she tried valiantly to do so, to dismiss the thought that immediately leapt to mind that Horace had always been inordinately fond of playing cat and mouse.

Chapter Nine

"Lincoln's been hurt?" she asked as Bessie moved to the side of the bed and helped her remove the old cotton nightgown someone had contributed for Mary Catherine's use. "How badly? What happened?"

"Done broke his laig and near 'bout broke his haid. He wuz gwine out to check on de south fields fo' Mista Con, ter move de gang on up ter de north fields, on accounta Mista Con be busy down to de barn an' cain't go lak usual. Jess ridin' along easy lak he say, an' de hawse, he jess stumble. An' dere weren't nothin' dere when dey came ter look. Jess lak de hawse stumble ober air.

Mista Con shore do be upsot 'bout it. Lincoln, he been wid Mista Con frum de firs', help him make dis place, dey tells me. An' now Mista Con worrit 'bout de harvest, too. Ain't gots Lincoln ter ride de fields wid him, he gots ter ride dem all."

Mary Catherine studied the woman a moment. "Horses stumble now and again," she said dismissively as she climbed carefully into the tub. "It could have been anything, including plain out clumsiness. Perhaps the horse had a weak ankle."

Bessie shook her head. "Dat hawse ain't no stumbler. An' anyway, he din jest stumble a leedle bit an' Lincoln fall off. Dat hawse flip clean ober. Lincoln say it lak somethin' dun grab dat hawse's ankle. De hawse went down on his front laigs, Lincoln fly rat off de front an' din dat hawse jess roll rat ober Lincoln."

"Are you trying to tell me you think somebody made the horse fall? Does Mr. St.Claire think that's what happened?"

"Ah doan know what Mista St.Claire think. Jess Lincoln."

Mary Catherine studied her, thinking. Regardless of what Bessie said, it seemed likely the horse had merely stumbled if nothing had been found that could have tripped the horse up. Perhaps the horse had had a weakened ankle. Maybe Lincoln was riding just a little faster than he wanted to admit. Even the most surefooted horse occasionally took a fall. It didn't mean the horse had been tripped in a deliberate attempt to cause an accident by forces from this world or the next. Doubtless, she thought with relief, the recent Indian troubles still had the plantation people jumping at shadows.

She turned her attention to her bath, allowing her mind to wander at will until she noticed that Bessie had laid out yet another of the old cotton nightgowns that had been unearthed for her.

"I'd like to dress today, Bessie. Dr. Bealle said that as soon as I felt up to it and weather permitted, I should begin to take a turn in the garden at least once a day."

It was a lie, of course. Dr. Bealle had been far too busy trying to defend himself from Con's verbal attack to discuss her condition or even consider it the last time he'd visited. Con certainly hadn't given him the opportunity to prescribe exercise for the recovering invalid. Bessie could not know that, however. And Mary Catherine considered the chances of the woman questioning Con about it must be about nil. Not that she particularly cared if Bessie learned__later__that it was a lie.

"Mista Con din tell me nuthin' 'bout dat."

Mary Catherine pursed her lips. She not only felt up to getting out, she was determined to do so. She'd regained much of her strength in her perambulations about the room and was certainly no longer in any danger of a relapse. Moreover, she was beginning to feel suffocated from her soft prison. She meant to leave the room today and discover what she could of the layout of the house and the grounds around it.

To one who'd grown up living out of the back of a wagon and spent most of her adult life in a one room cabin, the place seemed confusing and enormous. And she wasn't certain, when she decided to leave, that she would be allowed to simply walk out.

Con's behavior when he'd found her alone with Dr. Bealle had unnerved her so badly she no longer knew what to expect from him. Up until that episode, everything she knew of him personally had seemed to contradict the things she'd heard from others.

The conversation between Con and Dr. Bealle outside her room that first day had given rise to unpleasant suspicions. And yet Con's explanation, both for placing her in his wife's room and for taking her to the remote cabin during the storm, had seemed, on the surface at least, perfectly reasonable.

"If he said nothing, then he didn't tell you to keep me inside, did he?" she snapped shortly as she rose from the tub and took the length of linen Bessie held out for her.

Bessie's face took on a sullen cast, quickly hidden as she ducked her head. "Dat dress you wuz wearin' when you cum de onliest thing we gots ter put on you an' its down ter de wash house. Ah'll hab ter go get it."

Mary Catherine didn't doubt Bessie considered that clinched the matter. She wasn't to be so easily thwarted, however. "Thank you," she said and moved to sit at the dressing table that stood beside the bed, settling herself on the bench to comb out her hair.

After standing indecisively for several moments, as if trying to come up with a reasonable excuse for being spared the necessity of having to walk down to the wash house, Bessie turned and stalked to the door. "Ah'll be back wid it sho'tly, Miz Catherine."

Mary Catherine didn't turn. She watched the woman's departure in the looking glass that graced the dressing table, her own expression carefully neutral. She doubted very much that Bessie would be back shortly. She would be fortunate if she saw the woman again before she brought her supper tray.

She decided after some moments to wait in hope, however. There was always a chance Bessie might decide to oblige her for fear Mary Catherine would take the first opportunity to tell Con of it. The African woman had taken care from the first to be subtly disobliging, never blatantly so. She was clever.

Shivering slightly from the chill in the room's air, for the fall air had been unseasonably cool since the great storm, Mary Catherine brought her attention back to the task of drying. After some moments of struggling with the length of linen while she tried to rake the tangles from her wet hair, she gave up on it and allowed the cloth to settle at her waist while she tamed her unruly mane.

She had finished combing and had wrapped the edge of her drying cloth around her hair to squeeze the excess water from it when she heard a heavy tread upon the stairs. A little surprised that Bessie had returned so soon, but pleased nonetheless, she turned expectantly to face the door. Instead of stopping, the footsteps continued. She'd heard a door further along the upper hallway open and close before it dawned on her that the tread she'd heard wasn't Bessie's. Bessie had the tendency to shuffle when she walked.

She paused at that thought, realizing two things at once. The tread she'd heard was Con's. And the reason she could hear it so well was because it was quite close. Galvanized the moment those thoughts connected in her mind with the storage room, she leapt to her feet, gathering the trailing cloth about her as she darted toward the door Bessie had left ajar.

Breathless from the short sprint, Mary Catherine arrived at the door with every part of the drying linen that was not stuck damply to her skin flapping about her. She'd no sooner grasped the edge of the door to slam it than Con snatched open a door at the opposite end. Both came to an abrupt halt as if they'd smacked into an invisible wall and stared at each other in stunned surprise.

Con, Mary Catherine saw, had removed his shirt. It hung limply from one hand. She noticed that last only peripherally, however, for both her eyes and her senses focused at once upon the broad expanse of bare chest.

Despite his magnificent proportions, she'd grown somewhat accustomed to his size in the time she'd known him. He'd ceased to seem so huge and threatening.

Half naked, even the two yards or so that separated them failed to keep her from feeling overwhelmed.

He looked nothing in the world as she'd expected, nothing at all like Horace Brooks, despite the similarity of size. Her husband had been strong as a bull from years of working at his forge. Nevertheless, hard drinking and the ravages of time hadn't been particularly kind to him and there had been a softness to his flesh that was notably absent from Con's.

Con's shoulders and arms, bare of cloth to soften them or hide their bulk, appeared far larger, a powerful mass of corded flesh and sinew that Mary Catherine traced with her eyes, her fingertips tingling as if they felt the warmth and solidity of the flesh her gaze touched. His chest, darkened by the sun, still gleaming with moisture from the labor that had brought him in to bathe and change, looked impossibly broad, unyieldingly hard..indescribably appealing.

Every muscle seemed as lovingly detailed and defined as if sculpted from stone, making them a thing of beauty to behold. The light sprinkling of dark, curling hair that dusted his body, far from repelling, sent the urge to touch spiraling through her. Instead of detracting in any way, the hair seemed to compliment. It accentuated the bulging muscles of his upper chest and the hard ridges along his flat stomach, dramatically emphasizing his virility. That bold maleness made Mary Catherine aware of her femininity as she'd never been before.

Panic and pleasure both collided upon her from opposite directions, creating further havoc. Pleasure at seeing him and the realization that she'd missed the closeness the small cabin had imposed upon them, missed his attentiveness to her comfort, his touch, his teasing remarks, even his scolding. Pleasure in discovering she found him far from repellant and panic at the same realization. Panic at her sudden vulnerability.

She shied away from her confusing thoughts and emotions, forcing speech to banish her strange paralysis, though she scarcely knew what she said.

"The door...the door..Bessie...," she stammered disjointedly, her voice little more than a hoarse croak. "She went...But she left the door..."

The sound of her voice penetrated Con's abstraction, but only to a degree. As acutely aware as he'd been of the fact that Mary Catherine was at her bath and separated from him only by a door, he'd neither consciously intended, or expected, to surprise her at it.

He'd seen Bessie's preparations as she sent to the well for water, knew Mary Catherine's daily ritual by heart now. And he had gazed up at her window, entertaining musings of a highly erotic nature, inspired by his memory of her from when they'd been alone together. Vividly, he had recalled every detail of her charms and how it had felt to hold her. It had inspired heated thoughts, distracted him so completely from his task that he'd finally given up his efforts to help repair the wagon they'd been readying to send to the fields.

Despite the day's mildness, he'd become acutely conscious of the heat he'd generated with his efforts that had plastered his shirt to his skin. The heat his thoughts had increased to an uncomfortable degree. And no sooner had the thought occurred to him to bathe and change than he'd found himself striding toward the house with an eagerness to his step that had little to do with an anticipation for the comfort of a clean shirt.

He had avoided Mary Catherine since his discoveries at the wagon. Not consciously, but he had not regretted that Lincoln's accident had provided him with more than enough work to keep him busy, to keep his body active enough to keep his thoughts at bay. Because he wasn't any closer to discovering what Mary Catherine had escaped from.

He had been relieved to find that his suspicions of Mary Catherine being an escaped convict could be laid to rest. On the other hand, the only theory he'd come up with to replace it was one he couldn't, or more accurately, didn't want, to believe.

It might well be that she had been an indentured servant. But he'd never placed much faith in that supposition and he had no more in it now. Nor did he believe, as Bealle claimed to, that Mary Catherine had been an Indian captive.

But she had been someone's captive.

He was no longer entirely certain that he wanted to know the whys and wherefors of it. He had begun to think he would prefer to leave her past where it was, buried in oblivion.

And yet he knew he would keep digging until he unearthed it. That was one of the reasons he'd been avoiding her.

The other was the fact that he wanted her.

And not only was he fairly certain that the feeling wasn't mutual, but he wasn't certain it would be wise to try to change that circumstance..for either of them. He wasn't certain she was free to come to him. He had no idea of whether she was the woman of experience she seemed or if she would willingly be any man's mistress.

He wanted nothing more. Even if she was the sort of woman a man took to wife, he was not in the market for marriage. Once had been more than sufficient. He saw no need to repeat the experience and a good many reasons to avoid it. He had his son. He had his plantation. He lacked for nothing, not even a woman's company, for there were women enough in the area that were both willing and able to oblige.

Unfortunately, none of them were Mary Catherine. And he wanted her.

Con was still wrestling his private demons when the sound of shuffling feet penetrated both Mary Catherine's absorption and his own. Irritation went through him as he realized the sound heralded Bessie's return.

Apparently Mary Catherine realized it in the same moment. Her eyes widened a moment before her head snapped toward the sound. He cleared his throat to speak without any notion of what he wished to say, only a desire to hold her for another handful of seconds. "Cat..."

She turned at the sound of his voice, her eyes touching his face as if seeing it for the first time. She moistened her lips to speak, paused, and seemed to dismiss what she'd been about to say. Her eyes slid away. "I'm sorry. Excuse me. I have to get dressed."

He stared at the door a long moment after she'd closed it and finally looked down at the shirt he still had clutched in his fist. With a sound of disgust, he tossed it aside, snatched up a facecloth and a length of toweling and turned on his heels, slamming the door to his room behind him.

"Are you well today?" John asked earnestly.

Mary Catherine smiled faintly, though she didn't feel at all well at the moment. She'd managed the stairs and the lower hallway well enough, but she had been very glad to discover a bench when she reached the garden. She had scarcely settled herself upon it when John had appeared around the corner of the house and wandered over to settle himself on the path at her feet.

"Not precisely, but better."

John frowned, thinking the comment over. "What does purcisely mean?"

"Exactly," Mary Catherine said with a smile.

"Oh....Papa says that sometimes." He considered a moment. "Does that mean you're not well enough to go away yet?"

"Not yet. I hope you're not trying to tell me you're ready for me to go," Mary Catherine said, only half joking.

He looked briefly confused before he grinned. "Does that mean you're going to stay a while?"

Mary Catherine sighed a little dispiritedly. "Yes. For a bit anyway. I hope you won't mind?"

He shook his head, but then frowned. "How come you don't want to stay and be my mama? Don't you like me?"

Though not as disconcerted as she had been the first time John sprang that particular question on her, Mary Catherine nevertheless felt herself blushing. She shook her head in dismay. "Little scamp! Come here and sit with me."

John looked a little doubtful of her motives, but obligingly got to his feet and settled beside her on the bench. When he'd done so, she looped her arms around him, gathering him close for a brief hug before she pulled away, still with her arms loosely about him.

"I like you very much. Don't ever think otherwise. It has nothing to do with that. You're a darling little boy and I would love it if you were mine. It's just...." She stopped, unable to think how she could explain her situation to so small a child.

"It's not something I could just decide to do. Do you understand?"

John shook his head.

Disconcerted, Mary Catherine was silent for several moments, trying to think of another approach. "Your Papa will have to find you a mother. That's his decision."

John brightened. "You want me to ask him?"

Mary Catherine wondered if she looked as horrified as she felt. "No! I'm sorry, darling. But, no! You can't ask him that. Promise me you won't do that?"

John looked away. "I don't know why I can't ask. Maybe if I ask him, he'll let you. You said you'd like to be my mama."

"I said I wish I was. That's not the same thing at all. And I will be very upset with you if you ask him," she added with a frown she hoped would discourage him.

He studied her for a long moment and finally looked away glumly. "Do you already got a little boy? Is that why you can't?"

Mary Catherine stared at him, but her mind was suddenly far away. "In a way, I suppose I did. But I lost them."

"How could you lose them?" John asked curiously, jerking Mary Catherine back to the present.

She smiled faintly. "My little brothers. I was the oldest, you see, so when my mama died, I had to take care of them, almost like they were my little boys. I think I began to think of them more as my little boys than as my little brothers. I missed them terribly when...." She broke off abruptly, realizing she'd almost said far too much.

Intrigued, John asked, "Are any of them my age? What are their names?"

Mary Catherine smiled sympathetically and ruffled his hair, realizing how lonely he was for other children to play with. "Ephraim was the oldest...," She paused, frowning while she calculated. "He's eighteen now. I called him Eph. Then there is Ezekiel, or Zeke. He's sixteen, and lastly Jeremiah. Jeremiah will be fifteen next January. I had a baby sister, too, named Lizzy, but she died a very long time ago. If she had lived, she would be fourteen now," Mary Catherine added sadly, feeling a stab of loss so sudden and so acute it nearly took her breath away.

"What happened to her?" John asked curiously. "Did she get sick?"

Mary Catherine swallowed with some difficulty and shook her head. "She drowned. I...I couldn't save her and she drowned."

John studied her a moment before he threw his arms around her and hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry, Miz Catherine. Don't be sad."

Mary Catherine squeezed him back, bending her head to kiss him on the top of his head. "You have a good heart, John," she murmured with some difficulty. "You're very like your father."

When she lifted her head, she discovered Con had come into the garden. He stood not two yards from where they sat.

She stiffened, her thoughts instantly chaotic. How long had he been there? How much had he heard? Enough to know she'd been lying when she had told him she remembered nothing of her past?

Chapter Ten

Con studied her for a long moment, his expression carefully

neutral. When finally he spoke, his words were addressed to John, though his gaze remained upon Mary Catherine. "Bessie has been looking for you, son."

John glanced from his father to Mary Catherine and back again, his features eloquent of puzzlement. "She is? I didn't hear her calling."

Con looked at John at last, smiling faintly now. "Nevertheless."

John frowned, confused. "I guess I should go see what she wants me for, huh?"

"Sir," Con corrected absently, his gaze once more on Mary Catherine.

"Sir," John repeated obediently, wriggling off the bench and trotting toward the house.

Neither Con nor Mary Catherine noticed his departure. Mary Catherine could only guess at his thoughts. Her own were still tumultuous, her senses curiously unsettled by his sudden appearance.

Oddly enough, fear had nothing to do with it, not even fear of discovery. She had scarcely registered a moment's panic over her careless tongue before that anxiety was overshadowed by her memory of what had passed between them earlier.

She wondered if his mind had taken a similar path, and blushed at the thought. As if her reaction had prodded him, he spoke at last.

"It's good to see you up and about."

He didn't look as if he was particularly pleased about it. Nevertheless, Mary Catherine responded as if he was, eager for speech to banish the images from her mind. "It seems good to me to be out."

He nodded, looking away from her at last. "Are you certain it's wise so soon after your illness?"

"Even so."

Con looked at her once more, his gaze touching her hair before it slid slowly down her length in a way Mary Catherine might have thought insultingly licentious had he been any other. Instead, his gaze seemed almost like a caress. Warmth curled inside her, creating a curious tension not unlike that that she'd felt when she had come face to face with him in the connecting room.

She knew then that he was remembering their encounter, as she was. It unsettled her, and yet she was not repulsed.

She was puzzled.

They had been alone from the time he'd first found her. There had been no one to attend her but him. She could recall little from that time, but surely he had seen her in far less than a damp linen? She'd been wearing one of his shirts when she first awoke with a clear head. Moreover, she'd been clean.

He had bathed her. He had even washed and combed her hair.

She had thought, at first, that that memory must have been a dream, and yet she had realized fairly quickly that it could not have been.

Vaguely, like wisps of mist, the memory curled about her. It had been painful and she had complained. "It hurts."

It wasn't his hands, though. It was the cool water on her burning skin.

"Hush, Cat. Don't cry. I'll be done in a few minutes. I promise."

She shook her head. "No. Stop. It hurts."

"I've got to get your fever down, sweetheart. I'm sorry, but I don't know of any other way. Just lie still. I promise you'll feel much better when I'm done."

The soothing timber of his voice reached her first, but it was the term of endearment that convinced her to cease struggling altogether. She didn't quite know why. She hadn't known then. But something about the way he'd said it, something about the way he touched her, with infinite care, had made her feel safe and comforted despite the painful sensitivity of her fevered flesh.

When he'd finished, he had eased her to the side of the bed. Cradling the base of her skull in his palm, he poured cool water over her scalp and through her hair, raking his fingers carefully through the tangled mass to remove the sticks and leaves that had caught in it when she'd fled through the woods.

Then, just as carefully and patiently, he'd combed it. The feel of his hands, the rhythmic stroke of the comb, had soothed her to the point of drowsiness. It had felt so wonderfully soothing she had fallen asleep.

Remembering it now brought a flush of warmth to her skin that wasn't altogether embarrassment for her vulnerability then.

Uncomfortable with her reaction, she focused her mind upon untangling the puzzle she had discovered. What was different between that first encounter and the last one? In a very real sense, he had been far more intimate with her than anyone else when he had bathed her. Yet, she had not sensed lust in him then. If she had, she would have been panicked, not soothed.

Perhaps, she realized after a moment, that was the answer. She had been mostly oblivious to him then, attuned far more to her pain. She had been focused entirely upon him when she had encountered him earlier. For the first time in her life, she had felt the desire to touch. Doubtless, he had sensed that and it had heightened his own awareness of her as a woman?

Another thought occurred to her then. Was it possible that the same man who had shown such gentleness to a complete stranger would have brutalized his own wife?

It seemed highly improbable. And yet, she had no reason to doubt the story John had told her. She could not believe John would have made something like that up. So, just what was Con St.Claire? Man or beast? Could he possibly be both?

"Miz Catherine! Miz Catherine! Look at what I've found!" John exclaimed excitedly as he rushed across the lawn to where Mary Catherine strolled along the garden walk at the side of the house.

Mary Catherine turned to watch John's approach with a smile. "Well! Don't keep me in suspense," she complained as he came to a breathless halt before her. "Show me."

Triumphantly, he unrolled the wriggling mass he'd tucked into the tail of his shirt. "See. Ain't they purty!"

"Oh!" Mary Catherine stared at the mewling, squirming heap with a mingling of surprised pleasure and dismay. "Johnny.. sweetheart, they're adorable little kittens. But they're so tiny. Much too young to be held, yet."

He looked up at her in anxiety. "They are?"

"They are," she confirmed. "Where did you get them? We must put them back before their mama comes looking for them. Here. Let me take them and you can show me where they came from."

Reluctantly he handed them over. "But I was going to give you one for a present."

Mary Catherine knelt and put an arm around him, giving him a squeeze and then kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, sweetheart. It's such a lovely, thoughtful gift." She looked down at the kittens she held against her breast with her other arm and finally settled them on her knee. "Which one do you like best?"

He hunkered down to study them. "I like them all, but these two are the prettiest. You pick."

Mary Catherine looked them over, holding them up one at the time. They looked more like small, blind mice at the moment than kittens. Both black and white, one was almost evenly bi-colored while the other was completely black except for the tip of his tail. It waved frantically as she lifted him to have a look at his tiny face, like a flag of truce. When she touched his nose, he hissed. It startled a chuckle out of her. "My! This one's ferocious! What do you think? Leroy?"

John cocked his head to one side. "Leroy? I've never heard of a cat named Leroy."

Mary Catherine ruffled his curls and rose, cuddling the kittens against her breast again and offering John her free hand. "I heard once that that meant king in another language. And I think this little fellow is going to grow up to be king of the cats. But he still needs his mama. He'll get sick and die without her and he's far too precious to risk. Don't you think?"

"How come he'll get sick?" John asked worriedly as he led her in the direction of the barn.

"Because his mommy feeds him."

"Oh. Can't we do that?"

"Not yet. When he's a little older."

That seemed to satisfy him. He scampered away, darting into the barn ahead of her. When she reached the barn, she glanced around and finally found him crouched behind a bale of hay. There were three other kittens, she saw when she knelt to return the two she held. The mother cat had been in the process of feeding her litter, but when she saw what Mary Catherine held, she hopped to her feet and came over to examine the new arrivals suspiciously. After assuring herself they hadn't come to harm, she settled down to bathe them thoroughly while they squalled and searched frantically for the teats they could smell.

"There," Mary Catherine said with satisfaction. "Now he'll be all right and I can come and visit him whenever I like."

She wasn't certain she'd gotten the message through to John, but when he spoke, she forgot her anxiety over the kitten's welfare. He'd been studying the kittens with frowning concentration for some moments. "Why do you suppose Papa said you reminded him of a kitten when he found you? You don't look much like a cat to me, 'cept for your green eyes."

Mortified, Mary Catherine could do no more than gape at him with her jaw at half mast, her lips working to form a sound that never came.

"Do you suppose it was 'cause he thinks you're cute, too?"

"Johnny...," Mary Catherine managed to get out, and then quite suddenly recalled that Con had called her kitten when she'd fallen and bumped her head. Under the circumstances, it had hardly registered. If she'd thought of it at all, she'd dismissed it as some sort of corruption from the diminutive 'Cat'.

She had fought him when he'd caught her in the wood, though, and realized now that that was undoubtedly what he'd referred to when he'd told John she reminded him of a kitten. Amusing but ineffectual. Her lips tightened. How very flattering. Quite possibly apt, but then she could scarcely be expected to hold her own against a great lummox twice her size if she hadn't been half dead with fever.

And she'd thought__feared__that he'd been gazing at her with lust when she'd met him in the storage room. That just went to show she knew nothing at all about it.

She should have been relieved. Somehow she wasn't. She decided it was because she was insulted. She couldn't help being a puny specimen of mankind any more than he could help being so very large. One made do with what God gave out and tried to be satisfied with it...or at least tried not to think about one's failings. Of course, there was always someone around eager to point out where one was lacking.

Before she could think of a way to give John yet another gentle scold, she heard sounds beyond the barn that indicated an arrival. Instantly diverted from the kittens, John scrambled up and darted for the barn door to peer out.

Mary Catherine followed him at a more sedate pace. "Who is it?" she asked a little uneasily.

John was scowling. "It's just Dr. Bealle."

Relieved, Mary Catherine smiled. "What's that face for? He hasn't come to physic you."

John shrugged. "I don't like him."

Surprised, Mary Catherine paused beside him. "Why not? He seems a very pleasant man to me."

"Papa doesn't like him."

That much had been frighteningly obvious the day he'd arrived to find Dr. Bealle examining her. It embarrassed Mary Catherine to realize that, in the back of her mind, she'd more than half suspected that the antipathy between them was somehow connected to her. Apparently, she had been way off the mark there as well. Obviously whatever was between them had happened long before she knew either one of them.

Admittedly, the matter piqued her curiosity powerfully. But, when all was said and done, it was none of her business. That being the case, she had no intention of prying to try to find out what had caused their dislike of one another, even supposing John knew.

Half afraid any comment would encourage John to make revelations he shouldn't, when she'd been at pains to teach him the error of his ways, Mary Catherine considered carefully before she responded. "Perhaps you're mistaken," she said finally.

John shook his head. "Papa frowns every time he sees Dr. Bealle's buggy. And then he yells at somebody."

That last comment sent a shaft of uneasiness through her. "I've never heard your Papa yell at anyone," she said tentatively.

He frowned. "I guess he don't yell. But he looks angry and everybody gets upset when Papa looks angry."

She could certainly empathize with them. "Does he...hit them?"

John looked up at her in amazement. "Papa?"

Embarrassed at pumping the child for information and more than a little uneasy with the thought that John was as likely to repeat things he'd heard her say as he was to echo his father's words, Mary Catherine changed the subject abruptly.

"Let's go see Dr. Bealle, shall we? You'll see he's really quite nice."

John looked dubious, but he didn't argue. Catching her hand, he led her out to meet the buggy that had just pulled up in front of the house. Dr. Bealle had already mounted the steps to the house by the time they arrived and was standing on the porch talking to Bessie, who'd come to greet the visitor. Sherman was standing somewhat behind them, holding the door ajar, his expression disapproving. Doubtless, Mary Catherine thought with some amusement, he was miffed she'd taken his job upon herself.

Dr. Bealle turned at their approach. Surprise and then pleasure lit his face. "Bessie was just telling me you'd gone out for a walk. May I say, Miss, what a pleasure it is to see you're up and about."

Mary Catherine was a little breathless by the time she'd climbed the stairs, but still pleased with herself. She smiled, as much in pleasure at her accomplishment as in response to his greeting, extending her hand.

"It's a very great pleasure to me to get out."

Dr. Bealle took her hand and brought it to his mouth, startling her with the touch of his lips. She jerked her hand back reflexively.

John, who'd been watching the byplay suspiciously, scowled. "You ain't supposed to really kiss her hand. Papa says you're only supposed to pretend to kiss a lady's hand 'cause it's bad manners to put your mouth on the lady's hand."

It would have been difficult to say who blushed more fierily, Mary Catherine or Dr. Bealle. Dr. Bealle recovered first, forcing a chuckle. "No? I suppose I got carried away. But then, Miss...uh.."

"Miz Catherine," John broke in to supply. "Don't you even know who she is?"

Dr. Bealle ignored that last remark. "Miss Catherine is such a lovely lady most anyone could be forgiven for getting carried away with enthusiasm."

It was obvious John didn't care for that last remark even though he didn't perfectly understand it. "Well, you ain't supposed to get carried away even if she is pretty, 'cause its bad manners."

Dr. Bealle cleared his throat uncomfortably. Mary Catherine bit her lip, torn between mortification and amusement. Con, she thought, had been right. The child's manners were atrocious. On the other hand, it occurred to her that he saw himself, quite manfully, in the role as her protector. She didn't have the heart to scold him for that. "It's also bad manners to lecture one's guest," she pointed out in gentle reproof.

John looked at her doubtfully. "But, he's not Papa's guest."

"Even so," Mary Catherine said, since the remark was irrefutable.

"Shall we go in so that I can have a look at you?" Dr. Bealle suggested abruptly.

Mary Catherine, who'd been giving John an admonishing frown, glanced up in surprise. She had no intention of submitting herself to any more examinations, particularly after what Con had had to say on the subject the last time. Even if Dr. Bealle was foolhardy enough to risk Con's wrath again, she certainly wasn't.

At any rate, she was past the need to be examined. Unfortunately, she couldn't think of any way to get that fact across without sounding as rude as John had. "Perhaps we could just sit outside and have a visit? I'm quite recovered, you know."

Dr. Bealle frowned, but finally shrugged. "As you wish," he said a little stiffly.

Aware that Dr. Bealle's reception had been far from warm, Mary Catherine sent him an apologetic smile as they seated themselves in the chairs on the porch. John, after glancing from one adult to the other somewhat distrustfully, made himself at home in Mary Catherine's lap. A little surprised at first, for he was far too big to sit comfortably in her lap, being little more than a head shorter than she was, Mary Catherine finally decided that he was perhaps accustomed to climbing in his father's lap and settled him in her arms with a little pat of affection.

Dr. Bealle's expression was disapproving. "I believe Miss..uh..Miss Catherine would be more comfortable if you sat on the floor, Master John."

John slipped an arm around her waist possessively. "She likes me to sit with her. Don't you, Miz Catherine?"

Suspicious at once at his angelic demeanor if not his out-and-out whopper, Mary Catherine gave him a searching glance and finally grinned, tapping his nose playfully. She knew very well what he was up to, the little rascal. As it happened, it suited her just fine to have him close by to thwart any designs Dr. Bealle might have of coercing her into submitting to another examination. "Absolutely."

The two of them turned as one to fix Dr. Bealle with a questioning look, giving him to know that the ball was now in his court.

Dr. Bealle frowned. "I'd thought we might discuss what you've remembered."

Chapter Eleven

Assuming one of John's guileless expressions, Mary Catherine smiled brightly. "Not a thing since the last time you asked."

Dr. Bealle's look became piercing. "At least you don't seem unduly concerned about it," he said wryly.

Mary Catherine's smile faded with the realization that she'd used the wrong approach. She had, once, been far better at gauging people to a nicety. Then again, she had not really had to take very great care with anyone but her father and Horace Brooks. The consequences of misjudging others hadn't been quite so critical. In this instance, they might well be dire indeed, however. She would have to be more careful.

If the raiders were from the area, and she must suppose them to be, then her continued lack of memory might well be the only real protection she had. She couldn't afford to give Dr. Bealle the impression that there was nothing at all wrong with her memory. He might mention it if he gossiped, as people were inclined to do, particularly about curiosities. And she had no doubt she was a novelty to him.

"I'm not," she said at last, subdued now. "You said it would all come back to me in time. From what little I do recall, I think I'm inclined to wait upon it."

Dr. Bealle studied her for a long moment and seemed to dismiss it. He nodded. "I expect your resistance to remembering may have a great deal to do with it. There's no point in forcing it. Any other complaints?"

This last was uttered with a smile. Mary Catherine supposed it was meant to be humorous but she wasn't amused. She was not a complainer. "None."

His brows rose. "You've been walking. Any lightheadedness? Difficulty in catching your breath?"

Mary Catherine hesitated before answering, wondering if she should yield to her inclination to maintain that she was fully recovered. Being recovered would mean she would no longer be confined to the house. Nor would Dr. Bealle have any excuse to try to convince her to submit to any more of his embarrassingly-thorough examinations. On the other hand, she must announce her intention of going on the heels of it and she had no where to go yet. Moreover, she couldn't claim an indisposition if she found it necessary to hole up in her room should visitors arrive.

She could see no real need to protect either of the last two possibilities, however. Con had not asked her how long she would stay, so she didn't think he was anxious for her to go. And she couldn't very well avoid visitors if she meant to look for a place.

The truth was, though she still did not feel quite as she knew she should, she also knew she was capable of most anything. She still tired easily, true, and she'd experienced the tiniest bit of lightheadedness when she'd risen from watching the kittens, but she hardly thought it worth mentioning. As for breathing difficulties, the only problem she'd had with that was when she'd come face to face with Con in the storage room. That, she knew, had nothing to do with her illness. She wasn't precisely certain of what had caused it, but it had not been anything in the nature of an attack of any sort.

"No. Nothing like that. As I said, I'm really quite recovered now. Did you by chance find someone willing to give me a place to stay?" she added after a brief pause to divert him from questioning her further as much as because she wished to know.

An expression of distress crossed his features. He shook his head. "Not yet. But I think it's perhaps because of recent troubles. No one knows you. If you're feeling up to it, perhaps you should consider going to the party the Garners are throwing. It would give you a chance to meet the locals. I think they'd be most welcoming once they've gotten to know you a bit."

"Party?" Mary Catherine said blankly, wondering a little wildly if she could convincingly invent an indisposition she'd 'forgotten' to mention.

It was Dr. Bealle's turn to look surprised. "You haven't heard? Why everyone's been talking of it for the past week and more. It's a celebration to mark the end of the Creek War. I expect everyone in the county will be there. People don't get a lot of opportunities to socialize here on the frontier. They're inclined to make up for it when they do have the chance. If you'd like, I'd be both pleased and honored to escort you.

"I expect you're not up to dancing yet, despite your determination to convince everyone you're entirely recovered. But I could introduce you around. We could put it about that you're in need of a place to stay and perhaps even find someone there who'd be willing to give you a place."

Mary Catherine stared at him, her mind racing. She had never actually attended a party in her life. Her father had been opposed to that sort of amusement as being ungodly and Horace Brooks had not been liked well enough to be welcome at such functions. The socializing he'd indulged in was not such that Mary Catherine would have gone if she'd been allowed.

Even so, she was a little amazed to find that excitement at the prospect warred with her fears. She hadn't thought herself so frivolous.

Regardless, she couldn't ignore her misgivings. If everyone was going, then there was a strong possibility that Horace would think it the perfect opportunity to find her without even having to put himself out to search. Disappointment assailed her and with it a touch of hopeless anger.

She could not stay where she was indefinitely, whether she was offered the choice or not. As little as she cared, in her present situation, that staying meant branding herself as a loose woman, her father would descend upon her in a rage if he learned of it. And it was quite possible he would learn it when he came, particularly if she lingered so long past her illness as to make it obvious she could have gone and didn't.

Regardless of his motives for doing so, even though he had not, in Christian charity, had a choice, Con had helped her. She had no wish to bring trouble to him as repayment. Moreover, their encounter in the connecting room, and afterwards in the garden when she had at last left her sick bed had brought her to a realization she didn't particularly care to face. Loathe men as she'd thought she did in general, she felt far from loathing for Con. She didn't want to give him the opportunity to break down any more of her barriers. Flimsy as they were, they were the only protection she had.

Before she emerged from her dark musings and managed to come up with a suitable excuse for declining, she discovered the object of her thoughts had come upon them. Apparently, he'd overheard the last of the doctor's remarks as well.

"I expect Mary Catherine appreciates your kind offer, Bealle. As it happens, however, she'll be going with John and me."

As weary as she was with pacing the garden walks with her thoughts, Mary Catherine found she could not sit still once she'd returned to her room. She lay down upon the bed and got up again almost at once, pacing, her mind racing, searching for a way out that would not come to her.

She could not go to the party and she couldn't think of any reasonable excuse to give for it, though she had thought of little else, waking or sleeping, in the days since Dr. Bealle's visit. And now, in a blink it seemed, the time for her trial by fire was upon her, with no time left to come up with a believable lie to explain why she simply could not go.

It had occurred to her in the dark hours before dawn that she could simply refuse. Con had no claim upon her. He was not her father or husband to force her to do his bidding.

But if she balked he would demand to know why. She could refuse to tell him, of course, but it would put her in no better position than if she told him her reasons. He would know for a certainty then that there was nothing wrong with her memory. He would know that she was hiding something instead of merely suspecting it.

After some moments, she sat down on the bench before the dressing table. Perhaps, she thought, she should simply go. Maybe it would be best to take her chances and strike out on foot. Some chance, surely, was better than none at all?

Turning, she propped her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands. She was so weary. Her head ached from worrying and plotting and finding no answers. Fear overrode all of her efforts to come up with a viable plot for escaping, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

She thought she might simply wander away if she left empty handed. If she took nothing at all, however, she had no chance at all.

If she tried to slip away with even some of the supplies she would need to survive, she would surely be stopped and questioned. There again, she would have given away all without ever having to say a word.

And, supposing she succeeded? She was safe where she was. Brazen as the men were who'd charged down upon their wagon dressed as savages, they were not fools. They wouldn't attack a well-armed plantation. If they still watched for her, if they indeed saw her as a threat to them, they would have no difficulty finding her and silencing her as they had the others.

After a moment, she lifted her head and stared at her reflection. It seemed there was no alternative. She must risk it. She had no other choice.

She was combing out her hair when inspiration struck her. She stopped, frowning as she examined it. She was forced to conclude after some thought that it was flimsy. However, if there was even a chance that it would work, she was willing to give it a try.

Quickly plaiting her hair, she wound it atop her head and pinned it in place with hairpins from the box on the table. When she was done, she stared at her reflection for a long moment, girding herself, and finally rose and moved to the door.

Con, Sherman informed her, was waiting in his study. He'd already sent round for the buggy. Smiling at him a little nervously, Mary Catherine asked him to direct her to Con's study. He was seated behind his desk when she tapped on his door and entered on the heels of his permission. Glancing up distractedly, he rose to his feet at once when he spied her hovering near the door.

"You could have sent Sherman to tell me you were ready."

Mary Catherine clasped her hands together in front of her, so on edge now that she faced him she was unaware that the gesture gave away her anxiety. "The thing is," she managed after a tense moment, "I'm not. Ready, that is."

Con lifted a questioning brow but said nothing, merely gesturing toward the seat that sat before his desk. Mary Catherine had no desire to sit. She had to curb the urge to simply turn and flee. Deciding upon a compromise, she moved toward him, hovering before his desk.

"The thing is, you see. I've nothing to wear. Nothing decent, that is. I'd be loathe to embarrass you, or myself for that matter, by going in this," she said, gesturing toward the dress she wore, which though mended now, looked very little better than it had when she'd escaped in it. "And its all I have," she added as a rider.

How long he stared at her, saying nothing, she found it difficult to gauge. It seemed aeons that she held her breath, waiting, hoping he would not see it as the flimsy excuse it was. When he bent to pick something up from the floor, she let out her breath in an expulsion of relief.

It was short-lived. She saw, when he stood upright once more that he'd hefted an awkwardly bundled package, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. She jumped when he dropped it onto his desk top, the crackle of the stiff paper sounding loud in the dead silence of the room.

"Perhaps there's something here that will be of use to you,"

he suggested mildly.

Her gaze, which had riveted to the package the moment he deposited it, flew to his face, searched it for some hint of what she faced and returned to the package once more. Her heart thundering in her ears deafeningly, she took a step toward it like a sleepwalker. Laying her hand upon it, she sent Con another searching look.

Still, she could read nothing of his thoughts there. And even so dread climbed inside her as, without a word, he leaned forward with his letter knife and snapped the twine that held the thing together. The paper fell apart, revealing what lay within. She stared at it for a long moment, feeling hope drain away even as the blood rushed from her face. It blurred before her eyes, became fuzzy and indistinct.

But it made no difference. It didn't matter that it was clean and dry and folded neatly when it should have been lying upon the river bottom. She knew it.

She looked up at Con again but she could no longer see his face. Blindly, she groped for the chair she knew was behind her, feeling the strength leave her knees.

"Cat!"

He'd rounded the desk and gripped her arms before she found the support she sought, lowering her gently into the chair. She supposed she should have been grateful for it, but she found she was too numb to care. The strength had left her so completely she could not even summon the will to push him away from her, though she began to feel suffocated by his nearness, by his grip upon her arms and by his hands as he reached up with both to cup her face and force her to look up at him.

She searched his eyes. "You know," she said dully.

He said nothing. His expression told her nothing.

"You found the wagon."

Con stared at her in mounting frustration. His heart still hammered in his chest sickeningly from the fright she'd given him when she'd looked as if she might collapse. It made him angrier. It mattered little that much of it was directed at himself for having handled the situation so badly.

He had known nothing. He knew little more now.

The women's clothes he'd found in the wagon had been as old and ill-fitting as the one she now wore. They'd been no clue. They could've fit any number of women. The bible he'd found beneath them had told him no more. The water had damaged it too badly for him to decipher the records kept in it. He'd managed to make out only a few letters of a couple of the names. He'd been bluffing, playing the only hand he had because he'd known he had run out of time.

He'd wanted to know. He hadn't wanted this. He had not expected to see such devastation on her face or to feel it for having been the cause. He had not thought that she could wound him so with only a look.

"Cat! For God's sake, tell me. What is it?"

She pulled away from him. Rising a little unsteadily, she reached for the package, bundling it carefully and wrapping her arms around it. Con rose as well, gripping her shoulder and forcing her to face him. Before he could say more, John burst excitedly into the room.

"Are we going now? Sherman said to say the buggy's waiting!"

Con ignored him, his gaze never leaving Mary Catherine's face. It demanded answers.

With a sigh almost of relief, she gave them. "You're right. They're mine. There should be something suitable here. I'll just go change. I can be ready to go in a few minutes."

They said nothing throughout the long ride to the neighboring plantation beyond those words necessary or too commonplace to cause further tension. Mary Catherine supposed, when she could spare a thought for it, that their behavior seemed normal enough on the surface to satisfy John. He chattered merrily and almost incessantly throughout the drive. Mary Catherine was grateful for it. It spared her the necessity of trying to talk to him or Con.

Her thoughts were tumultuous. So much so that it seemed impossible to focus upon any one of her many anxieties. She was aware, however, of a sense of relief.

It was not an alleviation of fears from having surmounted them. Rather she'd simply ceased to care now that she knew the uphill battle she'd fought so long was lost and there was no longer any need or reason to fight. It didn't matter so much that she'd lost. Only that she no longer need fight a battle that had become too wearying to continue.

She wondered how much he'd pieced together. All of it? Had he found in that wagon all the shameful secrets of her past? Had he found her diary? Her family bible?

She found, even numbed as she was, she couldn't face those thoughts. It seemed almost a blessing when they turned from the main road and upon a narrower one lined with wagons and buggies. Throngs of people were hurrying along it toward the farmhouse they could see silhouetted in late afternoon shadows. Excitement seemed to stir the very air about them.

It increased Mary Catherine's dread tenfold. He will be here, she thought. And I will have to go back now.

Con didn't get down at once when he'd parked the buggy, though John scarcely waited for it to roll to a halt before he had scrambled down with a quick appeal for permission and raced toward a group of young boys that had gathered near the pasture fence. Instead he turned to face her, studying her for some time in silence. "We don't have to go through with this," he said quietly.

Mary Catherine turned to look at him, feeling scarcely a prick of irritation that he'd offered her salvation now that it was no longer within her grasp. "It won't make any difference, will it?"

He looked away, frowning. "It might."

She shook her head slowly. "You know nothing of the matter or you wouldn't say so."

He glanced at her again, his lips tightened now with anger. "Explain it," he suggested tersely.

She gazed at him a long moment and looked away, saying nothing. After a moment, he climbed down, unhitched the horses and turned them out into the pasture to graze with the others. Without another word, he came around to her side of the buggy, grasped her about her waist and swung her to the ground. His hands lingered, however. "Cat, I want to help you. Let me."

She looked up at that, touching his face with her gaze as if memorizing it. "I wish..." She stopped, looking away. "I wish I could."

Chapter Twelve

The Garner's homestead consisted of a rambling farmhouse that was actually a collection of cabins joined by dogtrots that had increased in number, apparently, as the Garner family had multiplied over the years. The newest addition still smelled aromatically of pine. But there were new timbers among the older cabins as well, just as there were in the scattering of outbuildings about the place. The barn was little more than half finished.

There were abundant signs the Garners had been among those unfortunate enough to have lain in the path of the marauding Indians. The Garners, when she and Con had sought them out to thank their host and hostess for the invitation, were plump, middle-aged and cautious rather than welcoming, though Mary Catherine was scarcely aware of that fact.

The thought of Horace Brooks hovered over her like a malignant specter. A hundred times, as they strolled the Garner's lawns, she saw him in the silhouette of a dark head, a brawny shoulder or back, the bulge of a paunch that bespoke more than a passing acquaintance with beer. She saw him in every dark head of hair that rose above those around him. She saw him in every shadow, lounging in a door frame, against a tree, propped against a wall of one of the outbuildings. And each time fear fisted around her heart, squeezing it painfully to still its beat and then releasing it to run away with her.

She was so ill with her imaginings by the time the feasting began near dusk that she had all she could do to keep from retching, let alone choke the food down. She picked at the plate of roasted pig and corn Con brought her anyway, having recovered sufficiently to realize that she had no desire for everyone to see how uneasy she was.

Nor did she want to give Con an opening to begin questioning her again, though she began to see that that was doubtful regardless of how strange her behavior. Unlike her husband, who not only hadn't cared what others thought of his behavior, but had actually seemed pleased to attract attention to himself regardless of how he did so, Con seemed as anxious to avoid notice as she was. He would not broach such a subject publicly and risk their being overheard.

She was grateful for that. She wasn't happy with his determination to hover at her side. Horrendous visions assailed her each time she glimpsed anyone who reminded her of her husband in any way. Without difficulty, she could envision Horace barrelling from the crowd to launch himself upon Con like some maddened beast, intent on rending him limb from limb. Or felling him with a meaty blow and turning his rage upon her, to disgrace and humiliate her publicly as much as to teach her the error of thinking she might escape him.

It was his way. She'd ceased, long ago, to appear in a public place unless it could not be avoided. Even a minor offense was sufficient in Horace's eyes to punish her publicly. That served the dual purpose of teaching her to obey without question and to watch her tongue by reinforcing the lesson of pain with one of humiliation. It would go far worse for her if she came upon him with Con by her side.

She never once considered that Con might be the victor in any such contest. She was too accustomed to seeing Horace as invincible to think of such a possibility. At any rate, it was unheard of for anyone to stand between a man and his wife whatever he chose to do to her in public or private. And if it flickered across her mind even briefly that Horace might find the task of thrashing Con beyond his abilities, it connected just as quickly that he would bow out, if Horace allowed it, once he understood the situation he'd embroiled himself in.

When finally it occurred to her at dusk that they'd circumnavigated the homestead three or four times in a space of hours and she'd seen nothing of Horace, her tension began to lessen. The whole county, it seemed, must have turned out for the occasion to give thanks that they'd survived the Creek uprising. If he was among them she surely must have seen him by now.

It was then that she noticed a peculiar circumstance.

Wherever they went, people stepped aside for them. It was nothing so easily or comfortably explained as courtesy to allow them to pass. Nor did Mary Catherine believe for many moments that it had to do with Con's size or presence as intimidation. It was as if they were surrounded and cocooned by some invisible force. Though people gathered in tight little knots or strolled in clusters, each time she and Con approached they moved back and away, flowing around them like the surge and ebb of the tide.

As she became aware of that circumstance, she began to notice, to really see the faces of those around her where before she'd done no more than scan them cursorily as she searched for Horace's face. There was the flicker of fear in some, distaste or even hate in others, condemnation, contempt.

Noticing the sudden tension in Con's arm, she glanced up at him. He too was scanning the faces of those around them as if seeing them for the first time. She supposed he'd been as preoccupied with his own thoughts as she had been. She looked away as he glanced down at her, trying now to understand the hostility she sensed in those around her.

Enlightenment wasn't long in coming. Con had hovered over her protectively since their arrival. They had strolled round and round the place, allowing everyone to see them together. Obviously it was known that she was staying in his home. Just as obviously everyone had made their own conclusions about that.

"I think it's time we headed back. It's a long drive. Will you be all right if I leave you to find John? Or would you prefer to go with me?" Con asked abruptly.

She felt a surge of relief at his suggestion, refusing to consider her sudden desire for departure as a craven retreat. They'd stayed long enough, surely, that no one could consider it such. They could not know she'd only just now become aware of their condemnation. No one would know save her that she'd run like a coward rather than faced them down.

She nodded. As little as she cared to be left to stand alone in the midst of a hostile crowd, she knew Con could find John more quickly on his own than with her in tow. "I'll wait by the pecan tree along the lane."

Con glanced toward the tree in question and saw that those who'd sat beneath it earlier to eat had abandoned it. The majority of the crowd had been drawn toward the barn where, in the distance, they could hear the fiddlers tuning their instruments. He nodded. "I'll walk you over before I go look for John."

At any other time Mary Catherine would have protested, assuring him it was unnecessary. She could manage the short walk very well without the support of his arm. However, she was loathe to give up the protection of his presence. She said nothing, therefore, merely turning her steps in the direction of the tree.

She felt his absence the moment he was swallowed up by the early twilight's gloom. A chill went through her that had little to do with the waning of the day's comfortable temperatures. Hugging her arms to herself, she backed a little closer to the tree as a handful of late arrivals, or far flung wanderers, hurried up the lane toward the music that now wafted from the direction of the barn. Their steps faltered as they came abreast of her. A half dozen pairs of eyes pinned her to the tree at her back, stripping her bare.

"Indian whore," one man muttered contemptuously and spat almost at her feet.

"They should have cut her throat while they were about it," said another as they picked up their pace once more and moved on.

"Humph!" snapped a woman. "She should have done it herself. Lord knows how long she was with them. They say it don't take long atall before they're savages themselves once those red devils have got them. 'Spect she'd be more inclined to slit our throats in our sleep than to slit her own."

Mary Catherine stared after them, so stunned at their words that they'd long since disappeared from her sight before it dawned upon her that the hostile looks she'd been getting all evening had had nothing, as she'd supposed, to do with a belief that she was a loose woman. At least, not where it concerned Con.

They thought she'd escaped the Indians. They thought she'd lived with the Indians. How had they come to such a belief? Who could've told such a thing and why?

Bessie. Her mind supplied the name in a blinding flash of enlightenment. The African woman had resented her presence from the first. She needed no other reason. If she was like most servants, she hadn't even needed that. It had only served as further incentive to talk. Gossip was the mainstay of their conversation whenever one or more got together.

She had, she realized abruptly, been the instrument of her own downfall. She'd asked for Bessie to attend her when Dr. Bealle had examined her. She had not only allowed Dr. Bealle to examine her when she'd been well aware of the risks involved, she'd compounded the problem by giving Bessie the opportunity to see the marks Horace had left upon her as well.

It mattered little the excuses she'd found for her lack of willpower later. It made no difference that she'd thought she had the strength of will to keep Dr. Bealle from examining her too closely. In the end, she'd yielded to a stronger force and Bessie had been there to see it all.

Obviously, Bessie had made her own conclusions of just what those marks implied. It hadn't occurred to Mary Catherine once that Bessie would think such a thing. But that was because she was keenly aware of her situation and self-conscious of it. She'd failed to take into consideration that the people in the area had come to connect everything in their mind with the Indian raids. At any time there was a death, an accident, a fire, the Indians had done it. Thus, Mary Catherine's injuries had immediately become the results of her association with the Indians.

She felt no surprise, under the circumstances, that she'd received so many hostile, even fearful, glances, now that she knew what the rumors of her were. Had they thought she was Con's whore, she would only have been invisible to them. She should have realized that immediately.

It struck her quite suddenly that now she truly had no hope of finding shelter or employment even if she could evade her husband's clutches long enough to do so. No one would be willing to take her in now.

As frightening as that realization was, she felt a touch of satisfaction as well. Bessie had outsmarted herself with her vindictiveness. The woman had very effectively cut off Mary Catherine's retreat. Until she could come up with some other solution to her dilemma, Bessie must endure her presence somewhat longer than Mary Catherine had anticipated that the woman would have to. It made her feel somewhat better to know that Bessie would have to pay, in some small part, for the trick she'd played.

"Now why, I wonder, is the prettiest girl here skulking alone beneath a tree?"

Mary Catherine jumped, having been so deeply engrossed with her thoughts she hadn't noticed his approach as he'd come soft footed across the lawn in the deepening shadows. "Dr. Bealle! You startled me."

"Then I beg pardon. It wasn't my intention. I'd expected to find you somewhere about the dance floor, even if you didn't feel up to joining those romping about like children."

Mary Catherine forced a perfunctory smile. "I don't dance."

His brows rose, a faint smile hovering about his lips. "Never?"

"Never," Mary Catherine confirmed, keeping her voice neutral with an effort.

"But that's infamous! A young, beautiful girl like yourself should dance at every opportunity. You should enjoy your youth while you may, flirt with every eligible bachelor until one steals your heart away," he remarked teasingly.

Mary Catherine stared at him, feeling a wistful longing descend upon her at the fantasy world he'd conjured with his words. Had she ever been young? She didn't think so. She had certainly never been carefree as the mythical girl he described. And yet her mother had spoke of such things. Her mother had known such a life before she'd wed Levy Cone. The thought brought a wistful smile to Mary Catherine's lips as she turned to gaze at the distant horizon and allowed herself to remember.

"It was like that for my mother," she said softly, scarcely aware that she'd spoken aloud. "Sometimes, even now, when I close my eyes I can remember her. I can remember just how beautiful she was. I was the oldest. I remembered her best. When I was little she used to tell me what it was like when she grew up. She talked of sprawling, white-columned houses along lazy rivers; of gentleman and ladies garbed as finely as royalty gliding about their marbled floors to the lilting strains of music the angels might envy. She told me about parties where the tables groaned with more elegant dishes of food than could be counted or sampled.

When she died, I told those same stories to my little brothers, like fairy tales. I'm not sure I really believed them myself, but it made me feel closer to her to remember them.

I always thought that one day I'd see it for myself and discover if it was real. I promised the boys that one day they would see it too."

Sadness descended upon her with that thought. They would never see it. Very likely she would never see it herself. If she could find her mother's family, she doubted they would allow her to stay.

Her father had broken those dreams too the day Lizzy drowned. Her mother had disgraced herself and been cast out of Eden, forbidden ever to return. And she, Mary Catherine, was the cause of it merely by existing.

"What has brought such a look of such sadness to your pretty face?" Bealle asked huskily, stepping closer and cupping her cheek in his hand.

Startled, Mary Catherine glanced at him. The familiar sense of smothering descended upon her as abruptly and stunningly as a thunderclap on a cloudless day. She moved away, but the tree was at her back, preventing her from further retreat.

"Nothing," she said a little breathlessly, repelled as much by the tremor she felt in his hand as by his touch itself, though she took pains to hide her reaction. As little as she cared for his familiarity, she'd come to like Dr. Bealle. She had no wish to insult him by allowing him to see how distasteful she found his intimacy.

He frowned, as if sensing her withdrawal. His hand fell to his side. "You've heard the ugly rumors then?"

It was more a statement than a question, despite the tone that implied the latter. She didn't try to evade again. "Yes."

He stepped away, to her relief, pacing for some moments before he came to a halt before her again. "I would have done much to spare you that. Believe me, I would never have suggested you come here if I'd known such vicious things were being said. And, for the life of me, I can't understand how it came about," he ground the words out in frustrated anger.

Mary Catherine could. Before she could voice her suspicions, however, Bealle voiced his own, shocking her as completely as if he'd suddenly struck her.

"St.Clair! That devil," he exclaimed suddenly.

Stunned, Mary Catherine couldn't find her voice to speak for several moments. "What?" she asked, unable to believe her ears.

"It must have been him. I spoke of my suspicions to no one else, I give you my word."

"But...Why would he do such a thing?" Mary Catherine asked, bewildered.

Dr. Bealle studied her a long moment. "Child, you can not be so naive as that. He is...obsessed with you. Surely you've seen...But perhaps you haven't. Believe me, others have noticed the way he looks at you, the possessiveness in his manner. They believe the worst."

She had no difficulty believing that last. She'd discovered long ago that folks were inclined to believe the worst, for the simple reason that they hoped it was true. It made them feel so much better about themselves and their own dark secrets.

The other accusations, she found very hard to believe. Certainly, Con had never, in her presence, behaved in a way that she would have construed as possessive.

And, as for being obsessed with her, that was almost laughable. He had never even behaved as if he found her mildly attractive, much less to the point of being obsessed.

Doubtless, Dr. Bealle had a fertile imagination.

And, if he hadn't imagined it? She didn't know how she felt about that, save she felt no rise of revulsion. She didn't want to examine her feelings on the matter at the moment, however, or perhaps ever.

"That hardly matters," she said wearily. "The other rumors are sufficient to blacken me. I suppose I should count myself fortunate that I haven't been run out on a rail."

"You may count yourself fortunate that you've no cause yet to understand their implications," Dr. Bealle said low, his voice biting with suppressed anger. "The man is a blackguard of the vilest kind. For all he sets himself up to be a gentleman, he has no notion of the behavior inherent in the term.

I have little expectation that he's improved in the years since I first became acquainted with him. His wife complained to me of his vile behavior when I was called to attend her. I confess I didn't believe the poor young woman at first. She was clearly hysterical.

You may imagine my disgust when I examined her and found that he'd actually laid violent hands upon her and her in a delicate state! It's a miracle she didn't lose the child. I confess, I felt little surprise when I heard she had run from him at the first opportunity, escaping to her family in England.

And if he had not done enough in that, driving her from her child, the monster divorced her, leaving her at the mercy of society's condemnation and without support so that she was forced to petition the graces of her family to survive."

Mary Catherine stared at him disbelievingly, too shocked to protest or comment in any way. Her mind was in such turmoil from his revelations that many moments passed before disbelief evolved into belief, sending a cold chill through her. And scarcely had it sent fright thrumming through her veins than new doubts surfaced.

She'd heard something of the rumors. She knew from John that at least some part of the tale was true. And, at first, she'd believed as Dr. Bealle seemed to, that Con must have done something to his wife to make her flee. Yet, that did not fit anything she knew of the man from her own experiences. Moreover, Dr. Bealle had never made any attempt to hide the fact that he disliked Con. When his opinion was so obviously biased, how much faith could she place in it?

As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Bealle closed in upon her once more, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. She shuddered as she felt the moist warmth of his mouth upon her fingers, though she was too surprised at his sudden move to pull away.

"I'm sorrier than I can say to have caused you so much distress, my dear. And I can see that I have with my thoughtless suggestion that you seek help here as well as my careless tongue. I hadn't meant to upset you with that old tale. Only to warn you."

"No," Mary Catherine said faintly, swallowing with some difficulty the nausea that rose in her throat. She had thought, given her reaction to Con's nearness, that she had surmounted her revulsion to being touched, at least sufficiently as to keep her wits about her. She found now that she'd done nothing of the kind. As much as she liked Dr. Bealle, as kind and helpful as he'd been to her, she felt very nearly as ill at his nearness as she had Horace's and just as mindlessly panicked. She could think of nothing but escape and no way of doing so. "You didn't upset me, truly."

"Indeed I did, though it's kind of you to forgive me."

Mary Catherine forced a tremulous smile, hoping with that comment that he would release her and step away again. Instead, he lifted his other hand to caress her cheek.

"I can't tell you how I've worried for you, alone with that man. I would do anything to spare you that. Come to me, Mary Catherine. I'll protect you from him," he murmured huskily.

She scarcely understood his remarks. Her thoughts were too chaotic. One thing seemed abundantly clear, however. He was offering her insult. His actions spoke of it if not his words. That realization sent a surge of reviving anger through her, steadying her nerves. "I couldn't marry you if I wished," she said shakily, willfully misreading his request.

It caught him off-guard. He withdrew, if only slightly, giving her the opportunity to catch her breath. "Why ever not?" he demanded, abandoning his husky lover's drawl.

"Because," Con said from somewhere quite near, "she's married already."

Chapter Thirteen

"It's true then?"

Mary Catherine glanced at Con in surprise, trying to make out his expression in the dim glow of the lanterns he'd mounted to the front of the buggy to light their way home. Those were the first words he'd spoken to her since he'd loaded her and a slumbering John into the buggy and left the Garner homestead behind. She didn't ask him what he meant. She didn't need to.

She'd been so relieved at his timely interruption and so stunned at his announcement, it hadn't dawned on her that he was bluffing. It occurred to her now forcefully. What evidence could he have found at the sight, after all, that would tell him such a thing?

If she had not been so shocked when he'd flung her clothes down before her, almost like a gauntlet, she must have realized that. The raging torrent that had precipitated the accident, must have destroyed or carried away most everything. He could not, surely, have found anything definite or he would have confronted her long since.

Forcing a weary sigh that was only partially feigned, she looked down at John who lay sleeping with his head in her lap. Absently, she stroked his hair. "I know you have never believed me, but the truth is I remembered, still remember, very little. I can not tell you that."

"Can't? Or won't?" Con asked grimly.

Anger touched her briefly. She let it go almost at once, trying to decide how much she could tell him without risk to herself. She would not do that, only to satisfy his curiosity, however much he deserved a measure of trust for all he had done. He could have no notion that they were attacked or he would have said something at once when he had found the wagon. Since he didn't, she was of no mind to enlighten him. If she told him about the raiders, she knew he would insist she go to the sheriff. A refusal to do so would gain her nothing, for he would most likely do it himself then. And that would accomplish nothing, very likely, but to put her at greater risk.

By telling, she would be doing nothing more than announcing to the men that she was alive, despite their efforts to track her down and kill her with the others, and that she could and would identify them. She was under no illusion that such a tale would remain a quiet investigation. It would spread like wildfire until the whole county was in an uproar over it.

That would put more than her in danger. The raiders would not hesitate to kill Con and his son when they came for her and any others who happened to get in their way.

Feeling a sense of hopelessness descend upon her, she said quietly, "I was hurt and then so ill...Why can you not simply accept that much of what happened is....so confused that I am not certain if it truly happened or if it was nightmares from the fever?"

His expression hardened with anger. "Why can you not at least do me the courtesy of telling me what you do remember?"

She turned to stare at him. His unasked question hung between them like a tangible thing. Why can you not give me your trust? Because, she thought sadly, I've forgotten how to trust, just as I've forgotten how not to be afraid.

After some moments, it occurred to her that she could tell him something of the accident. What little she remembered of it could do her no harm and perhaps it would appease him. She realized she wanted to do that. Not because she was afraid of what he might do to her if she angered him, for she'd seen he was a man who kept himself tightly under control whatever he felt. But because it made her unhappy that he was angry with her. It made her hurt to realize that her lack of faith caused him pain. "I remember little beside the terror I felt when I saw how swollen and swift the river was as we raced toward it and the numbing cold as the water poured in when we had plowed into it. There was a sharp crack. At first I thought it was thunder.

Almost at once the wagon began to tilt. And that seemed odd because everything was moving so slowly. Perhaps that was part of a nightmare. It seemed like one because of that anyway. Boxes and barrels and heavy casks just seemed to float downward or away. And in my head I could think only the word 'out' with no connecting thoughts, just out, and it seemed to make no sense to me, but I began to try to move.

I must have been crazed with terror because I began to struggle toward the back. I was closest to the front and it would have been easier to get out there, but all I could think was to move away from the front opening toward the light I could see at the back of the wagon. I remember it seemed my heart would burst from my chest as I struggled to race for it, but, as in a nightmare, I only floated toward it slowly, like the tumbling boxes.

They struck me as they floated down and past, but I felt nothing, no pain anyway, just a crazy sort of bump that seemed to ring in my ears. I couldn't even hear Mazie screaming, though I could see her mouth working with terror. She did nothing but try to cover herself with her arms. I remember thinking 'run' but I don't know if I said it. Perhaps I did, for she began to struggle in the other direction.

I thought that was crazy. She was so close to the light at the end. I never thought that what I was doing was mad, as well, for, like me she was struggling to reach the opposite end."

She stopped and frowned. "Perhaps I was running away from the water, or thought I was. The front of the wagon was awash with it almost at once and I had a..terror of water from the time my little sister drowned.

I had almost reached it when something stopped me. At first I didn't realize I had been stopped, that I was getting no closer. And then I didn't understand why I kept moving and made no progress. It was like the nightmare thing again. But finally I realized that I was caught. Something heavy had fallen across my ch..had caught me.

I'd scarcely comprehended that when the rush of water reached my shoulders. I knew at any moment it would wash over me completely.

That frightened me so badly, I began to fight everything around me, trying to claw my way loose. Finally, the box shifted, releasing me so suddenly I pitched backward out of the wagon and into the river.

I lost all ability to think then. In my mind was nothing but the blackness of complete panic and the need for air. It was all I concentrated on forever, or for what seemed like forever, struggling to put my head above water for a breath of air.

Some time later, I have no idea of how much later, I struck a tree that had been washed over by the rising water. I caught hold of it, more by instinct and luck I think than design, for I was long past the ability to reason. I was long past panic, as well, for I was totally exhausted from fighting the current. After a while, when I realized I was not becoming rested but instead colder and more numb from the water, I began to work my way out.

It was dark by the time I'd managed it, too dark to seek help though I was driven by that thought alone for some distance before I could no longer put one foot before the other. By the next morning I was already fevered. I've no idea of how long I wandered about before you found me."

She turned to study his shadowed profile for a long moment and finally transferred her attention to John again. "I don't really know why I ran when you came upon me, except...well, when I heard Lady I thought it was some beast stalking me..and then the shot. I don't know what I thought. I was just frightened and too sick to really make any sense of anything."

Con said nothing. He was fairly certain he knew now exactly why she'd run. She must know that he did, but he supposed it wasn't something she would willingly discuss. That was one of the reasons he had never spoken of it himself.

It was not something one asked. It would be too crude an invasion of her privacy to acknowledge that she'd been whipped and chained like an animal by asking her why it had been done. He knew it must be humiliating enough for her that he'd seen it, and had no wish to cause her further pain and embarrassment by delving into something that was not, in truth, any of his business.

As for the rest of the tale, it seemed plausible, except that it was obviously not the whole story. The question was, was that because she didn't remember any more? Or because she didn't wish to tell the whole of it? And why, if she didn't know what had happened to the others had she not been anxious to send help for them?

It could be that she simply hadn't cared whether they survived or not, but he didn't believe that any more than he believed she'd forgotten what had happened to her.

The alternative was that she had said nothing because she knew they were dead. In which case she was still lying. If she could recall in such detail the horror of what had happened to her, then she should certainly be able to recall what had led up to it, who she was, where she'd been going and with whom. She'd told him none of that, mentioned no one save the African woman who'd been in the wagon with her.

He was not unmoved by what she'd told him. Far from it. The picture she'd painted for him was at once so close to what he'd imagined must have happened and so horrendous that it brought his emotions to such turmoil he closed himself off from them.

There was one realization that became abundantly clear to him then, however. He'd been inclined from the first, primarily because of her size and her illness, to view Mary Catherine as a weakling.

It occurred to him now, with a jolt of surprise, that he had been wrong. However tiny and physically inferior she might be, Mary Catherine was no weakling. She was, quite possibly, one of the strongest women he'd ever known.

Regardless of his empathy for her pain, however, he had no intention of allowing her to divert him from his goal now that he'd managed to batter his way inside her defenses.

"How many were in the party?" he asked.

She looked up at him at that. She should have known that he would not be satisfied with so little. Doubtless, she'd told him nothing he had not already guessed from what he'd seen of the wagon. He wanted to know those parts of her story that she had been hoarding so carefully to herself for protection. Abruptly, she felt her will to resist crumble. She was so very weary of it all, the fighting against what suddenly seemed impossible odds, the constant fear of discovery. She swallowed against the knot of misery that rose to her throat.

"My... husband, Horace Brooks, and his brother, Elmer. And then there was Mazie and four field hands."

He had not really expected her to capitulate so totally. Perhaps it was the surprise that sent a jolt through him, but he didn't allow himself the comfort of that belief long. He had hoped that she would tell him he was wrong. She had no husband. Whoever the man had been who had held her, it had been nothing of her doing, as he must consider it if she had wed the man willingly. After a moment, he frowned on another thought.

"The three of you and five servants..." he said slowly, softly. He thought she nodded, but he didn't need the confirmation.

She had said there were eight in her party. That meant that three of the party were still missing, one white man, two African males. Had he buried her husband? Or her brother-in-law?

He would give much to know. He would give more to know, for certain, what had happened to the other man. It was possible, indeed likely, that the missing men had been swept downstream as Mary Catherine apparently had. If that were so, then their bodies might never be found.

But it wasn't impossible that they'd escaped the river as she had.

Sheriff Tate had heard nothing of any survivors other than Mary Catherine, but it didn't necessarily follow that there were none. Very likely the Africanes, if they'd survived and found themselves free of such a man, had taken to their heels. If Mary Catherine's husband had abused her so badly, he would have abused his people as well.

He could think of no reason, however, for the other white man not to have come forward to seek aid. It seemed, whether the man he'd buried had been her husband or not, he must be dead.

The idea produced a rash of conflicting emotions. Although readily identifiable, he wasn't sure of their source, or certain he wanted to be. The uneasiness, he understood to a degree. If they found no body, then they could never be completely certain the man was dead. The problem lay in the fact that he didn't know why he felt it was so important, personally, to prove it beyond the shadow of doubt.

"You've no idea at all of what might have happened to any of the others? You saw nothing?" he pressed.

Mary Catherine felt a spurt of frustration. "I told you what it was like," she said stiffly. "I had no time for thoughts of anything but trying to survive. I didn't look back."

"You told me you didn't remember anything at all," Con pointed out quietly.

He sensed more than saw her head swing in his direction, sensed the betrayal in her eyes, that she'd confided in him at last and been taunted for not trusting sooner. It made him feel like a heel. It made it worse that her voice was husky with unshed tears when she spoke.

"I didn't!" she said fiercely. "Not clearly. It was only a...a jumble of horror. And I didn't want to think about it or talk about it. And I don't now."

He said nothing for several moments, allowing her the time she needed to collect herself. "It's alright, Cat. I won't press you any more," he said gently.

She said nothing more, but the silence lay heavily between them, an uncomfortable barrier. After a time, he turned to gaze at her in the flickering moonlight, studying her profile.

He had resisted, from the first, the possibility that she might belong to another man. He didn't quite know why. Young as she was, she was long past marriageable age. She should, under normal circumstances have been a mother twice or three times over by now. Women were in short supply, particularly in the more remote areas of civilization, and most were settled even before their sixteenth birthday.

And yet her circumstances, when he'd found her, hadn't suggested that she was married. He found it difficult to accept, even now, that any man could so abuse his own wife.

But that had not been why he'd resisted the idea and he knew it. He'd done everything in his power to ignore the undeniable evidence that she behaved as a woman well accustomed to a man, but not as a woman of easy virtue. That had not been because her circumstances had seemed to make it impossible, but because he'd wanted to believe that, once he knew what those circumstances were, he could free her.

The bindings of an indenture, or even of law, could be broken far more easily than those of marriage. He should know that if anyone did. Whereas judiciously-placed money could, and often did, erase the gravest of sins, matrimony, being a holy estate, was considered inviolate and beyond the corruption of man. Even with such overwhelming evidence of Anne's desertion, and her infidelity, it had taken years for the courts to grant him his freedom.

If Mary Catherine was not a widow, then she would very likely never be free. There wasn't a court in the land that would grant her her freedom merely because her husband was abusive. A man had a right to chastise his wife in whatever way he saw fit and the courts were disinclined to interfere. They had no desire to set a precedent by allowing that there were limits to a husband's control. If they did so, they might well be inundated by women dissatisfied with their lot in life.

He knew it and was certain Mary Catherine knew it. That was why she'd said nothing, still refused to give him everything. She knew he couldn't protect her from her husband even if he wanted to...And he wanted to, badly.

Disturbed more than he cared to acknowledge by his musings, he turned once more to untangling her tale, wondering if it was possible, after all, that he'd completely mistaken the situation. Perhaps he'd only been chasing shadows. She had reason enough to flee in terror from her husband. There needn't have been any more to it than that.

He was tempted to tell her at once that she need not flee any longer. He resisted the impulse for two reasons. He couldn't assure her beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was safe from the man. And he wasn't certain of what reaction she might have to news that she was, in all likelihood, a widow.

In a sane world, he would have been absolutely certain that she could feel nothing but relief at the news even if she had not hated the man to such a degree as to feel joyous. However, he'd known of women in a similar situation to Mary Catherine's who, despite their husband's abusiveness, seemed to actually love the men who mistreated them, fiercely.

The idea sickened him. And not altogether because he found such creatures both repellant and pathetic and didn't wish to see Mary Catherine in that light.

It was neither the time or place for such an announcement, however, particularly when he'd already distressed her enough with his probing questions and given his word that he would press her no more. There was certainly no urgency to announce it when the man must have been dead, and possibly buried, for weeks. And it seemed crass to tell her when she would not even have privacy in which to come to terms with her feelings.

On the other hand, he knew Mary Catherine well enough by now to know she would retreat from any possibility of another uncomfortable confrontation as quickly as she was able if he didn't come up with something to forestall her.

With that in mind, he turned his thoughts to hatching a reasonable excuse to delay her. It was not a long search. She was fond of John and he was reasonably certain any request made on John's behalf would not fall on deaf ears.

Therefore, when they drew up in front of the manor and he'd helped her to alight, he asked, "Do you think you might help me put John to bed?"

Mary Catherine looked at him in surprise, but nodded at once. "Certainly."

Bessie met them on the landing as they ascended the stairs, Con in the lead carrying John's limp form. "I won't need you tonight, Bessie. Thank you."

Bessie looked blankly at him a moment before she cast an inscrutable glance at Mary Catherine. "Ah can put de chile ter baid, Mista Con. Ah knows you sho must be tired, yoself."

Con lifted a brow at her.

Bessie dropped her eyes to her feet. "Well, ah'll jess be goin' along din, if you doan need me."

The glance Bessie sent Mary Catherine as she passed her was malevolent, however quickly she hid it behind a mask of stupidity. Mary Catherine turned to watch the woman as she shambled down the stairs, feeling a rush of uneasiness chill her. Bessie never looked back, however, and with the reflection that the woman could scarcely cause her any more harm than she already had, Mary Catherine dismissed the unpleasant incident and followed Con to his son's bedroom.

Once there, Mary Catherine discovered to her surprise, that Con had meant just what he'd said, help. She'd thought he meant for her to attend the child once he'd carried John upstairs. Instead, once he'd settled John on the bed, he sat at the foot and pulled the boy's shoes and stockings off while she undressed him. And it was he who tucked the boy beneath his coverlet with as much care as she'd once done with her young brothers. She stared at him when he bent to kiss his son's forehead.

She had done that a hundred times with her little brothers, with Lizzy. There had been no one to do so but her and no one to kiss her goodnight since her mother had died.

It made something painful tighten inside her chest to watch them together, though she could think of no name to give it save yearning and she wasn't quite certain what it was that she wished for. Her lost childhood? Her mother? A taste of the love that had died with her?

She thought that was a part of it, but she also thought it was far more complicated than that.

She looked away when he stood once more and turned to her. There was unfinished business between them and she was well aware of it. It was that that sent her scurrying toward the door without a backward glance and only a whispered, half-panicked, "Goodnight."

He caught up to her in the hallway. "Cat."

She was half inclined to pretend she hadn't heard his quiet call, but something in his tone stopped her in her tracks. She turned, keeping her expression carefully neutral.

"We need to talk."

She said nothing, casting about in her mind for some excuse to put off a confrontation just a little longer. She had to have time to think. She'd been in such turmoil since Con had announced that they would attend the party that she hadn't had the quiet and calm she needed to reflect upon everything she'd learned since. Most all of it had been as jolting to her disordered thoughts and emotions as that had been, or more so. She couldn't think what to do now. She didn't know which way to jump. The only thing she was certain of was that her turmoil was her worst enemy right now. She must take action quickly now that she had yielded all and yet could not see her way clearly enough to think how to proceed.

He lifted his hand, holding it out to her, palm up. She stared at it for a long moment, feeling the gesture was anything but casual and insignificant. She felt, knew, that it was not merely a summons. It was an offer and a supplication. He was asking for trust.

"Alright," she whispered. She stepped forward then and placed her hand in his, feeling a sense of comfort when his fingers closed around it.

Chapter Fourteen

The room Con led Mary Catherine to was one she hadn't seen before, hardly surprising when she'd seen very little of his home beyond her own room and the hallway and foyer.

It was a sitting room of some sort, perhaps meant as a private area for the family to gather above stairs. Or perhaps it had been designed for his wife as a sewing room or something of the sort. It had a musty, little used smell about it, which seemed to indicate such a possibility.

Much of that, Mary Catherine discovered when he'd seated her, was due to the fact that the servants weren't inclined to spend much time cleaning a room that saw little or no use. Dust rose to tickle her nose as she sat.

Con took a chair opposite her, leaning forward and grasping both her hands in his. She didn't object. Neither did she find a great deal of comfort in it. Everything about his attitude bespoke ill tidings; his insistence that they seek privacy, his hesitancy in speaking once they'd found it. She was seized by a sudden thought that pushed all else to the background of her mind.

He must know what frightened her most. It must be that that he was trying to tell her. Horace had been found. He'd been asking around for her. She knew that must be it.

Perhaps he thought to break the news gently, but as the silence lengthened she began to see it as a form of torture. She thought she could bear knowing far better than she could endure the suspense of waiting to find out the worst.

When he finally spoke, his words were so far from what she'd expected that it took her some moments to assimilate what he'd asked.

"You said nothing of children when you spoke of the accident. Have you...did you have children, Mary Catherine?" Con asked quietly. He had considered long and hard before asking. It seemed, as she had not mentioned them that there could not have been. And yet, he couldn't be certain of it.

She might have had children. It had occurred to him that it was possible that she had mentioned none because she was aware her children were lost. It could be that that was why she'd mentioned none and that accounted for much of her horror of the accident and her great sadness. If that was the case, he wasn't so certain he should make her face it again.

She stared at him blankly, as if she'd never heard the word. But in the next instant, the echoes of it in her mind brought a crushing sense of horror down upon her.

She had borne a stillborn child, once. She had been almost glad it had not lived. She had not loved Horace when her father forced her to wed him. She had come to despise him and she was fairly certain she could not have felt as she should about Horace's child. It had been a mercy, really, when Horace had relieved her of her unwelcome burden by the simple method of beating it from her.

Afterwards, she had not been in any condition to know or care whether it had been male or female, where and when it was buried or even if it had been. She had taken very great care to put the whole episode from her mind..until now.

She was tempted to tell him, but in the end she knew she couldn't. It wasn't just that she could not stand to tell of it because it pained her and made her feel unclean. She had no wish for him to know that she was so wicked as to have despised the child when it had been entirely blameless for its existence. "No," she said harshly. "Never."

His eyes narrowed at her vehemence and she realized at once that she might have spared herself the effort to lie if she was not going to do it convincingly. After a moment, he seemed to dismiss it and she sagged with relief. She didn't think, if he had pressed her, that she could have maintained the lie.

He was silent for some moments after her outburst, as if trying to gather his thoughts. "The others who were with you... You must know, Cat, that they did not survive."

She stared at him blankly. "You found them?" She had thought he could not have. She had thought the bodies must have been washed away by the river. Surely, if he had found them, he had seen that they had not died by accident?

"Not all of them. No," he said grimly.

Her heart failed her. Weakness descended upon her abruptly as the blood rushed from her head. She was glad he'd told her to sit. It was just as she'd feared. "What.... How many did you find? I mean, who?"

His look became grim. "Cat, they weren't found for nearly a week. You must know what that means."

She did. Obviously, the bodies had been in such a state as to be unrecognizable, even if he'd known them, if he had not even been able to tell that they'd been butchered. And she saw that he hadn't.

It also meant she still did not know when or if Horace would descend upon her. It meant she might never be truly free of him. "You've buried them?" she pursued a little desperately.

As she'd expected, he nodded. "At the sight."

"But...My hus..Mr. Brooks, he wasn't...Was he among them?"

"Cat, you must know I have no way of knowing that. I didn't know the man."

She had known, but she was too desperate to be reasonable. "But..He was a big man, larger than his brother, almost as big as you are, but heavier. Dark hair?"

He shook his head. "Cat, we found only one white man."

She stared at him, her eyes pleading, though she knew he couldn't give her what she wanted, peace. He had no basis for comparison. He couldn't tell her. She would never know. "Then I have to see him," she cried.

He gripped her arms, giving her a little shake. "You can't!" he said harshly. "He's buried, Cat. Let it go. You could tell nothing if you saw the body!"

"Then Mr. Brooks might still be alive," she said flatly.

He could tell nothing from the way she said it, whether she wanted it to be so or if she feared it was so. He could not remove her doubts in either case.

"It's possible," he conceded finally, reluctantly. "I don't think it's likely."

"But it's possible." That thought brought a knot of angry tears to her throat, making it difficult to swallow. Despite all she could do, they flooded her eyes as well, making Con's concerned face blur before her. She rose abruptly, disentangling her hands from his, though she was hardly aware of what she was doing.

"Excuse me. I have to go. I'm very tired," she muttered disjointedly, her voice wobbly with suppressed tears.

She pushed past Con then and rushed from the room, half afraid he would follow, almost sorry when he didn't.

Mary Catherine didn't know whether to answer the summons she received the following morning to break her fast with Con or not. In truth, it had been issued in the manner of an invitation, and might well be one. But it had the ring of a summons to it.

She supposed that was partly because she'd been in the habit from the beginning of taking her meals alone in her room. At first that was because she was too ill to consider otherwise. But she had continued in the manner she'd begun, keeping to herself as much as possible because she didn't quite know where or how she fit into the household.

She suspected, however, that she must be considered a guest and as such, expected to dine with the family. In this case, Con. For John was still of an age that he took his meals in the nursery. The prospect of dining alone with Con wasn't one she could look forward to with any enthusiasm given the uneasy alliance they'd had from the first. That being the case, she had preferred to go on as she'd begun. She wasn't altogether sure she should change things now.

In the end, she went. It didn't matter which it was, summons or invitation, or what the possible consequences were. There seemed little point in attempting to avoid Con any longer.

She had considered, very seriously, leaving the night before once everyone was in bed. She could avoid any unpleasantness that might arise from it in that way. Once Con had spoken to her on their return, however, she'd come to realize it was not really necessary to go at once. She could allow herself time for calm reflection. It seemed Horace was not, as she'd thought, virtually breathing down her neck. It seemed there was a strong possibility that she need never worry again that he would come after her.

There was almost an equal one that he would come back to haunt her. He had been very much alive when he and the man he fought had gone into the river. They had seemed fairly well matched in both size and ferocity. Both men might have died. The raider might have been victorious. But it was just as possible Horace, who was well accustomed to such contests given his predilection for low company, had won the day.

He could've been swept miles downstream. Any number of things might have happened to slow him in his return for her. It didn't necessarily follow that he was dead only because he had not come yet. And she didn't for a moment believe, if he had survived, that he would not come for her.

Perhaps, in a few more weeks, if he had not come she could rest a little easier. She could not now.

She wasn't certain she would ever be able to breathe a sigh of relief and accept that he was truly dead, unless and until all who'd perished had been accounted for.

It was that sense of hopelessness as well as a budding of relief that had brought a suffocating knot of misery to her throat and tears to her eyes. She wasn't certain Con had understood that. She hoped he had not. She must be considered a monster for being glad that her husband was dead, but the possibility of it had sent a fierce sense of hopefulness through her.

Con was seated at the head of the table when she entered the room that Sherman had pointed out as the breakfast room, but rose at once at her entrance and moved around the table to seat her himself. The gesture surprised and disconcerted her until it flashed into her mind that her mother had told her of such a well bred custom. She had thought it odd. She still did, but somehow it pleased her, though his nearness sent an uncomfortable shiver of awareness through her.

She glanced at him uneasily as he took his seat once more. His own look was piercing, but he said nothing until they'd been served and the servants had withdrawn once more.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She didn't pretend to misunderstand him. It occurred to her that she might never be all right again. Still, there seemed little point in belaboring her situation or bemoaning it either. "Fine," she replied neutrally.

His glance was skeptical, which was hardly surprising considering the night she'd spent. And she was well aware that it showed in the dark circles beneath her eyes this morning. Apparently, he decided not to pursue it further, however, for he let the matter drop and they finished their breakfast in relative silence.

He made no attempt to rise when he'd finished and Lacey, Bessie's kitchen helper, had cleared away his dishes. Mary Catherine, who'd been in the act of doing so, settled back. He wasn't long in coming to the point. It seemed he'd been giving it some consideration. Perhaps that accounted for the fact that he looked little more rested from his night than she did.

"What will you do now?"

This then was what the summons had been about, Mary Catherine realized in dismay. She'd hoped to have more time to consider, to discover what, if any, options she had. But she realized almost at once that she had at least two, though neither of them held a great deal of appeal.

Her father would be coming, heading south as he inevitably did each winter. There would be no reason to avoid him if she had no husband he could force her to return to. The rumors would bring him once he began to make inquiries about the Brooks landlot and found that it had not been homesteaded. Which brought her to her second option.

"I don't know. I suppose I must assume I'm a widow, but I've no...proof of it and I don't know if I will be allowed to claim Mr. Brooks' landlot."

In point of fact, it had been her dowry, but as her father had passed it to her husband on her twentieth birthday, she had never considered it hers. In any case, she had heretofore looked upon it as a symbol of her father's betrayal. He had used it to, in his words, settle her respectably with a man willing to overlook her great flaw, who was also willing to see that she behaved respectably thereafter.

He had refused to believe in her innocence when he'd come upon her with the young minister he'd taken under his wing, the young man who'd been trying to seduce her from the time he'd joined them. Samuel had done nothing more than steal a kiss, but nothing either of them had said could convince him that there was no more to it than that.

She had often been sorry he had whipped the man from their camp, and not only because she had hated to see anyone humiliated in such a manner. She had not loved Samuel, but he had been a gentleman and good natured. She would have fared far better if her father had wed her to the man who had supposedly ruined her, rather than his old friend from his salad days.

Con frowned at her words, obviously displeased, though she wasn't certain why. "I don't see how you could be denied a right to it unless he had some relative to claim it."

She shook her head. "Elmer was his only living relative so far as I'm aware."

"Then there is no one to dispute your right to it." He paused. "But I don't see how you could claim it and hold it alone. There is nothing there to claim but the land. No shelter. You don't even have supplies. With winter coming on, you'd have no time for a garden if you could clear a place for one."

A pique of irritation surfaced. She was no fool. She was as aware of her lack as he apparently was. On the other hand, he was not aware that she had learned from the time she was a small child how to survive the wilderness. She thought it possible, with a minimum of supplies, that she could get by with her knowledge of wood lore. There would be edible plants she could gather. She knew how to set snares. "There was nothing at all that could be salvaged from the wagon?"

Con studied her for a long moment before he answered. "I had the hands load up everything that was, and had it brought back here. It's been stored in one of the outbuildings, what little there was of it. We repaired the wagon. Its not much to start a homestead, particularly when you've no man to help you with the labor."

Mary Catherine looked down at her hands in her lap. How kind of him to play devil's advocate. Obviously, in his eyes, she was just another useless, empty-headed female, who had not enough wit to survive without the male of the species to look after her. "I guess it must seem so, but it will have to do."

Con's lips thinned in irritation. He had not broached the subject to speed her departure, far from it. He'd spent a near sleepless night wrangling the situation, aware that she must be considering leaving now that she was well, aware of his desire, his need, to have her stay. But he was aware, too, that the proposal he was considering might drive her away, and that it was unconscionable, given her situation.

From what he could see, he was in a position of power, and she without options. And while it seemed it must guarantee his success, it left a bad taste in his mouth. He would be taking an ungentlemanly advantage, and that alone was sufficient to give him a disgust of himself. But it would also leave him in the unpalatable position of wondering if she stayed because she wanted to, or because she had to.

Apparently, he'd been wrong, or at least partly so. It seemed she had an option, or thought she did. That should have alleviated some of his guilt. It didn't. Neither did it divert him from his purpose. In effect, it encouraged him to cast his doubts to the four winds. "You could stay....with me."

Her head jerked up. She stared at him, feeling the blood rush from her face only to rush back again almost as quickly in a hot tide that scalded her cheeks and brought stinging tears to her eyes. She blinked them back quickly. He could not mean what she'd thought he meant. But she saw, in his shuttered expression that he had. "I could not. You've been kind. I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me. But I'm mended now and I must go."

She pushed back her chair and rose a little shakily, chagrinned and thoroughly rattled. But she wondered a little wildly why his suggestion had hurt, not angered her, as Dr. Bealle's had. Anger would have been easier to deal with.

He caught up to her before she'd reached the door, placing his palm against it to prevent her from opening it. She stared at the panel stubbornly waiting for him to allow her to pass, refusing to look at him.

"Cat, you can't stay there," he said harshly. "There's nothing for you there."

"There's nothing for me here," she snapped and then bit her lip, wondering where the words had come from.

He was silent for some moments. "There could be."

His tone, as much as his words, sent a shiver through her that was equal parts apprehension and expectation. This was plain speaking indeed. Still, she felt no anger, nor even, surprisingly, revulsion only a great sadness and an inexplicable tension that caught the breath in her lungs. She looked up at him, keeping her expression neutral with an effort. Plain speaking deserved the same. "Even if it wasn't against everything I was raised to believe in, even if I wanted to, I can't give you what you're asking for. I don't have it to give."

His face hardened. "You didn't love him," he said harshly.

She made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "I hated him. From the day my father dragged me before the alter and gave me to him, I hated him. But it changes nothing. He took from me all that I had to give and he destroyed it. You want a warm-blooded, living woman. I am dead inside."

"I don't believe that."

A hard knot formed in her throat. She swallowed against it and looked away. "Believe what you will, but I can not."

She jumped when she felt the touch of his fingers along her temple. Very gently he smoothed the strands of dark hair there, tucking them into her chignon before he allowed his hand to drop to his side once more. "He took. You didn't give. And he made you afraid. I could take that away. I want to, Cat. Let me."

She dropped her heated forehead against the panel of the door, squeezing her eyes shut. Why did that sound so infinitely appealing? Why did it make her want to ignore all her early teachings? Perhaps because it brought a spark of hope to her, that she might, after all, have some sort of future?

It stretched long and barren before her now. She yearned for a family of her own, had done so from the time her brothers had been snatched from her care, though she'd loathed Horace Brooks so violently she'd told herself she was fiercely glad he'd gotten no children upon her. Even in her fear and loneliness she'd wanted no child to share that life with her, had been revolted by the very thought of his seed growing inside her.

But what of now? What of the future she might have? She had not, until this moment, considered that there was a possibility of something different, better. Perhaps because there wasn't when she knew she would never willingly wed another man, when she knew there would never be children for her.

Was it possible he could make her feel whole and clean and human again? "How?" she whispered. "How could you do that? I can't bear to be touched. I truly can't. Sometimes I feel so ill, I think I will be sick. And when someone, a man, comes too close I feel as if I can't breathe."

He was silent for some moments. "Do you feel that way when I touch you? When I stand close to you as I am now?"

Her eyes snapped open. She rolled her head against the panel to look at him. "I...yes..no. Sometimes. Sometimes I just feel...so strange..and uneasy." Sometimes she felt comforted by his nearness, by his touch, she realized with a trace of surprise.

A look that was a curious mixture of relief and satisfaction crossed his face and tinged his voice when he spoke. "Then I'll wait."

She blinked, blank with surprise. "For what?"

"For you to come to me."

She frowned. "I don't think I understand."

"Stay, as my guest, or if you wish, as the lady of the house. You have my blessing to do as you please and I confess I could only be grateful if you could bring my household to some sort of order," he added wryly. "In return, I will see to the improvement of your land. Once the harvest is in, I'll have my hands clear your fields, build a cabin, dig a well. If, when its done, you still wish to leave, I won't try to dissuade you. I'll do nothing to stop you. Only grant me one thing."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll try. If I can't come to you, if my wooing you distresses you, then you must come to me. All I ask is that you try.

Chapter Fifteen

"Mista Con ain't complain 'bout de cleanin'," Bessie muttered sullenly, thrusting her lower lip out belligerently. "Ah 'spect ah should axe him do he want de flo' scrub agin instead ob his suppa' when he come in from de fields hongry."

Mary Catherine's lips tightened, her eyes narrowing as she studied her opponent in this latest battle of wills. She had not truly expected that Bessie would cooperate with her when the African woman had made it obvious from the onset that she resented Mary Catherine's presence. But then, she had not expected that Bessie would quickly become openly defiant either...at least when Con wasn't present to overhear.

They had, in the week since Mary Catherine had come to her agreement with Con, had three skirmishes. In each, Bessie had come out, more or less, the victor. Mary Catherine had no intention of conceding another victory, particularly since she began to see that each time she gave ground, Bessie became a little bolder and a little less cooperative.

They'd begun with a clash over John. Her first mistake was that she hadn't recognized it as the opening salvo it was and had yielded the field without so much as a whimper of protest.

But then, she had never intended to usurp Bessie's place at all, and particularly not with John. She had merely given in to the child's pleas to tell him a story before he was tucked up for the night. When Bessie had complained that Mary Catherine was keeping him up past his bedtime, she had yielded at once and retired from the field. Unfortunately, Bessie had seen it as a weakness instead of the concession it was in consideration of the fact that Bessie had been John's nurse almost from birth.

She had made her second mistake when she had settled for a draw when they clashed again over the laundry. In part, that had been because, again, Mary Catherine had not seen it for the battle of wills it was.

In truth, she knew next to nothing about running a plantation home and, after only three days of studying the workings of the place, had not yet seen what changes were needed to improve Con's situation. Her mother had regaled her with stories of that life, not instructed her in the management of such an extensive household. She had been fifteen before she had even had a permanent home, and not only had there been no comparison at all between Claire's Retreat and the rough cabin Horace had called home, but she had been nothing more, in truth, than a servant in it.

When she had gone down to the wash house, it had been with the intention of seeing, at last, to the conversion of her wardrobe to the trappings of a widow. Once there, however, she had studied the workings of the laundry and come to the conclusion that here, at least, she was on firm footing. Laundry she understood. And there was certainly room for improvement in the work the washwomen had been doing to date.

She had instructed the laundresses then that everything from the household must go from the wash pot to the battling block, back to the wash pot for a second wash and from that point through three thorough rinses before it was hung out to dry. Not only were the clothes not being washed as thoroughly as they should, but far too much lye soap was being left in them. It made the clothes scratchy and uncomfortable.

Bessie, who had followed her down, had objected immediately. "Mista Con's whites too fine fo' dat. De house linens too fine fo' dat. Beatin' dem on de battlin' block jess put holes in dem an' din dey ain't good fo' nuthin'."

Mary Catherine having had no previous experience with 'fine' fabrics, conceded the possibility. "Then put them on the rub board."

"Cain't do dat neder. Dat'll make pills all ober de fabric and Mista Con won't be happy 'bout pills on his unmentionables."

It was the unmentionables that did it. Blushing scarlet, Mary Catherine had retreated in disorder, merely throwing over her shoulder, "Then boil them until they're white." The order, flung back at them while in full retreat, had made little impression naturally enough.

She made her third mistake when she'd examined the mending and discovered how sloppily it had been done. There, too, she'd felt on firmer footing. Gathering it up, she'd taken it to the sewing woman and commanded her to take the stitches out and do them again.

"Won't do no good. Dat woman's eyes done got so bad she cain't hardly see to thread de needle no mo'," Bessie supplied helpfully, waddling up behind her and flashing her a glance that was equal parts satisfaction and malice before she adopted an expression of benign stupidity.

At that, Mary Catherine had simply snatched the clothing up and taken it off to mend it herself. She had never considered herself an accomplished needlewoman, but she could scarcely do worse.

However, that was the last concession she intended to make. As determined as she was to bring Con's household to order, she could not do it single-handedly. She must have some cooperation from the household servants.

Moreover, she had no intention of yielding Bessie the field even one more time. "There is no reason that I can see why the house can not be cleaned as it should be and supper cooked as well."

Bessie flicked her a glance of enmity before quickly dropping her eyes again. "'Spect dat's 'cause you ain't nuthin' but white trash an' ain't gots no idea how things is done on a big plantation," she muttered under her breath.

Mary Catherine whitened with pure rage. It was on the tip of her tongue to inform Bessie that both her parents had been born on plantations every bit as rich as Con's. And that her father's calling most certainly did not make her or her brothers white trash. She had no intention of acknowledging Bessie's insult by dignifying it with a rebuttal, however. Bessie's opinion of her mattered not a whit.

"I didn't have to be raised on a plantation to see that this place is a sad shadow of what it could be if you weren't too bone deep lazy and no account to see it done!

I don't need your permission to see it done, Bessie. Master St.Claire asked it of me. I've no intention of doing it with no help or cooperation of any kind. If you can't, or won't, do as you're told, then perhaps I should speak to him about putting you out to pasture. It seems to me you've grown too old to see after your duties as you should. Perhaps what you need is a rocking chair to sit out your days," Mary Catherine snapped.

Bessie was insolent, and incredibly fat and lazy, but she was scarcely past her prime. True, she had been beyond what was generally considered her childbearing years when she had borne the stillborn child that had enabled her to become John's wetnurse, but as it wasn't unheard of for women, particularly African women, to bear hale and hearty children up to their fortieth year, it seemed improbable Bessie had yet seen her fiftieth year.

"Ah wuz takin' care ob Mista Con and his boy fo' years fo' you cum, an' doin' jess fine."

Mary Catherine's lips tightened at Bessie's outright insolence. Bessie did not look up, but her own face was eloquent of battle lines drawn. Both were so intent upon their contest of wills that neither woman paid the least heed as the door opened and closed behind them and footsteps approached, both assuming it was Sherman returning from his errand outside.

"If what I've seen is any indication, then I can not agree with your definition of fine. If this was a dirt floored cabin, then this floor would be fine. This isn't fine," Mary Catherine snapped, pointing to the muddy footprint one of the maids had left behind when she'd scrubbed the floor.

Bessie's lip jutted another half inch. "Ah takes good care ob Mista Con an' his boy. He ain't gwine listen to no complainin' from no po' white..." Bessie's muttering broke off mid-sentence.

"I wouldn't count on it."

Mary Catherine whirled abruptly at the sound of Con's voice, staring at him guiltily. Bessie turned a pasty gray. Mary Catherine blushed scarlet. After studying them for some moments in silence, Con continued, the fury in his voice obvious despite the calm, level tone he maintained.

"I believe I neglected to tell you, Bessie, that Miss..Mrs. Brooks now stands as your Mistress. Unless I tell you otherwise, you will consider anything that comes from her as having come direct from me. Is that understood?"

"Yassuh, Mista Con. Ah'll jess go git dem wuthless, no count gals an' show dem whut dey miss."

Con said nothing more, merely watching her through narrowed eyes as she scurried away. He turned his gaze upon Mary Catherine then, studied her for a long moment and finally grasped her wrist and led her to his study.

Too stunned to act before, Mary Catherine pulled away at once when he'd closed the door behind them. Unconsciously, she massaged her wrist, though in truth he hadn't hurt her in the least, studying him uneasily as he propped a broad shoulder against the door and folded his arms.

"You said you wouldn't..touch me," she accused, still feeling the residual anger from her encounter with Bessie riding her.

Con's fury over Bessie's behavior deserted him at once, and with it his half formed intention of soothing Mary Catherine's wounded feelings. Evidently she had no more need of that than she'd needed his interference in dealing with Bessie. He wondered, with considerable amusement, if she meant to dress him down now that he'd thwarted her of her intended prey.

Underlying that a wholly unanticipated current of arousal rose at her choice of words. Quite suddenly, he wanted to touch her to show her there was a vast difference between what he'd said and what he'd done. He resisted the urge, yielding to his amusement instead. Tilting his head to one side, he lifted his dark brows in feigned surprise.

"Looking for an excuse to renege on our agreement already? I confess I'm surprised, though I don't know why I should be. Women rarely grasp the fine points of honor."

Mary Catherine's lips tightened. She was far too angry to catch the twitch of his lips or the gleam of mischief in his eyes that betrayed his teasing amusement. "That's scarcely surprising, is it? Considering men have a very bad habit of changing the rules to suit themselves as often as the whim strikes them."

Up went his dark brows again. "Have I done so?" he asked, all innocence, making no attempt now to hide either the gleam of laughter in his eyes or the banked fires that vied for dominance over his amusement.

"You know very well that you said you wouldn't.." She broke off and began again. "You said that I could..." She stopped again, uncomfortably aware that that sounded far worse.

He almost chuckled outright at that, as charmed by her confusion as he was aroused by the suggestiveness of her unintentional slip. But though he conquered the urge to give vent to his mirth, he found he could not contain the smile that began with a faint twitch of his lips and broadened slowly to a grin. Yielding to impulse, he spread his arms wide in an attitude of surrender.

"Behold me, all a quiver with anticipation," he murmured, and found with little surprise that the jesting remark was not entirely untrue. "Do your worst. I've no objection."

Mary Catherine had to resist an urge to stamp her foot in vexation. She was so surprised by the temptation to vent her anger so openly that she was still reeling with it when Con's grin vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

He dropped his arms to his sides, stepping closer. Suddenly he felt no amusement at all, only the desire to touch, to make love to her. He wanted to feel her mouth under his, taste her, have the feel and scent and taste of her invade his senses. He allowed his gaze to touch her mouth, caress it.

He had, once, touched that mouth with his own, but not as a lover. It had been meant only to soothe, to apologize for the distress her fever brought her in nightmares.

That mouth beckoned him now to take, not give, tempted him to warm himself at the fire he'd glimpsed banked within her before, on the day he'd come upon her unexpectedly in the dressing room. He'd kept his desires firmly tamped, knowing instinctively even before she'd voiced her fears that, to allow them to rule him would be to lose her forever.

He knew the time had not come to allow them full rein and yet the temptation became almost overwhelming to allow himself something.

"There's touching, Cat. And then there's touching," he said huskily. "I never said, or meant, that I would not touch you at all. It gives me far too much pleasure to deny myself even so innocent a contact as that." He lifted his hand, barely skimming her cheek with the backs of his fingers, gently grazing her lower lip with the tip of his thumb. Mary Catherine's breath caught in her lungs, and satisfaction filled him. "I said I would not touch you as a lover would. You perceive the very great difference?"

Mary Catherine swallowed with some difficulty, aware of him in a way that she'd only truly been once before, really seeing him at last.

He'd obviously only just now come in from the fields. His hair was tousled, churned by the wind into a confusing mass of black curls. Despite the mild temperature of the day, they clung damply here and there to his forehead and neck, ample evidence that he'd been toiling in the fields beside his hands, not merely standing back to watch and supervise.

She saw, as her eyes dropped lower, that he'd opened his shirt almost to his waist. Dark curls clung damply there as well. She thought she should have found the sight repugnant, or at least been repelled by the odors of man and horse and dirt that assaulted her senses with his nearness. She wasn't. Somehow his earthiness sparked some deeply hidden, primal urge within her, flooding her with darkly-heated impulses.

The smell of soap, from his clothes and his flesh, of the pomade he'd used earlier to try to tame his unruly locks and the lingering aroma of sandalwood vied for dominance above the other scents. Together they created a heated vortex around and within her. She felt no temptation to push him away or, failing that, to retreat herself. Instead, she felt a pull to her senses. She wanted to step closer still, felt the urge to lift her hand and allow her curious fingers to discover if his flesh was as appealing hard as she remembered. As if reading her thoughts, he spoke again, reminding her that she'd agreed, if only tacitly, to that part of his bargain as well.

"I said I would wait for you to overcome your reluctance and come to me. Are you feeling brave today, Cat?" Con asked roughly, deliberately taunting her, determined to provoke her into taking the first step.

She swallowed with some difficulty, scarcely acknowledging the flicker of anger that passed through her at the baiting quality of the question. She was no child, to jump into the fire, only because she'd been dared to do so. Still, the temptation to rise to the bait became almost overwhelming. Or perhaps it was merely that she thought it an adequate excuse to yield to temptation.

He saw her battle, sensed that wariness would again defeat temptation. Frustration surfaced. "You don't mean to keep your end of the bargain, do you Cat?"

She looked up at that. "I've been trying," she said stiffly.

He shook his head slowly. "You've been avoiding me."

Indignation welled within her. "You can not accuse me of that when you spend your days in the fields. Am I to come to you there, then? Behave as your..." She paused, seeking a term she could utter without undue embarrassment. "..leman before all?" His expression hardened with anger for several moments before he tamped it. "Granted, that makes things..inconvenient. Unfortunately, there's little I can do about it with the harvest upon us and Lincoln only just now beginning to hobble about since his accident." He allowed her to absorb that before he pressed again. "Still, I'm here now."

It was a gauntlet, blatantly so. Mary Catherine had no intention of picking it up, or thought she hadn't. When he held out his hand to her, however, she placed hers in it with only the slightest hesitation.

He studied her hand a long moment before he raised his eyes to hers and snared her gaze. Very slowly, he lifted her hand, placing her palm against his cheek. She stared at it when he'd released it, unable to tear her eyes away, caught by the paleness of her hand against his swarthy cheek. It triggered an awareness inside her of the vast differences between them, made her deeply, vibrantly conscious of his masculinity and her own femininity. Her heart, which had suspended briefly, painfully, thrummed to agitated life once more, pounding agitatedly against her ribs. Her breath, which had caught in her lungs, escaped jerkily and caught again in snatches that made her feel lightheaded. A wave of dizziness washed over her. She closed her eyes against it, allowing her hand and fingers to sense and explore.

The skin above his cheekbones was cool from the kiss of a late November breeze. The plains beneath it warm and rough with the light stubble of his beard. Intrigued, she slid her palm down his cheek, testing the texture of it and opened her eyes when she felt the hard line of his jaw against the heel of her hand. She traced that hard line with her fingertips, with her eyes, following it to the thrust of his chin. Lightly she touched the faint cleft there with her fingertip.

He drew in his breath sharply. Drawn by that sound, emboldened to explore further, she touched the firmness of his lower lip, tracing it before she withdrew her hand abruptly, balling it into a fist to still the strange tingling there.

Her gaze dropped to the deep vee of his shirt once more and not only because she couldn't sustain his piercing gaze. She suddenly recalled very vividly the thoughts she'd entertained the day she had come face to face with him in the storage room off her bedroom. She had wanted to touch him then. She had wanted to know if his flesh felt as hard and unyielding as it looked.

Trepidation tightened around her, stifling the urge to give in to the impulse she'd felt before, to explore him with touch as she had her eyes. She wasn't certain what that whim might provoke, but she sensed it might break her restraint as well as Con's and send them both reeling out of control. She did not feel so bold as to test either at the moment.

"Curious, Cat?" Con asked, his voice rough, his breath nearly as unsteady as her own.

Her startled gaze flew to his. She'd thought once that they were the strange white hot blue of a smith's forge. She saw that blazing fire in them now. She saw also a welter of emotions she couldn't begin to guess at.

Quite suddenly she wondered why she hadn't thrown Con St.Claire's outrageous proposal in his face. She had allowed herself to think it was because she had no choice. But she had, however unpalatable, and if any man but Con had made such a suggestion, she would have chosen starvation before she would have entertained it for a moment.

Even so, she had assured herself she would not barter herself for the carrot Con had wagged beneath her nose. She would work for him, gladly, but, as badly as she had wanted her own little cabin, she could not yield passively to him. And she certainly could not bring herself to take the initiative. At any rate, she refused to believe that he truly meant it.

She had discovered that he did. And she realized she had no intention of reneging on their bargain.

"Curiosity killed the cat," she responded after a moment, as much to prod her flagging sense of self-preservation as in an effort to attempt a light rejoinder.

Disappointment descended upon him with the realization that wariness had once more tipped the scales on the side of caution. He tamped it, taking refuge once more in teasing amusement. One corner of his mouth tipped up. "Satisfaction brought him back."

Taken momentarily aback at his quick rejoinder, Mary Catherine felt amusement surface almost at once. "Blasphemer," she accused him, mock stern.

He grinned, his eyes glinting with laughter now. "I wasn't referring to that sort of resurrection."

She frowned questioningly, aware that his remark carried some sort of risque overtone, though she couldn't quite decide what it might be. In a moment, however, a suspicion stole over her and she felt her color rise with it.

He chuckled outright at her expression, tapping her chin up and bringing her to an awareness that her jaw had gone slack with shocked surprise. Bestowing an admonishing frown upon him, she dropped her gaze, and beheld muddy boots. Her gaze flew up once more, accusing now.

She discovered that Con had been examining his muddy boots as well. As if sensing her censure, he looked up and grinned sheepishly. "I came in to see if you would care to take a buggy ride."

Suspicious, but willing to be diverted, she tilted her head to one side questioningly.

"I thought you might like to see your place."

"This is it? Oh, my! It's beautiful," Mary Catherine gasped, enchanted, in a fever at once to climb down from the buggy and race off to explore.

"But, Papa...," John piped up and then broke off abruptly.

Mary Catherine turned in time to catch a glimpse of Con's threatening expression before it disappeared abruptly. Immediately suspicious, she frowned, realizing quiet suddenly that they had traveled no great distance from St.Claire's Retreat. They could not have driven for more than twenty minutes, surely?

"This can't be it," she said, her voice flat with disappointment as she turned to look again at the great live oak that spread its mighty limbs above a slight rise, and the tiny stream that trickled along the bottom of the dell beyond it.

Con took a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to her. "This is most definitely it as you'll see from the deed."

She eyed the paper suspiciously a moment before she took it and opened it to read. Unfortunately, she knew no more when she'd finished than she had when she'd begun. The description of footage and landmarks, degrees and cardinal compass points might well add up to the acreage she supposedly owned, but she could not make heads or tails of where it began and ended. "You're quite certain this is the place?"

"I would not have begun clearing if I hadn't made certain of it first," he said dryly. "Do you have a problem with it? I thought certain you'd want the cabin on the rise."

She studied him a long moment before she spoke, still deeply suspicious. "It's not that. It's a beautiful site. It's just....It seems.. coincidental that it's so very close to your place."

Con sent her an unfathomable look but finally shrugged. "It marches along one of my closest boundaries. As for coincidental, I suppose in a way it is, but you were in route to it when the accident occurred. As it happens you were almost upon it at the time."

It seemed a reasonable enough explanation. Somehow, however, Mary Catherine couldn't be entirely easy in her mind that she'd tumbled out of the hands of the raiders and directly into the arms of her nearest neighbor. Particularly when it occurred to her that she would be very conveniently located to the man who had designs upon her as his mistress.

The storage building was dark, and had obviously seen little or no use in the last few years. The musty smell of age vied with the rich scent of fecund earth and overlaid the gentler scents of wood and leather and other unidentifiable odors.

Mary Catherine paused in the doorway, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior. The wagon, she saw, stood in the center of the room but beyond it lay only deep shadows. Glancing around, she found that a lantern hung on a nail near the door. Beside it, on a board wedged between two studs, was a match box. They were damp from the humidity, but finally she struck one that caught flame and lit the lantern.

Almost at once the breeze that tunneled through the door began snatching at it, causing the flame to waver and surge inside its globe. Catching hold of the edge of the door, she closed it behind her. The light steadied at once.

Holding the lantern high, she rounded the wagon and advanced upon the shadowy, ungainly bulk in one corner that resolved itself at last into a collection of boxes and barrels. Setting the lantern carefully upon one of the higher stacks, she pulled the tool she'd brought from the pocket of her apron and pried up the lid of the crate she'd knelt before.

The rattle of crockery greeted her ears as she worked and alerted her to the contents even before she had it opened. Setting the lid to one side, she sifted through the sawdust and unearthed the pieces one by one, counting them. There were disappointingly few and none were unmarred by chips or cracks. But then they had looked little better when they'd been packed away at the beginning of their journey.

Sighing a little with resignation, she set about repacking them once more, spreading the pieces among the sawdust in hopes some might yet arrive at the Brooks homestead intact. She was so intent upon her task, she didn't, at first, hear the grating scrape of soles against earth.

She stopped at once when she did, glancing toward the door. She could see nothing but the wagon, however, since the light was above and behind her, casting deep shadows over the front half of the room. "Who's there?"

There was no answer. Deciding she was hearing things, she went back to her task. She'd just tapped the lid in place when she heard the sound again, closer. She whirled abruptly, gasping in alarm as a dark, hulking figure emerged from the shadows on the other side of the wagon.

Chapter Sixteen

"Merciful heavens!" Mary Catherine snapped, feeling anger replace her fear. "What are you doing skulking in the shadows like that?"

"De haints, dey cum wid dis wagon," Bessie muttered glancing around the storeroom apprehensively.

Mary Catherine frowned. "What?"

"De haints. Gettin' kilt like dat, dey restless souls now. Dey gots ter git dey revenge fo' dey can rest. Dey cum wid de wagon when Mista Con brung it, 'cause dey has ter stay wid it 'cause dey kilt dere. An' now dey haunt dis place."

"What do you mean, killed like that?" Mary Catherine asked sharply.

Bessie looked at her then, but her face was expressionless. "Violent like, in de riber."

"They drowned," Mary Catherine said flatly. "If they were going to haunt any place, I would think it would be the river."

"But dey died 'cause yo man tooked dem dere. Dey come here fo' revenge."

Mary Catherine stared at her for a long moment, but finally decided she had no intention of arguing further over something so nonsensical. "Nonsense," she said briskly and turned back to complete her task. "Did you have some particular reason for coming out here?" Or were you just trying to frighten me? she added mentally.

"Dey been makin' misery here," Bessie pursued doggedly.

"Lincoln had an accident, plain and simple."

"De dawgs is been actin' up. Some night doan hardly hear a peep outta dem, din dey jess start whoopin' and hollerin' up a storm. An' dey ain't neber nothin' dere when we goes ter check, 'cept one time Willy sees dis here shadow like, slippin' outta dis buildin'. An' din it jess up an' disappear when he cum runnin' at it."

Mary Catherine sent her a skeptical glance. It seemed far more probable Willy, who was doubtless one of Con's hands, had run the other way if he'd seen anything, particularly if he thought it was a ghost. "If the dogs are barking at night then something is prowling the place, but I doubt very much that it's a ghost."

"Willy say it look lak a man."

Mary Catherine felt a shiver race along her spine. She gave up all pretense then of sorting through her belongings. "If it looked like a man, then it was. Did he tell Master St.Claire about this?"

Bessie nodded. "Mista Con say dey ain't no sign nobody been on de place far as he could see. Weren't nuthin' teched."

Somehow Mary Catherine didn't feel reassured. It seemed probable the hands were just jumping at shadows. But she wondered uneasily if there was a man skulking about the place. It seemed unlikely Con would be able to tell unless something had been tampered with. It would have been difficult to distinguish one set of footprints from another with so many people working the plantation.

She was on the point of asking Bessie if Willy had been able to tell anything about the physical characteristics of his 'ghost' when a gun shot abruptly cut across the silence. She jumped to her feet on the instant, her eyes wide with fear. "What was that?" she gasped, rushing toward the door, not really expecting Bessie to answer.

"'Spect its dat hawse," Bessie said.

Mary Catherine stopped in her tracks. "What horse?"

"Dat carriage hawse of Mista Con's done gone slam crazy an' try to 'tack Mista Con. He sent me ter tell you he was gwine take you fo' a buggy ride like usual, 'cause its Saturday. An' ah wuz lookin' fo' you all ober when ah heared de commotion down by de stable."

Mary Catherine stared at her disbelievingly, torn between fury and fright. She didn't stay to question Bessie further, however. She rushed from the storage shed and raced for the stables.

The shot had drawn most of the plantation people. Still driven by some unnamed fear, Mary Catherine plowed her way through the milling throng without waiting for anyone to step aside for her. She stopped abruptly at the sight that greeted her when she reached the front of the crowd.

Con and two of his hands were standing over the downed horse. Two others were being helped away from the corral, though neither were apparently hurt very badly. Both men were able to walk and seemed more shaken and perhaps bruised from the incident than really injured.

She didn't, at first, see John. She didn't think to look for him, certain in the back of her mind that Bessie would have mentioned the child if she had known he was there. In any case, she could not seem to think of anything except Bessie's comment that the horse had tried to attack Con.

It was the fear that the horse had not just tried, but succeeded, that had driven her to the paddock in borderline panic. She was somewhat relieved when she saw Con standing by the stallion, seemingly hale and uninjured. Nevertheless, she wasn't completely convinced that he'd escaped unharmed, and searched him anxiously with her eyes, looking for any sign of an injury he might be concealing. There was nothing to indicate such a possibility, however, and knee-weakening relief swamped her.

After a moment, when she'd mastered her shaking limbs, she moved to the paddock fence. The gate stood slightly ajar and she edged through the opening, her eyes and her attention fixed on Con's broad back as he knelt to examine the dead mare. It was as she was approaching Con that she heard a sound that drew her attention to the side of the paddock.

His back against one of the posts, John sat in the dirt cradling Lady to him. His face was buried in the spaniel's fur, but Mary Catherine could see the tears that streaked the dirt on his cheeks. She rushed to him, her heart pounding with anxiety as she dropped to the ground beside the child and examined him. "Are you hurt, sweetheart?"

John shook his head, choking back a sob. "Lady is. She was trying to keep old Susie from hurting Papa and Susie stomped her. Is she going to die, Miz Catherine?" he asked, lifting a face of such misery to her that Mary Catherine felt a responding ache in her own chest.

Unable to think how to answer the child, Mary Catherine threw a glance over her shoulder at the carriage horse, Susie, wondering what could have caused the horse to behave in such a manner.

Susie had not, since Mary Catherine had become familiar with the mare, shown herself to be anything but the most gentle of creatures. Primarily a carriage horse, Susie had been equally amenable to the saddle. Mary Catherine had ridden Susie down to her homestead several times in the past two weeks and never suffered a moment's anxiety over the animal's behavior. Most generally it was Susie that Con had hitched to the buggy when he took Mary Catherine and John for a ride, as he'd begun to do each Saturday afternoon since their first ride together.

It made no sense, none at all. Susie was not even prone to be skittish, much less temperamental.

"Possessed, dat's what she wuz," Bessie muttered behind her, as if she'd read Mary Catherine's mind. "Dem ghosts done possess dat hawse."

Mary Catherine whirled at the sound of Bessie's voice, glaring at the African woman. She didn't care for the fact that Bessie seemed to follow her around the plantation, as if she suspected Mary Catherine was up to no good and meant to catch her at it. Most of her anger, however, was directed at Bessie for speaking of such things in front of the child. She didn't want Bessie further distressing John with her wild tales. "Don't be absurd," she snapped, glancing significantly at John.

Surprisingly enough, Bessie caught the unspoken message at once. After studying John for a long moment, she turned on her heel and shuffled back toward the house.

Mary Catherine watched her go, still frowning, though her thoughts had taken another turn. Not for a moment did she believe in such foolishness as hauntings or possession. Something had undoubtedly happened to Susie to make her go wild, but Mary Catherine was certain whatever it was had its roots firmly in this world, not the next.

Susie had tried to savage Con. That alone should have nixed Bessie's theories of ghosts after revenge. She, Mary Catherine, should have been the target if that was the case, not Con. And even that seemed farfetched, not to say unreasonable, since Mary Catherine had not been responsible for anyone's death.

But then it occurred to her that Con had been about to take her for a ride. If the mare had not begun to act up before he'd harnessed her to the buggy, then Mary Catherine would have been in it as well as Con and John. And she had ridden the mare as many times or more as the mare had been used to take her driving.

Perchance she'd been the target after all? Maybe, then again, perhaps not. She didn't believe in ghosts, no matter how uneasy she might be in the dark of night when such tales were spun. Revenge, however, was something Horace Brooks would be more than passingly familiar with.

She shook that thought off, turning her attention to John once more. "Get up, darling, and let me have a look at her. Perhaps she isn't hurt as badly as you think." She feared the little dog was, but she was loathe to tell John so. For, although conscious, the dog had scarcely moved since Mary Catherine had knelt beside John and that seemed a very bad sign.

Con came up behind her while she was examining the spaniel. She sensed his presence even before he spoke, though she didn't look up till he did so. "Go into the house, John."

John began crying at once, though he'd manfully kept his tears at bay until then. "You're not going to shoot her too, are you, Papa?"

Turning to look up at Con then, Mary Catherine saw the answer written on his harsh features. It increased her own distress. It wasn't only that she'd become fond of the little spaniel herself. John loved the dog. It would break his heart if she died. And he was far too young to understand Con's motives for shooting Lady.

"I said, go in the house."

Mary Catherine rose to her feet. Drawn by the pain she sensed in Con, she stepped up to him, laying her hand lightly on his arm to gain his attention. He looked down at her, his own anguish well hidden now. Somehow that made her ache inexplicably worse. "Con, let me tend her. Perhaps I can do something for her," she said low, not wanting John to overhear and have his hopes falsely raised.

Con shook his head infinitesimally. "She's hurt inside. You know the best we can do is to stop her suffering. I can't just let her hurt, Cat."

Con was hurt. He loved the little dog as much as John. As much as she wanted to save Lady for her sake alone, she wanted to try to save the little spaniel for Con and his son more. She

didn't stop to consider why it was so important to her to ease their suffering. She only knew that it was, that it made her ache to see them so hurt, as if Susie had savaged her as well as the spaniel. "We don't know that. Very likely you're right, but let me try."

Con's face hardened. "I'd give anything if it wasn't so, Cat, but Susie trampled her badly. It isn't likely Lady could survive it, she's such a fragile little thing, and I won't let her suffer, perhaps for hours, before she dies. Don't ask it of me."

Mary Catherine bit her lip. "I'll dose her with laudanum. It'll make her sleep and ease her pain. If she's hurt inside as you believe, likely she'll die in her sleep, but she won't be suffering. I think she has a broken rib, but it may not have punctured anything. We can wrap it snugly, set her broken leg while she's sleeping."

Con studied her a long moment. She saw he didn't believe her hopeful outlook for a moment and that he was loathe to drag it out when the end was likely to be the same regardless. Finally, however, he nodded. He handed her his rifle. "I'll carry her in," he said tersely.

Mary Catherine began to be sorry almost at once that she'd made the suggestion. There was no getting around the fact that Lady had been gravely injured.

By the following morning, however, she began to be a little more hopeful. When she woke, she looked at once toward the hearth where she'd left the little spaniel sleeping the night before and relief flooded her as she saw the gentle rise and fall of the dog's breathing. Lady greeted her with a drowsy thump of her tail when Mary Catherine moved from the bed and knelt to check her patient. Still feeling too cautious to place a great deal on the fact that the spaniel had survived the night, Mary Catherine fed Lady the food John had brought up for her the night before and dropped a few drops of laudanum into the water she gave her.

After the third day, Mary Catherine began to allow herself to believe that she'd done the right thing. It seemed their little heroine was going to survive her ordeal. Reducing the laudanum, she finally left it off altogether and when Lady seemed to be mending, she placed Lady's care completely in John's hands. Certain now that Lady would live, she felt the responsibility could only be good for John.

Mary Catherine had been a little uneasy about her trip into Troupville, for more reasons than one. Naturally enough, she entertained a good deal of dread of going into public considering everyone's hostility toward her at the Garner's party. It was not something one conveniently forgot about when the bad moment had passed. Nor could she really think there was much possibility that their attitude had improved since, whether or not they'd heard what had truly happened to her.

If they believed it, perhaps they would only be cold now instead of hostile. But they would certainly not welcome her when she must now be seen in the light of a kept woman instead of only the leavings of the Indians. And she thought it likely there were a number of die hard enthusiasts who would be loathe to give up their original distasteful conclusions about her.

She would not consider avoiding it, for all that. She had nothing to be ashamed of and she didn't mean to hide as if she did. But she could not look forward to it with any enthusiasm when Con announced that they would ride into Troupville for supplies.

She almost considered inventing an excuse to remain behind, however, when she learned that John would not accompany them. Suspicious, at first, that it might be Con's doing, she soon learned differently. As sorry as John was to miss the offered treat, he informed them that he could not leave Lady for such a length of time as that.

A fine sense of responsibility was all very well, but Mary Catherine thought it a bit overdone if it meant that she must make the trip alone with Con. It must surely look worse for her to arrive without even the child between them, as meager a chaperon as he would be.

Since it occurred to her, however, that if John went he would be witness to her reception. And that he was certainly old enough to understand many of the slurs that might be cast at her, she decided to be relieved that he would not go after all. Perhaps later it would be better. Once the people of the area had become accustomed to her situation, they would not be so vocal about their disapproval. John was fond of her. He would very likely be distressed if he discovered it was not perfectly all right that she remained with him and his father.

The trip was not nearly as bad as she'd expected, however. Nervous, at first, about being alone with Con, she found that he was very good at putting her at ease.

Chapter Seventeen

Con said nothing once he'd helped Mary Catherine into the buggy, climbed in himself and set the horses in motion, concentrating on maneuvering the buggy through the front gates. Mary Catherine glanced at him several times, trying to gauge his mood. She could tell nothing from his expression and finally, since she was a little uncomfortable with the silence between them, she searched her mind for a safe topic to introduce.

"Bessie told me you'd had some trouble with the harvest. Is everything going alright now?"

He sent her an inscrutable glance. "Bessie's prone to dramatizing any situation. We've had nothing that we don't generally have to contend with. And, yes. It's gone well. We're winding down now. The cotton won't be ready to pick until after Christmas and we've pretty well gotten in everything else.

We'll be grinding cane for the next couple of weeks, processing it into sugar and syrup."

He fell silent then and, as Mary Catherine couldn't think of any comment that would keep the conversation alive, she turned to stare at the fields they passed. After a few moments, it occurred to her that she knew almost nothing about him, beyond servant's gossip, and little enough of that.

She had not asked him before, not because she wasn't curious, but because she feared questioning him might lead him to question her. Now, however, she could see no reason not to assuage her curiosity about him, or at least attempt to. There was always the chance that he would have no more wish to speak of his past than she did.

"Where did you live before you came to live here?" she asked tentatively.

"England. London mostly. But my family had an estate in Lincolnshire and I spent a good deal of time there, too, after I came down from Cambridge."

Mary Catherine looked at him in surprise. None of the place names he'd mentioned sounded even remotely familiar. She frowned after a moment, trying to decide what area of the country he might be talking about. "Do you mean New England?"

He smiled faintly. "No. I mean old England, across the sea. I'm British by birth. American now, for the past ten years, in fact."

She studied him surreptitiously, having no wish to be rude. She'd thought his accent strange, but it hadn't occurred to her that he was a foreigner.

In a moment, his smile widened. "As you see, we don't grow horns."

Mary Catherine blushed. "I didn't think....The thing is, I've never met anyone from another land. What's it like?" she asked a little wistfully.

His expression became nostalgic. "Beautiful. As beautiful as this land, though it's a far different place. This land is raw and new and virtually untouched, which is a great part of it's appeal.

England is a very old place and its gone beyond merely civilized. Almost every square mile of it has been cultivated and tamed until there's little natural beauty any longer. Most of it is man made. Even the wooded areas with it's wildlife are carefully maintained and protected.

My family's been in England since the time of the conquest, but the home I grew up in was built much later. It's Elizabethan."

Mary Catherine realized with a touch of embarrassment that she must have looked as blank as she felt, for after a moment, he elaborated.

"For his service to the crown, Queen Elizabeth bestowed the honors of Bromley upon one of my distant grandfathers___I forget how many greats that would be___back in the late 1500's, making him the first Earl. In gratitude, he built a manor in the shape of an E to honor her."

He smiled wryly. "It's a beautiful place, but a devilish inconvenient bit of architecture for all that, though I suppose it was worth it if it pleased good Queen Bess. She had a royal temper no one cared to run afoul of. Then again, the Tudor's were all pretty well renowned for their tempers. Her father, Henry XVIII, was rather more fond of beheadings as a means of venting his spleen than was comfortable for his subjects."

Mary Catherine blushed faintly. "You must think me abysmally ignorant, but I never learned much in the way of history or geography. My mother used to give me lessons, but she died when I was ten. Papa thought everything I needed to know could be found in the Bible, and it was the only book we had, so I read that...several times. But it didn't have anything about England in it," she confessed a little stiffly.

Con's eyes glittered with some unnamed emotion, but his expression remained deadpan. "I haven't lain awake nights agonizing over the extent of your education, Cat," he murmured dryly.

Mary Catherine studied him, trying to decide whether to be insulted or not.

"I confess I had other thoughts to keep me....er..company."

Mary Catherine's eyes widened and a warm tide crept into her cheeks. Before she could decide how to respond to that remark or even if she should, he abruptly abandoned that vein of thought and returned to the previous one.

"At any rate, I've books enough in my study to satisfy your hunger for knowledge. Feel free to read any of them you like."

Still feeling somewhat discomfited, Mary Catherine thanked him for his offer a little stiltedly, but cast about almost at once for something to say that would bring back the comfortable rapport of moments before.

"It seems a little strange to me to think of knowing one's family so very far back, but it must be..."she hesitated, searching for the right word. "..comfortable, to feel as if you belong. Were you..." Again she hesitated, wondering whether to voice her question or not. "..unhappy there? Is that why you left?"

He looked a little surprised, but shook his head. In a moment, he grinned self-depreciatingly. "Don't you know brash young men seek adventure? No. I loved my home. My family was very close. My brothers and I___I've four of them, two older, two younger___were almost always up to some sort of mischief or other, but my father is a right'un, a man of infinite patience. We didn't get near the hidings we deserved."

Fascinated, her discomfort forgotten, Mary Catherine probed until he fell to reminiscing about his life in England. To Mary Catherine the stories had the ring fairy tales as they were about people and places and a way of life she'd never imagined existed. Even the stories her mother had told her about plantation life seemed somewhat diminished.

"So then you came here and built St.Claire's Retreat?" she asked when he at last slipped into a thoughtful silence.

He smiled a little wryly. "It wasn't quite so simple as that."

"I never thought it was," Mary Catherine said quietly. "Such a place would not have sprung up over night. You must have spent years building it up already."

"Yes. Years. I didn't have a lot of capital when I started. As I said, I was a younger son. I had a small inheritance, though, from a great aunt and, being young and arrogant and heedless, struck off to make my fortune. I learned about the new territories when I arrived in the Carolinas. When I found out I could buy up unclaimed landlots for ten dollars, I got carried away with the idea of becoming a bigger landholder even than my father.

I ended up spending most of my money on land, which left me with almost nothing to buy a stake to work it. When I arrived in the area, I had Lincoln, a wagon, two mules and an assortment of farm tools."

A look of self-disgust crossed his features. "Two thousand acres and only two men and two mules to work it. I paid dearly for that bit of nonsense. If I hadn't been as stubborn as those two mules I bought, I would have given up and gone back to England. Lincoln and I nearly worked ourselves into the grave clearing the first ten acres and building the cabin. The second year wasn't much better. By the third year, though, I managed enough yield to bring in a half dozen fieldhands and three more mules.

The plantation grew after that. Every cent the plantation earned was plowed right back into the place, though, for years."

Until he'd gone to back to England to find a wife. Mary Catherine knew a little of that story, enough to know it wasn't something he would willingly talk about. She made no attempt, therefore, to prod him into continuing.

She smiled faintly. "It's a very good thing you were so hard headed, isn't it?"

He chuckled at that, but shook his head. "Perhaps. I'm not so certain. It might have been best if I'd stayed in England and entered the church as was expected."

Mary Catherine's smile faded. "I couldn't picture you as a minister. Why would you have wanted to do that?"

He lifted a dark brow, his silvery blue eyes twinkling with merriment. "Am I to take that as an insult, I wonder?"

"No," Mary Catherine said quickly. "I just wondered why you would have been a minister if you'd stayed in England."

"Tradition," Con said succinctly. "The first son inherits his fathers honors. The second and sometimes the third enter the military. The next enters the clergy, and so forth. At least, that's the way it has been in my family for generations. I'm afraid I never respected traditions except when it pleased me to do so, however. And the thought of becoming a minister didn't.

But my father refused to sponsor a military career for me. He said I hadn't the temperament for it. The truth was, I suspect, he considered giving up one son for Mother England sacrifice enough. My brother, Gilbert, was killed not six months after father bought him is colors, you see.

I considered buying a commission myself when I got my inheritance. In the end, though, I decided I was more interested in seeking my fortune, since the prospect of becoming either a minister or a clerk held no appeal. Not exactly lofty ideals, I know, but there you are."

Mary Catherine smiled faintly. "Yes. Here you are." She blushed faintly. "I confess I'm glad. I never thanked you for rescuing me, but I am grateful."

Con smiled back at her. "It was my pleasure."

Mary Catherine's green eyes twinkled with teasing amusement. "I can't think it was much of a pleasure."

Con's smile widened to a grin. "Which just goes to show you know nothing of the matter."

Uncomfortable, Mary Catherine looked away and discovered to her surprise and dismay that they had reached their destination. She'd scarcely been aware of the passing time. It seemed they could not possibly have been traveling so long.

Brought abruptly back to earth by the bustling activity in the commercial center of Lowndes county, Mary Catherine's misgivings returned full force. Perhaps Con sensed her sudden tension. Or perhaps it was her abrupt retreat into anxious silence that gave her away. Then again, Con could not help but be aware that her situation put her in an uncomfortable position and so it might have been that rather than a sensitivity to Mary Catherine's internal turmoil.

For whatever reason, he remained protectively within ear shot at all times. And no one, Mary Catherine discovered, cared to insult her in his presence. Surprisingly enough, she was even accorded a few stiff nods by townsfolk who passed them by.

Regardless, Mary Catherine could not but be glad that they lingered no longer than it took for Con to accomplish the business that had taken him into town. Allowing the tension to leave her at last, Mary Catherine settled more comfortably in her seat and prepared to enjoy the return trip as she'd enjoyed the outgoing one.

They stopped at some little distance from Troupville, near Mile Branch. Mary Catherine turned to look at Con questioningly as he climbed down and moved around to her side of the wagon. He smiled faintly. "Hungry?"

Mary Catherine cocked her head to one side curiously. She was, but she didn't know what could be done about it at this point. "We're eating here?"

He grasped her about her waist and swung her down. "I thought we would." He reached under the wagon seat then and, to Mary Catherine's surprise, pulled out a basket.

"Oh," she said, charmed. "You brought a picnic basket."

He grinned a little wryly. "I expect your delight is a little premature. Bessie made up the basket."

"Oh." She'd been too delighted at the prospect to consider that. Regardless, she refused to allow it to dull her enthusiasm. Bessie's cooking was filling and tolerable, even if it wasn't particularly good. And it was a lovely day and place for a picnic. The late November day had just the tiniest bit of a refreshing nip to it. The trees were in full fall blossom, decked out in every shade of red and yellow. She felt, suddenly, young, almost carefree. She smiled and reached for the basket.

Con shook his head. "I'll carry it. You pick the spot."

She chose a place overlooking the tiny brook that looked as if it had seen a picnic or two before. Bordered on one side by a mighty oak and the other by the creek, it was relatively flat and clear of sharp stones and briars. The tall grasses that grew upon it had been trampled into a comfortable mat.

When Con had set the basket down, Mary Catherine took the colorful quilt that had been folded on top and, with Con, spread it carefully. Kneeling on the edge, she dragged the basket near to hand and began unloading the contents.

Con settled on the opposite side of the blanket, propping his back against the tree and stretching his long legs out before him, watching her with lazy interest. After glancing at him a couple of times, Mary Catherine smiled faintly in amusement. "I suppose you mean to sit there like King St.Claire and await your serving wench?"

He grinned. "That depends."

She cocked her head at him questioningly.

"On what you're serving," he replied.

She stared at him a long moment before comprehension dawned and with it a blush. She looked away again, deciding to pretend she hadn't understood him. "It looks like fairly standard picnic fare to me; corn pone, fried chicken, something unrecogniz..oh, I believe its a jar of dumplings. And here's a jar of tea. Plates, napkins, utensils..." She frowned. "No glasses."

"Typical of Bessie." He shrugged. "We'll share the jar."

Mary Catherine sent him a quick look, but after a moment she shrugged. She had shared a cup more than once with her brothers. She had no real objection to sharing one with Con. She could ignore the peculiar sensation it gave her in the pit of her stomach when she thought of touching her lips to the place where his lips had touched.

He seemed to place no significance upon it himself. Taking up the jar of tea, he removed the cork stopper that plugged the mouth of the jar and set it on the blanket between them while Mary Catherine served their plates.

"I expect we'll go down to the gulf in February this year," he said as he took up his plate, examined his chicken a moment and tore off a bite with his teeth. "We were late getting started with the picking and with Lincoln only just getting around again, we'll be pushed to get it all done before the weather turns against us."

Mary Catherine's eye brows rose. "The gulf?"

"The ocean," Con clarified.

"What do you go down to the ocean for?" Mary Catherine asked in surprise.

Con studied her curiously a moment, but finally shrugged. "Salt. Which is something this chicken is lacking, if I'm not mistaken."

Aware that it was a prompt, Mary Catherine searched the basket. "No salt."

"Figures."

Mary Catherine frowned, waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, she prodded, "How do you get the salt?"

"Have you never been to the sea?"

She shook her head.

He smiled. "Then you're bound to enjoy the experience. We make up a train in the winter once the crops are in, most everyone in the area, and all go down to the sea. We have to boil the water to extract the salt so we generally camp on the beach for a couple of weeks. It's like a holiday of sorts. We fish and bathe in the sea when the weather's mild enough."

Mary Catherine frowned. "If there's salt in the water, it doesn't seem to me it would be very pleasant to bathe in."

Con grinned. "You'll have to tell me after you've tried it."

Mary Catherine said nothing to that. It seemed doubtful she would be traveling with Con, but she saw no reason to mention it now. Instead she allowed the subject to drop and they finished their meal in silence.

He made no move to rise when they had done, instead settling himself as if he had every intention of taking a nap. After studying him in surprise for a moment, Mary Catherine shrugged mentally and set to work repacking the basket. It was the work of but a few moments, however, and when she'd finished she could think of nothing to do.

As if reading her mind, Con cracked an eye. "If you've a mind for a nap, you're welcome to rest your head on my lap."

Mary Catherine sent him a doubtful glance. "Thank you, but no."

His lips quirked upward at one corner in a wry smile. "I couldn't help but notice you didn't return the invitation."

She stared at him a long moment and finally glanced around uneasily, aware suddenly of their isolation when she hadn't really given it a thought before.

"Cat."

She looked at him.

"I only asked."

Chapter Eighteen

Mary Catherine could think of nothing to say. She could not seem to do anything more than stare into his eyes as if mesmerized, her own wide and filled with the dismay that descended upon her as abruptly as a thunderclap. Her thoughts were a chaotic jumble of half-formed fears, suspicions and doubt. She had been lulled to a sense of security by Con's behavior since they'd left the plantation. He'd seemed no more than a polite, pleasant companion. She'd grown easy with that, come to think there would be no price on her enjoyment of the day. She saw now that there was and it sent a shaft of alarm through her. It brought, crashing upon her, a sense of betrayal, of being threatened. And those spawned the suffocating sense of being trapped that was so wretchedly familiar, though he had made no attempt to invade the space that separated them.

Con must have seen something of her feelings in her expression for after a moment he looked away, withdrawing from her as surely as if he'd risen and walked away. His expression hardened with anger.

As if his eyes alone had held her captive, Mary Catherine felt her panic recede almost the moment he directed his gaze elsewhere. As a measure of calm returned, she realized she'd been focused completely upon her inner turmoil, her thoughts, her feelings, her fears. She'd spared no thought for his, for how he must feel if he should sense such a violent rejection to so simple a request. He could not see it merely as a disinclination to oblige. It must seem a vehement and total rejection of him and all that he offered.

"Please......Don't look like that! I didn't mean it that way. It's not what you're thinking. It's just...," she broke off, knowing she was babbling in her desperation to erase the expression of hurt anger from his face, but unable to think coherently. Of one thing she was certain, however. She had not intended to make him think her reticence was a rejection of him.

"You're so certain you know what I'm thinking?" he asked tightly. He shook his head slightly. "Don't upset yourself over it, Cat. I'm not so easily wounded."

He thought it over a moment and smiled wryly. "Perhaps I should say, it's merely a flesh wound, not mortal."

She stared at him, dismayed. From the beginning, he had been kind, generous, patient and always gentle. And for all that, he'd asked very little of her, only what she would willingly give. And what had she given in return? Nothing but distrust.

She saw that in his expression as his anger faded and resignation took its place. She saw something more, too. She saw an end to her hopes, an end to her dreams.

It brought dread crashing down upon her again, an apprehension far more painful than fearful, far more frightening than the fear of pain. She'd been isolated, it seemed, most of her life, shut off from every emotion but fear, cocooned from everyone around her by the stifling of every other emotion. But she'd glimpsed something else, felt just a trace of spring and she didn't want the cold loneliness of emotional winter as her companion for the rest of her days.

She knew there were limits to everything and qualifications as well. One had to work for, and earn, all the comforts in one's existence and that included companionship, friendship and love, not just the material things. She couldn't expect that he would hold out his hand to her always, no matter how generous his spirit, if she gave nothing at all of herself in return. She had no right to expect it.

She knew, quite suddenly, that she would be lost forever if she could not bring herself to reach out to him and give what he asked, to take what he offered. And, perhaps, it was too late already.

She moved then, driven by the urgency of that fear, though she was scarcely aware of either moving or having made the decision to do so. It took no courage. It was desperation that compelled her. Settling back on her heels, she faced him, willing him to acknowledge that she'd come as he asked, willing him to see it had only been the hesitancy of lingering doubts that held her not rejection. When she saw he was so deep in his own thoughts that he'd paid little heed to her meager offering, she reached for his hand, clasped her own around it and lifted it to her cheek. He looked at her then, but his gaze was still remote.

She swallowed with some difficulty, for it seemed her pain and inner turmoil had risen to form a hard, unswallowable knot in her throat. Her chest felt as tight as if a great hand was squeezing the breath from her. "Con, don't...." She stopped, trying to compose a request for a prize she couldn't even put a name to. "Please, don't despair of me."

Con studied her a long moment, torn. As much as he'd wanted her almost from the beginning, it had become almost more of a penance to him than pleasurable anticipation, this waiting game they played. And he'd begun to see he would likely lose in the end. He began to think he would fare better to remove himself from temptation altogether. He didn't want a taste of what it seemed he could not have no matter how patiently he waited.

After everything, she still didn't trust him enough to let go of her fear and he thought, very likely, she never would. He should cut his losses, distance himself to save himself from more misery.

He uncurled his hand as she released it and brushed her cheek lightly with his fingertips. "It isn't that, Cat," he said, smiling wryly. "It's just that I begin to see I was wrong."

For once the stifling sense of helplessness that rose in her had nothing to do with the fear of being touched. It came from the fear of never being touched in the way she suddenly knew she needed to be. "Wrong?" she asked faintly, dreading the answer he must give her.

He sighed wearily, looking away from her again. "It's not that I don't think you have it in you to give, Cat. Never think that. But I don't think I'm the one who can make you want to give. I know you've tried, but you can not make yourself want someone. It's there or it isn't."

Mary Catherine felt a tentative unfurling of hope. He had not said he didn't want her, only that he had despaired of her wanting him. "And you think it's not?"

He looked at her then, his gaze regretful. His faint smile was more a grimace of self-mockery. "No. I'm very much afraid it's not."

She shook her head slowly. She may have been too cautious for her own good. She might have resisted for many reasons, some very valid ones, the temptation to give up her reserve completely. But she knew quite suddenly and without any doubt, that she had felt desire for Con, still felt it. She hadn't made herself feel it out of desperation to end her self-imposed seclusion or from some misplaced sense of gratitude. As he had said, it simply was.

Seizing her courage, she leaned toward him, bracing her palms against his shoulders and lifting her face until her mouth hovered only a fraction of an inch from his. She felt him stiffen, heard the harsh rasp of his breath as he sucked it in sharply. Relief descended upon her, hope. He wanted her still. She felt the budding warmth of her own yearning. "You are wrong now," she said quietly.

She brushed her lips lightly across his, feeling a rush of melting warmth as if she was tallow and he fire. "Show me," she whispered, feeling a shiver of both anticipation and apprehension creep up her spine and spread its many fingers through her. "Teach me the way." She turned her head slightly, brushing her cheek against the faint abrasiveness of his lean jaw and then lifted her lips to brush them against his again before she drew back slightly to look at him. "Have you no patience left for me?"

He swallowed audibly before smiling at her crookedly. "I'm not altogether certain I have. If you had any notion how very much I want you right now, you'd run like hell."

His words caused a swell of both yearning and alarm. It quickened her pulse as she wavered between yielding and flight. As if he sensed that, he caught her face gently between his two large palms. "No. Don't flee now. I gave you my word that you would set the pace, that I'd take no more than you could willingly give. I don't mean to change the rules on you now." He hesitated and finally dropped his hands to her waist, urging her closer. "But you offered a kiss and I mean to have that at least. I've no patience to wait for the offer to come again."

She swallowed with some difficulty, seized again by a sharp stab of apprehension. But she yielded with only a token resistance, intrigued as much as disturbed by the thought of being kissed by Con. She had thought that she had kissed him, not offered to. But, perhaps there was a difference to a lover's kiss? Perhaps she had not done it right?

She leaned toward him, offering her lips. He smiled faintly, shaking his head. "You must come closer than that."

She lifted her brows doubtfully but leaned closer still, finally resting her hands on his hard shoulders once more.

His lips quirked. "Closer."

A touch of irritation surfaced, routing her lingering anxieties. She put the tip of her nose against his, staring at him almost eyeball to eyeball.

A husky chuckle escaped him. "Do you mean to cooperate or not?"

Mary Catherine felt her own lips twitch with amusement. "This isn't close enough?" she asked, all innocence.

He reached up and caught one of her hands, snatching it from his shoulder so abruptly that she collapsed against his hard chest. Tucking that arm around his waist, he took her other hand and placed it against his nape before settling his own arms lightly around her.

"That's almost close enough," he murmured, gazing down at Mary Catherine's surprised face for a long moment before he lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly across hers and then withdrew a hairsbreadth to gauge her reaction.

She sucked in her breath sharply, both surprised and enthralled by the sensations that immediately assailed her at his light touch. She'd felt warmth before when she'd pressed her lips to his, but she had been half fearful too. Moreover, she'd been so caught by her anxiety to sooth the insult she'd inadvertently caused that she had felt little beyond the satisfaction of knowing she'd appeased him and overcome that much of her reluctance for intimacy.

She had not dreamed so simple a touch could give so much pleasure. She leaned closer, offering her lips again, closing the slight distance and brushing her lips to his when he did not immediately answer her unspoken request. Her eyes drifted shut as she focused all her senses upon the brush of lips to lips.

He smiled faintly in satisfaction. She felt the movement without even opening her eyes. "More?" he murmured against her lips.

She didn't have to think about it. "Yes," she whispered, but she had completed neither the thought or the word when he settled his hard mouth firmly against her parted lips, melding mouths and minds, bodies and souls. With the first touch of his tongue as it glided across the incredibly sensitive surface of her lips, touched the delicate inner lining and delved more deeply still to explore the inner recesses of her mouth, pleasure exploded through her with the rampaging torrent of flashfire. Her hands clenched reflexively as it jolted through her, her fingers digging into the hard flesh of his shoulder, her other hand fisting on the fabric of his coat back as she sought to steady her reeling world.

His essence filled her with wonder, his taste, his scent. The faintly abrasive texture of his tongue as it raked along hers, twined sinuously with it, touched off a burst of desire inside her like chainball lightening. It sent burning tendrils snaking through her to enervate every nerve ending and, conversely, to snatch the strength from her limbs so that she trembled with a strange, heady weakness. A low moan rose from her chest.

His arms tightened around her, a shudder running through him at the sound. It broke his restraints. He deepened his kiss, unleashing the hunger he'd been holding in check, acquainting himself thoroughly with her mouth, allowing his hands to move along her back to explore as well.

Mary Catherine recognized the very moment his kiss became a substitute mating, when his control vanished and the hunger of his passion took hold. Instead of inspiring panic, it increased her own pleasure tenfold so that she responded with equal fervor. She gave herself up for lost then, and found. The feel of his mouth as it melded and mated with her own was good. It was right. It gave her a feeling of having come home and a bewildering sense of losing herself at once. It seemed that her whole being and every nerve ending in her body was focused all upon that one point of most intimate contact and yet splintered into a million fragments that touched off explosions of fire everywhere.

She was of two minds, the one to flee the power of it and the other to rush heedlessly forward. As she felt the restless touch of his hands upon her, felt the tremors of his desire, the latter won. She pressed herself more tightly against him. She sought the faintly rough texture of his tongue with her own, danced shyly along it, embraced it.

His fervent response both thrilled and unnerved her. His kiss became at once desperate and demanding. She felt the touch of his questing hands in her hair, on her back and then along her waist. Her stomach muscles clenched as she felt his hand coast along her ribs and come to rest beneath her breast. Apprehension surfaced to do battle once more with pleasure, no matter that she did her best to ignore it. And when his hand cupped her breast, she stiffened in instinctive fear, withdrew into herself, although she made no attempt either to elude him or to pull away.

Regardless, he sensed her withdrawal. He raised his head at once, studying her for several heartbeats, his breath ragged and harsh with desire.

She stared up at him, both a plea for understanding and fear in her eyes. "Please...don't."

Reluctantly, he lifted his hand from her breast and cupped her head, tucking it against his shoulder. Dropping his cheek to rest against the top of her head, he whispered hoarsely, "Hush, sweet Cat. I promised I'd wait and I will. However long it takes."

Mary Catherine smiled faintly to herself as she finished packing the basket. Bessie had relayed the message that Con had sent word asking her to bring his noon meal to him. It was the second time he'd done so in the past fortnight.

Her first trip out to the fields had been her own idea. But, as much to tease him as anything else, she hadn't gone the following day. A second day had passed before she'd received the summons she'd been awaiting. She supposed she'd given her satisfaction away, because he'd reversed the waiting game on her the very next day.

Hefting the basket in her arms, she brushed past Bessie and out of the kitchen, too preoccupied with her thoughts to notice much beyond obstacles in her path, though she was well aware of Bessie's displeasure with her. The African had not been pleased to have Mary Catherine invade yet another of her territories. More than that, she disapproved of Mary Catherine's sudden desire for Con's company.

Not that Mary Catherine gave a flip. Bessie was welcome to her disapproval and her gossip, too, as far as Mary Catherine was concerned. The local folk had condemned her long since and could scarcely be more disapproving, whatever rumors Bessie chose to spread now. She no longer particularly cared what her father would think when he came either.

She had her land. Soon she would have a cabin as well. She would be an independent woman then, and subject to no one's whims but her own.

More to the point, she had found something she had thought long since dead and buried, forever to be mourned. She'd found happiness and however fleeting it might be she meant to enjoy it while she could. She had not even, at first, recognized it for what it was it had become so foreign to her. The lightening of her spirits, the heady sense of well-being had almost seemed some odd sort of illness.

She shook her head at the thought, repressing a smile. Con would think her daft for smiling at nothing at all but the thoughts in her head. But she smiled again, shifted her basket to one hip and waved at the fieldhands as they rushed from the fields in response to the dinner bell Bessie rung with such vigor to summon them to the noon meal.

"Is Master St.Claire in the south field, or the cotton shed?" she called to one of the stragglers.

He slowed his steps. "No'm, Miz Catherine. He gone down to de smithy. His hawse done throwed a shoe."

Mary Catherine's footsteps faltered, a shiver of uneasiness trickling along her spine. She had not been to the smithy before. The mention of it was sufficient to spawn unwelcome memories. Visiting the place would seem an open invitation to the specters from her past that she was trying very hard to lay to rest.

She knew very well where it was, however. Con was almost as often there as in the fields since he was as skilled at working iron as his plantation smith. In any event, the season placed a strain upon Con's manpower and everyone worked far longer and harder than usual, including Con.

Which was one of her reasons for taking him his noon meal. As often as not, he worked through the noon hour, coming in later to one of Bessie's cold meals or skipping it altogether. She had been somewhat chagrinned when she'd taken over cooking the family meals, leaving Bessie in charge of feeding the hands, only to discover that Con scarcely noticed the difference. She had decided to forgive him when it finally dawned upon her that he was generally far too exhausted when he came in in the evenings to notice much of anything.

And, in all honesty, she could not say that her cooking had been a great improvement over Bessie's in the beginning. Accustomed as she was to cooking in a fireplace or over a campfire, the modern cooking stove Con had had installed in his plantation kitchen had almost defeated her.

Beyond that, she had never had the incentive or the opportunity to learn to cook much besides trail fare, which was generally stew. She had finally unearthed the pathetic remains of her diary, however, and had optimistically tackled some of the recipes her mother had written in it in the days when it had been her journal.

She smiled wryly. Optimistic indeed, for the passages had been badly water damaged and the ink smeared despite what she knew must have been Con's efforts to salvage it. And she could not say, after only a week, that she had truly gotten the knack for cooking upon a stove. Regardless, she was inclined to think her cooking an improvement over Bessie's. It was hardly conceit that she thought so when Bessie's cooking ranged from barely edible to barely tolerable.

Dismissing her qualms, those concerning her efforts as well as her reluctance to approach the smithy only because it reminded her so unpleasantly of her husband, she turned her steps in the direction of the building at the end of the quarters.

Devil, she saw, was still tethered at the hitching post in front of the smithy. She frowned, studying the stallion curiously as she approached, though, in her preoccupation, it took her some moments to assimilate just what it was about the stallion that bothered her.

She had not become very well acquainted with the horse. His great size still made her nervous. As unfamiliar as she was with him, however, she realized fairly quickly that something was disturbing the stallion. Even a temperamental horse was generally reasonably docile while tied to the post.

Devil was scarcely that. He'd been dancing restlessly and tossing his head when she first noticed him. As she watched, he sidled, backed and tried to rear, whickering and snorting, becoming more agitated by the moment. The realization that something was very wrong struck Mary Catherine even before the first trace of smoke tickled at her nostrils.

Urgency surged through her. She quickened her steps. Still, she tried to dismiss her apprehension as overactive imagination. There was fire in the forge. The floor was dirt but even so minor fires broke out from time to time. Con was obviously still inside working. If she could smell smoke at this distance, he would certainly be aware of it.

It seemed reasonable, and yet she could not fight the sense of dread that hastened her steps until she was virtually running. She came to an abrupt halt when she reached the smithy, staring at the closed door in blank surprise. The drop bar was across its bracket, securing the door. Con could not be inside. He would have left the door ajar in any case if he were working, for no matter how cool the day metal working was blistering work.

But smoke trickled in feathery wisps from the door.

She knew she should race to the plantation bell at once to summon help, but she could not shake the apprehension that Con had somehow been trapped in the building.

Dropping the basket, she flung the bar back and dragged the large door open. There was far more smoke than she'd anticipated. She recoiled as a great cloud engulfed her.

Coughing, she waved her hands in an effort to disperse it, hesitating again with the realization that it must be a fire of some size to judge from the smoke. It seemed doubtful she would be able to put it out by herself. She should ring the alarm at once or it would be out of control.

And yet, she could not shake the fear that Con was still inside, however unreasonable it seemed. She knew he could not be. The bar used to secure the door had been dropped in place and that could not be done from the inside.

Reason, she discovered, did nothing to dispel her anxiety that the bar had somehow become dislodged and trapped Con inside. Possibly because she had never been entirely satisfied with the strange occurrence of the carriage horse going berserk. Or possibly because that incident had brought her to realize just how important Con was to her and that he could be snatched from her as easily as everyone else had that she'd cared for.

With that thought, she took a deep breath, bent over at the waist and dashed inside. The feeble light from an overcast winter day that filtered in from the open door, combined with the density of the smoke inside made it impossible to see much of anything.

Ordinarily, the fire in the forge would have done much to dispel the gloom, but it had been allowed to go out. Even so, the coals still glowed far too brightly to have been unattended for long, throwing an eerie orange sheen upon the bellows and the vapors drifting around it. The light limned tools upon the worktable as well, tools that would ordinarily have been put carefully away once the task they were used for was completed.

She saw no sign of Con, but she was hardly reassured when there was ample evidence he'd been in the forge so very recently and had left too abruptly even to put away his tools. It wasn't like him to simply abandon them where they lay. And there was no sign of the leather apron or gauntlets he would have used. Those he would have discarded even if he'd left in a hurry.

"Con?" she called anxiously, peering around the darkened room through eyes blurred and tearing from the smoke.

There was no response. In truth she hadn't expected one. If Con was in the building he would have to be injured or perhaps overcome with the smoke or he would have been battering at the door when she arrived.

Coughing as the smoke became thicker, she paused as she reached the quenching trough and dampened her apron. Holding the damp fabric over her nose and mouth, she moved around the trough and peered toward the bins that ranged the back of the shed, searching for Con, seeking the source of the fire. There was no sign of his unconscious form. The bins of coal and coke and pig iron seemed undisturbed.

She hesitated, torn between the desire to retreat from the smoke that stung her eyes and nose and seared her lungs, and the fear that had driven her inside to begin with. Con must have gone, for whatever reason. Perhaps someone had been hurt. That would have been enough to prompt him to abandon his task so abruptly.

But then, why had the fieldhand not mentioned it? And Con could not have completed his task or he would have ridden Devil. There had been no horseshoe on the anvil, half finished or otherwise. She would have noticed that.

Finally, she moved deeper into the room. There would be hay in one of the bins, she was certain. It was kept handy, despite the obvious hazards, to pacify the horses as they were shod. Since it was so easy to catch fire, however, it would likely be on the far side of the room, as far as possible from the forge.

The room became dimmer, the smoke thicker as she progressed, despite the belches of air that wafted through the open door, creating eddies. But there was not so much as a flicker of open flame as there would almost certainly have been if the hay had somehow caught fire.

The urge to retreat, at least for a single breath of untainted air began to outweigh her anxiety. Obligingly, her mind immediately supplied her with the reasons she needed to abandon her search and escape what had become almost pure torture. For whatever reason, Con had left or she would have seen him by now. She was on the point of dashing out again when she heard a faint scraping sound followed by a cough. It froze her to the spot, causing her heart to clench painfully in her chest. "Con?"

That time she heard a very definite groan. It seemed to be coming from the bin along the wall, the one she'd suspected must hold the hay. Moving quickly now, she rushed toward the sound in a half crouch.

She'd just reached the heavily shadowed corner bin when several things happened at once. A sharp gust of wind rushed past her, forcing the smoke that had been drifting toward the outer door back inside. The door slammed shut, pitching the shed into total darkness. And Mary Catherine tripped and fell over something long and solid that was lying half in and half out of the bin, coming up hard against a large wooden shaft.

Chapter Nineteen

Stunned for several moments, Mary Catherine lay still where she'd fallen, her heart pounding in her ears. It was not until she sensed movement beside her that she managed to shake off her paralysis. Blindly, she reached out her hand, searching the straw beside her and found something solid and warm. "Con?" she said a little shakily.

Instead of answering, he groaned again.

She discovered her hand was resting upon his chest only as she realized the movement she felt was the sharp rise and fall of his panting breaths. Shifting closer, she touched his arm and found her way to his shoulder.

"What is it? Where are you hurt?"

"My head," he responded finally, forcing the answer through clenched teeth.

She slid her hand to his neck and gently touched his face. Her eyes had adjusted somewhat to the gloom, but she could still see little. She sought his injury by touch, gently searching with her fingertips. She encountered something warm and wet and sticky as she touched his cheek. Gasping, she snatched her hand back.

He was bleeding. She couldn't see well enough to tell how badly but she didn't need to. Scalp wounds bled exceedingly bad. "I'll get help," she said, scrambling to her feet and moving as quickly as she could toward the door.

She thought for several moments after she'd barrelled into it that she'd hit the wall instead. It didn't yield one iota. Searching with her fingers again instead of her eyes, she ran her hands over the wood and finally found the edge of the door. She pushed again and finally threw her shoulder against it when it refused to budge. Still nothing. She stopped, panting for breath, choking on the smoke.

For several moments after she'd caught her breath she stood unmoving, unable to assimilate that she was trapped, they were both trapped, and the smoke was getting steadily thicker. She glanced around, but she could not see well enough to find a tool to pry the door open. She pounded on the door with her fists then, calling out for help.

There was no answer and it finally dawned upon her that there would be none, not for a while, very likely not until it was too late to do either her or Con any good. Even if the hands had finished their noon meal by now, they would have gone back to the fields. Everyone worked in the fields now, every man, woman and child on the plantation save the very young and the very old. The latter was likely too deaf to hear her calls and the former of no use even if they heard.

The sudden hiss and crackle of open flame penetrated her abstraction and Mary Catherine whirled toward the sound. She saw then what she had missed before. Whatever it was that had caused the smoldering fire had landed in the barrel of cleaning rags. Having caught at last, the flames leapt upward immediately toward the rafters in the ceiling, sending out drifts of burning ash.

Con was lying within two yards of it on a bed of straw that could go up at any moment. She rushed toward him, landing on her knees beside him in the hay and absently shoving the half finished plow that lay beside him out of her way. Grasping his shoulder, she shook him, but saw in the next moment that it was unnecessary. He was conscious already.

He gritted his teeth, his face turning waxen. "Don't," he managed to say finally, though it cost him. "My head's swimming as it is." In the next moment, he turned his face into the straw and retched.

She stared at him, torn between sympathy for his plight and a terrible fear. The plow must have fallen from the rafters and struck him. He was not only weakened from the blow and the blood loss, he was concussed from it. It seemed doubtful he could help himself and she could never lift him.

She glanced worriedly toward the fire and saw it was growing rapidly now. She turned to survey the room. She could see nothing to put it out with. The quenching trough was filled with water but she had no way of getting the water across the room to the fire.

Jumping to her feet, she stripped her apron off as she raced to the trough and hurriedly dunked it. Pulling the saturated cloth out once more, she hurried back to the barrel and began beating at the flames with the wet apron. She could not tell that it had any discernable effect though she ran back and forth until she was exhausted from the effort and coughing every breath.

When the apron caught fire, she dropped it to the floor and stamped it out. Reaching beneath her skirt, she stripped off her petticoats and moved back to the trough. When she'd wet them thoroughly, she turned to Con once more. Dropping to her knees, she very carefully bathed his face and peered searchingly at his wound in the light from the fire.

There was a swollen, purple knot nearly the size of a hen egg only inches above his temple. The gash of broken skin was perhaps an inch long. It still bled sluggishly, but it seemed the bleeding had slowed somewhat. She pressed the wet cloth against it, ignoring Con's harsh gasp of pain, and held it firmly for a full minute. When she took the cloth away again, she was relieved to see the bleeding had all but stopped.

She cupped Con's cheek in her hand. "Con, I know you're hurt, dear heart. But you've got to get up. We're trapped. The fire's getting worse and I can't put it out."

He opened his eyes and stared at her.

"Can you get up, do you think, if I help you?" she asked anxiously.

Despite his pallor, a faint smile touched his lips. "I don't think I heard you right," he mumbled faintly.

Mary Catherine gripped his shoulders a little frantically, suddenly fearful in the midst of all else that the blow had addled his wits. "Dearling, please try."

He closed his eyes, still smiling faintly. "If I did not feel as if I would be violently ill all over again, I believe I would try to kiss you for that."

Mary Catherine stared at him blankly. "Because I told you to get up?"

"Because you called me dearling...and dear heart too if I heard you aright," he mumbled.

Suddenly infuriated that he was taking everything so calmly and far too frightened herself to realize he was still too dazed to realize their danger, she gripped his shirt front in both fists and gave him a shake. "I will call you a jackass, John Conyers St.Claire if you do not get up this very instant, you pig headed thing!"

He gritted his teeth, catching both her hands to still them. "I feel I must warn you," he managed to say finally through gritted teeth, "that if you don't want me to be ill all down your dress, you'll have to refrain from shaking me."

She released him abruptly, jumped to her feet and made another trip to the trough to wet her petticoats. She was beating at the flames when Con spoke again.

"Why is there smoke everywhere?"

"Probably because you dropped that blasted horseshoe in the cleaning rags when you fell!" Mary Catherine snapped, rushing away once more.

"Then why are we still in here?" Con asked when next she rushed back.

"Because the wind blew the door shut and it's stuck!" she responded between coughs and finally burst into tears when she saw she was having no effect whatever on the fire, which had begun to spread up the wall and into the rafters.

"Then I suppose I'd best get up," Con said slowly, as if each word was an effort. Scrubbing the tears from her cheeks, Mary Catherine rushed to help him, grasping his arms and tugging. When she saw that was having little effect, she knelt, wrapping her arms around his chest and straining to help him pull himself upright. They managed it finally, between them, but Con's face had turned a pasty gray and he made no attempt to either speak or move again until he'd mastered his nausea.

He opened his eyes finally, studying Mary Catherine a long moment before smiling faintly. "I knew I would rue the day I set my sights on a runty female scarcely half my size. I could use an amazon right about now."

Mary Catherine sat back as if he'd slapped her.

His smile vanished abruptly. He reached for her. She didn't move away, but neither did she respond to his unspoken appeal to move within his reach. He allowed his hand to drop, closing his eyes. In the next moment, however, he sat up straighter and leaned forward, snatching her up against his chest before she'd overcome her startlement sufficiently to decide whether or not to retreat. By the time it occurred to her to try, it was too late. She struggled anyway.

"Be still," he said through gritted teeth, squeezing his eyes closed as he fought another round with his illness.

"Let me go!" Mary Catherine ground the words out furiously.

"No," he said implacably.

Startled as much by the underlying steel in his voice as she was by his outright refusal, she went still, staring up at him with her mouth slightly agape. There was steel in his voice and in his expression, a strength of purpose she'd always known was there but had never witnessed in his dealings with her.

His expression softened abruptly. He lifted his hand to caress her cheek. "I was only teasing you, kitten. You know I wouldn't have you any different than you are."

She bit her lip, fighting a sudden wobble in her chin. She wasn't certain she believed him, but it scarcely mattered now. If they could not get out, it would never matter. She looked away. "The fire's spreading. I wet everything down as best I could, but it's already catching up again. Can you get up now, do you think? If you can make it to the door, perhaps you can get it open."

He sighed regretfully and released her. She scrambled to her feet at once and turned to him, wondering whether to try to help him rise or not. In a moment, he'd managed to lever himself to his feet, though he wavered drunkenly once he'd gained them. She surged forward and grasped him about his waist, bracing her feet apart and steadying him.

He began coughing almost at once, having risen well above the level of the smoke. Trying to suppress them, he bent, draping an arm across Mary Catherine's shoulders. Her knees almost buckled as the weight of it came down across her. Gritting her teeth, she held her own with an effort and pointed Con in the direction of the door.

The distance was only a scant handful of yards and yet, as they wove a drunken path across the shed to the door, it seemed to take hours not moments. Con collapsed against the door when they finally reached it, gathering his strength, fighting the nausea from his head injury. He shoved on it experimentally when he'd recovered somewhat.

"You're right. It's stuck."

Stepping back, he gripped the edge of the door frame to brace himself and gave the door a kick. It shivered and there came the sharp crack of splintering wood, but it held. He frowned. "It's not just stuck. Something's holding the door."

Mary Catherine stared at him in consternation. She'd been so certain Con could open the door if only he could get up. And then it dawned on her what must have happened. "The drop bar. It must have fallen again and wedged into the bracket." She swallowed with some difficulty against the burning in her throat. "We're going to die in here."

Con's face hardened. "Not hardly," he ground out and launched his shoulder at the door. His second blow broke the hinges from the door and sent it flying backward. Unable to halt his momentum, Con followed it out, hitting the ground with an audible thud and rolling before he came to a halt.

Darting out behind him, Mary Catherine hoisted her skirts and sprinted for the bell that stood in the middle of the quarters, grasped the bell pull and began ringing it frantically. Within moments the thunder of pounding feet could be heard even above the pealing bell. She lingered only until she saw the first of the fieldhands.

"Fire! In the smithy!" she called and led the way, dropping to her knees beside Con when she reached him once more. They surged around her, racing back and forth with the buckets from the nearest well, but she was scarcely aware of the commotion around her.

Con, she saw, was conscious, but he'd reopened his head wound. "No. Lie still," Mary Catherine said as he struggled to rise, pulling his head into her lap and using the skirt of her dress to staunch the bleeding. "We're out now. And I summoned the hands to take care of the fire."

He settled back, closing his eyes. "How bad?" he asked.

"It doesn't look bad at all. Really. A few stitches, I think...I expect the nausea will pass in a day or so."

His lips twitched upward in a brief smile. "I meant the smithy."

"Oh," Mary Catherine said, chagrinned. "Not so bad as it might have been, I think. If the rags had not been so slow to catch.." She left that sentence hanging. They both knew what would likely have happened if that had been the case. "I think I managed to keep it from spreading too far. It looks as if the hands have pretty well gotten it out."

"What's happened here?"

Mary Catherine whirled toward the voice, startled. Con opened his eyes and turned to look, as well, as Dr. Bealle hurried toward them, pushing his way through the knots of plantation people who'd gathered to watch those who were putting out the fire. "As you see. A fire," Con said coolly when Dr. Bealle stopped beside them, staring at the smoke still drifting from the building. "What brings you out?"

Dr. Bealle glanced down at Con quickly, his lips tightening a moment with irritation. "I was out this way and thought I'd drop in to see how Miss...uh..Mrs. Brooks..was doing."

Con looked up at Mary Catherine. "Smoked, a bit singed, but basically in a lot better shape than she could've been."

"What about you?"

"Pretty much the same," Con responded, closing his eyes again.

"Except a bit worse," Mary Catherine put in. "He hit his head."

Dr. Bealle crouched beside them and examined the wound cursorily, questioning Con about his symptoms as he did so. "You should have a few stitches, I think. Shall I see to it? Or would you prefer to send for Doctor Moseley?"

"You may as well do it, as long as you're here anyway," Con said dryly.

"I think we'd best get you up to the house then. You there," Dr. Bealle called to one of the men standing nearby. "Get something we can use for a litter and find me a couple of good strong men. We'll have to carry Master St.Claire up to the house."

"I believe I'd prefer walking to being dropped from a litter somewhere between here and the house," Con muttered irritably.

Mary Catherine stroked his cheek. "If they drop you, I'll beat them," she promised teasingly.

Con grinned. "I expect that prospect will strike terror into their hearts."

"I think I'm being insulted," Mary Catherine said pensively.

He caught her hand when she would have withdrawn it, holding it against his cheek. "No." He was silent a moment, studying her. "I'm grateful you came when you did, Cat," he said quietly.

She smiled. "You sent for me, remember?"

He frowned. "I didn't send for you, Cat. I meant to go up to the house for dinner when I finished with Devil."

Mary Catherine sent Bessie a speculative glance as she put the finishing touches on the tray she was preparing to take up to Con. "The day Master St.Claire was injured, Bessie, who was it that you said sent the message that I was to take his dinner to him?"

Bessie, who was in the process of rolling biscuits, sent her a curious look and shrugged. "Doan know who it wuz."

Mary Catherine frowned. Bessie was pretty much an expert at hiding her thoughts, but she would have been willing to swear Bessie's expression had held nothing but surprise at the question. She had not been able to note so much as a flicker of guilt in it. "What do you mean, you don't know who it was?"

Bessie shrugged again. "Ah wuz takin' de biscuits out de stove when dey cum up ter de door. Din turn around, 'cause ah din wanna drap de biscuits, an' ah sho din wanna git burnt. One ob de fieldhands, ah spect it wuz. Sounded lak it might ob been Mose or maybe it wuz Abraham. Din look."

Mary Catherine studied her a moment longer and finally hefted the tray and left. Her thoughts were not comforting as she made her way into the house, however. She'd been in no state at the time of the accident to really consider the circumstances that had led up to it. And she'd been too concerned about Con those first several hours afterward to go over the incident in her mind, despite the shock it had given her to discover that Con had not, apparently, sent for her at all.

She'd had a good deal of time since to ponder over it, however. And the more she did, the less certain she was that it had been any kind of accident at all.

Con seemed to have dismissed the incident altogether. As far as he was concerned, the half finished plow had fallen and struck him, perhaps loosened by the building's normal settling, or even jarred loose when he'd brushed up against it. He couldn't really recall, but he didn't seem particularly perturbed about it. Nor could he recall having the horseshoe with him when he'd gone to fetch a rag from the rag barrel. And yet that was what had been found at the bottom of it. That was what had started the fire.

That was one of the things about the episode that made no sense. It was possible, of course, that Con had carried it with him when he went. But why would he have done so? He could have safely left it on the anvil where he'd been working it.

It was stranger still that the door of the smithy had been caught, not once, but twice by the wind and jammed shut. Mary Catherine had been out to study the door since. She'd slammed it repeatedly, and not once had the bar dropped and wedged itself into the bracket.

Con had not sent for her and yet someone had said that he had. She had thought, when she first discovered that, that Bessie had lured her to the smithy with the intention of disposing of her. She hadn't entertained such a farfetched notion long.

In the first place, Bessie would have had to have an accomplice in such a scheme. Bessie had been serving the hands when she'd gone down to the shed and in full view of half the people of the plantation during the incident. And not only did Mary Catherine find it impossible to believe Bessie hated her enough to plot her death, she could not believe Bessie would have been able to talk anyone else on the plantation into going along with her.

Moreover, however violent a dislike Bessie might have conceived for her, she could not have wished to kill Con as well. And Mary Catherine didn't think Bessie would have the nerve to attempt it even if she did.

If she accepted that the fire had been no accident, however, then she must accept that she had been the intended victim. It seemed impossible to avoid the fact that she had been lured to the smithy with Con as bait.

She felt a bone-deep chill seep through her, but dismissed the thought that prompted it at once. Horace Brooks was dead. If he had lived, she would not have put such a thing past him. Toying with her had been one of his favorite games for amusement. And, if he had found she had not only escaped him, but was, to all intents and purposes, living with Con, he would gladly have included Con in any scheme he thought up to torment her.

But it had been weeks since the accident. If he had come after her, he would have attempted something long since. The only other possibility that presented itself was that the raiders that had murdered him had come at last for her.

She had come to feel complacent in her security as long as she remained at Claire's Retreat. She had thought that, even if they knew by now exactly where she was, they would not dare to come after her on the plantation. She had thought her silence, and her pretense of losing her memory would be added insurance for her safety.

But by now it must be widely known that she had 'remembered' much of the so called accident. And, quite possibly, they did not care to take a chance on her continued silence. The question was, would they feel the need for such an elaborate plot?

She supposed the need was there. There had been several of them, but not so many that they would boldly attack the plantation. And she rarely left it. That would force them to come for her.

She had no way of knowing their capabilities, but they had been clever enough to use the late Indian troubles to their advantage. By dressing as savages, even if someone saw them, from a distance it would have been thought that it was a pack of renegades. No one would have thought to mount a posse to track down a white gang. And they'd made certain everyone who saw them closely enough to see through their disguise, had not lived to tell of it. Everyone but her.

She shook off her thoughts with the realization that she was, quite possibly, making up tales of horror to frighten herself with. Any of it was possible. But was it likely? However strange the incident of the fire had been, there were as many plausible explanations for the events that led up to it that added up to a simple, if very nearly disastrous, accident as there were imagined ones for some sort of elaborate plot to murder her.

Chapter Twenty

Mary Catherine's face was set in lines of irritation as she polished the stair rail. It had little to do with the balustrade, however.

"Con," she muttered under her breath, "is the most pigheaded, stubborn man on the face of the earth! Mild concussion or not, he has no business out working in the fields when his head has just stopped spinning sufficiently for him to negotiate a straight path when he walks!

But, will he listen to reason? No! The mule headed thing!" She paused in her polishing, planted her hands on her hips and glared at the balustrade. She'd coaxed and pleaded and finally, worried to the point of anger, demanded that he stay in bed, at least for a while.

Remembering the incident now, she blushed.

"So help me, Con St.Claire, if you get out of that bed, I'm going to give you another knot on the head to match the first one!" she had snapped angrily, driven to desperate measures by her fear that he would end hurting himself far worse because of his stubbornness.

He stared at her as if one of John's kittens had suddenly let out a panther's roar. After a few moments, however, he subsided, smiling faintly all the time she hovered over him as anxiously as a hen with one chick.

"Yes, ma'am."

She glared at him.

His smirk vanished. He might even have looked penitent if not for the gleam of amusement that still lingered in his silvery eyes. That amusement annoyed her almost as much as his stubborn insistence that there was nothing wrong with him and his determination to avoid anything even remotely resembling medical attention.

He'd dismissed Dr. Bealle as soon as his stitches were set and informed the doctor that he needn't trouble himself to ride out for another examination. If not for the fact that he'd been weakened by the loss of blood and extremely nauseated from the blow to his head, she doubted very much that he would have even spent what had been left of that day in his bed.

He'd been ready to return to the fields when she arrived to check on her 'patient' the following morning. He had indulged her, and remained impatiently bedridden for another day, but he'd allowed her to know that that was all that it was and that he could not spare the time to indulge her any further.

She'd been more than half tempted to slip laudanum in his drink to keep him in his bed until he'd had time to mend a little more. The only reason she hadn't was that she hadn't quite dared go that far.

She was obliged to admit it must be somewhat trying for such a physically powerful man as Con to have to admit to any sort of weakness. He wasn't accustomed to such a betrayal by his own body. She suspected that he'd rarely, since he reached adulthood, had to accept that there were limitations even to what he was capable of.

All the same, and despite her anxieties over his health, his attitude toward her had grated upon her. She didn't know which was worse, being patted on the head like some poor imbecilic child, or taking the full brunt of a cold anger that was twice as frightening as one of her husband's thundering rages.

She had not, in truth, given it much thought before. But, since the fire, she'd begun to wonder just how Con did feel about her. He'd said he wanted her and yet, looking back, it seemed to her that as often as not, he seemed to view her as an amusing child. He'd certainly treated her as one when she'd been ill.

In a way, it had both soothed her anxieties and pleased her. She wasn't accustomed to being coddled at all. She couldn't even recall a time when her parents had done so. And, despite the many years that had separated her and her husband, for he'd been nearly of an age with her father, Horace had certainly not done so. Or rather, he had to the extent that most men seemed to treat their wives, as if she must be told when and how to do everything and punished when she did not behave as he thought she ought.

Con's remark the day of the fire had begun to plague her, however. At the time, it had hurt because it seemed he was criticizing her efforts when she had been doing the very best she knew how. But he'd been so quick to apologize that she began to wonder if it wasn't her size that diminished her importance in his eyes rather than her age.

She'd never been happy about it herself, but she had grown so accustomed to the limitations her size placed on her that she had ceased to give it much thought.

The question that had been plaguing her was, did Con want her because of who and what she was? Or in spite of it? Was she desirable to him? Or just the only female available? Or the most available female?

She did not think a man like Con would have been without female companionship all these years that his wife had been gone. It seemed probable that there were women in the area who welcomed Con to their beds. Quite possibly that was one of the reasons the women were so willing to despise her, for if Con had been in the habit of visiting one or more in the area, he'd ceased to do so since she had arrived at Claire's Retreat.

There was little comfort in that, however, when she considered, as she must, that she was most convenient, if not necessarily most desirable. Con, it seemed, like most men, preferred buxom women.

It should not have bothered her. Horace had been of a like mind. He'd been so openly contemptuous of her diminutiveness she'd often wondered why he'd agreed to marry her at all, despite the dowry her father had waved under his nose. Not that she'd cared.

But she discovered that it did bother her that Con did not find her particularly appealing.

She was distracted from her unpleasant thoughts by sounds outside that indicated an arrival. Diverted, she stopped what she was doing and turned to look at the door, as if by staring at the panel she could discern who'd arrived. Very likely, she thought, it was Dr. Bealle again. He'd come to check on Con the very next day after his accident despite Con's abrupt dismissal. She suspected he'd not come to see Con at all, that it had merely been the excuse he'd been waiting for to resume his pursuit of her. Apparently Con thought so as well.

She might have been flattered except that it seemed Dr. Bealle had decided she was fair game after all. As respectful as he'd treated her in the beginning, once he knew her reputation was a shambles, he'd made an abrupt about face. And there was little to be flattered about when he and Con bristled like two cur dogs anytime they came together. She suspected she wasn't the prize so much as the latest bone of contention.

Perhaps, she thought, she should meet him on the porch and try to send him on his way before Con arrived. True, Dr. Bealle seemed mostly impervious to Con's insults, but it made her uncomfortable.

At any rate, she saw she must answer the door. Sherman was busy polishing silver in the butler's pantry in the back and had not apparently heard the arrival at the front.

With that thought, she set the polish and buffing cloth down, and descended the stairs, wiping her hands on her apron as she went. She reached the door just as there came a sharp rap upon the panel.

Pulling the door wide, her greeting died on her tongue as she stared up at the vision filling the portal. The woman who stood there was very nearly as tall as Con. Queenly, was the first thought that popped into Mary Catherine's mind though she had, naturally enough, never in her life beheld royalty.

Even so, she was immediately assaulted by her childhood memories, when her mother had regaled her with tales of how very grand the ladies of Charleston society dressed. She had never in her life beheld so magnificent a gown or so marvelous a confection as the bonnet perched upon the woman's cornsilk colored hair.

And, if the toilet was splendid, it paled by comparison to the woman who wore it. She looked, Mary Catherine thought dazedly, like an angel so perfectly exquisite were her features. Her eyes, Mary Catherine saw when she'd recovered her presence of mind somewhat, were a deep, almost indigo blue, and glinting with amusement.

There was nothing in the least friendly about that amusement or the smile that lingered on the woman's perfect mouth. Her gaze, as she examined Mary Catherine with the same thoroughness that Mary Catherine had examined her, was contemptuous. It setup Mary Catherine's back on the instant.

She forced a polite smile. It took an effort to voice the expected greeting. "Hello. May I help you?"

She might, she quickly discovered, have saved her breath. The woman ignored the polite request to state her business.

"So," the woman said, looking her up and down again, still with an expression of amused contempt. "I must suppose you're the female my husband has taken up with, though I must say he once had far better taste." She stepped inside.

Mary Catherine was so stunned, she yielded ground automatically, though the instinctual urge flickered across the back of her mind to bar the woman's passage.

Removing her gloves, the woman walked around her, looking her over as if Mary Catherine were some sort of oddity. "Heaven's! What a little brown wren you are! I suppose your figure's well enough, though. And I see you're quite young. That would appeal to a man tottering on the brink of middle-age...pursuit of lost youth and all that."

Mary Catherine's lips tightened. Con was not tottering on the brink of anything, and it was insulting to both her and Con to insinuate that he was. That could have been said with some justice of Horace Brooks, but it was scarcely the case with Con. He was a virile man. He would not need to search for waning virility. Moreover, she was a full grown woman and while she might not be the object of every man's lust, she was not an antidote either.

"I must suppose you are Anne," she said stiffly.

"Very good!" Anne exclaimed, as if she were an imbecilic child who'd finally grasped her lesson. "I suppose you've seen my portrait? Con did love that portrait of me."

"No," Mary Catherine said flatly.

Anne's brows rose. "It was used to hang in his study, but perhaps he moved it to his room," she said unconcernedly.

"Or perhaps he discarded it with the trash," Mary Catherine offered cordially.

Anne's eyes narrowed for a moment but then she issued a tinkling laugh. "In fact, he sent it to me some years back. He said he could not bear to look upon it when I had left him."

That dart found its mark, but Mary Catherine refused to acknowledge it. She'd sensed almost from the beginning that Con was a kindred spirit, another lost soul. It had not taken long for her to realize that, whatever had possessed Anne to abandon Con and his son, Con had not driven her away, despite what Dr. Bealle had insinuated to the contrary. It not only angered her to meet at last the woman who'd wounded him so deeply, it hurt. Con would not have been so devastated if he had not loved this woman deeply. Quite possibly he still did, for she had seen Con had a heart that was as true as it was bountiful. When he loved, it would be completely and irrevocably.

It would have been no comfort to her if she'd discovered any similarity between herself and Con's lost love, as she must see herself then as a poor substitute. But neither did it help her feelings that she was as diametrically opposite the woman who'd captured his heart as it was possible to be.

"Is Master St.Claire expecting you?" she asked as civilly as she was able.

Again Anne laughed, her eyes twinkling with genuine amusement now. "As to that, I don't expect so. I thought I'd surprise him."

"No," said a different voice entirely at almost the same moment, "he was not."

Both women whirled toward the sound, Anne with every appearance of joy and Mary Catherine with a confused mixture of guilt and accusation.

The latter burgeoned considerably when Anne, with a cry of joy, rushed to Con and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks and finally the mouth. The intensity of the emotions that swamped Mary Catherine then made her feel distinctly ill. Turning on her heel, she left them to their reunion.

Stunned by Anne's frontal assault, moments passed before Con collected himself sufficiently to put her off. He was not really surprised to discover Mary Catherine had vanished in the mean time, but it infuriated him nonetheless. Anne, the moment he disentangled himself, stepped back, a smile of satisfaction curling her lips.

"I'd think you came for mischief, but it's a long way to come from London only for that. Why are you here?" Con asked coldly.

At once Anne's smile vanished and a pout replaced it. "I was sure you'd be pleased to see me, darling. It has been a while."

"You could not, in your wildest imaginings, have believed that," Con said sardonically. "Again, why have you come?"

Anne shrugged petulantly. Reaching up, she pulled her bonnet off and fluffed her coiffure, then looked around with apparent surprise. "Now where can that..female of yours have gotten herself off to?" she asked artlessly.

Con's eyes narrowed. "Take care, Anne."

She sent him a feigned look of innocence and finally shrugged. "I can scarcely call her by name when the little savage didn't even bother to introduce herself before she vanished. Though I don't know why I should be surprised, to be sure. I haven't met a colonial yet that wasn't a savage at heart. Then again, from what I hear, even the locals believe she's one, from having been with them so long....Or was the other tale the real one? The one about her husband drowning? Gossip is so unreliable."

She sent Con a look to gauge his reaction and smiled suddenly. "My, she is a taking little thing though! Quite a lovely little filly. Though, I must say I'm a bit surprised at you. She doesn't look up to your weight, Con. You were always used to prefer women who were more...well, more up to your weight. In fact, you were used to look upon such puny creatures with a good deal of amused contempt, if I recall rightly. But I suppose you did not have a great deal of choice. Women are rather scarce here, are they not?"

"If I were a fool, I'd think that little recital was a not too subtle display of jealousy. But I stopped being a fool years ago, Anne. Don't bother to discard your bonnet. You won't be staying," Con said implacably.

Anne gaped at him. "Surely you're jesting!"

"I've never been inclined to jest. I certainly don't feel the urge at the moment. But, before you go, perhaps you will enlighten me as to just how it is that you know so very much about Mary Catherine's situation, and yet failed to discover her name?"

For a moment, Anne looked taken aback. The expression was fleeting, however. "As to that, I stopped the night at the hotel in town before coming out."

Con's brows rose. "And you heard all of that in one night? My! The neighbors have been busy. I trust you asked the concierge to hold your room another night."

Anne stared at him. "Don't be absurd. The place is a...a hovel. And I most certainly did not ask the clerk to hold that vermin infested room for me. I'll be staying here."

"You will not."

"You can not turn me away when I've come so far to see my child!"

"You have no child," Con said bluntly. "The child you abandoned to starve six years ago was cared for by a African woman by the name of Bessie, and reared by myself. He is my son. His is nothing to you."

She gaped at him. "Only because I refused to wet nurse him like the lowliest scullery maid! Because I could not bear this ...this uncivilized wilderness you call home! You can not be so hard! You were never used to be!"

"I changed," Con said coolly.

She stared at him for a long moment before her face crumpled. "I can not go. I've no where to go."

Con's lips tightened. "At last, the truth. Or part of it at any rate. I've been half expecting you, you know, since I heard from Lyle."

Anne's face whitened. "You know about..."

"About your husband's demise? Yes. I would tender my sympathies, but I doubt they're necessary. Run through your money so quickly, my dear?"

A heated blush replaced her pallor. "That piddling.." She spat the words out and stopped abruptly. "Most of the jewels were nothing but paste!"

"And the..uh..piddling sum I settled upon you?" Con asked pensively.

She gaped. "My God! You didn't expect me to exist off of that for the rest of my days! It was gone inside of two years."

Con's expression hardened. "It should have kept you comfortably, if not luxuriously, for the rest of your days...if you'd kept your hands off the principle."

"Comfortably!" Anne echoed, but realized almost immediately that she'd erred. "What difference does it make now? It's gone. You can't just throw me out on the street."

Con studied her for a long moment. "Unfortunately, you're right. I thought I could, but I can't." He paused and put her away from him when she rushed forward to embrace him once more. "I hate to disillusion you, but it's nothing personal. It is only that I would have difficulty tossing out a stray dog. Unmanly of me, I know. But there, I admit my faults.

And before you begin to think it, I must tell you it will not be permanent. I will allow you to stay until you have landed on your feet, as you inevitably do, and then I will expect you to depart. I will not expect you to return again..ever."

Chapter Twenty-One

Con studied the woman seated across the dining table from him, wondering why she seemed a total stranger. He had lived with her for almost three years. She had borne his son, and yet it was as if he was dining with someone he'd never met before in his life.

He supposed he'd never really known her. The girl he'd thought he had fallen head over heels in love with all those years ago had never really existed except in his mind.

"It's not polite to stare, you know," Anne said with a smirk. "You've become nearly as rude as these crude colonial yokels you live with. Obviously, living in such an uncivilized place doesn't particularly agree with you."

Con lifted a dark brow. "It agrees with me quite well since I am one of the yokels. We call ourselves Americans now, however, and have for the past fifty years or so. But then you never were much for keeping up with current events."

Anne waved a hand dismissively. "You were not here then."

"Even so."

She gave him a coquettish look. "Now, what was going through that tiresomely practical little mind of yours to make you stare at me so, I wonder?"

"I was wondering how I could ever have thought I was in love with you."

Anne lifted her brows, but chuckled. "Thought? You gave a very good imitation of being head over heels in love; a whirlwind courtship; a scandalously short engagement."

"I can't take all the credit for it. You gave a laudable performance yourself. Unfortunately for me, it didn't survive the crossing. Hell. It didn't survive our wedding night, as I recall."

Anne reddened. "I was naturally upset. I had no idea you meant to drag me off straight away to this savage wilderness!"

"It baffles me that you could have failed to understand that I meant to 'drag you off to this savage wilderness' when I spent hours describing the place to you in painstaking detail," Con said sardonically.

"Boring me to tears, you mean!" Anne snapped, forgetting to be coy. "You can't believe that I actually listened to the half of it!"

Unperturbed, Con smiled. The servants came in to clear the table, but neither Anne nor Con paid them any heed.

"I freely admit I might have been tedious in describing the place, but then you gave me reason to believe you wanted every 'fascinating' detail of what life was like here."

Anne waved that off as if it were an annoying insect. "Posh! You must have known I was merely being polite!"

Con's amusement vanished. "Unfortunately, no. If I had I might have spared us both a good bit of unpleasantness."

Anne studied him a long moment, as a prize fighter sizing up his opponent, before her expression became sly. "In which case you would not now have your precious heir, would you? Say what you like, you owe me for that, at least."

Con's expression hardened. "You were no wife to me, Anne, and you and I both know it. The miracle is that I got a child on you at all considering your distaste for the marriage bed."

Anne shrugged. "I told you I didn't care to have a child."

"After we were wed. You failed to mention that very important fact beforehand."

"It scarcely mattered, did it?" Anne snapped, her lips tightening angrily. "I dutifully produced your heir, though it nigh killed me."

Con's eyes narrowed. "You recovered amazingly fast for someone on their deathbed. John was not even a week old when you abandoned him.

Don't preen yourself over your motherhood. Curs are better mothers."

"You refer, I must suppose, to the little mongrel who's taken up here?"

For a moment Anne suffered a qualm that she might have gone too far. Con's eyes blazed white hot with fury. In the next moment, however, he had himself firmly under control once more.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. But, take care. It isn't too late for me to change my mind and pitch you out on your backside."

"You wouldn't do that," Anne said, without much conviction.

Con's dark brows rose. "Evidently you don't know me any better than I know you. I would. With relish. As it happens, though, I'm curious enough to bide my time till I figure out what brought you here...always assuming you can manage to keep a civil tongue in your head in regards to Mary Catherine."

"I told you why I came."

Con shook his head slowly. "Not good enough. I at least know you well enough to recognize that for a lie."

Anne sat back, toying with her napkin for several moments. "I hardly think there's much point in broaching the subject since you seem disinclined even to behave civilly," she said finally.

"Aaah! At last we arrive at the truth. Dare I guess? Money? How much will it cost me this time, I wonder?"

Anne's lips tightened. Abruptly, she rose, flinging her napkin down on the table. "I see no point in continuing this. I'm weary from traveling. I'll bid you a good night."

Con stared at the door she'd disappeared through for some time after she'd left, turning their conversation over in his mind. Try though he might he could come up with no clue to Anne's true motives in returning after so many years. After a time he dismissed it. Likely he'd been right in guessing it was money and nothing else.

Quitting the dining room, he went to his study to update his estate books. He soon discovered, however, that he could not keep his mind on accounts. His mind kept see sawing between the puzzle of Anne's return and an inclination to seek Mary Catherine out to try to straighten out whatever misconceptions she had about Anne's arrival.

Deciding at last that it would be best to allow Mary Catherine time for calm reflection, his thoughts turned to Anne once more, traveling back to the time when he'd first wed. With a touch of surprise, he realized he felt as detached from that episode in his life as if it had happened to another man entirely.

He supposed it had.

The young man who'd arrived in the territories with Lincoln, a wagon load of goods and nothing else to his name had been incredibly brash, painfully green. Because of his lack of foresight, his youthful ignorance, he and Lincoln had had to live off the land in the beginning.

The quest for success, just for survival in the beginning, had been all he'd tasted of life for years until the day he woke up and realized the empire he was building needed an heir. Unfortunately, the perfect woman did not magically appear. There were few families in the area, none he cared to align himself with. Finally, determined on finding a bride and starting his family, he took ship for England.

He found his ideal, or thought he had, the moment he set eyes on Anne Pembroke. Ripe for a tumble, he'd fallen for Anne before they'd finished their first waltz. She was perfect. She was beautiful, intelligent, accomplished.

He took her by storm. His desperation to marry quickly was motivated by the anxiety to return home swiftly as much as desire, though he only realized that when they were halfway across the Atlantic.

His shiny bauble was showing bits of tarnish long before they docked in Savannah harbor. It was the crossing, he assured himself. Once they were settled and she'd had time to recover from the ordeal, she would recover her sweet disposition. It soured further when she reached the plantation and discovered she was expected to live in a hovel, the same hovel he'd been living in for nearly four years.

He realized immediately that he'd made a mistake. He couldn't expect a lady to live in such a crude setting. He took the money he'd been saving for improvements, half his fieldhands and set about building a mansion suitable for his wife. Working beside his men from dawn to dusk, he was so exhausted by the time he fell into bed at night that at least one of his concerns was temporarily resolved. He rarely had to endure Anne's very open distaste for the physical side of marriage. He was generally too tired even to attempt persuading her.

When completed, St.Claire's Retreat was by far the grandest house in all the territory, so grand his neighbors came over in flocks to gawk at it and shake their heads over mad Brits. To Anne it was a cottage, and not a particularly comfortable one at that. However, since it temporarily deprived her of a viable argument for immediately returning to England, she settled herself in it and proceeded to make his life miserable.

When it finally dawned on him that he was miserable, not simply exhausted from his efforts to recoup the money he'd spent building Anne her mansion, he began to suspect he'd made a mistake. He dismissed his qualms. He reminded himself several times a day that he was madly in love with her. She was young, perhaps a little spoiled. Motherhood would steady her.

With that thought, he turned his attention to producing an heir, much to Anne's disgust. His joy when Anne told him of his success was extremely short-lived. She threw a rage the likes of which he'd never witnessed in his life. She also threw everything she could lay hand to at his head.

Fearing her mind had snapped from the isolation of plantation life, he sent a boy hotfoot to Troupville with orders not to return without the new physician, Dr. Bealle. Having examined her and found her fit if still mildly hysterical, Dr. Bealle fixed Con with an accusing eye that suggested Con had accomplished the deed by raping her twice a day and beating her in between times. She was in a delicate condition, he informed Con coldly. She was entitled to an occasional freak of temper.

The freak of temper stayed with her. It didn't abate once the child was born. Motherhood didn't soften her or reconcile her to living in what she referred to as exile. She hated him. She hated his son___Which was why Con had found it impossible to believe time or distance had softened her attitude. He'd never been in any danger of falling for that particular lie.

Dismissing Anne and the past from his mind, Con put his desk in order and went in search of Mary Catherine. She'd had long enough to have calmed down, he decided. He didn't want to give her enough time to come to the mistaken conclusion that he'd either participated in, or enjoyed, that little display Anne had treated them to on her arrival.

Having reached her room, Con tapped lightly on the panel and waited. When several moments passed without either an acknowledgement or the sound of approaching footsteps from the other side, he tried again.

"Yes?"

The voice was muffled through the door and slurred with sleep. "Cat, I need to talk to you."

Footsteps. In a moment the door swung wide. Con stared at Anne blankly a moment before his eyes went to the room beyond her. Anne's belonging were strewn everywhere. There was no sign that Mary Catherine had ever occupied the room.

"Did you say cat? Don't tell me you've begun to keep animals in the house. Really, Con!"

Con's lips tightened. When, he wondered, had Mary Catherine vacated her room? More importantly, why? If this was Anne's doing he might well strangle the woman instead of merely throwing her out.

Anne chuckled. "Oh, my! You meant that creature___What was her name again?"

"What are you doing in here?" Con demanded.

"I was sleeping till you woke me."

Con glared at her. "Never mind," he said tightly, turning abruptly on his heel and moving to the next room along the hall, opposite his own. He didn't need the light spilling from the lamp in the hallway to assure him Mary Catherine was not in the room.

Anger flared. Inspired by a fear he refused to acknowledge, it mounted as he checked one room after another, finding each empty. When he'd checked the last bedroom, he turned to stare blindly down the hall he'd just traversed, trying to think where she might have gone, doing his best to ignore the obvious. Finally, he returned to the lower floor, checking each room as he had the others.

He hadn't really expected to find her downstairs and yet when he did not, his anxieties multiplied considerably. She wouldn't have left in the middle of the night. She had no where to go.

Unfortunately, the thought brought him no comfort when he could find no sign of her in the house. An uncharacteristic indecisiveness descended upon him. Should he check the outbuildings and grounds? Or might she have struck off toward Troupville? He couldn't have missed her if she was in the house. Or could he? He hadn't checked John's room.

With that thought, he took the stairs again, striding down the upper hall until he reached his son's room. Without hesitation, he turned the knob and eased the door open just enough that the light from the hall lamps would filter into the room.

She sat on the floor beside John's bed, her arms pillowing her head on the edge of the mattress. Relief swamped him. Taking care not to waken John, he moved into the room and stood over Mary Catherine for a long moment before he crouched beside her.

Her chignon had tumbled free, spilling her dark hair across her cheek. Carefully, he reached to smooth it back. Without surprise, he saw that she was asleep.

After a moment, he lifted her arms and draped them around his neck then scooped her up with one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. Despite his pains to disturb her as little as possible, she jerked awake the moment he scooped her up. "Wha...?" she asked groggily.

"Shhh. It's alright."

"Mmmm?" she mumbled, nuzzling her face against his chest sleepily.

Con stiffened, feeling heat flood him as his mind refused to acknowledge the fact that her movements were sleep induced rather than sensual.

"Con?"

His reply was a strangled grunt as she tipped her face up to nuzzle against his neck.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To bed," Con said gruffly as he edged his way past the door and into the hallway once more. The temptation was almost overwhelming to place her in his own bed. It didn't take much thought, however, to realize what the repercussions of that sort of insane move would be. She stiffened the moment the words left his mouth.

"You can't sleep on the floor," he added quickly. "Where did you put your things?"

"In the attic."

Con frowned, turned to stare at the narrow stairs that led up to the tiny, almost airless attic rooms and frowned darkly. "You can move them down again tomorrow."

She said nothing more and he turned and strode to the bedroom across from his own. Shifting her in his arms so that he could turn the knob, he shouldered his way past the door and crossed the room to the bed.

When he'd settled her on the mattress, he reached for the quilt folded at the foot of the bed and spread it over her. He stood back then, studied her for a long moment and finally sat on the edge of the bed and grasped her foot. She jerked instinctively and he smiled grimly.

He'd known she had roused well beyond sleep. If she was of a mind to feign it, however, he would allow her to avoid a discussion a while longer. "I'm just removing your shoes and stockings," he said soothingly. "You can't sleep comfortably in them."

She didn't so much as grunt a response that time.

A wicked gleam entered his eyes as he pulled off first one shoe and then the other. He took the first foot in his hands once more and began to kneed it. Beginning with her toes, he slowly worked his way up to her ankle and finally drew one stocking off. She curled her bared pink foot protectively.

Ignoring those certain signs of wakefulness, he reached for her other foot and slowly repeated the process. When he released it at last, she drew both feet up under the coverlet.

He chuckled and rose from the bed to stand over her looking down. "Sleep, Cat. Tomorrow we talk."

Chapter Twenty-Two

"You've been avoiding me," Con said quietly.

Startled from her preoccupation, Mary Catherine jumped, whirling at the sound of his voice. He was propped against the door frame, his arms crossed over his broad chest. She should not have been surprised at the rush of conflicting emotions that descended upon her. Her emotions had been a froth of turmoil since Anne's arrival nearly a week earlier.

Regardless, caught off guard, she was, for several moments, almost overwhelmed with them. Had she ever truly realized before, she wondered, how achingly handsome he was?

She thought not. She had viewed him with a strange sort of detachment from the moment she'd met him, distanced from him by the shielding of her emotions. Sometime in the past weeks she had lost that protective barrier, and she had never even noticed when it had collapsed.

She yearned for its return. Anger had ridden her for days after her encounter with Anne, and shame. It had driven her in a frenzy of desperation to remove all traces of her occupancy of Anne's old room and to scurry up to hide herself in an attic room. As if she'd been truly guilty of what she'd only wanted to be guilty of. But, overriding the guilt, the shame and even the anger, there had been pain such as she'd never felt before in her life. She had not realized until Con taught her that there were so very many different kinds of pain.

She wanted to wrap herself up in the cocoon she'd shed. She wanted to feel its cool blanket instead of the pain that tormented her now.

She said nothing, too caught up in her inner turmoil to think of a quick denial, or any response whatever. She was spared the necessity of dredging one up as Bessie made an attempt to enter the kitchen behind him.

Her relief was short-lived. He turned and fixed Bessie with a hard stare. "Out."

Bessie retreated, slamming the kitchen door behind her, isolating Mary Catherine with Con, cutting off her only avenue of escape. He fixed her again with an implacable stare, demanding a response. She couldn't sustain that look. She certainly couldn't defy it. She turned back to the stove. She had been avoiding him, but she had no intention of admitting it. "You've been busy. I've been busy," she managed to say finally.

"And never the twain shall meet, is that it?" Con's voice was grating with anger.

Mary Catherine bit her lip, but said nothing, nor turned though she heard him as he pushed away from the wall and approached. Stopping just behind her as she stood, staring blindly at the batter she'd been mixing, he grasped her arm, forcing her to face him. "Why, Cat?"

Her lips tightened as her anger rose to match his. She would not tell him that. He had no right to demand it of her when it would cost her her pride. If she told him she'd been angry, then she must also tell him why. Her shame and her guilt were her own, to deal with as best she could.

Her brief flare of anger died. The pain..most of all she couldn't tell him of that. She couldn't say to him that she'd hurt so badly she could think of nothing but seeking out some dark place like a wounded animal gone to burrow to die.

Still, she knew he wouldn't let it rest. She had to say something. "I...don't know. I thought, perhaps, it would be best."

He studied her for a long moment in silence. "That wasn't it," he said roughly.

Her anger surged upward full force. "Why then?" she asked tightly, knowing suddenly that he'd sensed what she was trying so desperately to hide, prodding his anger instinctively to divert him.

Either her sharp retort or her anger brought his to the forefront once more. His expression hardened. "You didn't bother to ask for an explanation. Or allow me to give one. I don't want Anne here, but I can't send her away. She has no where to go."

Unfortunately, Mary Catherine was very familiar with that situation. If she'd had anywhere else in the world to go, she would have left the very day and hour Con's wife returned. She'd been glad later that she hadn't. As difficult as it had been knowing that Con's wife was in the house, in her own room again, once more a part of Con's life, Mary Catherine was glad that she'd been in no state to take flight. It would have looked as if she'd had something to be ashamed of, when she hadn't. It would have made her look like a coward. Her pride might bring her nothing but cold comfort, but she couldn't allow it to be trampled regardless.

"I wouldn't expect you to. And I most certainly would not have demanded an explanation from you as to why your wife returned. But I thought it could not be comfortable for you, for any of us, if I was...underfoot. I think it would be best if I remove to the cabin."

Con's anger abandoned him abruptly, leaving him moorless in the sea of emotions he'd sought ire to avert. He swallowed with some difficulty against the painful knot in his throat, dragged a painful breath into his chest. He couldn't seem to think of anything except that he'd feared it would come to this.

He'd thought, hoped, that she had come to care for him, at least a little. He saw that he'd been wrong. He had not touched her. She wouldn't allow him to touch her.

He thought for several moments that the pain would engulf him, felt as if he was drowning in it. He'd given his word that he would do nothing to stop her when she decided to go. He found, despite everything, that he could not keep it. "It's not finished," he said harshly, not certain himself whether he referred to the cabin or what lay unfinished between them.

Mary Catherine returned his gaze steadily. She'd found the courage to do what was right, even if it was not what she wanted. "Even so."

Anger surged through him, and hope, for he saw a chance to delay her again. He did not mean to give up on her now. "Don't be a little fool! You can't stay there. It's December. You can't live in a half-finished cabin."

He paused, trying to judge if anything he'd said was having any effect. "I'll be taking the cotton to market tomorrow. When that's done, I can put a gang to work there. At least stay until its done."

She studied him, wondering if she should seize his offer as she was so desperately tempted to do. It was something, at least, that he cared enough to persuade her to stay a little longer. Finally she nodded. "Very well." She paused, and finally voiced the qualification that trembled unspoken on her lips. "If your wife is agreeable."

Con stared at her blankly a moment. "Anne isn't my wife. I divorced her. Is that why you're going? Because you think she's my wife?"

Mary Catherine didn't answer. She couldn't. She didn't think if he had taken an axe and chopped her into a million tiny fragments that she would have been more stunned or hurt worse.

She had comforted herself with the belief that Con had offered all he had to give. She had thought he was not free to offer more. In the space of a heartbeat, he'd snatched that one source of solace from her, making everything that she'd believed in a lie.

The bald truth was she meant nothing at all to him. Reality was that he had wanted nothing but a leman. The rest of it had only been a mirage to tempt her, whether he'd intended it so or not.

In the final analysis, he was no better than Dr. Bealle.

She shook her head. "No," she managed to say. "Because it's time."

The excursion had not gone well. Mary Catherine could not own that she was surprised. She had accepted the invitation with misgiving and been almost immediately sorry that she had not paid that foreboding more heed. She had not needed a seer to conclude that Con had intended that they go alone to Troupville as they had before. One look at his face when she arrived to discover Anne perched smugly on the front seat of the buggy and John bouncing happily on the back was sufficient to apprise her of that.

She had been torn then by conflicting emotions. Both amusement and satisfaction that Anne had so effectively spiked his guns and that Mary Catherine would not be forced to do so herself. Irritation for the same reason, and the same toward Con for whatever his original intentions had been. And a healthy dose of both jealousy and discomfort for being excess baggage in what she soon perceived as a family excursion, due largely to Anne's devises.

"Well!" Anne said in a pleased voice when Con had given the horses the office to start. "Isn't this a lovely day for a family outing?"

Con slanted her a withering glance, but held his tongue. In a moment, Anne looped her arm through his and sidled a little closer. "Aren't you just the tiniest bit happy to have me home?" She murmured in a voice perfectly audible to the two in the back seat.

"My! How everything's changed since I was here last!" she added quickly as Con gently but firmly detached himself from her. "Those buildings over there look new, and I do believe you've cleared a new field, haven't you, Con, darling?"

Con's expression was sardonic. "I expect you'll be amazed to hear it, but the world does not stop and hold it's breath in anticipation of your return. Certainly there have been changes. A good many of them. After all, it's been five years."

Anne's lips tightened in annoyance. In a moment, however, all signs of anger disappeared. She twisted in her seat. "Well, hello....uh..Sweety! How would you like to climb up front and sit on Mummy's lap so that you can see better?"

John scowled at her. "No."

"I realize you couldn't make it to his christening, but try to recall, his name is John," Con said dryly.

Anne's smile was a little forced. "You needn't make it sound as if I don't know my own son's name!" She transferred her attention to John once more. "Are you quite certain you wouldn't like to sit with Mummy?"

John didn't bother to answer that time. After glaring at her balefully for several moments, he scrambled onto Mary Catherine's lap, wrapped an arm around her neck and fixed Mummy with a look that was a fine mixture of satisfaction and belligerence.

"Well! If you mean to play coy," Anne said with forced cheerfulness. "But you won't see nearly as much from the back."

"You're not my mama," John muttered under his breath when Anne had turned to face forward once more.

Mary Catherine gave him an admonishing pinch, which he ignored.

"I don't want you to be. And you're not going to be. Miz Catherine's going to be my mama. Aren't you Miz Catherine?"

Mary Catherine blushed fierily. She was spared the necessity of answering, however, as Anne turned to look at them again, her eyes narrowed angrily. Con didn't respond at all, playing deaf, dumb and blind, and Mary Catherine didn't know whether to be relieved or annoyed.

Anne was mightily displeased and she allowed Mary Catherine to know it, targeting Mary Catherine with such poisoned barbs as came to mind. While Mary Catherine was far too polite to respond, and in general speechless at Anne's effrontery, Con was not deterred by either, with the result that he and Anne spent the best part of the trip at verbal warfare. None of them, therefore, arrived at their destination in any way pleased with their situation, and it did not improve.

The plan had been that Con would acquire a room where Anne, Mary Catherine and John could rest up and relax while he attended his business. They discovered almost at once that there was not a room to be had with the town in the full grip of market day. After dropping the buggy at the livery, therefore, Con escorted Anne and Mary Catherine to the mercantile to browse while he took John off with him to attend his business.

Settling his hand protectively on John's shoulder, he studied Mary Catherine for a moment and finally smiled faintly. "As long as you're looking, you might as well find something pretty for yourself. Tell, Hank I said to put it on my account."

Mary Catherine turned first red as a beet and then deathly pale, both insulted and mortified at the suggestion that she behave as if she was his kept woman.

"Thank you," she managed to say stiffly.

Anne entertained no such reluctance, responding as if the remark had been addressed to her. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to look for something, though I must say I entertain serious doubts this backward place has anything worth having. I expect you should give me some pocket money in case I decide to go elsewhere."

His mouth tightened in annoyance at her tone, but he pulled his wallet from his pocket and held out two bills. Anne promptly snatched both from his grasp, tucking them into her purse. He studied her for a long moment before turning to look at Mary Catherine a little doubtfully, as if wondering whether to offer her pocket money, as well, whereupon she fixed him with such a baleful glare he reconsidered and abandoned them abruptly.

As soon as he had gone, Mary Catherine set out on her own business, which had been her only reason for joining the party to begin with. She had every intention of wrangling herself a room in one of the town's boarding houses and persuading the proprietress to allow her to earn her keep.

Not only did she meet with failure, for there was not a rooming house in town that was not already bursting at the seams from the influx of buyers and traders that had descended from far and wide, but she managed to get herself hopelessly lost. She had not, unfortunately, anticipated that that would be a problem. She was not familiar with the town, having visited it only once before, but it was not a very large place.

She had not counted on the crowds that thronged the streets, however. The bustle of activity had not only unnerved her, it had confused her. She had been so busy winding her passage through, and dodging the constant flow of traffic in the streets, she had not thought to take note of such landmarks as would lead her back to the mercantile.

Con had not been pleased at the necessity of hunting her down when he was ready to depart. She didn't know if his restraint in not giving vent to his temper had been due to Anne's presence___in the back seat now___the better to torment John. Or if it had been her expression, which trembled between obstinacy and distress, that had stopped him. In any case, he had said nothing, merely assisting her into the buggy and departing.

Anne had not been so reticent.

"I do wish we hadn't stayed so late, Con, darling. I don't care to be out on this deserted road after dark," Anne said plaintively for perhaps the fifth time. "I'd thought we would start back earlier or I wouldn't have come. Are you quite certain there's no chance we'll be set upon by savages?"

It set Mary Catherine's teeth on edge, particularly when she sensed Con's brooding gaze upon her again. Doubtless he was still angry with her, but she decided she didn't especially care.

"Are we almost there?" John asked, voicing his own oft repeated lament.

"Hush, sweety," Anne murmured soothingly. "You mustn't pester Papa. We'll be there soon and then mummy will tuck you up nice and comfy in your own little bed."

Irritated past bearing, Mary Catherine mouthed the words synchronously with her, no great feat as she'd heard them repeated as regularly as their lamenting duet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Con's lips twitch suddenly with amusement. For some reason that prompted her own sense of the ridiculous and she felt much of her tension evaporate.

She turned in her seat to look at John. He made a woeful picture indeed. He'd had far more excitement that he was accustomed to and beyond that was emotionally exhausted from doing battle all day with Anne's determined efforts to woo him. "Why don't you try to take a nap, sweetheart," she suggested soothingly, smiling at him encouragingly, "and then we'll be there before you know it."

He perked up immediately, scrambling to the edge of his seat. "Can't I sit up front with you and Papa, Miz Catherine? I don't want to ride in back anymore."

"Little scamp!" Anne interjected with a great show of teasing before Mary Catherine could respond. "I gave up my seat in front, only to ride with you. You can not be so ungentlemanly as to abandon me."

She reached up to ruffle John's curls. John promptly pushed her hand away, scowling at her. "Well I don't want to ride with you!" He poked out a trembling lower lip. "I want to sit with Miz Catherine. Can't I, Papa?" he pleaded, his voice taking on the irritating whine common to weary children.

Anne's motherly demeanor vanished abruptly along with her patience. "Don't be obnoxious, John! There isn't enough room for you in the front. Now sit still or I'll have Papa pull the buggy over and find me a switch!"

There was no denying that John had been exceedingly difficult the live long day. However, Mary Catherine was of the opinion that the child had reason enough for his distress and the tiresome behavior that accompanied it. He'd taken Anne in instant dislike from the moment of her arrival and her determination to play mother had not helped matters. The harder she tried to assume the role she'd abandoned in his infancy, it seemed, the more determined he was to elude her. He was confused and frightened by her unexpected descent upon him, and distrustful, as well he might be, of her sudden affection.

Under the circumstances, Mary Catherine had to bite her tongue to refrain from informing Anne that she would do no such thing. Con, apparently, was of a like mind. He pulled the buggy up abruptly and swiveled in his seat.

John, certain he was about to receive a tongue lashing at the very least, (which he was well aware he deserved) sat back abruptly, his eyes wide with trepidation. Anne assumed an expression of pleased expectation which, however, vanished abruptly as Con held out his hand to John.

"Come here, son."

John complied at once, despite the fact that he was obviously somewhat doubtful of what his reception might be. When Con merely helped him to climb over the seat, however, tucking the boy protectively against his side, John settled in with an air of satisfaction and Anne immediately launched into objections.

"I suppose you are aware that you are spoiling the boy outrageously!" she snapped.

"His name is John," Con replied tightly.

"I have not forgotten the child's name!"

"Behold me, amazed," Con retorted dryly.

That took the wind out of her sails and for several moments a blessed silence descended. And then Anne took up the gauntlet once more. "This is ridiculous! I have the entire seat to myself. There is no sense in the three of you crowding into the front only because that little monster is so spoiled as to demand to have his way."

Con sent her a narrow-eyed glare. "My son is not a monster. And you've upset him enough. Hold your tongue or you may walk the rest of the way back with my blessing."

Anne retreated in to gobbling outrage. The silence that time lasted for almost ten minutes, during which time John relaxed to the point of drowsiness. Seeing this, Mary Catherine urged him to turn in the seat and rest his head in her lap. He snuggled contentedly and closed his eyes once more.

Anne slid forward almost at once to peer over the seat at him. "Sweetkins, Mummy didn't know you were so tired. Come sit with me and lay your head upon my lap. There's more room here."

John tensed but decided to ignore her, feigning sleep. Mary Catherine, who'd dropped her hand to his head to brush his temple soothingly was well aware of it but saw no reason to interfere. If John was content with her then she was equally content to have him cuddled trustingly upon her lap.

Anne refused to give up. "John. Sweetkins. Come sit in back with mummy."

"Leave him alone, Anne," Con snapped abruptly. "Can't you see he's asleep?"

Anne's lips tightened. "He isn't asleep. He could not have fallen asleep so quickly as that. He is merely being willful and you are encouraging him."

"That just shows how little you know of children in general and John in particular," Con responded mildly. "They go until they can go no more and then quietly collapse. It's one of the blessings of innocence, the ability to find sleep so easily."

"There's nothing innocent about the little hellion, Con St.Claire! He is merely playing you for a fool to have his way."

Con sent her a glare but refused to rise to the bait.

"If he is asleep as you say, then you might just as well stop the buggy and put him in back with me. He will not know the difference and then we may all be more comfortable."

Con sent her a speculative glance. "When, may I ask, did you become so sympathetic to the comfort of others?" he asked dryly.

Anne stared at him stupidly for several moments and finally subsided in a huff. "Suit yourself then," she snapped angrily.

She sat back then with an air of having washed her hands of them.

Mary Catherine could not but be glad for it. She was beginning to look forward with great yearning to the end of their excursion.

The tension between them all was only partially responsible, however. She was no more easy with their late return than Anne was. They were comparatively isolated, despite the fact that they had been following the Macon road, the main road north. Naturally enough, they had passed few headed into town so late in the day and had not been overtaken by a single buggy since shortly after they'd left Troupville behind. Moreover, dusk was nearly upon them and they must turn off soon onto winding back roads that would be all the more deserted.

Even so, it seemed unlikely they need concern themselves with savages. The Indians had been quiet for some time, at least in the immediate vicinity, though there had been the occasional report of random attacks upon travelers unwise enough to travel in small parties.

She did her best to dismiss her anxieties. Con was well armed should the need arise to defend them, and, in truth, the only incidents she'd heard tell of recently were near Waresboro, a town considerably east of them.

That did nothing to allay her anxieties, however, when it occurred to her that they would make a very good target for the raiders who'd attacked her party. Try though she might, she had never been entirely successful in convincing herself that the incident at the smithy had been nothing more ominous than a series of freakish events. Nor had she managed to find a great deal of comfort in assuring herself that they must certainly have moved on if they had done nothing in all this time. Somehow, her reasoning began to seem like childish prayers in the dark when the sun dipped low upon the horizon and finally vanished altogether as they left the Macon road at last.

Con did not stop to light the lanterns. A mid-December's Cold Moon rose upon the opposite horizon almost before the sun disappeared, flooding the road before them with its eerie light. Gazing up at it, Mary Catherine felt a chill descend upon her despite the wraps they'd brought along to bundle in to ward off the day's bite. Likely because it was not caused by the weather at all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Full darkness had long since caught them, leaving them with nothing to light their way save moon glow and star shine, when they came at last upon that section of road Mary Catherine knew to be within a few miles of the plantation. The moon had reached its zenith, well beyond the veil of trees that edged the road. Though for some time after they'd left the wider Macon road to wind their way along the narrow road through the piney woods, it had played at hide and seek through those bushy tops. Despite the moon's bright glow directly above them, however, the road before them lay in the utter darkness of a cavern.

On a sunny day, it was a peaceful place of shadows, one that beckoned for a short respite from the bright glare and hot discomfort of the sun's rays. For the great oaks that stretched their mighty limbs above the road, created a giant arbor of peaceful greenery that stretched for very nearly a mile. At night it was not so welcoming.

Mary Catherine felt her apprehension of before return as they approached it, though she'd relaxed somewhat as time progressed and there was no sign of trouble. As they swept beneath the dark canopy at a brisk trot, she glanced at Con's darkened profile, wondering if he, too, sensed that there was something in the darkness to fear.

She saw that he did in the tension in the lines of his face, in his sudden alertness as he scanned the darkened woods that crowded the road. With a rustling flutter of wings, a great horned owl burst from the trees and swooped across the road before them, startling a wicker of surprise from the horses before it disappeared once more into the woods beyond the road.

It was then that Mary Catherine realized the exact source of her uneasiness. Silence. It lay heavily around them as if the world was blanketed by a dense layer of fog. There were no night sounds.

Mary Catherine sat up straighter, clutching John more closely to her as Con allowed the pair harnessed to the buggy to break into an easy canter.

Despite the premonition of danger, Mary Catherine found that she was totally unprepared when the first yipping shrieks ripped through the stillness. It was a sound calculated to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies and it succeeded. At once her hackles rose, her heart slamming so painfully against her breast bone it seemed to squeeze the air from her lungs.

Jolted awake by the sudden explosion of sound, John leapt up, staring around in wide-eyed terror. Anne let out a series of ear-splitting screams that scraped down Mary Catherine's spine like fingernails across a blackboard. From some deeply primal urge, the sound jarred from Mary Catherine the desperate need to shut off the unnerving noise if she must throttle Anne to do so. Nothing save lack of opportunity restrained her from at least making the attempt.

Con uttered an oath, his head jerking around to scan the area for the direction of attack even as mounted men burst from the woods around them, still shouting nerve wracking Indian war cries. Slapping the reins against the horses' rumps, he sent the buggy charging down the road at a breakneck pace.

It was scarcely necessary. The horses had broken into a wild gallop out of sheer terror the moment the screaming demons descended upon them from out of no where. Even so, they could not logically hope to outdistance their attackers. A pair pulling a two seated buggy and four passengers, however game or prodded by fear, could not out run horses not similarly handicapped, particularly when the pair was not rested.

Regardless, the savages had launched their attack from the woods and thus it took their mounts some moments to attain their stride. Con's pair, having broken from canter to headlong gallop the moment they were startled, the buggy pulled slightly ahead. As they pulled ahead, however, gunfire erupted around them and a shower of bullets shot past, or struck the buggy like a barrage of hailstones.

"John," Con shouted above the roar of the wind, the pounding of hoofbeats, screaming savages and Anne's incessant shrieks. "Climb over the seat and get down on the floorboards."

John didn't move, too frightened to understand the command. Mary Catherine, hearing him, turned in her seat to urge John to do his father's bidding. She found, when she'd managed to maneuver to her knees onto the wildly bucking seat, however, that Anne had already discovered the safest place in the buggy.

"Anne! Move! We need to get John on the floorboard where he'll be safer," Mary Catherine shouted, prodding Anne when she acted as if she hadn't even heard the demand.

Anne slapped her hand away and Mary Catherine felt rage replace her own terror. "Get up you sniveling coward or so help me I'll pull you bald!" she cried, reaching to grasp a handful of hair.

Diverted at last by Mary Catherine's dogged assault and determined to defend her sanctuary, Anne rolled onto her side and slapped Mary Catherine's hands away frantically. Girding herself to do battle, Mary Catherine was on the point of climbing over the seat and shoving the woman out onto the road when she was stopped by Con who grasped her arm and pushed her back into her seat.

"Never mind. We've no time for it. John, crawl under the seat and hand Mary Catherine the gun. Carefully. It's loaded."

John needed no further prodding. Slipping from the jouncing seat, he scurried for cover, shoving the gun out behind him. Mary Catherine was nearly bounced from her seat as she leaned over to retrieve it. Con caught her, jerking her back.

"You'll have to take the reins, Cat."

Mary Catherine's head snapped around, her eyes rounding with renewed terror. Dark as it was, she could tell little beyond the fact that Con was not looking at her. His profile was to her, his entire concentration focused upon the road before them.

The road, beneath the canopy of trees, was only a slightly lighter shadow among deeper shadows, winding off into a black wall of darkness. Beyond that, the horses were racing madly now, spurred on by the gun shots that erupted around them intermittently.

It was obvious that it took Con's full concentration only to hold the buggy and pair to the road. That in itself was sufficient to convince her that Con had asked the impossible of her. She had never driven a buggy in her life. When an accomplished whip like Con must concentrate so totally to keep his pair in hand, a novice was unlikely to manage them. "I can't."

Con spared her a hard glance. "You've got to. There's no one else."

Mary Catherine bit her lip. "I'll kill us all. I've never driven a pair before in my life."

"They'll kill us if I can not get to my gun," Con said bluntly. "I can not handle this pair and shoot at once. They're gaining on us, Cat. Take the reins and give me the gun."

Faced with two unpalatable choices, Mary Catherine opted for the only one she had any hope of successfully achieving. "I can handle the gun."

Con's head whipped around. "You what?"

She ignored him, checking the load and percussion cap more by feel and familiarity than by sight. Having assured herself it was ready to fire, she hoisted her skirts, climbed onto the seat on her knees once more and rested the long barrel across the seat back. With a muttered imprecation, Con transferred the ribbons to one hand and pulled his colt from it's holster, firing off two shots blindly over one shoulder.

Taking sight on the nearest rider, Mary Catherine fired. The gun flashed and roared like thunder on top of them. A hoarse cry followed almost instantly, though Mary Catherine, deafened by the explosion, scarcely heard it. In any case, she discovered at once that she had not braced herself sufficiently for the recoil. Precariously as she was perched, the concussion very nearly rolled her backward from the seat.

Having more than half expected it, Con caught her with the back of his out flung arm, steadying her. "For God's sake, Cat! Take the reins and give me the damned gun!"

She set her jaw mulishly. "I can shoot, Con! I can load. I can not drive this blessed buggy!" she cried, holding the gun out of his reach when he snatched for it. He subsided almost at once, sending her a hard glare of frustration before he turned his attention to his horses once more, steadying them.

Ignoring the glare she sensed if she couldn't see it, she concentrated on searching for the ammunition to reload as Con turned to fire almost point blank at the rider coming up on the off side. At almost the same instant, the rider fired, the bullet ripping into the dashboard inches from Mary Catherine's head. She gasped, jerking back reflexively.

Con took aim and fired again. With a scream of pain, the rider flew from the horse, landing in the road with an audible thud. "Cat! Are you alright?" Con rasped the question out.

Mary Catherine nodded jerkily before she realized he probably couldn't see her any better than she could see him. "Yes."

She'd no more than uttered the disclaimer when the buggy hit a rut, hurling her from the seat and very nearly from the buggy altogether. Landing in the floorboard in a heap, she lay stunned for a handful of heartbeats before she recovered her wits sufficiently to recall her search for the ammunition box.

She found it as they shot from beneath the canopy of trees and onto a road so brightened now by unimpeded moonlight that it seemed almost more twilight than true night. Grasping the powder horn, she yanked the cap off with her teeth and tipped powder down the barrel. Dropping the wadding in behind it, she rammed the rod down, packing it, dropped in a ball and then packed again. Recapping the powder horn, she dropped it into the ammunition box and pulled out a percussion cap.

Con, firing his last shot blindly at the rider he could hear drawing up behind him, tossed his pistol onto the seat beside her. Propping the rifle up carefully and wedging it so that it wouldn't fall and go off, she took up the pistol and hastily examined it. She'd never seen anything like it before but saw the loading must be roughly similar to loading the rifle. "The cartridges and percussion caps for it are in the same box. Cartridges in front and packed with the integral rammer on the bottom of the barrel. Percussion caps thumbed into the rear," he rapped out succinctly.

Mary Catherine nodded jerkily, fumbling for the cartridges. It took her longer to load the pistol, not only because it held five shots, but because of her unfamiliarity with the weapon to say nothing of the nervous tremor of her hands. Finally she had it loaded, however, and handed it back carefully.

She took up the rifle once more and clambered up onto the seat. There were four men behind them and one riderless horse. Two had dropped behind, nursing wounds. The other two were neck and neck with the rear of the buggy, one leaning forward as if he meant to leap onto the buggy with them. She'd already taken aim on him when she saw that the other man had leveled his gun. Swiveling at once, she fired a split second behind him, then screamed as the bullet he'd fired ripped through the seat between her and Con.

Con sucked in his breath sharply, dropping his pistol. It landed in the dirt beside the buggy.

"Con! Give me the pistol," Mary Catherine screamed, seeing the other rider, who'd dropped back when she fired, was gaining on them again. She had no doubt he meant to board the buggy. She had no intention of allowing him to do so.

"Can't," Con said tightly. "Dropped the damned thing."

Galvanized when she saw the man reach for the buggy again, Mary Catherine threw one leg over the seat, grasped the barrel of her empty gun and brought the stock down on the man's arm with all her might. He screamed, lost his balance and toppled into the road. The rear of the buggy bounced up as the rear wheel ran over him, toppling Mary Catherine backward. She landed half in and half out of the seat, bumping her head on the dashboard.

Transferring the ribbons to one hand, Con grasped one wildly flailing arm and jerked her up onto the seat. "Damnation woman! Are you trying to break your neck!" he growled fiercely.

Her lips tightened angrily, but she said nothing. Turning in her seat, she saw that their attackers had dropped back to recoup. "How far are we from the plantation now?"

"Another mile or so," Con said shortly. "How about our company?"

"They've dropped back. I'm fairly certain we wounded three of them, though I couldn't begin to guess how badly. Do you think they'll recoup and try again?"

Con shook his head. "I don't know. I rather think they got more than they bargained for, but I'm not of a mind to wait around and find out. Load the rifle again, just in case."

He reined the horses in slightly, however, as Mary Catherine bent to her task, slowing the buggy to a less breakneck pace. The horses, winded and foam flecked, had run off most of their fright and gave him little difficulty.

Having finished loading the rifle, Mary Catherine propped it within reach and turned to look back once more. "There's no sign of them," she said with relief.

"They're gone?" Anne gasped, rising at last to peer back along the road they'd just traversed.

Mary Catherine's eyes snapped to the woman. She'd forgotten Anne in the heat of battle, but her anger surged back full force now. Her eyes narrowed with both contempt and rage. She had had no good opinion of Anne from the start, but even so it had reached a new low. If Anne had had one ounce of maternal instinct she would not have cowered on the floor, depriving her child of the only truly safe place in the buggy. If she had entertained any doubts before, she saw now that Anne was one of that species of creatures that, quite simply, needed killing. She felt the urge, in that moment, to see the deed done. Only by supreme effort did she curb the primal urges that still lingered so closely to the surface of her civilized being and act upon that instinct. "Apparently so," she said curtly and faced forward once more.

They allowed John to come up from his hiding place only after they'd turned onto the drive that led up to the house. He was badly shaken, but dry eyed. Mary Catherine held his shaking form tightly to her, soothing him with nonsense words.

It wasn't until they alighted in front of the house that Mary Catherine realized they had not all come off totally unscathed.

Bearing torches, apparently alerted by the distant sounds of a fire fight, the people rushed from the quarters to meet them as they drew to a halt. Lincoln, in the lead, spoke first. "We heard gun shots, Mista Con. Do y'all be all right?"

"Somewhat shaken," Con replied succinctly.

Anne, who'd been staring blankly at the Africanes that crowded around them, gasped in an outraged breath, uttered the word, "Shaken!" and promptly dissolved into noisy hysterics, clambering down from the buggy and collapsing on the ground beside it.

Con stared down at her dispassionately for several moments. "But otherwise in tact," he added dryly, and then turned to Lincoln once more. "We were set upon by a small band of savages. I doubt they'll try the plantation, but see that you keep watch tonight. Send word to the neighbors that I need ten volunteers, mounted and armed, at first light. We'll set out after them. I expect they're well on their way to their hold in Florida by now, but we won't leave it to chance."

Lincoln nodded. "Yas suh, Mista Con."

Con turned his attention to Anne once more. "I believe we'll need a couple of stout men to carry Miss Anne into the house. She appears to be somewhat...discomposed from her ordeal."

Hearing him, Anne's wails cut off as quickly and cleanly as if some force had done what Mary Catherine so badly wished to do, choked her. She got shakily to her feet. "You..you..unfeeling beast!" she screamed at Con. "I was very nearly killed! And all because that...that woman kept us after nightfall!"

Con's eyes narrowed. "That will be enough," he said with quiet force.

Anne's jaw sagged. In a moment, she clamped her lips together, pulled herself stiffly erect and marched up the stairs and into the house.

Con watched her go. "I believe Miss Anne will not be needing assistance after all." He looked at Lincoln. "Disperse the people to their cabins and set up a watch."

Lincoln nodded and turned away at once to do his bidding. Con climbed down from the buggy then, a little stiffly and turned to give Mary Catherine his hand. She searched his face anxiously. "You're hurt."

He shook his head, not in denial but to indicate he had no wish to be questioned about it. After a moment, Mary Catherine gave him her hand and allowed him to help her alight. He reached for John next. He did not set the boy on his feet. Gathering his son close, he turned and strode up the stairs and into the house, Mary Catherine following anxiously behind as John, who'd been too shaken to cry, finally gave vent to his fears in noisy wails.

Bessie was directly behind the three of them, shaking her head and muttering under her breath about 'dem savages'. They halted on the upper landing. Giving his son a last reassuring squeeze, he handed John over to Bessie. "Stay with him tonight."

She nodded, her lower lip protruding as if to say she'd intended to do so all along and would not have taken it kindly if she'd been dismissed. "Cum on, chil'. Bessie tek care ob her baby. Doan you worrit none. Ah'll be rat cheer."

When they had gone, Mary Catherine caught Con's arm as he turned away. "Where are you hurt?"

Again he shook his head. "It's nothing."

Her brows rose skeptically for she could see now that there was light to see that blood had seeped through his jacket below the ragged tear along his side. She might have seen it sooner if he had not held his arm tightly against him.

His lips curled up faintly. "It hurts like the very devil, but it's no more than a crease. An inch or so more and I might have need of your concern."

Her lips tightened as fear spawned anger. "Or perhaps the undertaker."

His amusement vanished. He reached up to caress her cheek lightly. "We almost had need of one for you. You're certain you're all right?"

Mary Catherine swallowed with some difficulty. She was well aware of how nearly she'd come to having a hole blown in her head. She didn't care to dwell on it. She shook her head, dismissing Con's question as she dismissed it from her mind. She didn't like to think of how nearly they'd all come to being killed. She didn't want to face that any more than she wanted to face the possibility that Anne had been right, that she had been in some wise responsible for it all, more, she feared even than any of them realized.

In the heat of the moment, unsuspecting, Con would have had no reason to notice that the men who attacked them behaved as no Indians ever would. She wished she had not.

She forced a faint smile. "Do you think, perhaps, you could humor a silly female?"

Con studied her a long moment and then seemed to shrug, but smiled wryly even as he capitulated. "I think I should bathe first. From the feel of it, I expect it looks worse than it is."

Mary Catherine's responding smile was easier this time. "I'm not so frail as all that. I would not have offered to help if I was too squeamish to do so."

His eyes narrowed upon her face thoughtfully, but in a moment he gestured for her to proceed him. Her heart seized up when she reached his room and caught hold of the door knob. But she dismissed her qualms impatiently and pushed the door open with little hesitation. She moved to the washstand as he pulled off his coat. When she turned with the washbasin in hand and face cloths tucked under her arm, she discovered he was examining the tear in his shirt somewhat dubiously.

She moved around him, setting the basin on the nightstand before turning to him. The blood, she saw, had already begun to dry, adhering his shirt to the wound. When he saw she'd turned to look at him, he grasped the tail of his shirt and caught a breath, preparing to rip it loose. She stopped him.

"I'll soak it loose."

"There's no sense in that. It'll come loose quickly enough."

She shook her head. "There's no sense in inflicting pain when it can easily be helped."

He shrugged but settled himself on the edge of the bed and lifted his arm out of the way. Taking up a cloth, Mary Catherine saturated it and placed it against his shirt. He sucked in his breath sharply.

"It hurts?"

He shook his head. "The water's cold."

"Would you like for me to warm it?" she asked sympathetically.

He smiled wryly. "I rather think cold is better at the moment."

She lifted her brows at that but didn't ask him to elaborate. After a moment, she removed the wet cloth and checked his shirt. Satisfied when she'd given the fabric a couple of careful tugs that she'd loosened it from the wound, she turned to drop the cloth in the basin. Turning back to Con once more, she rolled the hem of his shirt up until she'd revealed the gash in his side. Con took it then and pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it aside, but Mary Catherine scarcely noticed so intent was she in studying the wound.

Relief swamped her. He had not minimized the wound to spare her anxieties. Though the bullet had torn a nasty gash perhaps three inches long, it was not deep. She stepped away to retrieve the cloth once more. Wringing it out, she very gently bathed away the blood. There were, not surprisingly, powder burns around the wound, discoloring the flesh. The wound still oozed blood sluggishly.

Saturating the cloth once more, she moved back. "Lean back a little," she instructed and when he did so, she squeezed the water from the cloth flushing the gash and then leaned near to peer at it closely. "There's a bit of fabric there, I think. This will hurt a bit," she added in warning, allowing him to brace himself before she carefully picked it out.

He sucked in his breath sharply, grinding his teeth. "I suppose you realize that, had you allowed me to do it myself, I wouldn't have felt compelled to restrain myself," he muttered, only half jesting.

Mary Catherine sent him a glance that was part admonishing, part amused. "Had I left you to see to it yourself, you would likely have done no more than slopped it off and left it to get infected...which is why I didn't. But you may yell or cuss as you please. It won't offend me and I'm not likely to faint from shock. Mr. Brooks was used to roar like an angry lion if he got so much as a tiny splinter and I doubt you could come up with any profanity I haven't already heard from him."

He was used to cuff her for his pain, as well, but she saw no reason to tell Con that. He was well aware her husband had not been a kind or gentle man.

He touched her hair, so lightly she scarcely noticed it at first. "You are a remarkable woman, Mary Catherine."

She looked up from her task at that, aware of him suddenly, not as a wounded man, but as a potent, virile male.

Chapter Twenty-Four

A fiery blush rose to scald Mary Catherine's cheeks as she stared mutely at him, trying to decide how to respond to his compliment. Her first impulse was to turn it off with a jesting remark, but she was too conscious of the static charge between them to manage it with any finesse.

Finally, she said simply, "Thank you. I'm happy you think so."

Feeling awkward and uncomfortable, she broke away from his gaze, turning her attention to her task once more.

When she'd flushed the wound a second time and was certain she'd left no foreign matter to give him trouble later, she patted the area surrounding it dry and went in search of basilicum powders to ward off infection and lint for bandaging. She pushed the door closed behind her when she returned, as Con had when they'd first come into the room. Unlike him however, hers was not an act of either habit or thoughtlessness. She did so with the hesitancy that marked it as premeditation.

She might have spared her blushes if she had not suddenly thought how it would isolate them, and felt the conflicting desires to seek privacy and avoid it at once. But those thoughts held her indecisively for a handful of seconds. And though she realized almost at once that it must seem brazenly pointed to close the door after so significant a pause, in the end she gave in to the impulse.

Fighting down a blush, she avoided eye contact with Con as she moved into room. Even so, he was aware of her decision. She realized it the moment she stepped within his sphere and felt the charged force of his desire. She would have done so in any case the moment she touched him and felt his rigid tension. It jerked something taut inside her, as well, as she leaned close to attend him, making her fingers clumsy as she dusted the wound and bound it.

She did not move away when she'd done, though she knew she should. Compelled by some inexplicable foreign power, hovering between trepidation and expectation, she lingered.

"It would have been better, I think, if you had had a stitch or two to close the wound."

Con swallowed with some difficulty, releasing a pent up breath, unaware until that moment that he'd been holding it, waiting to see what she would do next.

"It will do as well without."

As inundated as she'd been by conflicting emotions, Mary Catherine felt a storm of new ones descend upon her abruptly. She knew he was right. But she thought, as well, that it could have been far different. She realized suddenly how very nearly this strong, vibrant man had come to lying cold and lifeless now and she thought the pain in her chest must suffocate her. She had known from early childhood how very fragile was life, how terribly easily it could be snatched away. She had believed she had learned to accept it.

With trembling fingers, she reached to soothe the angry red flesh around his wound. She swallowed with some difficulty against the painful emotions that formed a hard knot in her throat. Closing her eyes, she gave thanks that he'd suffered no worse injury.

She looked up at him then, accepting finally what she'd turned a blind, frightened eye to. It was crushing to realize how very dearly she loved this man. It left her without hope of protecting herself from the pain it could bring her. And yet she realized quite suddenly that she had no wish to be free of it. Life was all or nothing and if she cocooned herself so that she could not find pain, neither could she find joy.

Stepping closer, she lifted her hand to touch his cheek with reverent fingers, then traced one dark brow. His breath caught in his throat as she captured his face between both her hands and leaned forward to press her lips to his, brushing teasing strokes across his hard mouth. She leaned back at last and gazed at him unflinchingly.

"Make love to me."

It took him some moments to assimilate what she'd said, and when he'd done so he still wasn't certain he'd heard her right. He wondered if it was his own desire that made him hear what he so badly wanted to hear, and not the words she'd truly said. Almost hesitantly, he grasped her waist and pulled her against him. She did not stiffen or try to pull away and after a moment he slid his hands upward, very slowly and just as slowly laced his fingers through her dark hair. One by one, he pulled the pins from her hair, dropping them to the floor beside the bed. Smoothing the dark mass as it uncoiled, he brought his hands back up almost at once and captured her as he had before.

Her eyes widened for a moment before her lids dropped to half mast. Her lips parted in invitation. After a hesitant moment, she lifted her hands and looped her arms loosely around his neck, spearing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck as he had hers.

He leaned closer, brushed her lips with his own in cautious exploration, nipping at first her upper then lower lip in gentle tugs that made her mouth go dry, her heart race. She tensed, waiting in breathless expectation.

"Yes?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Please."

She had not anticipated that her request would open the flood barriers and sweep her away in a savage, tumultuous torrent. And yet, she'd scarce murmured the word when his hard mouth settled upon hers with a ravening hunger that was almost as unsettling as it was thrilling. He held nothing back as his mouth sawed back and forth over hers. Fitting and forming the contours of her mouth to his own, he tested the soft surfaces of her lips only briefly before he plunged his tongue within to taste and explore the delicate, incredibly sensitive flesh of the inner surfaces of her mouth.

A wave of dizziness washed over her at the intimacy of his touch. It ignited licking flames within her, a flood tide of warmth as the blood in her veins turned to rivers of fire. A sound that was half protest, half encouragement escaped her as his tongue raked along her own and withdrew.

He returned almost at once. With the thrust and retreat of his tongue in intimate sword play, he set a rhythm as old as time that brought a flush of aching supersensitivity to her flesh. His hands left her hair to roam her length, at first in gentle inquiry, and then with burgeoning impatience as he sought to learn and explore all of her flesh at once.

He raked them all along her back, from shoulders to waist and finally lower, tucking her hips more firmly against his hardness. Almost at once, he moved his hands upward again, spanned her waist and moved around to explore her soft belly. From there his hands moved upward to cup and kneed her breasts.

She shook, but it had all to do with the assault upon her senses, with the anticipation that began to build inside her. Her apprehension had long since fled and with it the last of her reserve.

She discovered it wasn't enough to simply stand passively and experience. She was alive as she'd never been before, inundated with the pleasurable assault to all her senses. She wanted to give pleasure too. She wanted to explore him as he explored her.

Pressing herself more tightly against him, she ran her fingernails lightly across his shoulders and down along his back to test and explore the rigid muscles there. It sent a tremor through him that found an echo within her. Impatient when she discovered she could explore no more of him than that and yet reluctant to pull away, she brought her arms up to his shoulders once more. Moving restlessly against him, she mimed the mating ritual as he had, skimming her tongue lightly along his in invitation before she initiated the throbbing rhythm. A deep shudder went through him. His arms tightened around her almost crushingly, a rumbling groan scraping from his chest.

The hunger of his kiss before was as nothing compared with the ravening assault that provoked. Mary Catherine thought she must surely go up in flames. Time and space ceased to exist. She was floating, falling. She thought her knees might cease to hold her upright.

When he broke the kiss at last, he returned almost at once for another. It was as hungry, but far briefer. He nuzzled her cheek then raked his teeth lightly along her jaw and chin in nibbling kisses that raised legions of goose bumps along her neck and the length of her arms. Finally, he drew back slightly, gazing down at her for some moments. "I want to see you," he murmured hoarsely.

Surprise widened her eyes a moment, but she nodded.

He drew back a little more. "Yes?"

In answer, she reached for the buttons of her gown. He helped her, his fingers as clumsy as hers with need. With burgeoning impatience they removed her clothing layer by layer until finally she stood as God had made her, swathed in nothing but the mass of dark hair that fell across her breasts and hung past her waist.

When they had done, he stood back, unmoving, scarcely breathing as his eyes roved her length. She made no attempt to shield herself from his gaze. Having come so far she meant to flinch at nothing he asked of her, to give generously and without stint. Slowly, he reached out to lightly trace the turn of her arm, touched one rosy bud of her breast that poked its way brazenly through the lock of hair that fell across it, skimmed the flesh beneath her breasts to the dark curls at the juncture of her thighs.

Pausing fractionally, he yielded to impulse and combed his fingers through those curls, cupping the mound they veiled. At his touch, at the fire that leapt to raging life in his pale blue eyes, a tremor went through her despite her effort to remain perfectly still. Scarcely daring to breathe, she stared up at him, waiting.

"You're more beautiful than I remembered," he said at last, his voice hoarse with restrained desire.

His words warmed something that had been fearful inside her, brought the banked fires of her own desire to licking flame once more. As did her thoughts. She stopped him when he reached to snuff the candles beside the bed.

"I want to see you," she said softly.

He stared at her for a long moment, doubt at war with desire. He thought she might yet panic if faced with the culmination of their desires. She saw it in his eyes, in his hesitancy. She was beyond that. In any case, she would not have allowed it to go so far if she had thought she might wish to retreat in the end. She was a woman, no ignorant woman/child without the experience to know how dangerous was that game.

She lifted her hand and ran her fingers lightly over his chest as she'd wanted to do from the time she'd come upon him that long ago day in the tiny room off her bedroom. It was as unyielding as she had thought it would be and yet curiously inviting to the touch. It seemed a perfect compliment for the yielding softness of her own body.

When she had traced it with her fingers, she stepped closer, inviting her other senses to explore him as well. She felt the faintly abrasive texture of the light sprinkling of hair with her cheek, breathing in his scent. She brushed her lips along the hard, bulging muscles of his male breasts, nipped gently at the firmness of his skin and finally tasted the faint saltiness of it with her tongue, reveling in the tremors that ran through him with each bold advance.

Her hands skated lower, learning the firm ripple of muscles that covered his belly, paused for a moment as she encountered the barrier of his breeches and then moved lower still. Hesitating fractionally, she finally cupped his maleness in inquisitive fingers as he had cupped her femininity.

With a hoarse groan, he set her away from him abruptly. Bending, he tugged off his boots and stockings, tossing them aside with notable impatience. He disposed of breeches and undergarment in like manner, pausing again only when he'd done so.

She studied him, allowing her eyes to move over him slowly, caressingly. And when her gaze met his once more she told him without words that he was beautiful in her eyes, that he took her breath away.

Slowly, as if fearing she might break or disappear, he lifted his hands. Resting them lightly on her shoulders, he urged her closer, massaging light circles with his thumbs along her collarbones. The effect was mesmerizing, knee weakening. It sent a tremor of anticipation through her.

As if sensing that, he bent and scooped her off her feet. Turning, he lay her back among the pillows on his bed. Following her down, he captured her mouth once more with his own, kissing her with a hungry ferocity that told her he was done with waiting.

She was done with it as well. She gave him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. She took for herself the joy of giving him pleasure with her touch and with her lips. Bountifully, she received it in the feel of his mouth, his taste, his touch. Running her hands along the bulging muscles of his arms where he held himself slightly away from her, she dug her fingers urgently into his shoulders, compelling him to give her the weight and feel of his body she craved.

Instead he drew away, learning her body with his mouth as he had explored it before with his hands. With his lips, he traced a fiery course along her throat and up the slope of her breast, finally capturing its peak. She cried out, arching her back as a fierce tide of pleasure flooded through her. She moved restlessly beneath his touch, scarcely aware of the moans of agony and ecstacy that scraped from her throat as if she suffered the torments of the damned. Her fingers curled into his hair as he laved her breasts with his tongue, teased the peaks with the gentle scrape of his teeth and finally closed his mouth upon it to suckle hungrily. The wickedly delicious sensations he created deep inside her were at once shocking and enthralling. She tugged at his hair and then pulled him closer still, at one moment anxious to avoid the touch of his mouth, in the next desperate to have it.

He drew away at last, leaving her, for several moments, bereft before he turned his attention to her other breast. She moved against him restlessly, gasping with relief and torment as he teased it with exquisite sensation, almost sobbing for breath. Quite suddenly she thought she could stand no more, could wait no more. She raked her fingers through his hair, lifting her head to touch her lips to his forehead, she whispered. "Now."

He lifted his head, studying her face.

"Please."

The plains of his face tautened. Slowly, he rose above her, catching the bulk of his weight on his elbows, holding himself slightly away from her on bulging arms that trembled with the restraint of his desire. Feeling the nudge of his knee, she opened herself to him, eagerly awaiting his first probing touch. Still, he hesitated.

Lifting her hand, she touched his face and then raked her nails lightly along his back, in supplication, in demand. Shuddering, he settled himself more fully in the cradle of her thighs. She held her breath in heated anticipation as he slipped his hand between them and matched that heated, throbbing part of himself to that part of her that yearned for fulfillment. With infinite care, he probed, worked his way carefully inside her, filling her.

She gasped, adjusting herself to the burgeoning fullness with an effort. He stopped at once, gazing down at her uncertainly.

"Did I hurt you?" he rasped hoarsely.

She shook her head. "No. It feels..wonderful to have you inside me," she murmured weakly, enthralled by the sensation.

A shudder went through him. He kissed her deeply then, thrust deeply inside her. She arched upward to meet him, wrapping her arms tightly around him to feel the whole of his weight and strength as he came inside her, pacing himself to find the rhythm that would bring them both pleasure. She caught flame. Her pleasure expanded, a fierce tension building outward and upward as he moved within her, swirling around her like a great firestorm heating up toward explosion. And yet when it erupted through her, it caught her unaware, surprised a cry of joy from her.

A ragged groan of fulfillment escaped him on the heels of her cry, pleasure thundering through him as he felt her quaking tremors around him, felt his own shuddering release. With an effort, he scooped her into his arms and rolled, collapsing on his side. Still breathing raggedly, he nuzzled her throat in wordless appreciation, her cheek. Briefly, he touched his lips to hers and finally tucked her head against his shoulder and lay back, heart and breath still racing.

Some moments passed and he'd begun to drift off in drowsy contentment when she stirred in his arms. "I should go," she mumbled sleepily.

He bent his head to nuzzle her neck, nipped almost playfully at her ear. "No," he murmured.

"Yes," she argued and with a deep sigh, drifted asleep.

His lips curled faintly in a smile. Tucking her more comfortably against him, he lay back once more. In a moment, however, his head came up off the pillow. He listened. Abruptly disentangling himself, he rose from the bed and strode toward the door.

The knob turned, the door creaking open upon its hinges as he neared it. He caught the edge of it with his foot, holding it. Anne stood in the narrow opening. He'd guessed the footsteps he heard were hers.

She surveyed him before her eyes rose to his face. Holding her gaze, he lifted his arms, casually propping one hand against the wall and catching the top of the door with his other, blocking her view of the room. Her gaze went past his shoulder anyway, riveted upon the bed for a moment and returned to lock with his once more.

Anger flickered in her eyes. He kept his own expression impassive, made no attempt to respond to the accusation in her gaze. He owed her nothing, no explanations, no apologies. She was not his wife. In truth, she never had been. Without a word, he pushed her out and shut the door in her face, turning the lock before he returned to his bed and Mary Catherine.

It was long past dusk when Con and his men returned. Mary Catherine, hearing the sounds of horses upon the drive, rushed out to meet him. His expression, as he came wearily up the steps, told its own tale.

She didn't greet him with questions, however. Those could wait. "I have supper warming for you in the kitchen."

"My, my! Aren't we feeling domestic!"

Mary Catherine stiffened. She didn't turn to look at Anne, however.

Con's gaze went to Anne for a long moment, but it was impossible to guess at his thoughts. His expression remained impassive. After a moment, he turned his attention to Mary Catherine. "I'll eat in the kitchen. Give me a few minutes to clean up."

She entered the house ahead of him and turned her steps toward the kitchen. Anne, she discovered, had no intention of waiting until Con had eaten and rested. "Well? Did you find them?"

Glancing back when Con did not answer at once, she saw that he'd already begun to mount the stairs. He didn't pause at Anne's question. "No," he replied flatly.

A curious mixture of emotions crossed Anne's features. "No? Then they could still be around."

Con paused and glanced back at her. "Indians hit and run. It's the way they fight. I didn't expect to find them when I set out."

Mary Catherine had set a place for him at the rough pine trestle table in the kitchen and was stirring the stew she'd made earlier when Con came in. She'd intended to take her meal with him, but Con's strange mood when he'd come in had made her feel an uneasy restraint.

She had not expected that he would openly acknowledge that they'd become lovers, but she had expected...She broke off the thought. She didn't know how she'd thought he would act toward her now. Only that his reserve had disconcerted her.

It had occurred to her that it was, perhaps, all in her mind. She had been on edge since the trip to Troupville. Only a part of it was the lingering effects of the attack upon them, however.

Her thoughts had been in some disorder almost from the moment they'd arrived in Troupville, for she'd seen the handbills as soon as she'd left the mercantile. Her father had arrived, as she had known he must eventually. If she'd dreaded it before, however, that was as nothing to the way she now felt.

She was not of a mind to go with him when he left again. There had been a time when she'd foreseen no alternative, but that time had passed. She had land. Soon she would have a cabin. There was no reason for her to go with him and plenty of reasons not to.

And yet, she had been taught obedience at his knee almost from birth. She was not certain she had the strength to defy him openly if he demanded that she return to him. It was one of her greatest fears.

The other was that he would hear of her and come to Claire's Retreat. She quaked inwardly at the horrific scene that must ensue if he did so. What Con might or might not do was irrelevant. Her father in a righteous wrath was a man to be greatly feared. And he would certainly be righteous once he learned of Horace Brooks' death and discovered what had become of her.

It would not matter that she'd had no choice. She knew, without any doubt, that her father would far rather see her dead than dishonored. She would count herself fortunate if he did not slay her himself. She very much feared he would do his best to kill Con for sullying her reputation.

The best case scenario was that he would call Con out. The worst, that he would try to horsewhip him. In either case, one man would die. Con might well delope out of consideration for her. Her father would not. And, as for the other, she shuddered to think what might happen if her father attempted that humiliation.

The only hope she saw for the situation at all was in removing herself as quickly as possible to her own place. The rumors would bring him anyway, but perhaps she could make him see reason if he was not faced with her brazen behavior outright. Perhaps she could convince him that the rumors were only ugly rumors that had no basis in fact beyond the one that Con had saved her life and brought her to his plantation to recover. She was perfectly willing to lie, and lie well, if the situation allowed for it.

She did not love her father, but neither did she want him dead. She didn't think she could live and stand it if Con were killed because of her.

She had calmed herself with the reflection that she would have time. Her father had only just put out the handbills. There would be at least three prayer meetings and quiet possibly more with Troupville overflowing with visitors just now. He would not turn his attention to her before he was ready to fold up his revival tents and depart. She had only to convince Con that it would be best for them both if she delayed her departure no longer.

She thought, however, that it was beginning to look as if she would have no difficulty in that. Con had taken his seat without a word. She glanced toward him covertly several times, wondering if it was merely weariness that he was so very quiet. Perchance it was, but some sixth sense told her that something was very wrong.

In some trepidation, she carried his plate to the table and set it before him. He nodded his thanks, but made no attempt to pick up his fork, instead toying with the glass of tea she'd set out for him.

He glanced up at her finally, fixing her with a look that chilled her to the bone. "The men who attacked us weren't Indians. I think you know that, don't you?"

Chapter Twenty-Five

Mary Catherine realized that she should not have been surprised. Con had been fighting the Indians off and on for two years now. Moreover, he'd been a scout for the regiment. He must have known almost from the moment the men burst from the trees that they were white men.

She was caught off guard, however, and more than that, seized at once by a sinking feeling of dread she had become intimately acquainted with over the years. She had done wrong. She had lied by omission. She would be punished for it. There seemed little point in lying. "Yes."

His face hardened. "It was the same men who attacked your wagon, wasn't it?"

For all that it was uttered as a question, Mary Catherine knew very well that he'd finally pieced the entire puzzle together. The dread inside her abruptly doubled, squeezing her heart painfully.

"I believe so."

He stared at her a moment longer before he transferred his attention to his glass once more. "You knew they would come after you. It's why you stayed. Because you thought you would be safe here."

Chaotic thoughts whirled through her mind, denial, excuses, qualifications. She found, however, that she could put none of it together in a convincing argument. She swallowed with some difficulty against the painful knot of misery that had risen to her throat. "In the beginning, yes."

He didn't look up. "Did it occur to you, even once, that I should be warned? A known enemy is far easier to defend against than an unknown, unseen one."

She could think of nothing to say to that. It was true. She knew it was. And yet, she had not thought she would be endangering Con. She had certainly never intended to do so. She had been so very certain that the men would not dare to attack her in so populated a place as Claire's Retreat. When they had not, she'd become convinced of it. More than that, she had allowed herself to believe that they had given up on her and gone away and that she was not so important as she'd thought.

But she had not really considered that they would all be vulnerable when they left the plantation. She had felt safe as long as she was with Con. He was so big and strong, so capable, she had come very quickly to think of him as invincible. She had thought the raiders would not dare to attack so powerful a man, particularly when he never left the plantation unarmed. She had not considered that the raiders had attacked an armed party when they had attacked hers.

She wanted to tell him that, make him understand that she had never expected or meant that he would be hurt protecting her. She found she could not say it. To have meant no harm was not sufficient in itself as an excuse for what she'd done. It made her face something she'd refused to see before, the truth. And that was that she had not thought beyond protecting herself. "I never thought they would dare to attack me here," she said lamely, knowing that was no excuse at all.

Still, he didn't look at her. "You endangered my son, Mary Catherine. He might well have been killed in that attack last night. If I had known there was any possibility of it, I never would have taken him with us.

"And it wasn't the first time I unknowingly took my son into danger. There were other times as well. Anytime, in fact, since the attack on you, they could've descended upon us and killed us all, just as they killed everyone in your party."

She stared at him speechlessly, too shocked at the realization of what she'd done to think beyond the horror of it.

After a moment, Con rose and moved to the door of the kitchen. He paused on the threshold, his back to her.

"If it had only been me, I could forgive you. I could never forgive anyone who endangered my son's life."

Mary Catherine stared at the little cabin on the knoll as they approached it feeling nothing whatever. There had been a time when she had looked forward to this day with great expectations, believing it would be the beginning of a wonderful new life. Many daydreams had been spun on the shining possibilities this place had represented. They had turned to ash.

In truth, she was glad she had reached the point of feeling nothing. For days after their confrontation in the kitchen, she had merely floated through the hours in a dazed miasma of guilt__ Con's words ringing in her ears.

She had realized finally that as much as it hurt to know she could not have Con's forgiveness for what she'd done, it mattered very little in the end. In time she would be able to deal with that. It was another source of pain, another ladling of guilt, but one that would fade with time, perhaps when she was old and gray. Far worse than that, was the load she carried with her of her own making.

She loved John. She could not understand how, caring for the child as she did, that she could have put him in such danger by putting her own concerns first. She knew, however, that there was something very wrong with her. She had been criminally irresponsible. It was a fatal flaw, one that she dearly wished she'd never been forced to see in herself.

She had despised Anne for her cowardice, and how very self-righteous that seemed to her now. For she was, in truth, no better.

With such guilt riding her, she had thought she could not bear to face Con again, even if he could bring himself to look upon her with anything other than contempt. And she supposed that he couldn't. Very likely that was why he had not looked at her, even once, after she'd confessed what she'd done.

It had been no feat to avoid him. As he'd promised, he turned his attention at once to finishing the cabin. She could not but be glad for it. Being so near Con when she knew how he felt about her now had been a penance even worse than that her guilt had imposed upon her.

However, she had come at last to realize that she must try to cease to punish herself for a flaw she could not, in truth, help. She must try to come to terms with the fact that she had lost all chance of earning Con's love if she had ever had it at all.

Sighing deeply, she climbed down from the wagon as Lincoln drew it to a halt before the front door and set about the task of living.

It was not, she discovered, as difficult as she thought it would be. Con had seen that she had what she needed to start her new life. Knowing she could exist only in hardship with nothing but her own meager belongings, he had done far more than build those things necessary. He had had supplies laid in. He'd even had the hands set out a winter garden for her.

Regardless, there was so much to be done her days were filled with the work it took only to get by. She could not but be grateful for it. She was too busy during the day to think and too weary when she fell into bed at night to do so.

Three days after she'd settled her meager belongings into the cabin, she took the old mule Con had left for her use, saddled him and rode into town. She felt no uneasiness in doing so. She took the gun Con had left her, leaving at day break so that she could attend her business and be back well before dusk.

At any rate, she had no concern that she need fear the raiders any longer. They had killed none of them, but Con had tracked them all the way down into Florida and found the signs that they had headed east. It seemed doubtful that they would chance returning when they must know they'd blundered so badly that they faced certain death if they returned.

Her thoughts, along the way, were occupied by her purpose. As daring, and unsettling as it was, she had considered it long and hard and come to the conclusion that it was the best way, perhaps the only way to avert another disaster. It would cost her something in pride, but it must be done regardless. And when all was said and done one could not always afford one's pride.

She stopped at the mercantile first. With little surprise, she discovered the proprietor would not consider setting up an account of credit for her. She had not expected him to and it had taken a great deal to approach him to ask for it. She was not accustomed to begging.

Even so, her purpose was served. It could not be long before everyone in town was talking about the 'widow who lived on the knoll'. To make certain her plan took, she visited every other establishment along the street, seeking credit at one, odd jobs at another, but more importantly, allowing them to know that she had established herself in the homestead of her deceased husband.

She was emotionally exhausted from the ordeal long before she turned toward home once more. Regardless, she had a certain degree of satisfaction to buoy her flagging spirits. When her father inquired for her, he would have no trouble finding her direction. More importantly, she'd managed to establish some doubt in her neighbors' minds that the rumors rampant about her were true.

She was well aware that she had erred again in not warning Con of the possibility of a visit from her irate parent. But she had found she could not bring herself to do so, not after everything else. She would, somehow, spare him that. He would never have to know.

In any case, he had not come to tell her goodbye. She'd seen nothing of him at all since their confrontation. She could not very well warn him when she had not been given the opportunity to do so, even if she hadn't been so caught up in her misery that that particular horror had been pushed far to the back of her mind.

She had not decided yet what she would do when her father finally came for her, whether she would stand her ground and fight to stay or yield and go. She was no longer entirely certain she wanted to stay. It would be difficult to remain so near to Con, feeling for him the way she did, remembering what had been between them, and knowing she had lost it.

She thought, perhaps, it would be easier to go. When she was far away, perchance it would fade in her memory like some long forgotten dream.

In any case, she could deal with only one battle at the time. Her emotions were far too fragile to handle more. And she knew, despite her efforts, that there would come a reckoning for those halcyon days she'd spent with Con.

Mary Catherine was working in her garden when she heard the call. She ignored it at first, thinking it the distant cry of some bird. It continued periodically, however, coming nearer, becoming clearer, until it seeped into her preoccupation that it was certainly no bird call. Stopping, she lifted her hand to the brim of her bonnet to shield her eyes from the glare, and looked around curiously. It took her several moments to believe the evidence of her eyes.

"Miz Catherine! Miz Catherine! Hello!"

"John?" she said incredulously. In the next moment, she dropped her hoe and ran to meet him. He barreled into her arms with such enthusiasm he knocked her off her feet. They landed in a heap together, blinked at each other a little uncertainly and burst into laughter as Lady, who'd accompanied him, jumped into the fray and began licking them. She pushed the dog away and, with John's help, got to her feet. Brushing at her skirts, she exclaimed, mock stern, "Young scamp! Look what you've done."

He grinned at her, displaying a gap toothed smile.

Mary Catherine caught his chin, a jolt going through her. "Heavens! Have we knocked out your tooth?"

He giggled, and dug in his pocket, producing the missing tooth. "Nope. Lost it yesterday."

She ruffled his hair and then threw her arms around him to hug him tightly to her, rocking him back and forth for several moments before she held him away from her to study him. "Oh! I can't tell you how I've missed you!"

A pleased grin lit his face. "Did you? Honestly?"

Her smile faded as a wave of sadness and yearning smote her. "Yes. Very much."

John considered that for several moments and then frowned. "Then how cum you left?"

She should have known that John would go right to the heart of the matter.

"Your Papa built me this very nice cabin. I could not have spurned the gift, could I?" she said lightly.

John looked much struck by that thought, but he wasn't to be so easily thwarted. "But, I thought you liked me. I thought you would want to stay with me."

She pulled him into her arms and hugged him tightly. "I love you John St.Claire. And I have not truly left you. It's not so far, you see, to come visit with me here." She pulled away, diverted by that thought on to another.

"Which brings me to ask what you're doing here all alone."

Guilt flickered across his features. "Lady's with me," he offered.

Mary Catherine compressed her lips into a stern line, refusing to yield to the urge to smile. "Even so."

He ducked his head, scuffing at the dirt with the toe of his shoe. His expression was earnest when he looked up at her again. "It's my birthday today. I've asked and asked them to bring me to see you and all they will say is that they're too busy and I can come another day. And since today's my day, I thought I might come."

Mary Catherine gnawed her lip, torn by conflicting emotions. Hurt was predominant, that Con had not allowed John to come to see her. But she supposed she understood why he had not. He must believe she had no feelings for John if she had so callously risked the boy's life. She felt a guilty touch of pleasure, as well, that John had cared enough for her to defy his parent and come to her.

"You should not have come away alone, sweetheart. But I'm far too glad to see you to scold. Regardless, we must get you back at once. You told no one you were leaving, did you?"

He bit his lip, ducking his head guiltily. It was sufficient answer.

"I thought not. Well, we must get you back. Perhaps, if we go right away, you will not have been missed."

He looked frightened at that prospect, but set his jaw mulishly. "But I came to see you!" he cried in disappointment.

She smiled, ruffled his curls. "Are you not seeing me? Come inside. I'll get you something to sustain you along the way home and then you and I will have a very nice visit on the walk back. How does that sound?"

He was obviously torn. The offered treat pleased him. An abrupt return did not. Guilt and the fear of punishment set themselves against his desire to stay awhile now that he'd found his way. At last he capitulated.

"I'm six today," he informed her proudly as they turned their steps toward the cabin.

Mary Catherine's brows rose in feigned incredulity. "No! But I should have guessed. You have grown so very big since I last saw you!"

He grinned, well pleased with what he perceived as a high compliment. "Soon I'll be as big as you."

Mary Catherine smiled wryly. "And that will be a feat," she said, chuckling.

It was a mild day for mid-December, bright with sunshine. Mary Catherine found herself glorying in it as she and John wound their way toward Claire's Retreat. She felt more light-hearted than she had in some time and attributed it to the day and John's company.

It occurred to her after they had trekked for some time, however, that the vague sense of guilty pleasure hovering beneath her breastbone like suppressed laughter wasn't altogether from either of those things. She felt a heightened humming of expectation within her veins the nearer they drew to the plantation.

She might see Con. She was at once reluctant and keenly expectant of the possibility. Ideally, she thought wryly, she would enjoy it far more if she saw and was not seen. If she watched him from afar, she could take all the pleasure from it. If she encountered him, very likely that would take all the joy from her day, for she must then see the coldness inside him if he withheld his contempt for her.

Her steps faltered at that realization, but John diverted her almost at once, darting off the trail after Lady. "Come back," she called. "You'll get on a snake!"

"But Lady will get lost!"

"No, she won't. She can find her way far better than you can."

He moved back onto the trail. "I found my way to your house," he argued.

"That was different. You did very well, but, even so, you had the trail to follow. In the woods you would have nothing to guide you. Lady has her nose."

He chuckled at that, acknowledging the truth of it and sent her a smiling glance. "I don't guess it was much of a feat, huh?"

"Indeed it was!" Mary Catherine countered. "You're not to do it again, of course, unless you have someone older to walk you, but I confess I'm all admiration that you found your way."

He shrugged. "I been there lots of times."

Mary Catherine nodded. "Several, anyway."

"Oh, I been more'n that. Papa and I was used to go fishing there all the time. It was our favorite spot."

"Oh?" Mary Catherine said, seized by a sudden uneasiness, though she dismissed it almost at once.

"Uh huh. It was our special place. And Papa said since we loved you we should give you our special place so you'd have a place of your very own."

Mary Catherine stopped abruptly. His words brought a crippling torrent of pain and joy down upon her before doubt swept both away. As much as she would have liked to believe John, she doubted Con had said it exactly that way. Likely he'd only pointed out that John loved her and must wish to give her something very special.

She was shocked at John's confession that the place she'd believed was hers was not. And yet she had to admit she'd suspected as much on the first day Con had taken her to 'her place'. She had dismissed her suspicions because she wanted so badly to believe the lie Con had told her.

She was horrified when the final implications dawned upon her. If she was homesteading a place that had once belonged to Con, then everyone in the county must know it by now. Quite possibly all her efforts to avert disaster had been for naught.

She felt a surge of rage. She had suspected, but she had not known. She had done her very best to avert disaster and protect Con from her mistake, and now it would be all for naught. And it was Con's fault. He would try to blame her for this, as well, but she would not accept the blame for it. She would tell him so to his face. His lies had brought them to danger and disaster as surely as hers had. He had a nerve to condemn her for deceiving him when he was as guilty as she was!

Catching John's hand, she strode forward purposefully, wrath and determination in her expression.

"Are you mad, Miz Catherine?" John asked worriedly.

"Yes!" Mary Catherine snapped, and then realized it was John who'd spoken. "Uh..that is, no, sweetheart. Whatever made you think that?"

"You look mad," John pointed out.

"Well, I'm not. I'm..uh..distraught."

"What's 'straught?"

"A little upset," Mary Catherine responded absently. "Worried...I just thought of something and I'm worried, that's all."

She was so distraught, in fact, that she didn't notice the stranger until he stepped out on the trail before them. She stopped abruptly, staring at him blankly for several moments before recognition dawned.

"Oh my God! John! Run!" she exclaimed then, giving the child a push toward the woods that nearly sent him sprawling.

Chapter Twenty-Six

John merely stumbled away a few steps and turned to gape at her in shock. "Go!" she screamed, and launched herself at the man in the same breath.

She caught him by surprise. He had expected that she would try to run away, not toward him. Behind her, Mary Catherine heard thrashing in the woods and thought with relief that John had obeyed her. If she could distract the raider long enough, he might have a chance.

She went for the man's gun, expecting it to explode in her face at any moment. From behind her came a deeply masculine African voice. "Git outta de way, Miz Catherine!"

It flashed into her mind that it was Lincoln's voice. Relief surged through her, distracting her from her purpose. In that moment, the raider back-handed her so hard she flew backward into the brush. Thunder exploded on top of them. Still stunned from the blow, and yet too shocked to feel it to the degree she would have otherwise, Mary Catherine scrambled dazedly to her feet.

Lincoln, she saw to her horror, lay sprawled among the weeds. Blood spattered his shirt from the fatal wound. A child's crying filtered through to her dazed mind. "Oh, God! Oh my God!" she cried. "You've killed him. You monster! You vile, despicable monster! John! Run baby! Get away! Go to Papa!"

She launched herself at the man again, her fingers curled into claws. Again she caught him off guard, raking her nails down his face and across his eyes before he could react. He screamed then in pain, cursed, swung at her blindly. Lady surged out of the brush, growling furiously as she, too, launched herself at the man. Snarling, the dog bit down on the man's leg. Mary Catherine grabbed the man's gun hand and bit down on it so hard she tasted blood.

Screaming again, he caught a handful of her hair and jerked on it so hard it brought tears to her eyes. She clamped down on him harder. Lady let out a muffled canine yelp as the man kicked her aside. In the next moment, the man's fist connected with the side of Mary Catherine's head. She felt herself flying back, but she never knew when she struck the ground.

When Mary Catherine next became aware of her surroundings, she could see nothing but the seat of the man's pants. It took her some moments to realize that that was what she was seeing, however, for she was still dazed. Her head rang from the blows of his fist, pounding so painfully she could scarcely think straight. Nevertheless, her sluggish brain finally communicated the fact that she was in danger and she forced herself to take stock of her surroundings.

She realized then that the man had slung her over one shoulder. That was why her stomach and ribs hurt, or at least part of it. A wave of nausea washed over her. She fought it back with determination.

Not that she particularly cared if she became ill all over the man's back, but it would surely give away the fact that she'd regained consciousness. She didn't think he'd realized that yet. She'd been in too much pain when she first came to her senses to even consider moving. Quite possibly it would make no difference one way or the other, but she decided to remain still until she'd thought it over to discover if there was anyway she could use it to her advantage.

Nothing came immediately to mind. After a moment, it occurred to her to wonder if John had gotten away. Moving her head cautiously, as much because it made her head swim as to keep him from knowing she was conscious, she studied what little of her surroundings she could see.

That was disappointingly little. Still, she felt a surge of relief when she didn't spot either John or Lady. The man might easily have taken John in his other arm where she could not see him. But Lady would not have left the child, so undoubtedly John had gotten away.

She focused on her surroundings then, trying to determine where she was and where the man might be taking her. She saw no landmarks that might give her a clue. But she wasn't at all certain she would have recognized where she was in any event. Seen upside down, none of the woods around her looked even vaguely familiar. She might pass a dozen familiar trees and recognize none of them from her present position.

She went back to trying to prod her brain into yielding up some plan for escape.

She was still trying to come up with something when the man halted abruptly and allowed her to slide to the ground. Caught off guard, the instinctive fear of falling gave her away before she could think to play 'possom. And even so her knees buckled, spilling her to the ground.

He leered down at her. "I thought you wuz awake."

He caught her by her hair even as she tried to scramble to her feet. Twisting the dark mass in his fist, he yanked her head back at a painful angle and gave her a shove. She stumbled forward, half blind from the darkness that had descended upon her the moment he yanked her to her feet. Her head swam, as well, further impeding her progress.

It was some moments before she realized that they were nearly upon her cabin. She stared at it blankly, wondering for the first time why he hadn't killed her outright. She stopped abruptly at the thought that leapt immediately to mind.

He grasped her arm, twisting it behind her back. "You even think about biting or clawing me again, bitch, and I'll break your neck right now."

She gasped in pain, but gritted her teeth against it. "Then you'd best do it and be done. If you touch me I will fight you."

He laughed at that, jerking her back against his chest and reaching around her to squeeze her breast painfully. "Now there's an idea. I hadn't thought about it. But if we have time I might just take you up on it."

She bit her lip, cursing herself for her stupidity. Of a certainty he'd addled her wits when he'd struck her. "Where are you taking me?" she whispered with revulsion.

He gave her a shove in the direction of her cabin. It was a relief to be released, however painfully. "Where's it look like?"

"Why?"

He snorted but didn't answer.

She moistened her fear dried lips. "It's because of what I saw, isn't it?"

"What did you see?" he growled.

"You killed them..." She broke off, her head snapping around. "You're the one my husband fought!"

He frowned for a moment and then a grin split his face, revealing a mouth full of tobacco stained teeth. "You talkin' 'bout that mean sonofabitch with the wagon? Hardest bastard I ever did try to kill."

That sent a jolt of surprise through her. "He got away?"

His grin broadened. "Naw. I kilt 'im deader 'n hell."

She stared at him blankly. She didn't know why she was so shocked. She had known the raiders were butchers. Lower even than predators, they were the human equivalent of buzzards. And yet, for him to speak of butchering someone with such unabashed glee was so incomprehensible that she could only stand gaping at him until he gave her another shove that sent her to her knees.

He jerked her upright again, leading her by her hair toward the cabin. The door opened before they reached it. Mary Catherine was so stunned to see who stood in the portal that she didn't even think to cry out a warning.

"That wasn't necessary. You were told to bring her. There was nothing said about striking her," Dr. Bealle said angrily.

"Yeah, well you didn't say nuthin' about not strikin' her if she gave me a hard time neither. I thought you said she wuz a gentle creature," her captor snapped sarcastically.

Anne appeared in the doorway. "What does it matter, for heaven's sake!" she snapped. "He got her, didn't he? I suppose you'd best tie her. I don't know how long we'll have to wait."

Numbed as she had already been, the shock of seeing Anne and Dr. Bealle apparently in cahoots, and the two of them cohorts of one of the raiders, thoroughly decimated Mary Catherine's thinking processes. She'd been dragged into the cabin, shoved onto her bed and tied hand and foot before she could even begin to sort through the conflicting thoughts that began to pelt her.

"What's going on here?" she gasped out on a pained breath, beginning to struggle at once against her bonds, though it was more instinctive from her fear of being restrained than from any concrete designs of freeing herself. "What are you doing? Dr. Bealle, I don't understand."

"Shut yore trap," growled the raider, drawing back his hand threateningly.

Dr. Bealle caught his wrist. "Leave her alone, Kinney."

Though he was no match for the bigger man, the man he'd called Kinney desisted almost at once, muttering under his breath.

Anne, who'd watched the byplay, was studying Dr. Bealle through narrowed eyes. "I do hope you haven't developed a soft-spot for the little tart, Emory. You know we can't let her live."

Bealle threw her a startled look, flushing, though it was impossible to tell whether it was from anger or embarrassment at Anne's words.

"Of course I haven't. You know I love you, darling, but I can't think killing her is necessary. And it certainly isn't necessary to slap her around in the mean time."

Irritation glinted in Anne's eyes for a moment before she tamped it. Twining her arms around Dr. Bealle's neck, she nuzzled his neck and then nipped him playfully on his ear. "Darling, you know how I hate to do it. But I have to protect my son's birthright." She drew away from Bealle and turned to glare at the other man. "If it wasn't for these incompetent fools I hired it wouldn't be necessary."

Kinney, who'd been leering at Anne's show, scowled furiously. "Watch who you call a fool, woman! I don't take that kind of shit off no woman," he growled. "We coulda killed that sonofabitch any time in the last three months if you wasn't so damned set on yore accidents! Instead of which we got shot all to hell and back and chased slap outta the state."

"That little fiasco was your brilliant plan!" Anne snapped. "I told you it wouldn't work. Besides which you nearly killed me! And the boy. We would have been in a fine mess if you'd killed the boy instead of Con! I told you it wasn't going to work if they suspected foul play!"

With the first peal of the plantation bell as it burst into a frantic, discordant clanging, Con felt a frisson of dread race along his spine that lifted the hairs on his nape. Wheeling Devil abruptly, he kicked the stallion into a gallop, racing toward the source along the narrow track that led through the cotton fields.

A good half of the plantation people were gathered in a knot in the middle of the quarters when he arrived. Seeing the milling crowd and no sign of fire, Con's dread escalated rather than diminished, and he leapt from the horse almost before it stopped, plowing his way through the crowd to the center.

John, red faced and wailing loudly, had his face buried in Bessie's ample skirts, but although Con scanned the boy carefully, he could see no signs of injury.

"What is it?" he asked, his voice harsh with an unnamed fear.

Bessie was blubbering, as well, and almost as incomprehensible as John.

"Lawd, Mista Con! Ah doan know what's happenin'! John dun disappeart fo' hours and lak ter scart me ter def! An' I look fo' de boy an' call an' call! Finally ah seed him comin' up de lane jess a runnin' and hollerin' fit ter wake de daid! An' ah cain't git nuthin' outta de boy, 'sep he say Lincoln dun kilt and Miz Catherine too."

Con went cold, so stunned he didn't react at first when John, aware at last that his father had arrived, whirled from Bessie and threw himself against his father. Disentangling the child's arms from his legs, Con lifted John into his arms, holding him tightly.

"Are you hurt, son?"

"No!" John wailed.

"What happened? What's happened to Mary Catherine?"

"I doan know!" John managed to choke the words out before erupting into a fresh bout of tears.

Con tucked the boy's head against his shoulder, rubbing his back soothingly. "Son. You have to tell me. Just calm down and tell me what happened."

Manfully, John subdued his tears, though he sniffled so it was still difficult to understand him. "I went to see Miz Catherine and she was taking me home. Then this bad man kicked Lady and Lincoln got shot. An' Miz Catherine tole me to run and then she pushed me down."

Disjointed as the recital was, it was sufficient to convince Con his worst fears had been realized. He'd thought he was protecting Mary Catherine when he sent her away. It seemed he might well have sent her to her death instead.

"Bessie, take John up to his room and stay with him. If anyone comes for him while I'm gone, anyone, hide him. Do you understand?"

Bessie, her eyes wide as saucers, nodded.

Settling John on his feet, Con bent and grasped him firmly by his shoulders. "You stay with Bessie and mind what she says to you. If I find you haven't when I get back, I'll tan your backside."

Shocked more by the harshness of Con's voice than by the threat of punishment, John stared at him openmouthed for several moments before nodding shakily.

Con dismissed the boy then and stood up, turning to scan the anxious faces around him. "Zeke, Sam and Bird," he said, pointing from one man to another and finally a third. "Tell Fannie to gather up whatever medical supplies she can find quickly, then take the wagon and go look for Lincoln. If what John says is right, he's been shot and he'll need attention as quickly as you can get there.

Ben, I want you and Charlie to take a couple of mules and get to the neighbors as quickly as you can. Tell them I need help and I want as many men as they can round up quickly. Leroy, you take another mule and go after Sheriff Tate. When you find him, tell him the raiders are back."

He dismissed the others then, mounted Devil and rode quickly to the manor.

His face set with grim purpose, Con was in the process of loading his pistol when he heard the sounds heralding an arrival on the front drive. To his disgust, however, it was the sounds of a wagon and not the horses he'd anticipated. He could not think the men he'd sent for would arrive by wagon.

Regardless, he could not bring himself to wait any longer for reinforcements. He had been a mass of fearful, impatient rage since John had told his tale. If they hadn't killed Mary Catherine yet....He dismissed the thought without allowing himself to complete it in his mind. They were dead regardless, but if they'd hurt her they would be begging for merciful death before they found it.

Shoving his colt into his holster, he strode from his study and down the hallway toward the front door, wondering if the sound he'd heard was the men he'd sent for Lincoln, wondering if the man still lived or if he had sent him to his death when he had sent Lincoln to watch over Mary Catherine for him.

A combination of fury and remorse smote him at that thought. He had thought of sending Lincoln to watch over Mary Catherine only as a precaution. He had been so damnably certain that, by sending her away, Mary Catherine would be out of the line of fire and her usefulness as a pawn would seem to be at an end. Knowing finally that it was Anne who wanted him dead, he'd believed if he convinced her Mary Catherine would be of no use as a tool, she would leave Mary Catherine out of it and focus her spite only upon him.

Undoubtedly he hadn't convinced Anne as he'd succeeded in convincing Mary Catherine. It seemed he'd hurt Cat for nothing and quite possibly sent her to her death in the bargain. He had been so blinded by his feelings for Cat to all else around him that it had taken him far too long to piece the conspiracy together. Anne had, unfortunately, had far too much time to observe him with Mary Catherine to believe his flimsy ploy for protecting her.

Despite his distraction, and the sense of urgency that drove him, he came to an abrupt halt when he reached the porch and saw the man climbing down from the wagon. His hesitation was brief, however. After the barest check of his stride, he crossed the porch and descended the steps quickly, intent upon his purpose once more.

"Are you John Conyers St.Clair?" the man growled angrily.

Con spared the man a hard glance as he neared him. The man was a stranger to him, but he saw from his garb that he was a minister. "I've no time to talk just now, Reverend."

The older man grasped Con's arm as he made to brush past. "The name's Cone. The right honorable Reverend Levy Cone," the man spat furiously.

Con shook his hand loose. The man stepped in front of him again, blocking his path. "I frankly don't give a damn who you are just now," Con growled ominously. "Get out of my way, old man, if you value your hide."

"I'm Mary Catherine's father," the man roared furiously. "And I mean to have satisfaction. I've been told what's been happening here and now, having disgraced her, you've cast her off! I've done my best to see to that harlot's redemption, wed her to an honest man. She has flouted me at every turn and her husband, as well. You'll pay for disgracing her before I attend to her."

A blind rage descended over Con in an instant. He made no attempt to check it. Balling his hand into a fist, he struck the man down in one meaty blow and stood over him threateningly. "You've a lot to answer for, old man!" he ground out coldly. "If you so much as touch Cat, ever again, you're a dead man."

Grasping Levy Cone's shirt front, he dragged the stunned man to his feet. "If I had the time to spare just now I'd teach you a lesson or two in penance. As it happens your daughter is in danger. If she's not dead yet, she will be if I don't go to her now. If you get in my way again, you sonofabitch, I'll blow your damned head off."

He shoved the man aside and strode toward Devil, who'd been tethered to the hitching post out front. Mounting, he rode away without looking back.

Without surprise, he saw when he reached the cabin, that they'd set the trap well, with his help. The cabin stood upon a rise in a clearing. It would be impossible to reach it without being seen, particularly since he knew they would be watching for him.

He stared at the house for some moments, his mind churning. The urge smote him to simply charge the door with guns blazing. Such rage and fear smote him from the threat to Cat that he felt both impotent and invincible with it. He felt, not only that he could, but that he wanted very badly to indulge himself in a bloodbath.

Reluctantly, he acknowledged that it would be a damned fool stunt to try. He might well dodge the hail of bullets he was certain to receive in that frontal assault, but he had no idea where Mary Catherine might be. If she still lived, she could easily be killed in the crossfire. Or killed to thwart him from his purpose.

Having no idea of what he faced, he came quickly to terms with the fact that there were no plans he could make until, and if, he got inside. Dismounting, he tied Devil and strode boldly across the clearing toward the cabin, more than half expecting any moment to feel a bullet tearing through his chest, though he was almost certain they had far different plans for him. They had tried, repeatedly, to concoct a convincing accident for him. So late in the game, it was impossible to tell whether desperation might convince them to be more direct.

The door opened before he reached it. He didn't recognize the man who stood framed there, gun in hand, but he realized it was one of Anne's henchmen, likely one of the men that had attacked him before. He wondered how many, if any, had thought the money Anne offered good enough to chance a return besides this one. It seemed unlikely there could be more than one other, unless Anne had found replacements. He was certain that he and Cat, between them, had seriously wounded three of the men who attacked them.

Lifting his hands away from his gun, he stopped several feet away. The man grinned, motioning with his gun for Con to present his back. Hesitating briefly, Con turned. The man stepped forward quickly and snatched his colt from its holster before bringing the butt of his pistol down upon the back of Con's head. Mary Catherine's scream was all the warning he had, though he'd expected something of the sort. Despite that, Con's reflexive jerk merely deflected the blow slightly. Stunned, Con crumpled to his knees. "Well, lookee. Our pigeon done flown right to the roost," the man said gleefully as he grasped Con's arm and tried to jerk him to his feet.

Discovering that to be an impossibility, he released Con almost at once. "Get up you sonofabitch!"

Con, who'd been on the point of implementing a quick plan, checked himself. Rising slowly to his feet, he turned. Anne, he saw, was standing in the doorway smirking, the gun she held in her hand aimed at his skull. Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he betray his disappointment, for on seeing her he realized at once that he could have chanced taking the man out. Anne would not consider soiling her hands if she'd had enough men to do the deed for her.

The man who'd clubbed him stepped behind him and gave him a shove toward the door. "Inside."

Anne stepped back as he approached and finally, despite the pistol she held with seeming confidence, retreated before his murderous gaze to stand at a safe distance. Ignoring her as soon as he'd crossed the threshold, Con scanned the room. His eyes lit almost immediately on Mary Catherine. He allowed none of his emotions to show, however, instead turning his attention to the three people he faced.

Without surprise he saw that Emory Bealle, looking distinctly uneasy, was one of the conspirators. He'd known Anne had eyes on the plantation even before she arrived.

"We oughta just shoot him and be done with it," Kinney growled.

Anne looked at Emory Bealle questioningly. He shook his head slightly. "We'd best tie him as we planned. It won't look like much of an accident if they see he was shot first," he said nervously.

"You think they'd be able to tell..afterward?" Anne asked doubtfully, evidently as nervous as Bealle was about having to proceed with the original plan. "You don't think the fire..?" She trailed off, allowing the question to hang.

Bealle shook his head. "I don't think you should chance it."

"I'll go set the fire," Kinney told Anne abruptly, obviously anxious to be done and gone. He glanced at Bealle, hesitated, while Con held his breath, as if he would offer the man his gun and finally capitulated to Con's disappointment, evidently doubtful that Anne could handle Con alone. "Take this, Bealle, and keep 'im covered."

When Kinney had gone, Con turned his attention to Bealle. "I knew she had someone watching the plantation. I suspected it was you, though I confess I hadn't thought you had the spine for it."

Ignoring Bealle's furious gaze then, he turned to Anne. "How many of my people did you use in your little ruse?"

Anne shrugged. "You must know that would have been too risky. I had no way of knowing which ones would be loyal to you."

"So, when I sent him about his business you were forced to risk showing yourself," he said, not without a certain amount of satisfaction. "Your plan won't work nearly as well now, you know. You're bound to fall under suspicion when I meet with an accident. And I must add, it's all for naught. I changed my will when I divorced you. Or didn't you think of that?"

Anne's lips, which had tightened angrily relaxed into a sneer. "You don't really think this is all about that piddling plantation of yours, do you?"

Con tensed. "I admit, knowing how you've always hated the place, I couldn't see, at first, why you'd want it badly enough to kill me for it. That's one of the reasons it took me so long to piece things together.

On the other hand, you're not used to being low on funds. I suppose you thought to sell it. I must tell you it's worth far more if it is worked than it will bring on the market."

"I didn't come for the damned plantation! If that had been the only thing I hired the men for, I'd have killed you outright. With everything that has been going on, no one would have thought anything about it. They would have thought you were only one more victim of an Indian attack.

Not that they didn't try it anyway in the beginning, the incompetent fools. Unfortunately, the only men I could find to hire had no grasp of subtlety, besides the fact that they couldn't resist fattening their pockets by preying upon the occasional traveler. Which meant they could not be bothered to watch for a good opportunity at you. But then, you've been amazingly elusive."

She paused, shrugging. "Unfortunately, I ran out of time. I had to take the risk of showing myself. Nothing but an accident will do now. The merest whiff of murder and it will all have been for nothing."

"And so you came. But I still don't quite see why you thought the risk necessary."

Anne laughed. "To intercept the letter, of course, you fool!"

Con frowned, obviously puzzled. "What letter?"

She uttered a tinkling laugh. "Can you not guess, Lord Bromley?"

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Seeing that Con had turned deathly pale with shock and grief, Anne laughed again. "You never even suspected? And I thought, when I found that letter from Lyle McGuin that you must surely have guessed the whole of it." She assumed a feigned expression of sympathy. "All gone, alas. They succumbed to the Cholera epidemic.

"It was fortuitus, actually. I was on the very verge of scampering off to the continent to seek my fortune when I discovered it had dropped into my hands like a ripe plum. I never dreamed the day would come when you would become tenth Earl of Bromley. But, such is life. Unfortunately, I can not allow you to enjoy it any longer. The eleventh Earl is waiting in the wings and it will be my greatest pleasure to rear my son to his honors."

Mary Catherine felt the pain in Con's unguarded expression as surely as if it were her own and wished desperately that she could go to him and offer comfort. In a moment, however, his expression became implacable and she saw that he was girding himself to attack. Frantically, she worked to remove the ropes she'd loosened, grateful that Dr. Bealle had been the one to tie her. She doubted Kinney would have been moved by sympathy to tie her so loosely.

Casting around for a weapon even as she worked, her eyes fell almost immediately to the fireplace poker. She could not reach it from the bed, however. Glancing back, she saw that Anne and Dr. Bealle had focused their attention completely upon Con, certain she would not be a threat. She could hear Kinney close at hand, somewhere near the rear door. From the odor and the sounds of sloshing liquid, she knew he was pouring lamp oil all over the back of the cabin. Doubtless, from the length of time he'd been gone, he'd already taken care of the other exits from the cabin. He would not be long in returning.

She eased cautiously toward the side of the bed even as she shook off the ropes they'd used to tie her, holding her breath for fear that the bed would creak and give her away. Silently, she slid over the side, landing soft-footed. Con's eyes flickered to her and away almost as quickly. She saw him tense.

Moving stealthily, she'd almost reached the poker when she heard the sudden crackle and whoosh of erupting flame followed almost immediately by the scuff of quick footsteps. Knowing the others might well turn to look at any moment and that her and Con's chances would be considerably slimmer if she waited until Kinney had his gun in his possession once more, Mary Catherine abandoned stealth and leapt forward, grabbing up the poker.

Con made his move almost simultaneously, taking advantage of the distraction as both Anne and Bealle turned at the sounds behind them. Bealle's gun discharged as Con hurled himself at the slighter man. Taking Bealle to the floor, Con gripped Bealle's gun hand and slammed it against the floor. Exhibiting surprising strength in his fear, Bealle managed to lever Con off of him and they rolled, Bealle gaining the uppermost position.

Anne screamed and whirled to fire, faltering only as she saw she had no clear target. For a handful of heartbeats Mary Catherine hesitated indecisively, wondering whether to use her own weapon on Kinney as he charged inside, or to try to stop Anne. Acting more on instinct than thought, she finally whirled toward Anne, bringing her poker down on Anne's shoulder even as Anne discharged the pistol.

Deflected, the bullet yet found a target. Emory Bealle's skull exploded on impact, spattering Anne, Mary Catherine and Con with brain tissue and blood. At the blow, Anne screamed, dropping her gun and gripping her shoulder as her knees buckled with the pain.

Before Con could roll Emory Bealle's lifeless form off him and leap to his feet, Kinney, uttering a roar, flung himself into the fray, catching Con as he rose to his knees and toppling him backward. Mary Catherine saw no more, however, for she launched herself toward Anne's gun at almost the same moment.

"Oh no you don't, you conniving little tart!" Anne shrieked, reaching the gun first despite her pain and giving it a kick that sent it spinning toward the door. Grasping a handful of hair as Mary Catherine hurtled past her, she jerked Mary Catherine up short.

Stumbling back, Mary Catherine whirled upon the much larger woman, throwing all her weight upon Anne. Anne went over, Mary Catherine landing on top of her. Seizing upon Anne's stunned surprise, Mary Catherine grabbed a handful of hair on both sides of Anne's head. Using that as leverage, she lifted and pounded Anne's head against the floor several times in quick succession.

"Bitch!" Anne screamed in pain and fury. Releasing her grip on Mary Catherine's hair abruptly, she caught her throat with both hands, squeezing even as she arched her back and bucked Mary Catherine off. Fighting for air, Mary Catherine clawed at the hands choking her and finally reached up to rake her fingernails down Anne's face.

With a howl of pain, Anne released her abruptly and surged to her feet, rubbing her eyes. Coughing on the smoke that now filled the cabin, struggling to draw air through her bruised air passages, Mary Catherine rolled and came up on her knees, rubbing her throat.

"My face! My face! I'll kill you for that!" Anne screamed turning and giving her a kick in the ribs that knocked the breath out of her and sent her tumbling toward the bed. Mary Catherine struck the bed post so hard she lay stunned for several moments, unable to rise. When she recovered it was to discover Anne racing for the gun.

"No! Con! She's got the gun!" Mary Catherine cried out, scrambling to her feet even as Anne bent and snatched up the gun. Mary Catherine stopped abruptly, but Anne, with scarcely a glance backward, darted outside. After staring after her indecisively for several moments, Mary Catherine turned her attention to the horrendous battle being waged virtually at her feet. It was as well she did, for she only just managed to dance out of the way as Con and Kinney hurled past her, locked in mortal combat.

Catching up the poker she'd dropped in her battle with Anne, Mary Catherine moved away to watch them, looking for an opening to aid Con. She became aware as she stood watching, however, that the fire was spreading rapidly now. Not only smoke filled the room, but dancing flame as well, curling fingers around the back door to reach inside.

The glass in one window exploded suddenly, sending a shower of glass into the room. Upon the heels of it, the other window exploded, as well. Mary Catherine screamed, ducking as flying glass pelted her. Distracted, Con slipped in the bloody mess on the floor, going down on one knee. The moment's inattention cost him. Kinney wrenched the gun they'd been battling for free of Con's grip and brought the butt back across Con's jaw.

"No!" Mary Catherine cried out, surging forward and swinging the poker for all she was worth. Howling in pain as the poker came down across his neck and shoulder, Kinney whirled, catching Mary Catherine across the ribs with the ball of his fist and flinging her to the floor. He leapt over her, charging for the door.

A gunshot rang out as he reached it, plowing into the open door beside him. "You stupid bitch. It's me!" he yelled. Again he tried to leave. Again a shot rang out, narrowly missing him. Cursing, he threw a glance over his shoulder, saw that every door and window save the front was now afire, and charged outside, firing as he ran.

A woman's cry of pain slashed across the sound of pistol fire. Almost upon the heels of it a louder gun blast crashed around them.

Staggering to his feet, Con moved unsteadily across the cabin and knelt beside Mary Catherine, who was struggling to rise. Lifting her into his arms, he stood with an effort, steadied himself and moved toward the door. A man appeared in the doorway before they reached it. Mary Catherine turned and looked at him blankly for several moments. "Papa?" she said dazedly.

Numbly, Mary Catherine watched as the roof of her cabin caved in. She had been battered, physically and emotionally, until she could feel nothing, not even relief that she was beyond feeling anything anymore. She became aware, after a time, of her surroundings.

Con had not gone. He sat nearby, watching her.

The drone in her ears was her father, she finally realized. She turned her head to look at him in surprise as it dawned upon her that he'd been speaking for some time and she hadn't the faintest idea of what he'd been saying. Dazed as she was, she knew better than to allow him to know she had not been attending a word he'd said.

And yet, even as she looked directly at him for the first time since they'd rushed from her burning cabin, she could not seem to concentrate sufficiently to grasp anything he was saying. He might have been speaking in tongues for all she understood a word of it.

As she studied him, it jolted through her again how very aged he seemed from the last she had seen him. She supposed as her parent he'd always seemed old to her, and yet he had not seemed so shockingly old. When had his hair become so very white? When had time dug such deep furrows upon his craggy face? When had it withered his body until he seemed almost a scarecrow?

"Where are the boys?" she asked abruptly.

He looked taken aback that she'd interrupted him. But that was only for a split second. In the next, his face contorted as a myriad of other emotions crossed his hawk-like features. "They've gone," he said heavily.

She tilted her head to one side curiously, her brow furrowing with confusion. "Gone?" she echoed. "Gone where?"

She discovered with some surprise that he'd been kneading her hand, that he held it still. She looked at their joined hands blankly. When had he taken her hand? Why? He didn't touch. He didn't like to be touched.

He shrugged at her question. "I don't know. They left, one by one. Zeke..." He broke off, ruminated over it for some moments and finally sighed tiredly. "We quarrelled after you wed Mr. Brooks. He said...some unforgivable things to me. I told him to get from my sight." Levy Cone smiled grimly. "He did. After you came that time, Ephriam and Jeremiah left, as well."

Quick thaw set in, creating a flash flood of emotions. Her beloved brothers had gone, struck off on their own. Where were they now? How had they fared?

Her father squeezed her hand, bringing her attention back to him. "There's nothing for you here anymore, daughter."

She turned to look at the smoldering shell of her home and then glanced toward the bodies. Anne and Kinney had been laid out side by side. Kinney had killed Anne when she tried to trap him inside to die a fiery death beside her and Con. Her father, having unhitched one of his mules, had followed Con. It had been he who had shot Kinney down as he raced from the building.

She still found it difficult to believe her father had taken a life to save hers, as he thought. It went against everything he'd believed in.

"No," she said finally. "There isn't."

"Come with me. We'll pray together and ask God to forgive you for your sins."

The first stirrings of anger welled up inside her. She turned to look at her father coolly. "What am I to ask forgiveness for?"

Her father released her hand abruptly. His face reddened with anger. "You know very well what, daughter. I taught you better than that. It was shameful enough that you went to that man when your husband was scarcely cold in his watery grave, but forgivable given that you had no choice. I speak of fornication, daughter, the gravest of sins," he intoned in the ponderous voice he used from his pulpit.

She turned to look at Con, who had said nothing at all. "I had a choice."

"It was a matter of survival. We'll not argue that. As I've said it's forgivable. You must pray for deliverance from temptation. We must pray for your eternal soul. You have sinned."

"I love Con, Papa. If loving him is a sin, I don't want forgiveness," Mary Catherine said simply.

Levy Cone surged to his feet. "Blasphemy! You've lost your faith! Wandered from the path of righteousness. You must repent to find forgiveness."

Mary Catherine stared up at him, for once completely unmoved by his Christian histrionics. "That monster you wed me to was enough to shake anyone's faith in God. I have faced death, Father, many times. I stopped fearing for my eternal soul the day I stopped fearing death and began to see him as a welcome friend. I don't want forgiveness. I don't ask for yours and I don't ask for God's.

All my life I have done what was expected of me. I obeyed you and wed Mr. Brooks, though I loathed him on sight. I obeyed my husband, because you said I must. And when he died and I saw I must mourn him because it was expected, I looked at the path of righteousness and I went the other way. I chose it because I saw that your path to righteousness is a cold, lonely road of pain and humiliation. I chose sunshine and warmth and love. I won't go with you, father. Pray for me if you must. I don't want your forgiveness. I want Con's."

"Wickedness! He hath shown you the path of sinful lust!" Levy Con roared furiously.

Mary Catherine turned to study Con solemnly. After a moment, her lips curled up in a whimsical smile. "Yes. He has. And I gloried in it."

Con grinned suddenly, held out his hand to her. She surged into his arms gratefully, settling her head against his hard shoulder.

"He has used you and cast you aside like the lowliest harlot! Will you humble yourself to crawl back to him!" Levy Cone growled furiously.

She looked up at Con. "Yes. I think I will if he can forgive me."

Con shook his head slowly, reaching up to touch her cheek. "There's nothing to forgive. There never was. It is I who ask for forgiveness, for hurting you. I thought I was protecting you. Instead I sent you into worse danger."

She smiled, ignoring her father as, with a growl of frustration, he stalked away. "Forgiven."

His lips curled faintly, relief and amusement lighting his eyes. "John wants you for his mother," he said tentatively.

"What does Con want?"

His arms tightened around her. "Con wants you for his wife," he said gruffly.

The End