The Dragon Tamer


Jane Bonander









THE DRAGON TAMER. Copyright © 2001 by Jane Bonander. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Prologue

This is the journal of Eleanor Rayburn, nee Simmons, aboard the whaler St. Louis, 1859 expedition to the Sandwich Islands from New Bedford, Massachusetts.

Eleanor stopped writing, briefly lifting her gaze to the porthole. So many emotions twisted inside her. She hoped she could separate them long enough to write a coherent sentence.

NOVEMBER 18, 1859

Six years ago today Mama died. I still miss her so! In my heart I know I always will. I think of her daily, but on the anniversary of her death, I am especially mindful of her capacity for love and her great endurance and unflagging sense of humor through the trials in her life. Oddly enough, I rarely think of Papa. I was so young when he died, I don't remember him at all. But thoughts of Mama will keep me strong in the months ahead.

Today I leave New Bedford to embark on a new portion of my life with my husband, Captain Amos Rayburn. I packed some books, and am hoping I won't get through them all, but I fear that normal conversation will not be an option, as Amos and I rarely discuss anything, and he has already informed me that I will not mingle with the crew!

As I begin this journey, I dare not look back at the land, for I fear I might throw myself into the drink and swim ashore. But it was I who strong-armed Amos into letting me accompany him on this voyage. After four years as a whaling widow, I had decided I needed to know this complex man I married. He stands in the bow, his back to me. I have never been sure of this marriage, but now I shall learn what it is all about. And I dare not complain, for I told him in no uncertain terms that I would stay alone no longer!

I am not at all sure I made the right choice, however. My stomach churns and my head throbs, and we have barely left the shore. A fine sailor I shall make. But I must believe that my condition has something to do with it, and I also know that Amos is eager to keep an eye on his heir. Naturally he hopes for a son. I shall just be happy to have a healthy child.

An easterly wind takes us out of the bay into the wide ocean, which will be my home for many months to come.

NOVEMBER 20

The Sabbath. I think about home, about the churches and their stark white steeples that jut into the sky, and the neighbors who wend their way to its welcome doors and I feel a bit homesick for New Bedford.

Although I am a free thinker and believe each has his own way of practicing his faith (not a popular point of view, I must admit), church steeples have always drawn me, no matter to what faith they belong.

I've been abed since we sailed, sick with the vile stomach heaves that plague "landlubbers" such as myself, although I chalk much of it up to my condition.

NOVEMBER 22

Finally feel more fit and have taken tea on deck. This is the first time I have witnessed Amos and how he handles the crew, especially the young cabin boys. I am not pleased with how severe he is, but he insists he must be if discipline is to be maintained. If they do not obey and respect him and the officers, there would be mayhem. I understand this.

Weather is pleasant; good eastward wind.

NOVEMBER 23

Today I witnessed a side to Amos that I wish I had not. I will not go into detail, but will "condense the scenario" as Mama always asked of me when I would regale her with a story that appeared to have no end.

Amos is a hard taskmaster, but not usually a cruel one. But today he whipped the steerage boy for what seemed no reason at all. I was so shocked at his behavior, that I ran on deck screaming, "Amos! What are you doing?!" He stood over the boy, a pillar of darkness, pierced me with a hard look and told me to return to the cabin.

Later, when we were alone, he admitted that he drives the boys hard, for otherwise they will not survive the voyage.

He told me of an incident many years before, when he'd repeatedly whipped a boy who would not work, a boy whose older brother had fallen from the vessel and drowned. He acknowledged that disciplining too hard has always been a problem for him.

Would wish for just a bit of rain to keep my plants alive, my geranium is especially needy. I shall miss my garden and the sweet singing birds that live there.

NOVEMBER 24

Thanksgiving day of peace. We all pray that the problems between the northern and southern states are resolved without bloodshed. Unfortunately, there is no one aboard with whom I can discuss the subject, and although I truly believe in abolition of slavery, I do not believe that war, pitting Americans against each other, is the answer. But I don't know what the answer is, so I guess the country is fortunate not to have me at the helm!

Cook outdid himself at dinner. We had roast chicken, a stuffed pumpkin (the seeds removed through a round hole at the top, then stuffed with seasoned bread stuffing and cooked with the pumpkin cap in place), turnips, stewed cranberries and plum pudding. I lost my appetite when I learned the rest of the crew got salt junk and hardtack. I don't understand this separation from the crew. It seems that those who physically work the hardest have the least to eat.

DECEMBER 1

Had thought to dry my freshly washed hair on deck as there was a warm breeze, but Amos forbade it, explaining it was not good for the crew to see me in such a casual state. Clearly, since our marriage nearly five years ago, I have dressed more like a matron than a young woman, mainly because other whaling widows dressed that way.

I do wonder if I will ever take pride in my appearance again, wear bright colors, fine hats, for I have a chest full of lovely clothing stored at my brother Calvin's that I may never again be able to wear. I have been a bride for less than five years and am barely one and twenty, and I'm already tired of scraping my hair back into a tight bun or braid and hiding it beneath a dismal cap that all but covers my face. I am tempted to try something more flattering, but do not wish to annoy Amos.

All of this leads to thoughts of Calvin and his wife, Willa. What's done is done, and was done years ago, but I often wonder what changes my life would have taken had they agreed to take me in on a more permanent basis, rather than marry me off after Mama's death. In time, I could have found a way to support myself, for I am not without the ability to do so.

DECEMBER 3

Warm, sunny day. Stayed on deck and tried to be as invisible as possible as I watched the cook's assistant feed the lively pigs and chickens that will eventually become food for our table. I have named the pigs Honey and Vinegar. They are adorable and smart. I don't wish to eat them. Ever. Unfortunately, in my enthusiasm over the pigs, I made the mistake of removing my bonnet and waving it in their direction, and Amos inevitably chased me back to my cabin. I do try to obey him, but sometimes I am filled with such exuberance that I want to race along the deck and shout at the wind. I cannot hold back a smile when I imagine Amos's reaction to such antics. But he has a full plate as captain of this vessel, and as much as I sometimes feel the urge to expel energy, I would only be adding to his burden.

DECEMBER 7

Even though I am not allowed to go where I wish or speak with the crew, I am not bored. I have decided I love the sea! No other emotion makes sense, for after all, I am here, I insisted that I be here, and here is where I shall stay until the voyage is over. Not even Amos can make me sulk, although he often treats me like a bothersome child, especially when I ask what he thinks are foolish, unimportant questions.

For instance, when I discovered that they greased the masts with leftover cooking grease, I asked him why. He acted as though it was the most foolish question ever posed. I still do not know the answer, although I suspect it has something to do with treating the wood, keeping it supple so that it won't break quite so easily in foul wind and weather.

DECEMBER 10

Have yet to see a whale. Crept to the galley where Cook eyed me with suspicion. I promised I was there only to watch, that I would not interfere. (I secretly think he imbibes in wine before lunch, because he has a great red nose and bloodshot eyes, and his breath has all the sweetness of fish rotting on deck.)

I have often heard Amos tell Cook to keep his galley as neat and clean as a farmer's kitchen, and that he should clean his boilers daily and to wash out the entire galley every day but Sunday. I must admit that I am surprised at the cleanliness and order I find there.

I asked if I could help in any way, and he shoved a pan of potatoes and a knife at me, requesting that I not be stingy with the peelings. I later discovered the peelings went into the crew's stew, while we, the officers and the boatsteerers, dined on the potatoes. This separation of officers and crew makes me very uncomfortable but I rather doubt I could go about changing things all by myself, and to try would only incur Amos's wrath.

DECEMBER 14

Am feeling poorly, and I am quite certain the movement aboard the ship has something to do with it. Now and then the wind and the waves remind me of my delicate condition. I will deliver in April or May. We will be in Lahaina in April. I hope to stay until after the birth. I speak of having this child so casually, when inside, I'm so excited! What a gift it shall be!

CHRISTMAS DAY

The weather is more like July than December. A fine meal, including porpoise, which I demurely declined. Although Slater, the first mate, informed me it is much like beef once they boil out the oil in the skin. (Ugh!) I kept a tight jaw, as the thought of it pressed my stomach up into my throat.

Went on deck while Amos was below and looked at the foreign shore, for we are near Cape St. Roque, South America. The cape juts out into the water, so I watched them "beat"— or tack— back and forth in a southerly direction to gain distance against the wind that wanted to pull us toward shore.

Amos arrived and to my surprise didn't hustle me off to my cabin. I was allowed to stand near the wheel with Second Mate Galvin. Hardly dared express my pleasure for fear that I would be hurried below, but I so thoroughly enjoyed myself, that I will attempt to be near the wheel as often as possible from now on.

Mr. Galvin, a crusty gent of perhaps fifty years of age, is a fine teacher. He has allowed me to take the wheel when Amos is not in sight. I have learned much from him regarding the sails, and I store each piece of information neatly away into my memory. As a storyteller, he is quite entertaining.

He informed me that the reason most seamen wear one tiny gold earring is that years ago, probably in the last century or before, they had to have enough gold on them to bury them should they meet their demise at sea or anywhere else, for that matter. The story sounded like something a Portuguese pirate might tell after a night of too much rum, but I said nothing, for it was amusing. Afterward, I did, however, catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, and I could swear he was fighting the urge to smile at my apparent gullibility.

DECEMBER 30

"There she blows!" The boats were lowered and we took two whales, although they were not very big. The captured whales were towed to the ship and fastened to the vessel by chains. Soon after, the cutting began, then peeling away the thick blankets of blubber. With Amos so engrossed, I was rather free to watch, which I did without much stomach distress.

DECEMBER 31

Boiling has begun, the trypots filled, the stench often overwhelming.

JANUARY 1

Portions of the animal have begun to decay, and the men track what looks like black tar all over the ship, and the decks are oily and splattered with gobs of black blood. Unfortunately, in my condition, I had to retire to my cabin and press a damp cloth over my nose and mouth to keep from retching. Needless to say, I had no dinner tonight, nor was I even tempted to set foot in the dining quarters.

As I watched the men raise their harpoons against the beasts, I thought of how grossly unmatched they were. Should I ever see a larger whale, I shall wonder at it, for even now I can believe that the whale is truly the brute of all beasts.

We have sixty barrels of oil from the two whales, which is a fairly good beginning. Mr. Slater informed me that a large right or sperm whale's head contains fifteen hundred pounds of bone, and its tongue alone can yield ten barrels of oil.

JANUARY 1

Have rounded the Cape (Horn) and weather is not pleasant. The waves are beastly. I, in turn, feel beastly as well!

JANUARY 4

Saw whales, but they were gone before the men could lower the boats.

JANUARY 8

Caught porpoise today, which they tell me is necessary for the oil, for we have so little at this point. When the men hurried forward to strike, they startled one of the hens, who flew overboard. As soon as she touched the water, the flying birds swooped down on her. I felt sad, for I had acquired a fondness for her "plucky" disposition.

JANUARY 10

Crew caught pilot fish for dinner— reminiscent of trout. Very tasty. Will have some fried for breakfast, too, I am told.

JANUARY 15

Many of us became ill after eating the day old pilot fish. My sickness resulted in a miscarriage, which has left me depressed and forlorn. I had been carrying a boy. I turned to Amos for succor and hoped he could say a prayer for the lost soul, but he was in no condition to soothe me, for his own despair was almost greater than mine. I know I saw dampness in his eyes as we blest the child, wrapped it in sealskin, and lowered it into its watery grave.

JANUARY 25

Even now tears well up when I think of the helpless child that will never be. And I silently weep for myself as well, for I had so longed for something to love. I hope we can try again. I simply don't believe that I shall live a long life without children of my own to care for and love.

FEBRUARY 1

Weather is rough, no whales in sight. We have not seen another ship in days.

FEBRUARY 4

A whale sighting. The waters are rough, the whaleboats toss and turn like kindling upon the waves, especially when compared to the size of the whale. Amos has gone into the second boat— I don't understand why, as he never has before. I hardly dare watch, for the sea is churning like a bubbling cauldron. Will write more after they have brought the whale to the ship.…
One

JUNE 1860, BOSTON

He was a carnal man. Sleek. Polished. Every movement, every word, every look was drenched with an animal heat that made a woman weak. The way he looked at her, his eyelids heavy and sensual as he slowly moved his gaze over her, resting at places no decent man would. The way he walked toward her, all loose limbed and dangerous. Then he stood before her, the unasked question in the lift of one raven-wing eyebrow. His voice was the final seduction, for when he was in the mood, the words oozed out like warm honey, making a woman's blood thicken and her skin come alive. He was both wild and tame, and no woman on earth could refuse him.

He was a magician of sorts. He could walk into a ballroom and turn the head of every woman there, any age, any social standing. And when the last song had played, every lady went home to dream of him.

It was his indifference that drew both men and women to him, for each wanted to believe they would be the first to charm him. Coax him to put money into a failing business. Lure him into an affair. Few realized that Dante could not be bought or enticed. Fewer yet knew that he had little respect for most men, finding them braggarts and bores. And to him, women were a nuisance. A hazard to be avoided. Only useful in satisfying his animal needs.

The woman, his current mistress, studied him as he read the newspaper, his rich black hair falling forward to cover part of his face. His arms were thick, the muscles sculpted beneath his bronzed skin, the veins standing out like rivers of granite. He had beautiful hands, large with square palms. His fingers were long and strong, yet the power in his touch could be gentle and seductive when he wanted it to be.

She looked at the strange tattoos that covered his body. Only those who knew him as intimately as she did would ever know they were there.

She had hated them at first— the coiled snake, the soaring hawk, the masterful ship with the skull and crossbones banner on the mast.

The largest one was a green and yellow dragon with nostrils that licked flames up Dante's neck. It covered his chest and stomach. Once she had seen that enormous, fierce-looking dragon, the other tattoos were nothing. Beneath it was a mass of whiplike scars that looked like part of the dragon's corded skin. She had traced those scars many times with her fingers and her tongue. When she had asked how he had gotten them, she had been met with a taciturn, icy stare. She had never asked again.

He was still reading, ignoring her. She wondered if he remembered she was in his bed.

Her gaze wandered to the far wall, which displayed one of his many collections of erotic art. Every woman she knew and most men as well would blush at what Dante considered art. He had a fine, rosewood corner cupboard with glass doors that held Greek and Roman objets d'art, all of which were, as far as she was concerned, lewd and immoral. But that was exactly what excited her.

The cup bearing the image of a bearded Greek male entering the smiling, compliant female from behind, the da Vinci cross-section of a couple making love, in which one could see the huge, erect penis as it entered the female body, the stone relief of ancient Indian temple art depicting a fornicating foursome in which the man was somehow, miraculously, able to make the three women who surrounded him happy— two with his hands and one with his enormous, oversized penis. All of them were, of course, male fantasy pieces, but the mistress became aroused just the same.

And those were just the pieces in the glass case. He had many, many more. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the pillows and ran her fingertips over her breasts. She was his lover, for now. But on those nights when she wasn't with him, she would toss and turn and dream of being taken over and over again by a tall, powerfully built man who was as untamable as the dragon etched on his skin.

Dante Templeton was hers, for the moment. She never wanted it to end, but how long she would share his bed was his decision alone.

She opened her eyes and, with a finger, traced the dragon that slid over the muscles of his chest, appearing to move each time he took a breath. "Put down the paper, Dante."

He reached beneath the disheveled bed linens and briefly stroked her sensitive inner thigh, nudging her with his little finger as if that would begin to satisfy her.

To her shame, it merely made her want him more. She had an immediate reaction to his touch. It was as if he had not made love to her in weeks when in truth it had been less than an hour. The sensual lethargy that came over her was almost more than she could bear.

His gaze was held captive by an article in the newspaper and she knew that at least for the moment, she had lost him.

Undaunted, she shifted so her breasts straddled his powerful upper arm, raised herself up, and blew in his ear.

He cocked his head away and continued to read the newspaper. Suddenly he scowled. "I'll be damned."

"Why?"

"Why what?" he asked, not looking at her.

"Why will you be damned?"

He folded the newspaper back and said nothing. He merely smiled a cold smile and kept reading.

She loved his face. His cheekbones were sharp as glass, and deep grooves bracketed his sensual mouth— a mouth that could usually bring her to the heights of ecstasy. But even when it did not, she feigned pleasure, for she didn't want to vex him.

Heat stirred within her again, and she gave him a petulant swat on the chest. "You're ignoring me."

"Patience, Marguerite. I'm trying to read the paper."

She nipped his earlobe with her teeth. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you preferred the newspaper to me."

"You said it, I didn't."

She sighed. "The paper will always be here, Dante."

The look he gave her said that if he wanted it, she would always be there, too. She didn't argue.

"Millard is coming home," she said, hoping for a response. But she knew that Dante didn't care that her husband would return today.

She needed to make him acknowledge her. She reached beneath the covers and fondled him. Even at rest he filled her hands. To touch him made her ache deep inside. When she wasn't with Dante, she was afraid she would call out his name when she was with her husband. And it was never her intention to hurt Millard; he'd been good to her. But Dante was her obsession.

He turned and surprised her with a deep, wet kiss. "My only love. Let me finish this article."

She almost laughed out loud. As much as she might want it, she would never be his only love. No woman would. His only love was, and always would be, the sea.

"What's so interesting that you can't put the newspaper down?" Her waspishness began to show.

"The obituary of a man I wish I'd killed myself. Ah, but it's fitting that he died in a whaleboat trying to slay a whale."

The venom in his voice startled her. She looked at the page. "Amos Rayburn?"

"Yes." His voice was clipped.

"I met him once. And his wife. Eleanor, I think he called her." She laughed.

Dante turned toward her, one eyebrow raised, his brilliant blue eyes glittering dangerously. "What is so amusing about Amos Rayburn's wife?"

Marguerite kicked off the bed linens so her whole body was available to him. She ran her fingers down over her stomach, threading them through her fluffy pubic hair. Her stirrings deepened and it was all she could do not to touch herself more intimately.

"We met them at a party." She pressed her thighs together to stem her desire, then turned and propped her chin on her hands, her body pressed against his. "She spent the entire evening either sitting in a corner by herself or cleaning up after the guests."

Marguerite reached out and touched his chest, tracing the dragon's scales. "She acted like the hired help. Truthfully, she was so plain I don't think I'd recognize her if I bumped into her again. I just remember brown eyes, brown hair, and a shapeless brown dress."

Marguerite had lost him again, for his expression became hooded, his jaw tensed, and he tapped the paper against his hand.

Dante had a dark side. He rarely displayed it in public but she knew it was there, simmering just beneath the surface. She often wondered what troubled him. But she would never ask. She wasn't certain she wanted to know.

She watched him and realized that at this point, she could plant her bottom on his face and he wouldn't respond.

She slid from the bed and stood before him, naked, wondering just how unreachable he was. "I'm leaving, Dante. Right now. Like this."

He said nothing.

"You can send my clothes over later." She moved closer, taunting him. If he simply turned his head slightly, his face would almost touch her where she longed for his touch the most.

"You are a beautiful and seductive woman, Marguerite, and I can smell your musky scent from here." He paused. "I assume that was your purpose."

She put one knee on the bed and bent to kiss him, flicking her tongue against his lips. "And that doesn't give you ideas?" she whispered against his mouth.

He continued to study the obituary page. "Here." He reached for his robe, which hung on the bedpost and tossed it to her. "Wear this. I don't want you catching cold on your way out."

An angry heat spread through her. "You are such a bastard," she spat, throwing the robe in his face.

Narrowing her gaze, she gave him a derisive smile and left the bedroom wearing nothing at all, slamming the door hard behind her.

At the bottom of the stairs, she met Horace, Dante's manservant, whose usual reserve bobbled like crystal in the wind as she stood before him. "My cloak, please?"

His face turned a rare shade of purple as he lifted her wrap off the coat tree and draped it across her shoulders. The elegant feather boa she had worn with her new gown the night before hung over another hook. On an impulse, she let the cloak fall to the floor, lifted the boa off the hook, and flung it around her neck.

"Thank you so much," she said sweetly, then walked out Dante's front door— wearing nothing else at all.



Eleanor bolted upright in bed, drawing in great gulps of air, her heart thudding madly. Even now, four months after the accident, she couldn't escape Amos's agonizing screams. As if it were happening all over again, she had witnessed the death of her husband as the whale butted the boat. All the men, including Amos, were flung into the air, their backs and necks arched beyond endurance. The whaleboat splintered into kindling, and in her dreams the roiling water was always smeared red with blood, though in reality there had been no blood at all upon the water.

She wondered if the nightmares would ever end. The memories were so real. The fear she'd seen in his face; it was a fear she could never describe. But she could feel it. Even now. And she knew with certainty that no man deserved to die so violently.

Her nightgown beneath her robe was drenched with perspiration. She massaged her neck and glanced at the window where the colorless, flimsy curtains were drawn against the dawn. She hadn't had a decent nights' sleep since the accident. She hoped that one day she would sleep through the night again without awakening from the nightmare of Amos dying.

Wishful thinking. Something she'd found herself doing a lot of lately, even before Amos had died. Aboard the whaler, she thought about flowers and birds and fresh, sweet drinking water, knowing in her heart that she would have none of them for months on end. Sometimes she prayed for a stronger constitution, but most of the time she simply had to be content with who and what she was: a woman who tried to be good and pure of heart, obedient and God-fearing, but who had a mind of her own and too often expressed it aloud.

She threw off the thin, worn blanket. Her hand caught in one of the holes and it ripped. She stared at it for a moment, remembering the stash of quilts she had at her brother's home. She longed to wrap herself in one, but was grateful that they were safely away from the boarding house. Eleanor had already learned that she couldn't leave anything worthwhile lying about.

She had lost her one good purse, a black one covered with jet beads and a ribbon handle, by leaving it on the battered old worktable in the corner that passed for a dresser.

The only other person in her room was her landlady, but when Eleanor mentioned that the purse had disappeared, Mrs. Lauder denied ever having seen it. And Eleanor, usually confrontational by nature, knew that to press the issue meant she would find her belongings on the doorstep.

Living in a rooming house had not been in her plan. After the accident and her miscarriage, she had fully expected to return to the little cottage in New Bedford that she had lived in after her marriage to Amos. Imagine her distress when she discovered that it had burned to the ground one night during a raging storm.

With all of her dreams tumbling down around her, she fled to Boston, hoping to start a new life, somehow. Hopefully it would involve the whaler; that was her mission today.

She swung to the side of the bed and stepped onto the wood floor. It was a cold morning, and she could feel it through the old red wool stockings on her feet. She had slept in stockings for years because she was always so cold. And now, she had no choice because Mrs. Lauder claimed she couldn't afford the fuel to keep the fireplaces burning at night. Not that the woman would heat the place even if she owned half of Boston.

Eleanor crossed to the window and pulled the thin curtains aside. Another gray morning. Air, tainted with sea salt, leaked in through cheap panels that barely held the windowpanes in place. Beyond the row of clapboard buildings and the rise of the warehouses past them, she heard the rush and swell of the ocean, and the screeching caws of the gulls.

Today was the day she would face the merchant who owned the major share of the whaler that Amos had captained. She had to find a crew of her own, for she desperately needed an income. In her coin purse, she had just enough money to pay Mrs. Lauder for the week that had passed, but not another twenty-five dollars for the week to come.

She went to the washstand and washed her face in the cold water. After pressing a threadbare towel against her eyes, she looked in the mirror and frowned. She looked old. Tired. Worn out. Even her hair, which she considered her best feature, seemed to lack luster.

A wave of self-pity threatened to make her cry. She rested her fists on the dry sink and closed her eyes, waiting for the moment to pass, for she hated the feeling in herself, and found it an unattractive trait in others as well.

She had always believed she was in charge of her life, and to let Amos's death and the death of her child turn her into a needy, pathetic woman sickened her. She lifted her head again and gazed into the mirror. She would get on with her life, and she would do it alone.

She swung from the mirror and hurried to gather her clothes for the day, determined to make the day a success, despite her misfortunes.

"You have a right to mourn the death of your husband," Calvin had told her. "Give yourself time."

Mourn Amos? Was that what she was doing? She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she didn't think so. She had prayed so long and hard after Amos died, she was surprised there weren't calluses on her knees. At first she had prayed for the ability to mourn him. Then, when she realized she couldn't, she prayed for forgiveness because she hadn't mourned him.

Yes, she felt terrible that he had died so violently. And yes, she was not happy about her widowed status. But Amos had been a stranger to her.

Eleanor's mourning had been for the death of a child that would never be. The baby, only a few months old inside her womb, had already become her hope and her world. Something Amos had never been.

After donning her worn corset and shabby corset cover, she stepped quickly into her black cotton petticoat with the crocheted hem, then slipped on her dark brown calico dress with the lace inserts and leg-of-mutton sleeves— a gown she abhorred, but one she knew fit her status as a widow.

It was mildly ironic that every stitch of clothing she currently had in the wardrobe was fit for a grief-stricken widow. Perhaps one day she could retrieve her trunk full of nice clothes from her brother's attic. For now, she layered her dull, drab clothing for warmth, much as she had done aboard ship.

She wouldn't miss the sea. If she never boarded another ship it would be too soon. It hadn't always been that way. She remembered vividly when she had begun loving the ocean, the rise and swell of the waves, the pungent salty smell of the air. Even the whale sightings had been exciting. But with the deaths of both her child and her husband at sea, it no longer held any appeal. At least not yet.

She tied the ribbons of her black felt bonnet under her chin, then took her black full tail cape off the hook by the door and left her room. As she descended the stairs, she found her landlady lying in wait just outside the kitchen door. The woman spat a stream of ugly brown tobacco into a cup and wiped her mouth with a soiled handkerchief.

" 'Mornin', Miz Rayburn."

The woman's voice had all the elegance of a rusty tugboat. "Good morning, Mrs. Lauder," she answered as brightly as she could. "Still no sun, I see."

The blowsy woman studied her from the doorway, her unnaturally red hair frizzed about her face and her cheeks flushed. "Sunshine or no, I got bills to pay. You owe me for two weeks." She expelled a deep, wet cough.

"I know," Eleanor answered, reaching into her purse. "Here." She handed her landlady the rent for the past week.

Mrs. Lauder took the money, counted it, and looked at Eleanor. "This is for last week. What about this week? I told you my policy has changed. You must prepay."

"I'll pay you another twenty-five dollars the moment I return."

"Think you'll get your man's ship, do you? Ha." She laughed, an unhealthy, hacking sound.

"I don't know why not," Eleanor answered with more bravado than she felt. "Now that my husband is dead, his share of the St. Louis is by all rights mine. The first mate and I got the crew back to Boston safely."

"I'll be waitin' for you to return." Mrs. Lauder eyed her suspiciously. "I ain't runnin' this place for my health."

No, Eleanor thought, she was running it into the ground. She pulled on her gloves and hurried to the front door.



Two hours later, Eleanor stumbled from the merchant's office, her purse clutched against her drumming heart. Amos had lost his shares in the ship. He'd lost them! For the past two years, those shares had no longer belonged to him.

She made her way to Market Square and sat down heavily on a bench overlooking Merchant's Row. Across from her sat a couple, lovers perhaps, sharing a plate of oysters. The girl, no more than sixteen, Eleanor thought, sprinkled vinegar and pepper on their fare, then passed silverware and a plate of hard biscuits to her young man.

They kissed. Eleanor blushed and turned away, unwilling to invade their private space.

Although her view of the ocean was blocked, she could smell it. She drew in great gulps of briny, pungent air. Seagulls circled overhead, mocking her.

Amos had used his share of the whaler as collateral against a debt he had incurred. A loan to cover what, she didn't know. Probably something as simple as having to cover losses during a lean season, but why had he kept it from her?

She drew in another deep breath. Her initial shock turned to anger. How was she supposed to make a living? It wasn't that she couldn't; she had never been pampered or spoiled, she could always find work of some kind. But she wanted to continue doing what Amos had begun. This was what she had planned to do.

No, she thought resolutely, this would not be an obstacle. She needed the ship, and she would somehow find a way to get it back.

It wouldn't be easy. She already had two strikes against her. She was a woman and a widow. She'd heard of other widows in her predicament, and knew they were easy prey from men who wanted the ships their husbands had captained.

She remembered one woman who had been pressured into selling her share in a whaler for half of what it had been worth. She had done so because she couldn't fight. She'd given up. At least the woman had that option. Eleanor did not— at the moment, anyway.

She unfolded the paper the merchant had given her. Whispering Winds. That was the company that held the note on her share of the whaler.

She didn't know who owned this Whispering Winds or what sort of business it was, but she was determined to find out. She couldn't appear vulnerable. That would be her downfall.

And she had to be ready to explain exactly how she planned to repay the loan. She went over it step by step in her head. She would hire a captain and a crew and explain that she had been to sea and had worked alongside the men. In her mind, there wasn't one reason why she should not be given her ship. She was practical, efficient, hard-working, and experienced.

Finally, she stood, dusted off her skirt, and went to the warehouse district in search of the Whispering Winds offices.



Dante had slept in his clothes. His business meeting the night before hadn't gone well. The Layton Fisheries vessel had returned from its voyage with nearly a thousand sea otter pelts. Too many. At this rate the sea otter would be extinct in a few years. He had invited the captain to dinner, hoping to convince him to temper his kills, explaining that if other vessels were doing the same thing, the captain would have no work in the years ahead.

The captain's response was typical. What did he care if the otters were all gone? He would make a fortune, live comfortably, and not worry about the future.

Dante had already had this conversation with the captain of a whaler. These men were so hungry for profits they would wipe out half the animals of the sea if it meant they could get rich doing so.

He rested against the wooden cabinet and pressed a cold cloth to his eyes. Trying to reason with fishermen was like pissing in the wind. They both came back to slap you in the face with something unpleasant. But if there was a way to stop even one whaler from leaving Boston harbor, Dante would do it.

He rubbed the tight muscles at the base of his neck, trying to relieve the headache he'd awakened with. When he got angry, he drank too much, and when he drank too much, he woke up feeling like he'd been mauled by a bull. Last night he hadn't even made it home; he'd fallen asleep on the couch in his office.

He finished shaving and wiped his face with a damp towel, then checked his reflection in the mirror. Puffiness and dark circles were evident under his eyes. Too little sleep, too much brandy. Too much anger polluting his blood.

Hell, he couldn't even escape the topic in sleep, for he'd dreamed about dead sea otters all night, their blood turning the oceans red. Now he felt sluggish and surly.

Mouthing a curse, he slung his shirt over his shoulder and started down the dark hall toward his office.

He heard a sound behind him and turned. A dour woman dressed in black stood not ten feet from him. In the dim light, she had the hollow-eyed look of the dead.

Hell, he didn't feel that bad.

Her horrified stare moved over him, stopping at his bare chest. He quickly slipped into his shirt and buttoned it.

She blinked and glanced away, suddenly bringing her gloved hand to her heart and breathing hard.

Dante swore. She looked like she was going to faint on him.

He took her arm and led her to the bench outside his office. "Wait here. I'll bring you some water."

With surprising strength, she pulled her arm from his grip. "No, you will not. I'm perfectly fine." She swallowed hard and took another deep breath. "Just tell me where I can find Mr. Dante Templeton."

He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "Why are you looking for him?"

Her gloved fingers shook as she smoothed the hem of her frayed cape. "I don't see that it's any of your business."

"I make it my business," he answered. "If you want to see Mr. Templeton you'll have to tell me why. If I think it's important I'll get him for you."

She pursed her lips. "I would prefer to deal directly with Mr. Templeton."

"Anything you have to say to Mr. Templeton, you can say to me."

"I don't think so." She gave him a stubborn look.

Now this was getting interesting.… The brown mouse had courage. He gave her a quick bow and started down the hallway toward the front of the building.

"Well, if you must know," she called after him, the merest hint of discomfort in her voice, "I've come about my late husband's whaler, the St. Louis. He … he was the captain."

Dante stopped. Bile rose in his throat and his stomach clenched like a fist. Drawing in a calming breath, he turned and slowly walked back to her.

The first word that came to mind when he studied his nemesis's widow was stiff. It wasn't her clothes that made him think that, although she wore them like armor; it was her body, like it had been dipped in starch and hung on a line to dry. "Mrs. Rayburn."

Surprise lit her eyes. "You know who I am?"

"I make that my business, too."

She studied him hard, although his predatory instincts told him that if he peeled away her high starched collar, he would find her pulse pounding hard at the base of her throat. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man you want." I'm the man who can destroy you.

There was a slight, almost imperceptible lift of one dark, well-arched eyebrow. "I rather doubt that."

"How can you be so sure?"

A cold, disdainful smile barely touched the corners of her mouth. "I said I was looking for Mr. Templeton, not a painted peacock."

His shirt was open slightly, exposing the top edges of the flames from his dragon's nostrils. He looked at her again.

"It's not a peacock. It's a dragon."

"It's not the tattoo that offends me."

He continued to hold her gaze until she finally looked at her lap.

After a moment, she lifted her head and gave him an icy glare. "Didn't your mother teach you it isn't nice to stare?"

"I didn't have a mother."

Her skin flushed a bright pink, the only color in her pathetically dreary wardrobe.

"I'm sorry."

He wasn't. It was his purpose to make her suffer, and he had not yet begun to do just that.

At that moment, Dante's dapper bookkeeper, Percy Pogue, walked purposefully toward them wearing a handsome cutaway jacket. He carried a sheaf of papers.

The Widow Rayburn released a sigh of relief. She stood and rushed to him. "Oh, Mr. Templeton, I'm so glad you're here. I'm Eleanor Rayburn and I've come about the loan against my late husband's share of a whaler."

Dante leaned against the door to his office, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.

Percy stopped, clearly puzzled. First he looked at the woman, then at Dante. "What's this all about?"

The widow dug into her purse and brought out a piece of paper. "I was told that you carry the note on the St. Louis, and I was hoping we could discuss some terms for repayment."

Percy frowned, still puzzled. He looked over her head at his boss. "Terms? Dante, what's this all about?"

The widow turned slowly, her eyes wide. "You?"

With a dramatic flourish, Dante opened his office door and motioned her inside.

She issued him a haughty look as she passed him. "You could have told me."

He offered her a chair, then took a seat at his desk. "I did. I told you I was the man you wanted to see about your husband's debt."

The word "debt" appeared to have an abject effect on her. She paled and some of her starch seemed to abandon her. "It's a debt I have every intention of repaying."

Dante settled into his chair and laced his fingers over his chest. "Go on."

She leaned forward, suddenly enthusiastic. He almost felt sorry for her, because it didn't matter how she presented her plan, the end result would be the same.

"Let me tell you what I plan to do with the St. Louis. I won't captain it myself, although I could. After my husband died, it was ultimately up to me to get the ship back to New Bedford. But that's another story," she said with a wave of her hand. "I know a number of good men who would take the job. And I can find a crew, too. I'm a good judge of people."

Dante kept his expression blank, but beneath his veneer he seethed each time she mentioned the word "husband." How in hell could she be a good judge of people if she had married that murderous bastard?

She hurried on. "Many of my late husband's men would be willing to work for me, or my choice for a captain. I had quite good rapport with them."

She studied Dante, appearing to look for a response. He gave her none, so she prattled on.

"I understand that he must have had a few bad years, or he wouldn't have had to borrow the money in the first place, but I promise you I will pay back every cent."

Dante noticed her wide, gathering, misty brown eyes. There was honesty there, and eagerness. And— he nearly frowned, intelligence. A useless and unflattering quality in a woman.

She cleared her throat and blinked nervously. "I'm very hard working. I'm efficient and practical. I can't abide waste. The ship would be run most effectively. I would strive to make it the best. You will get every cent of your money back."

Dante allowed her to squirm.

She cleared her throat again. "I worked alongside my husband on his … his last voyage, so you see, I have experience."

She had worked with the man Dante despised; was she despicable as well? He preferred to think she was.

She took a deep breath. "Well, I guess that's about it, then. How much did he borrow?"

If Dante had had any sympathy for her, he would have applauded her enthusiasm. "Ten thousand dollars and the vessel is yours."

Her jaw dropped. "Ten thousand dollars?" She emitted a nervous laugh, her gaze flitting about the room before she stared at him again. "You must be joking."

Dante languidly toyed with his fountain pen, maintaining an aloof expression. "I never joke about money."

She wilted into the chair and pressed her drab purse to the front of her black cape. "It would take a year of good whaling to make that much money." Her voice was weak with stunned surprise.

She could bring him ten times that amount, and he would find a way to deny her the vessel.

"I'm sure we can come to an agreement of some sort, sir. I'd be happy to pay you monthly from the proceeds of each voyage, if you'd prefer."

He gazed out the window, pretending to give it some thought. But he knew he wouldn't let that ship sail again. "I'm afraid not. I'll need the balance."

Her expression was frantic. "But surely we can arrange something—"

"Mrs. Rayburn," he interrupted, his voice harsh, "this is not a debt incurred at a church social over a picnic basket."

"I never said it was," she shot back. "You're being unreasonable."

"I'm in a position to be."

"But, why?"

He stood and went to the window. He could tell her that it was because there were already too many whalers on the seas. He could explain that he'd seen so much mindless slaughter, he couldn't look a whaling captain in the face without getting sick to his stomach.

Dante could tell her that he'd been acquainted with her late husband, and that was reason enough. Instead, he turned and looked at her. "Because I can."

She stood, her spine rigid as a mast. "If I were a man, you wouldn't treat me this way."

"Madam, your sex has nothing to do with it."

The word "sex" offended her, for she blushed a bright pink again. "I will not allow you to take advantage of me. I may be a woman and a widow, but believe me, sir, I demand to be treated fairly."

Dante crossed to where she stood and brought his face close to hers. "I do not run a charity here, Mrs. Rayburn."

"I'm not asking for charity. I'm only asking that you be fair. You know very well I don't have that kind of money."

He returned to his chair and shuffled some papers. "Borrow it."

She stared at him a moment, then walked to the door, one fist on her hip. Suddenly she turned, her skirt swishing against her sensible shoes. "I don't know why I expect you to, but will you give me a reasonable amount of time to get the money?"

"You have forty-eight hours."

Something in her eyes changed, but she showed no other emotion. "Fine. I shall return in two days with the money."

He watched her leave, his gaze narrowing. Let her try to get the money together. Dante knew she wouldn't succeed. Once he had learned of Rayburn's death, he had delved deeply into the bastard's history. Probably more deeply than anyone else in Massachusetts.

He had learned more than he'd wanted to know, if truth were known, and these truths he had kept close to his chest. Not for fear of hurting anyone, but because they meant nothing in the greater scheme of things. But Amos Rayburn had not been an honorable man. Even if he hadn't been a cruel captain, he had done something no ethical man would. And if Dante chose to, he could ruin the Widow Rayburn with the information.

He considered the woman, his mood morose. She would not succeed in regaining her late husband's whaler. It just wasn't done. No woman could successfully do what a man had been doing for decades.

What had surprised him, however, was that he discovered the St. Louis had returned to New Bedford harbor immaculate and well-run, despite the death of the captain. This had spoken well for the first mate, and, if the widow were to believed, her, too.

But it was unlikely she could get funds. Her only relative, her brother, Calvin Simmons, was hounded monthly by debtors. Dante was quite certain she couldn't come up with the money to pay off the loan on the vessel.

And he was glad. She had been married to his enemy— the one man Dante truly hated. He needed to take from her that which her husband had so cruelly taken from him. He needed to make someone suffer as he did. He needed someone to twist in the wind.

He returned to the window and watched for her. She left the office and strode purposefully down the street.

The sun briefly broke through the clouds, the light capturing a lock of her brown hair and filling it with the rich color of mahogany. In the office, her hair, scraped back severely from her face, had lacked color.

Meeting her had disgusted him. She disgusted him. It was obvious by her drab garb that she was in mourning. How could any woman mourn a man like Amos Rayburn?

Before this meeting, he had no feelings about her at all. She was merely a woman, like any other, who had made a bad choice. Now, after this encounter, he realized he hated her. Passionately. Guilt by association. And she was in a very vulnerable position. At his mercy. And he was going to make her pay for her late husband's sins.

She was intelligent. He saw that in her quick brown eyes. It was a trait often lacking in women, and a trait he didn't like in women at all. But some people seemed to have the ability to look into a man's soul. She was one of them.

And God help him, he didn't want Amos Rayburn's widow looking into his stained and tattered soul. If he even had one.



Eleanor fumed as she left the office. What an obnoxious, unfeeling, pompous man! He was intolerable. He was indecent and shameful, and he flaunted it. She had hoped to find a reasonable man to whom she could relate with some dignity. Instead, she found a man who was anything but reasonable. A man who prowled the building half dressed, barely civilized.

She thought about his naked chest and the fiery dragon tattoo. She'd been momentarily taken aback by the serpent, for she had learned that years before, when Amos was a young man, he had fancied himself "The Sea Dragon."

But Eleanor had seen her share of tattoos on shipboard. Some were crass, some were foolish. But there was danger in a man who tattooed a massive dragon on his chest. He was not a man to follow convention.

She hadn't meant to tell him anything at all, until he walked away from her, leaving her in that dark corridor. And he would have left her there, too, knowing full well that he was whom she had come to see. Insidious man.

Before she had turned her gaze away, she had noticed the deep white scars that the tattoo had probably been meant to cover. So, he'd been whipped. If, as a boy, he had been as defiant as he was now arrogant, he no doubt deserved the whip.

She would raise the money. She had to. And not just because she needed the ship, but because Dante Templeton made her angry, and she didn't want him to win.

And what sort of name was Dante, anyway? Dante's Inferno came to mind. Inferno. A pleasant term to attach to a man like that. Burn. Fire. Hell. Perdition.

She had the distinct impression he'd been baiting her. Right this moment, he was probably laughing at her. At her.

She turned the corner, seeing the bank at the end of the street. She would have the last laugh when she marched into Mr. Templeton's office and threw a check for ten-thousand dollars in his face.

But somewhere in her head, she also wondered what Amos had done to incur a debt of such magnitude.
Two

Eleanor sat in her brother's parlor on Pinckney Street and sipped a cup of tea. It soothed her churning stomach. Oh, how she hated to ask Calvin for money, but he was her last hope.

Attempting to take her mind off her problem, she glanced around the ostentatious room. It was furnished with showy, oversized pieces in garish colors. Her sister-in-law had the taste of a bawdy house madam.

There were a few pieces worth noting, like the tall-case mahogany clock that stood sentry in the foyer and the rosewood veneer piano-melodeon that sat all but abandoned in the far corner of the parlor. Many times Eleanor had longed to sit down and play it, but today anything she played would be filled with too much melancholy.

Her gaze locked onto the painting of a whaler in a storm-tossed sea that hung above the white marble mantle. It reminded her of the St. Louis. Her stomach continued to churn.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized that had she not been so intent on her purpose, she might have predicted the outcome of her mission. Her forty-eight hours were almost up, and she had seen every banker in Boston. And to a man, they had all turned her down. It was almost as if each had known she was coming, for none of them appeared surprised by her request.

"Women aren't cut out for business," one of them had said.

"It's not a good investment for us," another had hedged.

"Marry again." The portly banker from Boston Trust had patted her hand in a fatherly fashion. "Raise a family." And, heaven help her, he was the one who angered her the most. As if all of a woman's problems were solved by marrying and having children. Hers certainly weren't.

She bit back the slight quivering in her lower lip as she recalled her own attempt at motherhood, and her miscarriage aboard ship. Some things were not meant to be, but oh, if the child had survived, she would now have something precious to live for, to love.

Mrs. Lauder had stalked her again that very morning, demanding the rent. Eleanor promised she would have the money later today. It appeared it would be an empty promise.

She took another sip of tea and sagged into the settee, resting her head against the hard wooden back. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her young niece Lydia sashay into the room. In spite of her gloomy mood, Eleanor smiled. Lydia wore one of her mother's hats over her cinnamon curls, a sable cape, and held a parasol.

"Hello, Lydia. You're looking lovely, as ever." Lydia was easy to humor.

Lydia stood directly in front of her, parasol poised. "The word 'pound' is abbreviated 'lb.' Do you know why?"

Already at age eight, Lydia proved to be brilliant. She had a marvelous head for trivia. "No, I don't, but I hope you'll tell me."

Her niece gave her a dimpled smile. "It's after the constellation 'Libra,' meaning 'scales.' You know, the kind that weigh things. Not the kind on dragons and snakes."

Dragons. Eleanor stiffened at the memory of Dante Templeton's dragon, one that slithered and skulked over his skin as if it were alive. "I see. And where did you read such an interesting fact?"

She shrugged. "In a book I found in Papa's study." She pirouetted around the room, her Scotch poplin dress with the cherry velvet trim swinging daintily as she moved.

"How is school?"

Lydia made a face and danced on her tiptoes. "It's boring. I already know more than the teacher; I don't see why I have to go every day." She pronounced the word "every" in three dramatic syllables.

She did another little pirouette, then gave Eleanor a quizzical look. "Are you coming to live with us?"

A tiny bite of alarm jolted her. "Live with you?"

Lydia nodded, her curls bobbing. "I'd like that. You could teach me to play the piano."

"I could give you piano lessons without living here, dear."

"Yes, but I heard Mamma and Papa talking about you living here, with us."

Surprise mingled with her initial alarm. "You did, did you? And what did they say?"

Before Lydia could answer, her father rushed into the room looking harried. "Oh, there you are, Lydia. Go see Butterfly. She has fresh cookies for you."

Butterfly was her brother's cook, a woman of polished brown skin who had returned from the Islands with a whaler and decided to stay. But Butterfly was anything but "butterflylike." Eleanor imagined the woman weighed close to three hundred pounds.

With a bored sigh, Lydia raised one slender shoulder and flounced from the room.

Eleanor noticed some new gray strands in Calvin's mussed brown hair as he ran a nervous hand through it. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Ellie, but business is quite hectic, you know."

Calvin was a bookkeeper for one of the largest fisheries on the east coast. He and his wife and daughter lived very well. Even so, Eleanor hated to ask him for money. But she might just as well get it over with.

"Cal," she began, "you know I wouldn't ask if it wasn't necessary, but—"

She related her session with the owner of the whaler and her discovery that Amos had been in debt and had used the St. Louis as collateral, and her inability to convince a single banker in Boston that she needed a loan. She purposely omitted her meeting at Whispering Winds, not wanting to recount her unpleasant confrontation with Dante Templeton.

"You're my last hope. You know I wouldn't have come to you if there had been any other way."

Calvin never once looked her directly in the eye as she spoke to him. When she had finished, he drew in a great sigh.

"I wish I could help, Ellie, you know I do. But …" Another sigh. "That's a lot of money, and I just don't have it. And I know without asking what Willa's answer will be."

"Willa's answer?" Eleanor asked cautiously.

Calvin nodded. "She's already planning to redecorate the house. We had to move all of our old furniture into this place, and now she's embarrassed to entertain." He looked away, unable to meet Eleanor's gaze. "Status is very important to her, you know."

Eleanor held her tongue, but petty words about Willa's need for social approval pressed hard against her teeth, and she felt a pinch of guilt.

"Why do you want the worry of the St. Louis, anyway?"

"Why?" Eleanor was shocked. "Because I need a livelihood."

Calvin frowned. "But you could teach piano."

"I hardly think I could get enough students to make a living at it, Cal," she reasoned. "Now, for whaling, I have a good head for numbers, and I know exactly what supplies are used and how many are needed for a voyage. I can pick out a decent crew, something even Amos admitted. All I need is someone to captain the vessel."

She paused and waited.

"Ellie, you always were the one who could do anything you put your mind to. But …" He ran his fingers through his rumpled hair again. "To be perfectly honest, I'm pretty strapped right now. It isn't easy to keep a woman like Willa happy. She … she's high-strung, you know. Delicate. And if allowing her to buy what she wants keeps her content, it's worth it. You know I've never enjoyed confrontation, and when she gets upset, she has these spells …" His voice trailed off, but his expression begged for understanding.

Eleanor glanced at her lap. Willa's "spells" were merely adult temper tantrums. And she was about as delicate as a blubber knife.

But it was true that Calvin had never liked conflict. Even as a child, Eleanor often got into trouble because of her outspoken ways, but Cal had always been "the best little boy."

And since her return from the sea, Eleanor had noticed a change in her brother. He seemed more frazzled. Less able to carry out his responsibilities. He even seemed to ignore Lydia, which made Eleanor's heart ache, for her niece was such a special, wonderful gift.

She studied the frayed edges of her black shawl, rubbing it between her fingers, wondering what to do next.

"But don't you worry, now," he continued. "We want you to come and live with us. Willa and I talked it over, and it's the right thing to do. Relatives shouldn't be put out into the cold, like so much rubbish. We're family and we must stick together."

Eleanor tried not to screw up her face. So, this is what she'd become. A widow. A woman alone. A charity case. But for now, she didn't have a choice. Mrs. Lauder had already threatened to put her belongings by the front door.

She released a sigh. "Thank you, Cal. That's generous of you. And I understand about the money."

She would accept the charity for now, but she vowed it wouldn't be a permanent arrangement. Living under the same roof as Willa Simmons was tantamount to public whipping, a punishment Eleanor wouldn't even wish on Dante Templeton.

The mere thought of him set her teeth on edge. The first thing she would do when she returned with her belongings was to send a note to the Whispering Winds office and find out if he had a partner. Someone who could perhaps change the peacock's mind. Someone with some sympathy and understanding for a widow's plight. In other words, anyone else.



Percy Pogue shook his head as he watched Dante read the note. "You could have given the widow other options, Dante. I can't believe you out and out told her to bring you that much money. You must have known she couldn't raise it."

Dante tensed, but remained stoic.

"It isn't like you," Percy continued. "One of the reasons I came to work for you was because you were generous with your options. I've seen you allow debtors to pay you monthly. I've seen you take pittance for something that was worth much more."

"I have my reasons, Percy, that's all you have to know."

Percy remained quiet for a moment, then stepped to the desk and picked up the widow's note. "Now, she demands to know if you have a partner, someone who might have a smidgen of sympathy for her situation."

"I guess I'm fortunate I don't, aren't I?"

Percy ignored Dante's sarcasm. "What am I supposed to do about her note?"

Dante studied the stack of mail that Percy had piled in front of him. "Toss it. Rip it up. I don't give a damn what you do with it."

Percy was quiet for a long, pregnant moment. "I've rarely seen this side of you, Dante. I must say I don't care for it." When Dante didn't respond, Percy expelled a mild curse. "You've never treated anyone like this before, especially a woman. A widow. What could she have possibly done to you?"

What had she done? She had married a monster.

Crack. Crack. Crack. The whip ripped into his flesh.

"If you want to keep your job, Percy, drop it."

Percy couldn't. "Imagine. Sending a poor widow out to borrow that kind of money. You knew she wouldn't get a loan. No banker worth his salt would give her one. You knew that, didn't you? She has no security. We have her only collateral."

"I said drop it, Percy, or find yourself another job." Dante crossed to the window and looked out over the harbor.

Will we go to sea, Damien?

We will go to sea, little brother, and become rich.

Will we always be together?

I will never leave you, Dante, and one day, when we've made our fortunes, the winds will whisper our names forever.

Dante stared out at the green, foamy ocean. There was emptiness deep inside his heart.

But the image of feisty yet vulnerable Eleanor Rayburn slid unwillingly into his mind. Like Percy, Dante had to ask himself why he was taking his vengeance out on a supposedly innocent soul.



Over a breakfast of fresh rolls and marmalade, Eleanor read Mr. Pogue's vague note and felt a bite of impatience. Her two days had come and gone, but she was determined as ever to make Mr. Templeton understand her predicament.

"Oh, there you are." Willa stepped into the dining room. "I let Mrs. Myers go this morning."

Eleanor lifted her teacup to her mouth. "Your housekeeper? Wasn't she doing a good job?"

"Oh, she was fine. But with you here, it's foolish to spend money on hired help."

Eleanor should have seen that one coming.

Willa straightened the flower arrangement on the marble-topped sideboard, then primped a moment in the heavy gold-edged mirror that hung above it.

With her dark, reddish hair and her fair complexion, she was not an unattractive woman, Eleanor realized, but her temperament was unpleasant, which, to Eleanor's mind, made her a disagreeable sort altogether.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not, Willa. It's the only way I can pay for my room and board," she admitted, upset, not at working for her keep but at Willa's way of manipulating her. It would have been nice to be asked.

Willa flashed her a wide, condescending smile. "I knew you'd understand. There wasn't any point in having both of you here."

Yes, and why pay a housekeeper when she can have Eleanor for free? Eleanor took a bite of the buttery roll and chewed hard.

Willa cleared her throat and reached into the pocket of her trimmed apron. She pulled out a piece of paper. "I've made a list of things for you to do today." She placed the sheet in front of Eleanor.

Eleanor eyed it but didn't pick it up.

Willa frowned. "I hope you didn't have other plans. It usually took Mrs. Myers all day to get her chores done." She waited for Eleanor to look at the list and when she didn't, Willa cleared her throat again and patted her hair.

"Lydia said you wanted to give her piano lessons."

"I'd be happy to. You know that."

"Well, then I think I have more good news for you."

Suspicious of what Willa considered good news, Eleanor gazed at her over the top of her teacup. "I'm always in the mood for that."

Willa beamed. "I've lined up three other piano students for you. And they will pay you."

Eleanor smiled, pleased and surprised. "Thank you, Willa. That was thoughtful of you."

"Yes, I thought perhaps you should have a little spending money. Maybe buy yourself a new gown." She looked with pity at Eleanor's dress, then stood up.

"I have a luncheon at the Taft's and dinner menus to plan for next week. Then, there's tea at the Stafford's." She crossed to the doorway, then paused. "You will look at that list, won't you? And start Lydia's piano lessons this afternoon. You're scheduled to give the Taft twins a lesson tomorrow." Without waiting for Eleanor to respond, she left the room.

Eleanor washed down the remainder of her breakfast with a long sip of tea. She would probably never know what it was like to have a social calendar like Willa's, where she had nothing to do but attend teas and luncheons and plan dinner menus. But that was all right. Eleanor had a suspicion that it would only bore her; she loved to be busy actually doing something useful.

Yet she couldn't fault women like Willa who were brought up to be exactly what they were: women who depended on a husband to take care of the business while they tended the household. It was, after all, the accepted practice.

She mentally planned her day. She had hoped to spend some time each week with the children at the orphanage. It was the only bright spot in her life. And it was probably the only way she was ever going to get over the awful weepy feeling that swept over her when she thought about her own lost child.

While Amos had been at sea, Eleanor spent time at the orphanage in New Bedford. The moment she arrived in Boston after his death, she contacted the orphanage on the North End.

She had always felt so alive with children around her. It made her feel as though her life had some meaning. Now, at the Sheltering Arms, little Martha was just beginning to warm to her, and Victor, by far the most rambunctious of the new children, had even smiled at her the other day. But each child was special, and if she used her time wisely, she still could spend an hour or two with them.

With a resigned sigh, she looked at her list of chores.

The rest of the day, as she polished the banister, removed the upstairs curtains, aired them, hung them back over the windows and mopped the entry, she wondered how she would ever regain the whaler. She never once believed that she would not.
Three

The Sheltering Arms orphanage sat alone and forgotten on a small hill above the ocean at the north end of Boston. The building itself needed work; the mortar between the bricks had chipped away over the years. Salt air had eroded the wood that held the windows, and some of the upper panes were broken, the windows boarded over.

On close examination, the wooden cross that marked the road leading up to the building appeared decades older than it was. However, the words "Bring me the children of Jesus" that were etched into the stone on the doorstep never seemed to show wear.

Dante continued to put money into the place, but it seemed that when one thing was finally fixed, another fell apart. It was a never-ending process, although he made the repairs gladly, wishing he could simply tear the place down and build a new one.

All in all, though, had the orphanage not been run by the "sisters of tenacious persistence and inflexibility," as Dante fondly called them, it would have collapsed from community neglect.

He had realized years ago that the only women he respected were the nuns at Sheltering Arms. They had a purpose: to raise healthy and useful young men and girls who would eventually become the women who would run their homes. He visited the place often when he was home. It was the only home he had known, other than the sea.

He took the steps two at a time, stopping when the abbess, Sister Mary Francis, opened the door. Her expression was stern.

"Good morning, Sister Mary Frank."

As usual, she raised a severe eyebrow at the casual use of her name, but her eyes held warmth. "He's at it again, Dante."

Dante followed her inside. The faint odor of disinfectant mingled with slightly burned breakfast cereal hung in the air. The scents and smells from his childhood never changed.

"What's he done now?" He followed Sister Mary Frank down the long, dimly lit hallway. He had to move quickly to keep up with her purposeful strides.

"He collected frogs and other disgusting vermin and did disgraceful things with them."

They turned and walked along another hallway. Somewhere in the distance, Dante heard laughter and singing. "Disgraceful? Like wearing them around his neck? Feeding them at the table?"

"Don't be flippant, Dante, it doesn't become you."

"Hmm. I always thought it did."

She tossed him one of her looks as they stopped at the door to a long dormitory room. "He put one in each of the girls' beds. You should have heard the chaos that erupted from their rooms last night."

"They're just pranks, Sister."

She pinned him with a hard glare. "Perhaps. But they are disruptive and he has done worse."

Dante remembered. Not long after Victor came to Sheltering Arms, he had attempted to burn down the wood shed. Fortunately, Dante had been there to stop him. It was their first of many confrontations. But Dante was drawn to the wild young boy. They had much in common.

Sister Mary Frank opened the door, ushering Dante into the room. The boy sat on the edge of his bed, his shoulders slumped.

"Hello, Victor."

At the sound of Dante's voice, the boy raised his head. For a brief moment, his face lit up, then, as quickly, it clouded over. " 'lo."

Dante walked between the long row of bunks, stopping in front of him. "Up to new tricks, are you?"

Victor shrugged.

Dante sat beside him on the bed and put an arm around the boy's thin shoulders. "Personally," he said in a stage whisper, "I don't think this one was all that bad, but you know Sister Mary Frank, she has no sense of humor at all."

"Don't you call me that in front of the children, Dante Templeton," she scolded.

"I'm sorry." He sounded contrite, but he winked at Victor. "What's your punishment today?"

Victor studied the toes of his scuffed shoes. "I gotta clean the ashes out of all the fireplaces."

Dante winced. "Tough duty. I was hoping that today we could do something together."

Victor's face fell.

"That's the way it is," Dante said seriously. "Only good deeds are rewarded. Never the bad ones."

Dante understood him. Hell, he was him eighteen years ago. That was why he spent time with him. While Damien had always followed the rules, Dante had broken them. He acted like a terror, but deep inside he had been scared. With his fear, Damien had turned inward. Dante had rebelled. Yes, he understood Victor.

"Well, then, I suppose I should let you get to your punishment."

Victor gave him a solemn nod and stood. "If I'm good, can we do something tomorrow?"

"If I can get away, we certainly will."

Victor's face fell again, and Dante knew he was thinking that adults couldn't be trusted. Already at his young age he'd learned that lesson well.

As had Dante when he had been a youth.

Will we always be together, Damien?

I will never leave you, Dante.…

Dante ran his fingers over Victor's curly, white-blond hair. "I promise I'll come if I can, Victor, and if not tomorrow, the day after. Now, get to your work and do a good job."

He left the room with Sister Mary Frank and they walked together toward the music.

"He's a handful," she admitted.

"No worse than I was."

"Perhaps not." She sighed. "I'm just getting old, I guess."

Dante put his arm around her shoulders. "Nonsense. You look the same as you did the day Damien and I came."

She snorted. "How would you know that? You were barely walking."

He didn't argue. All he knew for sure was that Sister Mary Francis hadn't aged. It was probably her pure heart and devout spirit. If they were criteria for eternal youth, Dante was certain to look like an octogenarian before he reached thirty.

The closer they got to the singing, the more whimsical it sounded. On occasion it stopped, and when it did, there was commotion and laughter.

"What's going on in there?"

"It's one of our new volunteers. She comes here often."

The nun pushed the door open a crack, allowing Dante to look into the room. The children were playing musical chairs to the tune of "Pop Goes the Weasel." The volunteer was at the piano, her back to the door. She stopped suddenly and there was a mad scramble for seats. Two children, a boy and a girl, fought for the remaining chair.

The woman left the piano and refereed. "All right, who got to the chair first?"

Both children raised their hands.

"Martha." Her voice was stern but soft. "Did you really get to that chair before Jacob?"

Martha's defiant chin stuck out. "Yes."

"Jacob? Did she beat you to the chair?"

Jacob, a thin little boy about half the size of the healthy Martha with big, sad, honest eyes, shook his head.

The woman squatted in front of the pouting girl. "Are you sure you got here first?"

Martha's pudgy face puckered. "No, but I'm a girl."

"And you think Jacob should be punished just because he's a boy?"

"Boys are always getting into trouble," Martha reasoned.

The woman took Martha's hands in hers, drew her close and spoke to her in a soft, low voice. When she finished, she took Martha in her arms and they hugged.

Dante was stunned. So few people loved these orphans, so few gave the time. Fewer gave their hearts, as he did.

The woman stood and turned toward the door.

Dante felt a sucker-punch to his gut, ducked out of the room, and started down the hall.

Sister Mary Frank hurried after him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I have a meeting in a half hour," he lied.

"That's a shame. I had thought that perhaps you and Mrs. Rayburn could discuss Victor since you both get along with him so well."

Dante didn't break his stride. "How long has she been volunteering here?"

"Only since she returned with her late husband's whaler. He died at sea." Sister Mary Frank sounded winded as she kept pace with him. "She nearly single-handedly brought the vessel back, you know. The crew was reluctant, you can imagine, to be ordered about by a woman, but she brooked no nonsense, and the ship returned unharmed. It was such a tragedy. She's a lovely woman, sweet and wonderful with the children."

Dante stopped at the front door. His gaze hurried over the large, wooden crucifix hanging in the entry that had frightened him as a boy, and the old, dim painting of Mary Magdalene holding the infant Jesus that ornamented the opposite wall. "Yes, well I guess you need all the help you can get."

Sister Mary Frank gave him an odd look. "Why would you say a thing like that? She's one of the finest women to ever give her time here."

He shook his head. "I apologize. I have a lot on my mind, that's all."

"Eleanor Rayburn adores the children. I believe she lost one of her own at sea." The nun clucked her tongue in sympathy. "One never recovers from losing a child."

Dante wanted to leave.

Sister Mary Frank wouldn't drop it. "She would be such a lovely mother. It's such a pity. Now, she has no children of her own and no husband. He left her with nothing."

Dante's stomach churned. He couldn't get out of there fast enough. He didn't want to hear that the starched Widow Rayburn had a gentle and generous heart. He didn't want to know that she was wonderful with orphans. He didn't want to think that maybe she deserved better than he'd given her.



It had been almost two weeks since Eleanor moved into her brother's house. It seemed like two months. She was polishing the silver when Willa swept into the dining room.

"Oh, I just don't know why I let Calvin talk me into giving this party. Everything I have is old and worn out. I wish I could have convinced him to hold off until I'd redecorated, but he absolutely insisted."

Eleanor quietly cheered her brother's small victory.

Willa expelled an exasperated sigh. "It's bad enough that we have to live here among the 'Noble Bohemians' on Pinckney Street." Her voice dripped sarcasm. "It would have been so much more ideal to live somewhere on Mount Vernon Street or Chestnut."

"I think everything looks lovely. And I love Pinckney," Eleanor added. "Do you know how many famous people have lived on this very street?" She named those she knew of, including Nathaniel Hawthorne.

"That's all very well," Willa interrupted. "But they really can't do a thing for me and my social status, can they?" Willa's voice was filled with self-pity. "Have you waxed the entryway?"

"I did it last night, after everyone was in bed," Eleanor explained.

"What about the washrooms? Have they been scrubbed and furnished with fresh linens?"

"I'll do that last, to make sure they're spotless when the guests arrive," Eleanor said.

Willa frowned. "Well, don't forget."

Eleanor saw her own reflection in the silver serving tray, noting that her hair was sticking out at odd angles and that she wore a permanent frown. "I won't forget, Willa."

"And Calvin insists that you mingle, Eleanor. Don't spend all your time cleaning up after the guests. We don't want people to think you're hired help."

Heaven forbid. The hired help gets paid.

"Don't you have something nice to wear? Something not quite so … depressing?"

"I'm in mourning."

"Even so, there are attractive black dresses to be had. I saw one in the Peterson catalogue just this week. Black satin with scalloped trim braid. It was beautiful."

"And expensive, no doubt," Eleanor added.

Willa studied her critically. "Well, try to find something suitable."

Willa left the room, leaving Eleanor to think about the party. She dreaded it. She didn't want to mingle with Calvin's guests. She didn't even like most of the people he associated with. She preferred staying in the background, or better yet, in the kitchen helping Butterfly with the food.

Willa poked her head around the corner. "Oh, by the way. I might as well warn you now. One of our guests tonight is very important. He'll be the only man not dressed in traditional clothing. In fact, he might be wearing a garish shirt or sporting an earring."

"An earring?" Eleanor picked up the Waterford crystal serving bowl and waited for Willa to elaborate.

"He's quite outrageous, as is his lifestyle. A number of weeks ago," she said, lowering her voice and stepping close, "I heard that one morning his mistress left his row house on Kingston Street wearing nothing but her feather boa."

Eleanor gaped. "You can't mean it."

Willa nodded. "She was—" Willa moved close and whispered, "— naked."

Eleanor continued to gape, waiting, no, panting to hear more.

Willa accommodated her. "I overheard the gossip at the milliner. It came from her cook's husband's niece's oldest son who happened to be filling in for the regular footman."

Eleanor closed her mouth and swallowed. "She really wore nothing but a feather boa?"

"Not even a pair of stockings." Willa's eyes glistened with juicy enthusiasm.

Heat spread up Eleanor's neck. "I can't imagine such a thing."

"You're just never going to know what will happen when Dante Templeton is around."

The Waterford bobbled in Eleanor's hands, almost slipping from her grip. She clutched it to her chest. "He's coming here?"

Willa eyed her, surprised. "You know who he is?"

"Well, I've heard of him," Eleanor hedged.

Willa giggled and lifted her shoulders. "Isn't it exciting? He'll liven up the party, won't he? And of course his mistress and her husband will be here, too. Marguerite Banning has all the social graces of a tavern wench, but Millard, her husband, is one of the most influential businessmen in Boston."

Willa stepped a little closer. "She's his second wife, you know. His first wife hadn't been dead six months before the tramp dug her clutches into him.

"He has three grown children, all of them older than she is, and they absolutely despise her. Afraid she's going to spend all of their inheritance, I guess."

Eleanor listened, amazed. "This Dante Templeton's mistress is a married woman?" It was a world that Eleanor had never understood. It was disgraceful. Sinful. And just a little too exciting. It was the stuff that back fence gossip was made of.

"Oh, my, yes," Willa enthused. "Of course, one never knows how long he'll tolerate her. He uses women like most of us use linen handkerchiefs."

Eleanor felt sick to her stomach. She didn't want to see the man. He was responsible for her current living arrangements and she had hoped she'd never have to see him again. He was rude and vulgar and certainly no one with whom she would ever want to associate.

And for some reason she couldn't understand, her heart leapt into her throat whenever she heard his name.
Four

Eleanor's palms were sweaty. And every time the buzzer rang announcing another guest, her heart strained to break free from her chest. She tried to mingle, but even under the best of circumstances she had never been good at small talk.

To ease her distress, she did what Willa had warned her not to— she bussed dishes and escaped downstairs to the kitchen. It was obvious, however, that Willa expected her to wait on the guests, for she called down to her numerous times, requesting one thing or another be brought to the buffet table.

Eleanor was going to check on Lydia, still listening for the door, when she bumped into one of the guests.

The woman had flaming red hair and a painted face. She made an impatient sound in her throat as she shoved her fur cape at Eleanor. "Here. Find a place for this."

Eleanor put the exquisite garment over her forearm and quickly glanced away, for the woman's gown was cut very low, revealing a wide expanse of white, unblemished skin.

"And where can I freshen up?"

She looked fresh enough to Eleanor. Her face was made up with what Eleanor supposed was the latest in cosmetics, her lips painted a bright red. Her thin eyebrows were arched unnaturally over her vivid green eyes, and Eleanor detected a strong whiff of perfume.

"The washrooms are upstairs," Eleanor offered.

The woman slowly took the stairs, the hoop beneath her gown of rich white tulle swaying seductively from side to side as she moved.

Eleanor glanced down at her own dress, a black gingham with a black velvet collar she had purchased after Amos's death, and realized that she did, indeed, look like the hired help.

She carefully hung the expensive stole in the closet off the entryway and returned to the parlor, where most of the guests had gathered.

Willa was talking with an older gentleman who had just arrived. "Marguerite is looking lovely tonight, Mr. Banning. And that cape!" Willa gasped and pressed a hand over her heart. "It's absolutely the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Mink, isn't it? It looked fabulous with her white gown."

The man smiled vaguely and scanned the room. "Where is my wife, anyway?"

"I think she went to find someone to hang up her stole," Willa answered.

Eleanor glanced toward the stairs. So that was the peacock's mistress.

Suddenly Willa squealed and rushed toward the door. "Mr. Templeton! I was afraid you weren't coming."

Eleanor's heart nearly cracked a rib. Her gaze flew to the doorway.

He stood there, tall, powerful, mesmerizing … and, to Eleanor's dismay, completely at ease in his flamboyant dress. His cape, a rich, flowing fabric that nearly touched the floor, was slung over his shoulder. He wore a sedate, tailored evening jacket over a vivid turquoise shirt. And he did indeed sport an earring, a shiny hoop that seized the light and shimmered against his smooth-shaven face.

Eleanor caught her breath. She was a mass of nerves. Needing to keep busy, she picked up a crumb-littered crystal plate. It slipped from her shaky fingers, hit the edge of the table, and crashed to the floor.

"Oh, Eleanor, look what you've done!" her sister-in-law scolded.

Everyone stopped talking. All eyes were focused on Eleanor, including Dante Templeton's.

Her cheeks flamed. She bent to pick up the pieces. "I'm sorry," she murmured, hastily dropping the fragments into her apron.

"You really should see me about getting good help," one of the women said to Willa as Eleanor hurried downstairs to the kitchen.

Once there, Eleanor ignored Butterfly's gaze, closed her eyes, and dropped into a chair by the table.

"You're bleedin'."

Eleanor glanced at her lap. A stain had spread into the cloth of her apron, and her hands were red.

She stood, went to the wastebasket, and dropped the broken glass into the trash. "I must have cut myself."

Butterfly hustled her to the sink. "Pour some water on it and let's have a look."

"Oh, I'll be fine," Eleanor insisted. "You have enough to do without playing nursemaid to me."

Butterfly glanced at the full tray of shrimp biscuits. "Well, them shrimp doodads should go out …"

"Go. I'll be fine."

When Butterfly had gone, Eleanor examined her finger, pinching it to see if there was residual glass in the wound. Carefully, she blotted it with a towel. It continued to bleed.

"There might be glass in it."

His deep voice startled her. She hadn't heard him enter the kitchen and couldn't imagine any reason why he'd be there. Her foolish heart clomped like it wore wooden shoes. "I'm aware of that. Is there something I can do for you?"

He stepped close and grasped her injured hand. "I've had some experience in first aid. I thought perhaps there was something I could do for you."

She yanked her hand away from the fire of his touch. His face was close to hers and she detected the faint odor of soap. His dark, unfashionably long hair fell forward, covering all but his earlobe. The earring snatched the light, and she suddenly had the urge to close her mouth around it. She turned red at the thought.

"You've done quite enough for me, thank you." She couldn't hide the derision in her tone.

He shrugged and returned to the door. "That was business, Mrs. Rayburn. I'm sorry you couldn't obtain a loan."

Eleanor still intended to contact someone else at Whispering Winds; she'd merely been too busy acting as Willa's housekeeper and handmaiden to get around to it. "I'll get my ship back, Mr. Templeton, you can count on it."

He stopped and studied her; she held her breath.

"Then I wish you luck."

She didn't believe him. If he had wished her any luck at all, he would have found a way to help her. She turned, giving him her back, then heard the door swing behind her.

Once again she slumped to the chair to catch her breath. The man created absolute mayhem inside her.

She pulled her handkerchief from her apron pocket and wrapped it around her finger, hoping to stop the bleeding. She had kept the first aid box from the ship; it was in her room.

She reached the top of the third landing to find Lydia hanging over the banister, watching the guests.

"Did you know there are only a few words that contain all of the vowels in proper order? 'Arsenious' is one of them."

Eleanor smiled, amused. "And what, pray tell, does arsenious mean?"

"It means it contains arsenic," Lydia explained. "Do you want to know the other words?"

"Of course," Eleanor answered.

"Facetious and ab … abstemious. That means 'sober' and 'self-restraining.' Like you."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow but otherwise didn't react. It was true. She doubted that there was a more sober soul in New England at the moment. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

Lydia wrinkled her nose. "I wanted to see the gowns. When I grow up, I want to marry a man who can give me all the gowns I want."

Eleanor ushered her niece to her room. "I have no doubt that you will accomplish anything you wish, dear." She tucked Lydia into bed, turned the lamp down low, and left.

She was about to enter her own room when she heard the swish of a skirt off to her left, near the linen closet.

"Oh, Dante, just one little kiss, pretty please?"

Eleanor should have hurried into her room and closed the door. She didn't.

"You shouldn't have followed me up here, Marguerite. And you've been drinking. Your tongue wags uncontrollably when you drink."

His voice was cold, void of emotion. Eleanor could almost envision his stony features.

"I had to have a sip of sherry before we came," she pouted. "Otherwise I couldn't have made it through the evening."

"A sip is one thing," the peacock scolded. "You've had a glass or two."

The mistress made an unladylike sputtering sound with her tongue. "Oh, so what? Millard doesn't even know I'm gone. He won't look for me until it's time to go home."

There was a long, quiet pause. Then the mistress spoke again. "I've truly missed you, Dante."

The blatant invitation in her voice shocked Eleanor. It was shameful to eavesdrop, but she couldn't drag herself away.

"What you've missed is a man between your thighs, Marguerite."

Even though he sounded bored, his words caused heat to race to the roots of Eleanor's hair and sink into her scalp. Perspiration beaded between her breasts.

The Banning woman twittered and sighed. "Oh, yes. I've missed you in my bed, Dante. That nice, hard part of you."

Eleanor nearly gasped at the language the woman used, for she could scarcely believe any woman would talk so boldly with a man. Certainly no lady would.

Her curiosity overcoming her caution, Eleanor peered around the corner. The unsubtle woman was unbuttoning the peacock's shirt. When she'd undone a half-dozen buttons, she rubbed her face against his skin.

"Oh, Dante, I could tame your dragon, if you'd only let me."

Eleanor rolled her eyes and thought she might be sick.

"Seduce Millard when you get home." His voice was unkind.

Eleanor leaned so far forward to hear, she stumbled against the door. She cringed, hoping they hadn't heard.

"But it's been so long. When can I see you?" the mistress whined.

"I've been busy. I'll call you when I have time."

"You haven't sent my clothes over, Dante. Are you sleeping with my drawers, wishing I was in them?"

Eleanor clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle another gasp. The woman had no shame! She closed her eyes and held fast to the doorknob.

"I'll send them over when I have time," he answered, his voice terse.

"But, Dante—"

"Get back downstairs before your husband misses you."

"Oh, all right, but I'll be waiting for you to call on me. If you make me wait too long, I'll be tempted to come by when you least expect it," she threatened.

"You do, and you'll never be welcome in my home again."

The mistress whirled past and Eleanor shrank against her door. She would wait for him to leave before she moved.

She waited. And waited. He didn't leave. Wondering if he was still there, she peeked around the corner. He was leaning against the wall by the linen closet, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Shame, shame, Mrs. Rayburn. You were eavesdropping."

"I was not." She hated being caught in a lie; it made her feel and sound like a child.

He laughed and came toward her, his walk easy and menacing. "Did it titillate you?"

She groped for the doorknob behind her. "I have no idea what you mean."

"I mean, did the prospect of a juicy tidbit of scandal make you want to hear more?" he crooned, his voice seductive, like the hypnotic rise and swell of the ocean on a warm, balmy afternoon.

He approached and she was momentarily unable to speak, for her heart leaped, pounding and pushing against her throat.

"You were waiting for something scandalous to happen, weren't you?"

He stood in front of her, tall and terrifying, smelling manly and dangerous and wild and wonderful. "No." She found her voice, but it was not strong.

He reached around her and opened the door to her room. "Ah, but isn't scandal the spice of life, Mrs. Rayburn?"

"I don't know anything about scandal, nor do I care to know." Another lie. She remembered vividly when Willa had told her about the way Dante Templeton's mistress had left his house, and how she'd been no different than anyone else, hanging on every sordid morsel.

He put his hands on Eleanor's shoulders, gently shoved her into her room and shut the door.

They were in there together. Alone. In a room with a bed. In a room where all of her private thoughts and desires, her secret fantasies, her personal pains and pleasures threatened to come alive and embarrass her in front of a man who had no right in the world to be there at all.

Startled at her dangerous situation, she felt her first shiver of fear and attempted to twist away from him. "Get out of my bedroom."

His gaze swept the room, settling on her bed. "So this is where the stiff, straight-laced Widow Rayburn sleeps."

She pulled away, but he held her fast. "That's none of your—"

"Do you dream, madam? Are your dreams hot and wet, like kisses from a passionate lover? Do you wake feeling less rested than when you went to sleep?"

She moved to slap him, but he grabbed her wrist and engulfed her hand in his own.

He looked around the room again. "I wonder if you sleep in a nightgown." He gave her a critical look, moving his gaze from her head to her toes. "Ah, yes. Of course you do. Probably a scratchy, starchy thing that buttons up under your chin."

"You are a detestable—"

"Do you ever leave it unbuttoned? Do you ever leave the gown loose and gaping over your breasts?"

Eleanor gasped, her nipples tightened beneath her layers of clothing and her face flamed. She raised her foot and kicked his shin with the toe of her shoe. "You brute! You certainly are no gentleman. You're a crude, barbaric hedonist!"

He laughed and dragged her into his arms. "That I am, madam. Now, let's create a bit of scandal of our own." His whisper was mocking and conspiratorial against her ear and she all but trembled at the naughty sensations he raised inside her.

Struggling against him, she shot him with the iciest look she could conjure, working hard to quell her need, her panic, her unforgivable desire. "Take your hands off me."

Instead, he kissed her hard.

She opened her mouth to protest and his tongue was there, demanding entrance. She inhaled sharply, and he plunged it into her mouth. He tasted of brandy, and for an instant, she thought she might get drunk on his taste alone. Her knees buckled. The room spun. She couldn't breathe. His clean, male smell weakened her.

Suddenly the kiss softened, became seductive, and to steady herself she pressed her palm against his chest, recalling too late that his shirt was unbuttoned to the waist. His skin was warm, the flesh beneath it hard, firmly muscled. Her fingertips found odd ridges, but before she had a chance to investigate further, his hands were on her bottom and he lifted her off the floor. She clung to him. She thought briefly, very briefly of pulling away, but she didn't. He held her tightly and nipped at her lips. Heat expanded inside her.

He broke the kiss and let her down, the sound of her shoes scuffling lightly as they touched the bare floor. His gaze held her captive. Light from her lamp glanced off the sharp angles of his face, creating seductive shadows, illuminating his eyes.

He took her injured left hand and slowly removed the makeshift bandage from her cut. Lifting her finger to his mouth, he kissed it, never once looking anywhere but into her eyes.

When she thought she could stand no more, she felt her finger slide into his mouth. She yanked her hand back, hoping her face was not a window into her heart, where all of her private dreams could be found.

But he watched her like he knew what she felt. It embarrassed and horrified her that she could melt in the arms of a man she should find contemptible. A man who had no right to touch her at all, let alone the way he had.

She finally found her voice. "What do you think you're doing?"

A sinister smile lifted one corner of his mouth and he stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "If you have to ask, I must be doing it wrong. But the telltale flush on your cheeks tells me I'm not."

She turned away from his touch, hating the shiver of pleasure it had given her.

"Tell me, madam, what would you like me to do?"

Though her heart was racing, she forced her legs to move and she walked to the door and jerked it open. "I would like you to leave."

He sauntered over and stopped in front of her, so close she felt his heat. "No, you wouldn't."

He turned and left her gripping the doorknob so hard her knuckles were white.
Five

Eleanor stumbled to the bed and fell upon it. She stared into the dimly lit room, the flickering light from her lamp sending macabre shadows dancing against the walls and ceiling. She should have done something to stop him. At the very least she should have had a sharp retort ready, but she'd barely been able to speak at all.

Her heart hammered still. Her lips tingled as did the finger he had slid into his mouth. She waited for the feeling of loathing. The disgust. The putrid aftertaste of a man's lips on hers. The revulsion of a kiss.

None of those feelings came.

She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she could crawl under the covers and stay there the remainder of the evening. But Willa undoubtedly searched for her even now.

She rose from the bed and crossed to the dry sink where she peered into the mirror. The lighting was poor, but she saw something different in her face. Her eyes glistened. Her lips were more pronounced. Was it loathing, or something worse: excitement?

Whatever it was, she couldn't afford to let the peacock see that he had affected her. She had never felt this way before, nor had she ever expected to.

After splashing cold water on her face, she dabbed it with a towel, wrapped her finger in a proper bandage, took a deep breath, and felt ready to face the party again. She just hoped the peacock had decided to leave now that he'd wreaked havoc on her soul.

As she stepped to the door, she noticed something shiny on the floor. She reached down and picked it up, and her heart raced. Somehow, during their tryst, his earring had come loose and fallen onto the floor. She closed her fingers around it. At first it felt cold against her skin, then suddenly she could have sworn it nearly burst into flame. With a tiny gasp, she dropped it into her apron pocket and left her room.



Dante rejoined the party, relieved to find Marguerite and her husband gone and everyone else involved with their own little groups. He stayed in the background, waiting to see if the Widow Rayburn would return.

He had noticed her lurking in the shadows after Marguerite had found him coming out of the washroom. He had considered peeling away Marguerite's gown and fondling her ample breasts, but the idea didn't appeal to him. Too bad. It would have given the Widow Rayburn something to watch.

When she had seen him standing there, he had meant only to say something cutting. He hadn't meant to kiss her, or taunt her, but somehow she almost asked for it.

No, to be fair, that wasn't true. A woman like that doesn't ask to be taunted, teased, or kissed. A woman like Eleanor Rayburn prefers to blend into the woodwork where no one will notice her at all. Maybe that's why he had kissed her. To shock her into feeling something. And he knew he had succeeded at that.

Willa Simmons rushed past him, frowning. At the doorway that led to the stairs, Dante heard her say, "Well, there you are. For heaven's sake, where have you been?"

"I'm sorry, Willa, I—"

"Butterfly has been running herself ragged and offending everyone. You know how she gets when she thinks she's working too hard. She has enough to do to keep the trays filled without having to do everything else. Now, please get out there and pick up some of those dirty plates, if you would. Things are piling up."

Eleanor Rayburn moved into his view, and he backed into the shadows.

"Of course. It won't happen again, Willa."

Willa grabbed her arm, stopping her. "I know I initially told you I didn't want you to help tonight, but Butterfly just isn't socially acceptable—"

"I apologize for being gone so long." The widow extricated her arm from her sister-in-law's grip. "It won't happen again," she repeated.

Willa made an exasperated sound. "Oh, everyone will talk about this, I just know it. If I had known you were going to lollygag about upstairs tonight, I wouldn't have let Mrs. Myers go.

"This party is very important to me. There are women here who can get me into some very influential clubs, which, in turn, will help Calvin. But that won't happen if they think I can't even keep decent help."

"Everything will be fine, Willa. The food is wonderful, the house looks lovely, and you're a consummate hostess. Don't worry so much, or you'll make yourself sick."

The women left, and when Dante could no longer hear them, he returned to the party and stood near a group of men, pretending to take in their discussion.

It rankled that the Widow Rayburn had sunk to the status of servant. He was to blame for this. Had he allowed her to regain the whaler, she wouldn't be living with her brother, working as her sister-in-law's lackey. Even so, he wouldn't release the whaler to her. He couldn't.

But in all good faith, he had to find a way to get Eleanor Rayburn out from under the harridan's thumb. It was the least he could do. The first chance he got he would talk with Sister Mary Frank about hiring her, and if she balked, he would explain to her how Eleanor Rayburn would get paid. It wouldn't be the first time he had paid someone's salary at the orphanage in order to keep the place running reasonably smoothly.

For the remainder of the evening, Dante watched her scrape and bow for her sister-in-law's guests. But when he caught a glimpse of her face, he saw that she was in no way feeling like a servant. Her eyes held determination, composure, and resolve. Until she caught him watching her; then all of that was replaced by what he could only describe as anger. And resentment. And a deep embarrassment that made him feel ashamed.



Later that night, after everything was cleaned up, Eleanor prepared for bed. Though there was barely space for her dressing table in the small bedroom, she had found a way to place the furniture so she could use it. She sat there now, brushing out her hair, his words taunting her.

 … probably a starchy, scratchy thing that buttons up to your chin … She glanced at her nightgown. It wasn't that bad. She'd adored it when she'd received it before she was married. Yes, it was a serviceable cotton, but the wide collar with the intricate braiding made it appear softer, more feminine.

She uttered a sound of disgust. Why should she care what he thought of her?

After braiding her hair, she reached across to where her apron hung, retrieved the shiny earring from the pocket, and crawled into bed to examine it.

It winked at her in the candlelight. As she studied it, she realized there was an inscription inside the inner part of the hoop. Drawing the earring closer to the light, she saw that it read, It will always be you. MB.

Eleanor made a face. A gift from Marguerite Banning, no doubt. For some odd reason, she had the urge to toss the thing across the room. Instead, she slipped out of bed and returned it to her apron pocket.

As she climbed back into bed, she heard a faint knock at her bedroom door.

"Come in," she said softly.

The door squeaked open and Lydia poked her head through. "Can I get in bed with you?" Her voice was thready, frightened.

"Of course, dear." She scooted over and Lydia crawled in beside her. "Have a bad dream?"

Lydia nodded. "And when I woke up, I saw awful shadows in my room. I hate when that happens."

Eleanor smiled. "Me, too." Lydia's bedroom was nearly as big as her parents', and filled with every imaginable comfort. She had a four-story dollhouse, completely furnished, a rocking horse, near life-size stuffed animals, and a bed that most adults would find more than sufficient. Eleanor's room was perhaps a quarter the size, and had at one time probably been used for a nurse or a nanny.

They slid down in the bed together. "You have nightmares, Aunt Ellie?"

"Oh, yes," Eleanor replied. "Do you want to talk about yours?"

"No. Let's talk about something happy."

Eleanor extinguished the candle then allowed Lydia to snuggle against her. "All right. You pick the subject."

This was a game of theirs. Eleanor had learned early on that Lydia often slept poorly. She had mentioned it to Butterfly, who informed her that until Eleanor came, Lydia had made her way down two flights of stairs into Butterfly's bed. But Butterfly admitted that there wasn't room in her bed for the both of them. "Hell," she'd muttered, "there's barely room enough for me!"

"All right, let's talk about love." Lydia expelled a contented sigh and waited.

"Hmmm. Love. Well, I've come to love you very much," Eleanor admitted, giving her a squeeze.

"Yes, yes, I know," Lydia said impatiently. "Not that kind of love, Aunt Ellie. The kind of love Romeo had for Juliet."

Eleanor wasn't surprised that Lydia had already read and undoubtedly understood Shakespeare. But how was Eleanor, who had never experienced that sort of love, to talk of it to anyone, much less a child?

She took a deep breath. "Well, I suspect that had Romeo and Juliet lived, they would have had trouble in their lives even if their parents had finally agreed to let them marry."

"But, why? Doesn't it mean a happy ending?"

"In storybooks, maybe," Eleanor answered. "Not in real life."

"You mean, no one can live happily ever after in real life?"

Eleanor thought a moment. "I think," she began slowly, "that for two people to live happily ever after, they must help each other through the hard times in their lives. They can't be selfish, and they can't be secretive. And," she finished, "they must say they love each other every day. And … and they must kiss each morning and each evening, and they must never go to bed angry with each other."

She thought, too, that to share simple things with someone you loved would be priceless. Like, the sunset, or a picnic. Or watching a child play. Or laughter. Especially laughter.

"Was your marriage like that?" Lydia asked.

Eleanor shook her head in the darkness, suddenly realizing what she would never have. "No."

"Do you think anyone's is?"

Eleanor gave Lydia a quick hug. "Oh, I suspect there are a few." She waited for Lydia to ask if her parents' marriage was that way, and was relieved when she didn't.

Lydia took Eleanor's thick braid and played with it. "There was a man here tonight who looked like he belonged in a storybook," she mused.

Eleanor's heart did a little dance. "Oh, really?"

"He had long, black hair and wore an earring. He looked like a pirate."

Eleanor thought about the earring in her apron pocket. "Yes, I saw him."

"What's his name?"

Eleanor's pulse leapt. "What makes you think I would know that?"

"Because you talked to him, and he came in here with you."

Sudden perspiration dotted Eleanor's flesh. "Oh, really, Lydia—"

"Don't pretend it didn't happen, Aunt Ellie. I saw it."

Eleanor expelled a long sigh. "I presume this can be our secret."

"What's his name?"

Eleanor toyed with the edge of her quilt. "Mr. Templeton. Dante … Templeton."

Lydia sighed. "He even has the name of a storybook pirate. What did he want?"

Fortunately— or hopefully— Lydia was too young to understand the intricacies of the adult mind. "He's the man who now owns my share of the whaler that Uncle Amos captained."

"But what did the pirate want in your bedroom?"

"Actually," she hedged, "I wanted to talk with him about it, and my bedroom is one of the only private places to talk when there's a party going on downstairs."

Lydia appeared to accept the explanation, because she didn't pursue it. "Is he going to let you have your ship back?"

Eleanor shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"I have no idea," Eleanor answered honestly. "But I intend to find out."

Lydia snuggled in. "He's handsome. Like a pirate," she repeated.

Eleanor remembered her first impression of him, how he had been bold and arrogant and threatening. How appalled she'd been, initially, about every aspect of his being. Yet, in retrospect, she admitted that she had found him handsome, in a dangerous sort of way.

"Yes, I suppose he is. He certainly wasn't standing behind the door when God gave out good looks."

"That's funny," Lydia said with a giggle. "I like that."

They were quiet for a moment. "What should we talk about now?" Lydia asked, obviously not anxious to go to sleep.

Relieved to end the course of the conversation, Eleanor said, "Let's talk about how much you're going to practice the piano for me after every lesson."

Lydia groaned, then joined Eleanor in quiet laughter.

When she finally fell asleep, Eleanor dreamed of a dangerous pirate with a fierce tattoo. She was shipwrecked, clinging to a piece of wood when he swooped down upon her in his ship, plucked her from the sea and ferried her away to his private cabin. He tossed her onto his bunk and removed each piece of her drenched clothing, flinging it into the ocean. She was naked but for the tangled bedding she reclined upon.

He demanded that she stand before him. In her mind, she haughtily wondered why she should, but she did it anyway, without a fight.

He ordered her to turn and reveal her backside. In her mind, she was appalled at such an order, but she turned, presenting him her buttocks.

With his hands clasped behind him, he circled her as if she were merchandise he considered buying. "Raise your arms," he ordered.

I will not, her mind responded. But she did, and he reached out and caressed the soft skin inside her upper arms, causing chills to rise on her flesh.

"Hold your breasts, so I can see whether your nipples are ripe for suckling," he demanded.

I will do no such thing.

Apparently able to read her mind, he stepped forward and lifted her breasts into his palms, his thumbs moving over the hardened nipples.

She felt a weakness in her limbs and in her belly, one that she had never felt before. It puzzled her, appalled her. Shamefully excited her.

He bent his head and took a firm nipple into his mouth, sending a rush of heat through Eleanor's body, leaving her so weak she nearly collapsed. "You have breasts and nipples to suckle many babies," he announced without an ounce of passion or interest.

I am not a brood sow, she wanted to say, but could not.

His hands moved over her waist and down her hips. "You have ample hips, wide enough for birthing."

How dare you? Her indignation was real, yet she was unable to speak.

"One more thing." He lifted a gaudy feather boa off the bedpost and draped it over her shoulders, the ends reaching nearly to the tops of her thighs. He took one end and brushed it back and forth across her breasts. The sensation was electrifying, and suddenly her pelvis felt heavy and there was a dampness between her legs. He tickled her navel gently before dipping lower to where her patch of dark curls hid her woman's place.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Up and down. He dragged the feathers across the tops of her thighs, moving her legs apart, stroking, oh, so softly, over her nether lips.

The sensation was almost more than Eleanor could bear. Suddenly he said, "You will do."

Do? Do for what? she screamed, yet no sound escaped.

"Now," he began, removing his clothing, "I must see if we fit.…"

Eleanor sat up in bed, her heart thumping and her breathing ragged. There was a dangerous itch between her thighs as well as a dampness she couldn't ignore. "Damn him," she whispered.

"Aunt Ellie?" Lydia's voice was sleep-filled.

Eleanor expelled a breath and tried to relax against her pillow. "It's all right, honey. Go back to sleep."

"Was it a bad dream?"

Eleanor hugged her niece to her. "I've never ever had one like it, dear."



The following morning, Dante made a detour to the Simmons' residence to retrieve his earring. It was gold, and valuable, and had been a gift, but that wasn't why he wanted to reclaim it. The earring actually had no sentimental value. He couldn't have cared less about it.

It was the perfect excuse to see Eleanor Rayburn again, however briefly. He refused to examine the need to do so.

He rang the bell, and a cinnamon-haired child wearing a feather boa and a large, gaudy hat opened the door. When she saw him, her eyes widened briefly. "You're the pirate."

He'd been called many things, but never that. He merely gave her a gracious bow. "Good morning, mademoiselle. In your fine attire, you look like a princess I once met in Cairo."

The child studied him. "That's in Egypt."

He bowed again. "Indeed it is."

"Have you been there?" she asked, skepticism in her voice.

"I have," he answered.

She continued to scrutinize him, then finally said, "Did you know that no word in the English language rhymes with purple?"

Dante bit back a smile and gave her a thoughtful look. "I do believe you're right."

Then he asked, "Do you know that on an island off the coast of South America, there are giant turtles that live to be one hundred years old, some weighing over four hundred pounds?"

She gazed at him. "Really? Gosh, that's more than Butterfly."

"Butterfly?"

"She's our cook. She's big and brown and came from the Sam'wich Islands on a whaler. She lets me help her make things, and she tells me stories about her home. The sun shines a lot, they never have snow, and it rains a little bit every single day. She also says 'hell' and 'damn', but I'm to pretend I don't notice."

"I see," he answered around a smile, finding the imp totally entrancing.

She suddenly studied him suspiciously. "How do you know about those turtles? Have you seen them?" she asked, daring him to answer.

"Indeed I have," he offered.

"Lydia," someone called, "who's at the door?"

Lydia didn't take her eyes off Dante, but shouted, "It's the pirate, Aunt Ellie. And you were right. He wasn't standing behind the door when God gave out good looks."

He tried not to smile when he heard "Aunt Ellie" groan aloud.

She stepped into the foyer from the room where they had had the party, her fingers trying to smooth a fetching, disheveled hairdo. Her face was flushed, her deep brown eyes were shiny, and she was slightly out of breath. "You must excuse Lydia, Mr. Templeton—"

"Dante, please. And I find that Miss Lydia has impeccable taste," he answered, winking at the child. Lydia gave him a bright, dimpled smile.

Dante's gaze returned to Eleanor. "So, you find me handsome," he teased.

Her blush deepened. "It was just a manner of speech."

"Then, you don't find me handsome?" He made a moue, knowing how ridiculous it would look. He was rewarded with a cynical lift of her eyebrows.

"Surely you don't need any reassurance from me," she answered dryly, opening the door wider so he could enter.

"Sorry, I can't stay. I was wondering," he said, "if you perhaps had found a gold earring. I seem to have misplaced it."

Eleanor's face flushed slightly, but her expression remained undaunted. "Well, I … I may have," she answered, reaching into her apron pocket. She drew out the object. "Would this be yours?"

"Yes, thank you." He took the earring from her, letting their fingers graze lightly. She flinched, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw fire.

"You should be more careful with such expensive things, Mr. Templeton. Something like this, something with such sentimental value," she said, accentuating the last two words, "could have been swept up and thrown out with the trash."

Ah, she must have read the inscription. Their gazes met again, and there was an emotion in her eyes that he couldn't read. Jealousy came to mind, but that was preposterous. It was probably disgust. Dante gave her a half smile. "Yes, a very special memento, to be sure. Where did you find it?"

The widow crossed her arms over her chest, presenting an impatient façade. "I … I don't remember."

He guessed he had dropped it in her bedroom. "Well, I thank you so much for finding it."

"See?" crowed Lydia, "I told you he was a pirate."

"Lydia," Eleanor warned.

Dante bent and took Lydia's hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. "Good day, mademoiselle princess. I look forward to matching wits with you again. And by the way," he added, focusing on Lydia, "I adore a woman in a feather boa."

He nodded toward Eleanor, then left.

Lydia gazed after him, a tad dreamy-eyed. "Did you hear that, Aunt Ellie? He liked my feathers and he called me a princess."

Eleanor closed the door, wondering if he had somehow physically invaded her dreams.

But as the day went on, she made a decision. Nothing else he ever did would bother her. She would not dwell on him, she would not dream of him, she would not think about the way he had kissed her.

She was not vain, and she was not shallow. And because of those qualities, she knew in her soul that she was not now and never would be the sort of woman a man like Dante Templeton could take an interest in. The kiss was merely to knock her off balance. To confuse her. And it briefly had.
Six

That Victor! What an obnoxious child! Eleanor left the rectory quickly, afraid she might say something she'd regret. She had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt most of the time, even though he constantly bullied the other children. His pranks verged on cruelty. But did she criticize? No. Did she even once scold him in front of the other children, even when he had spread molasses on the piano stool, creating a horrible mess on her gown? No. Or when he— Oh, what did it matter?

But this time … She attempted to wipe the soot from her face with her apron, leaving a swath of dirt on the light-colored fabric. Stopping at a small mirror in the corridor, she peered into it and winced. She looked like a chimney sweep.

Victor had fireplace-cleaning duty today, and as Eleanor had passed the rectory, he had called out to her that he needed some help. The flue, he had said, was stuck. Would she please help him?

She should have been suspicious, but he had seemed sincere, and she couldn't refuse him. She had gotten down on her hands and knees and reached up into the chimney, and indeed, the flue was stuck.

"There's something up there," Victor had informed her. "Can you see it?"

So, gullible woman that she was, she peered into the chimney, only to feel a fresh load of soot land on her head and face. The little monster had chortled like a child gone mad, hopping around the room, absolutely spilling over with glee.

Eleanor refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry or upset, so she merely had left him there and ordered him to clean up the mess.

The sisters told her that Dante had taken Victor under his wing; perhaps one day soon Eleanor could speak with him about the boy. Preferably on a day when she wasn't so angry; she wanted to strangle him.

As she made her way down the dimly lit corridor toward the washroom, she saw someone walking toward her. Her stomach did a little lurch. Dante Templeton. She uttered a mild oath, because no matter that she'd vowed not to think of him, he still made her skin tingle.

He came closer. She couldn't avoid him.

He stopped, eyeing her disarray. "A new look for you, Eleanor?" He clucked his tongue. "Not particularly attractive, I'm afraid."

He had never used her given name before. That he would take such liberties made her angry, and her anger made her brave. "I don't plan my day around being attractive," she snapped.

"That's obvious."

Ouch, she thought, that hurt. But she was still very miffed with Victor. "If you must know, your precious Victor is to blame for this," she responded with a broad sweep of her hand.

"My Victor?"

"He is your delinquent protégé, is he not?"

"He's … spirited," Dante admitted, "but hardly a delinquent."

Eleanor swallowed and took a breath. "He is a delinquent. I don't know how else to describe such a bully. Spirited doesn't even come close."

Dante studied her, making her uncomfortable. On occasions such as this, she allowed herself to think about their kiss, because she had no illusions about it. She knew he had done it to shock her. And instinctively she knew that a man could kiss a woman like he meant it without meaning anything at all. And that kept her strong.

"You say Victor is responsible for this, as well?" he responded, his gaze skimming her sooty appearance.

"Yes," she answered tersely, his words jarring her from her thoughts. "And the time he spread molasses on the piano stool, ruining one of my gowns, not to mention the puddle of water he put under the piano stool, making it appear as though I hadn't made it to the outhouse."

Dante's expression was stony, but Eleanor noted that his eyes were bright— with glee, no doubt.

"But I don't even care about those things. I care about how he treats the other children. He is a bully, and since you seem to be the only person he listens to, I would appreciate your help in changing his behavior."

Dante stopped in front of her, his face close. "Did it ever occur to you that such actions often cover other fears? Perhaps before you judge him too harshly, you should understand his background."

With that, he marched off, leaving her alone in the dark hallway.

Not to be brushed off like so much lint on a jacket, she hurried after him. "If, as you say, he has other fears, perhaps you could share them with me."

He stopped and pulled in an annoyed breath. "His history is in the office. Read it there."

"I'm sure my time isn't nearly as valuable as yours," she began with a bite of sarcasm, "but I do have other obligations I must meet. Briefly enlighten me. Please," she added, remembering her manners.

What he wanted to do was get away from her. She had been in his thoughts for days, and although he should have been able to shrug her off, he found he could not.

Perhaps it was time to tell her how he felt about women in general. Set her straight.

"Eleanor, I don't like intelligent women."

She released a sputtering laugh. "And that's supposed to affect me, how?"

He ignored the comment. "Intelligence is a useless quality in females. Wasted on them. It makes them almost equals, and that's a totally foreign concept to me." After all, he had yet to find a woman worthy in that respect.

She stared at him, incredulous. "Why am I not surprised?"

He shrugged. "It's what I believe."

"And you find me intelligent?" she asked with feigned surprise and exaggerated pleasure.

God, but she was an annoying woman. "It's not a compliment."

"Oh, but it is to me." Her eyes filled with a laughter that irked him.

"You would be just the kind of woman who would think so," he answered.

"And what kind of woman would that be?" she volleyed.

She was beyond annoying. And totally unfeminine. Any other woman who had stood before him, covered with soot from head to toe, would have dashed away, embarrassed to be seen. "A woman who would not know when she's being rebuked."

Eleanor broadened her stance and crossed her arms over her chest. "For a man who seems reasonably intelligent, despite your many obvious flaws, you are clearly the most antiquated male on the face of the earth."

He cleared his throat, sensing he'd been outdone. This was a prime example of why intelligent women frustrated the hell out of him.

When they spoke derisively, they seemed to think they made perfect sense, but half the time he didn't understand what they were saying, and the other half of the time that derision was always aimed at him, and he didn't feel he deserved it.

They were a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to decode them or discover what went on in their heads.

He returned to the subject at hand. "Now, about Victor. I suppose you will natter at me until you get some answers?"

She gave him a cool smile. "I suppose I shall have to, in my utterly inferior feminine way," she added, her voice dripping with disdain.

He eyed her. "Sarcasm is another quality I do not find attractive."

To his surprise, she threw back her head and laughed. "Mr. Templeton," she began, still smiling, "it is not, nor has it ever been, my intention to make myself attractive for you."

Dante frowned. God, but this woman could drive him crazy. Why didn't she react like a normal woman? Why didn't she beg him to tell her how she could please him? Why didn't she mewl and fawn like all the other women he knew? No woman had ever rejected him. For God's sake, even the nuns bowed and scraped before him. Well, with the exception of Sister Mary Francis, of course.

With a quiet curse, he dug into his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it to her. "Here. After you have cleaned up, meet me in the office."

She brushed his handkerchief aside. "I will go there with you now, otherwise you will undoubtedly disappear like a wisp of smoke before I return."

He stifled an exasperated sigh, then followed her toward the office.

A half hour later, they were heading back toward the front door.

"Thank you for filling me in on Victor's background. I suppose it answers some of my questions," she finished crisply. Her skirt swished about her ankles as she walked and the heels of her shoes clicked lightly on the hardwood floor. It was a sound that brought Dante pleasure, and he resented her for it.

"It's hard for youngsters to trust adults when they have disappointed them in the past. Coming from wealth and privilege, Victor had learned that more often than not, his parents' promises meant nothing. They were a couple who should never have had a child at all."

She nibbled daintily on her full bottom lip as she listened to him. He envisioned her nibbling on his earlobe, and he nearly cursed aloud. Why had he thought such a thing? Even at her best, the woman wasn't terribly attractive, and now she still looked like she'd been rolling around in the fireplace.

"What do you mean?"

He fought the urge to snap at her as they continued to walk toward the door. "What isn't in that report is the fact that Maris and Quentin Squire, Victor's parents, were so totally devoted to each other, they felt a child would only be a nuisance in their lives. Victor suffered for it."

Eleanor smiled briefly and glanced away, but not before Dante saw the vulnerable look in her big, intelligent brown eyes.

"Isn't it ironic," she mused, "that those who don't want children have no trouble conceiving them, while some who would give their own lives for a child cannot seem to manage it?"

It was a rhetorical question, he knew, but he also remembered Sister Mary Frank telling him that Eleanor had lost a child. He felt a wave of sympathy for her, and that upset him because he wanted to fuel his hatred. But he could not.

"Still," she continued, "that doesn't entitle him to bully other children."

"It's the only way he can cope with his life, as he now sees it."

"To tease, badger, and intimidate others?" she answered, her voice prickly.

"Yes." His answer was sharper than he intended.

They walked out of the orphanage into the sunlight and she turned toward him. "I don't find that an option."

The sunlight caught a tendril of her hair, and it glinted with a fire of gold. God, but he wondered what all that magnificence would look like ribboned across a pillow. His pillow? Good God, no. He nearly choked on the thought. If, somehow, he ever got this woman into his bed, she would undoubtedly cut off his balls and stuff them down his throat.

He suddenly realized she had spoken to him. "What?"

"I said," she began with a bite of impatience, "he must learn to cope with the world as it is, don't you think?"

He just wanted to get away from her. Even soot-covered and ill-tempered, she wreaked havoc on his senses. "Do you never tire of asking questions, madam?"

She put her fists on her hips, accentuating her full bosom. "I wouldn't have to repeat them if you would answer them," she retorted.

"And I have answered them to my satisfaction."

"But you have not answered them to mine," she retorted.

"That is your problem, then, isn't it?" He gave her a quick nod, and hurried down the steps, grateful to get away from her.

He strode around to the back of the building and saw Victor waiting for him. Dante had promised to help him chop and pile wood for the fireplaces.

Victor stood, a beaming smile on his face. He almost appeared angelic, with his curly white-blond hair and the deep dimples that dented each rosy cheek.

Dante returned the smile and rolled up his sleeves. "I hear you had a little run-in with Mrs. Rayburn."

Victor's smile disappeared. "Who told you that?"

Dante lifted an eyebrow. "I met her in the hallway before she had a chance to clean up."

Victor frowned and hunched his shoulders. "No doubt she said it was my fault."

"Wasn't it?" Dante waited to hear the boy's excuse.

Myriad emotions darted over Victor's face. "I s'pose it won't do any good to lie," he mumbled.

"It never does," Dante answered.

Victor sat down hard on a stump and studied the ground. "I don't know why I did it. She's just so … so crabby-looking sometimes, I just can't help it."

Dante bit the insides of his cheeks. Yes, he thought, she was often that. "And what caused you to spread molasses on the piano stool?"

Victor's frown deepened. "She scolded me for talking."

"What about the time you put water under the piano stool?"

Victor kicked at a stone, sending it flying. "We were singing a stupid song."

Dante studied the boy, feeling a sympathy no one else would understand. "She called you a delinquent."

"What's that?" Victor asked, his gaze returning to Dante.

"It's someone who does not exhibit acceptable behavior," Dante explained.

Victor's eyes welled with tears, and he swiped at them with an angry hand. "I don't know why I do bad things. It's just that … sometimes I feel like I'm going to fly to pieces if I don't scream, and since I can't scream, I guess maybe I take it out on everyone else."

"Who are you mad at, Victor?" Dante kept his voice quiet. Calm.

Victor answered him with a sullen shrug. "I'm not mad."

Dante took a chance. "Are you angry at your parents?"

"I'm not mad!" the boy all but screamed.

Dante released a sigh. "You're angry about something, Victor."

The boy's head came up with a jerk, and he glared at Dante, his eyes angry. "Well, it's not Mama and Papa. They never hurt me."

But they constantly ignored you, Dante thought. "No, but they died," he murmured quietly.

Victor's shoulders shook briefly. "They didn't die on purpose."

"But they left you alone, didn't they? You had to come here, and for that, you can't forgive them, can you?"

Victor looked up, his face streaked with tears. "Why did they have to die? Why?"

Dante took him into his arms and let the boy sob. Unlike Victor, he had no memory of a mother or a father, but when he learned he and Damien were orphans, children unwanted by either parent, his own rage had been as strong.

"I don't know," he answered with honesty. But at that moment he felt a bond with the boy that was so powerful, he knew he had to do something about it.



Eleanor watched him leave, frustrated and angry that he had no plans to alter Victor's behavior. The man was still insidious and rude. Perhaps that was why he couldn't see how damaging Victor's attitude and actions were— because Victor was a mirror image of himself.

She returned inside and cleaned herself up, washing her face and smoothing back her hair. Perhaps as Victor grew older, he would learn that his own personal history was not an excuse for bad behavior. She was judging him harshly, and it wasn't fair. He was just a sad, lonely, frustrated little boy.

Oh, how she hated it when the arrogant Dante Templeton was right.

The clock in the corridor struck four, and she hurried to gather up her things. Not that she was anxious to get home, quite the opposite. It was just that now she would have to do the chores Willa had expected her to get done this morning.

As she made her way to the exit again, Sister Mary Francis stopped her.

"Come into my office, Eleanor. I have something important to tell you."

A few minutes later, Eleanor left the office, elated. A job! A job actually teaching the orphans to play the piano. And why not? Many of them had very good musical ability, she had noticed.

But the orphanage had no money, she had countered. How could they possibly pay her?

The Sister had assured her that there were special funds available for such projects.

Eleanor was aware that taking on more at the orphanage meant working harder at home. She would have to get up earlier than she already was and stay up later than she used to just to finish the chores Willa expected her to do, but that was fine. She would save every penny and get out of her current situation. Somehow.

She left the orphanage, lost in thought, making her way through the North End, down alleys she had taken countless times before. She was perhaps halfway through Copp's Hill Burying Ground when suddenly, out of nowhere, she was jostled.

"Wh—" Steadying herself, she looked up to find a ragged young boy racing down the path ahead of her, weaving in and out of the headstones. She was straightening her cape when she realized that her purse was gone.

"Stop!" she shouted. "You there, stop this minute!" She picked up her skirt and ran after him, stopping at the cemetery exit when she realized it was useless to try to catch him. She caught her breath and uttered a mild curse. Every cent she owned was in her handbag. Like a fool, she carried it around with her for fear of— she didn't know what. She'd become accustomed to carrying around her cash when she lived at the boarding house and hadn't thought to do otherwise.

"Are you all right, madam?"

Eleanor turned. A carriage had drawn up beside her. A nice-looking man with a healthy reddish-brown mustache watched her, concern etched on his face.

She expelled a sigh of frustration and motioned across the street where the boy was still running. "That boy," she said, still short of breath, "just stole my purse."

In a flash, the horses were at a near gallop, racing toward the culprit.

Eleanor watched in awe as the gentleman caught up with the boy, grabbed him by the coat, and retrieved her handbag. He bent down and said something to the lad, shaking him until he got a positive nod, then released him and the boy sped off.

He returned, left the carriage, and, with a flourishing bow, handed her the purse. "Sylvester Conway, madam. It was my pleasure."

Eleanor gripped the purse close to her chest. "Eleanor Rayburn. And … thank you so very much."

He bowed again. "May I offer you a ride home?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine—"

"Please," he interrupted, opening the carriage door.

She eyed it. It would be good to get home. She had a mountain of chores to do. Acquiescing, she stepped into the carriage, and gave him Calvin's Pinckney Street address.

They made small talk as they left the North End and skirted the waterfront. As they rounded The Commons on their way to Beacon Hill, Eleanor learned that he was widowed, too. They had little time to talk of anything else before the carriage rolled up in front of Calvin's home.

Sylvester came around and helped her exit. "I hope this isn't too soon, but may I call on you?"

Eleanor truly wasn't up to it. She wasn't interested, really. And after all, she had precious little time on her hands, and what time she found, she would use to find new students to teach.

He obviously noticed her hesitation. "Perhaps it is too soon."

Eleanor glanced away, uncomfortable under his gaze. "Yes, perhaps it is."

He gently touched her arm. "Fortunately, I didn't become a success because I was easily put off." He turned toward the carriage. "I will call on you one day soon."

"I really don't think—"

"Count on it, madam." He snapped the reins and drove away.

She entered the house and was on her way upstairs when Willa met her on the landing, her eyes bright and her movements animated. "Do you know who that was?"

Eleanor blinked quickly as she hung her cape on the coat tree. "Of course. His name is—"

"Sylvester Conway," Willa offered, hurrying to the window and peering out into the street. "The Sylvester Conway of Conway Shipping Lines! He's worth millions," Willa informed her.

She followed Eleanor into the parlor. "Why did he bring you home?"

Eleanor explained about her stolen handbag.

Willa was like a hungry wolf. "Is he going to call on you again?"

"He wanted to, but I—"

"You didn't refuse, did you? Do you realize what a man like that can do for you? Why … why …" she sputtered, "he might even ask you to marry him."

Eleanor rolled her eyes.

Willa's gaze narrowed. "You didn't tell him no, did you?"

Eleanor poured herself a cup of tea. "I told him no, but he—"

"You said no?" Willa screeched. She strode about the parlor, swinging her arms and ranting. "You fool! He could be our ticket to everything we've ever wanted."

Eleanor felt remarkably calm. "He has nothing I want, Willa."

"You? Who's talking about you? I mean Calvin. And me. With his connections, we could get into the best clubs. The finest resorts where only the rich and influential go. If he were Calvin's brother-in-law, nothing could stop our rise to the top of this pitiful dung heap."

Eleanor took Willa's list of chores from the ostentatious Rococo Revival table. "I've gotten a job at the orphanage, teaching piano to some of the children. With the students who come here, and the other work, I hardly have a spare minute to think about Sylvester Conway, much less have time for him to call on me."

Willa snatched the list. "Make time. It's very important. To all of us. Here," she said, drawing a line through one of the chores. "This doesn't have to be done today. This doesn't either," she added, scratching out another duty. "In fact, while you're living in this house, your most important duty will be to charm and beguile Sylvester Conway."

She glanced at Eleanor's drab gown and snorted. "And fix yourself up," she commanded. "If you must continue to wear those dreary mourning gowns, at least do something interesting with your hair."

When she left the room, Eleanor drew in a breath and released it slowly. She would rather do the chores, rising early and retiring late, than entertain a man— any man— in Calvin's parlor.
Seven

Eleanor checked her appearance in the mirror, not entirely satisfied, but unwilling to do anything about it. Sylvester had been true to his word and had stopped to see her within the week. He had been calling on her for a month.

Lydia's face appeared next to hers in the mirror. "Getting all dressed up for Sylvester?"

Eleanor frowned at her. "Mr. Conway, to you, dear."

Lydia ignored the correction. "You don't like him very much, do you?"

The child was too insightful for her own good. "Why would you say that?"

"Because you always have this kind of look on your face whenever his name is mentioned." She raised her eyebrows and sighed dramatically.

Eleanor smiled, then whispered, "Personally, I think your mother is more smitten with him than I am."

Lydia shrugged. "It's only because he has so much money. But," she repeated, "you don't like him so much."

Instead of arguing with the truth, she said, "Does it really show?"

Lydia shook her head. "Not really, but I saw him try to kiss you the other night—"

"Lydia," she scolded. "You weren't spying on me, were you?"

"I couldn't help it. I was on my way to bed, and just happened to be sitting on the stairs."

Eleanor cracked a smile. "Just happened to be sitting on the stairs, huh?"

Lydia answered with a grin. "It's absolutely the best place to see things."

"And what did you see that night?"

"That you had the awfullest—"

"Most awful," Eleanor corrected.

"Most awful expression on your face when his lips touched your cheek." She waited a moment then asked, "Why do you see him, anyway? Why don't you see the pirate? He's much more fun than stuffy old Sylvester."

"Mr. Templeton is not interested in a woman like me, Lydia."

Lydia took a powder puff and dabbed it over her face, leaving traces of talc on her cheeks. "Why not?"

"He just isn't." Eleanor's voice was sharper than she'd meant it to be.

"Explain it to me," Lydia begged.

Eleanor expelled a sigh. "All right. Remember the night of the party, when you first saw Mr. Templeton?" When Lydia nodded, Eleanor continued. "Do you remember the woman with the bright red hair and the beautiful white gown?"

Lydia thought a moment. "The one who looked like a fairy princess?"

Eleanor raised one eyebrow. "That's the one."

Lydia looked away, thoughtful. "So that's the sort of woman a man like the pirate wants?"

"Exactly."

Lydia flounced away, dancing around the room. "I'll be that kind of woman one day."

Eleanor laughed. "Oh, my sweet girl, you'll never be that kind of woman."

Lydia looked hurt. "Why not? Won't I be pretty enough?"

Eleanor grabbed her and hugged her. "You will be very pretty, but you'll also be very, very smart. And I'm afraid men like Mr. Templeton don't appreciate women who can pronounce words with more than two syllables. I doubt that a woman like that has ever heard of the word 'abstemious,' much less know what it means."

Lydia patted at Eleanor's hair. "Well, that's stupid."

Eleanor laughed again. "That pretty much explains it, dear."

Lydia crawled up onto Eleanor's lap and surveyed herself in the mirror. "Mama wants you to marry Sylvester."

"Yes," Eleanor answered wearily, running a brush through Lydia's silky hair. "She mentions that to me, oh, perhaps daily."

"I don't think you should."

"It would make your mother and father happy," Eleanor reminded her.

"Maybe, but it wouldn't make you very happy," she answered, with a wisdom that was almost frightening.

That was true. Eleanor had already decided that she had endured one unhappy marriage, and she would not go into another, merely to satisfy her sister-in-law. Not that she would be truly unhappy with Sylvester. He was kind and generous and … quite bland. He had been very attentive, and in Eleanor's mind, there was no doubt that one day he would propose.

Lydia slid off Eleanor's lap and crawled onto the bed. "Did you know that a porcupine can float?"

Eleanor chuckled at Lydia's proclivity for suddenly changing the subject. "I didn't know that," she responded, trying to shove a wayward tress behind her ear.

"Have you practiced today?" she asked.

Lydia was on her back, studying the ceiling. "Yes, didn't you hear me?"

"I've been out all morning, at the orphanage."

Lydia slid off the bed, retrieved Eleanor's brush from the dressing table and began pulling it through her long, wavy hair. "How, exactly, does a child become an orphan?"

Eleanor reached into her mother's old jewelry box, pulled out a plain comb, and fastened the unruly lock. "Many of them were found as infants, left on the steps by someone unknown."

"Like the ladies who have babies and aren't married," Lydia offered. She snorted a laugh. "Butterfly straightened me out on that one. Papa had told me a woman couldn't have a baby unless she was married, and Mama wouldn't discuss the subject with me at all."

Eleanor couldn't stop a smile. Poor Calvin. He was absolutely no match for Lydia. And there were times when Eleanor thought that perhaps both Willa and Cal were afraid of their precocious child.

"There are other reasons, too. Sometimes a child's parents die, and there is no one else to care for them." She immediately thought of Victor and wondered if Dante Templeton had talked with the boy, because he appeared to have quieted down some since the episode with the fireplace flue.

"If Mama and Papa died, would I go to an orphanage?"

Lydia's voice was so wistful, Eleanor's stomach clenched. "Your mama and papa aren't going to die, sweetheart."

"But, would I, if they did?"

"Certainly not. I'm your family, I'd take care of you." She gathered Lydia into her embrace.

Lydia stayed close. "What's it like out there?"

Eleanor straightened the cameo pin on the high collar of her gown. "Oh, it's not so bad, I guess. At least the children are loved and cared for. The nuns have devoted their lives to them."

Suddenly Willa appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Conway is here," she said, her voice filled with eagerness. "Lydia, don't bother your aunt while she's trying to get ready," she scolded.

Lydia wrinkled her nose and flounced past her mother, while Eleanor's stomach went hollow and she felt a quick bite of nausea.



In the past month that Eleanor had been seeing Sylvester, she had also seen much of Dante Templeton. In a different way, of course.

She had learned from the nuns that Dante's business often took him to sea. She had also learned that his business was not whaling or fishing of any kind, but something quite unusual. The nuns hadn't been able to describe exactly what he did, but they were in awe of him, nevertheless.

And his visits to the orphanage were frequent, when he was not away on business. He hadn't truly avoided her, but he hadn't exactly gone out of his way to engage in any conversation, either. But he seemed affable, which gave her the courage to ask him about her whaler again.

She had her chance one morning as she left the music room. He was coming out of the office.

"Mr. Templeton?"

He offered a quick smile. "Dante, please."

"Yes, of course," she said with a nod. "Might I have a word with you?"

He appeared wary, as if remembering their last encounter in the orphanage hallway. "Is it Victor again?"

She waved his question away. "No. Thanks to you, Victor has been much better behaved. It's … I have another topic to speak to you about."

His gaze raked her, and she suddenly thought she might lose her courage.

"Yes?"

Suddenly nervous, she drew in a deep breath and expelled it quickly. "I've wondered if perhaps you have changed your mind about releasing my whaler."

His eyes darkened and his features hardened. "Never."

"But—"

"Eleanor, your whaler will never be used to hunt whales again."

She realized that his use of her first name no longer bothered her, but his pomposity did. It also made her irrational. "Mr. Templeton, one day soon I will remarry, and—"

"You will?" He grazed her with his haughty gaze. "To whom, might I ask?"

Furious at his surprise, she retorted, "Sylvester Conway."

He barked an incredulous laugh. "Does his mother know yet?"

Eleanor opened her mouth, then shut it. "I don't know what you mean."

He waved the question away, still smiling, as if what she'd told him was one big joke.

That fueled her anger. "Sylvester Conway has more influence in Boston than even you, the great Dante Templeton." Her face was flushed now; she could feel the heat creeping up her neck, into her cheeks. "He will find a way to force you to free my ship."

Why had she said that? None of it was true. Absolutely not a word of it.

His gaze continued to take in her appearance. "You are still wearing widow's weeds."

Taken off guard, she blinked and mentally shook herself. "I … yes."

His small smile didn't reach his eyes. If anything, it made them colder. "Do you enjoy hiding behind those hideous black gowns?"

"I am not hiding—"

"Of course you are. Why, if you were to dress like a normal woman, a real man might notice you."

She expelled a screech of exasperation and outrage. "You pompous, arrogant, vain peacock!"

He ignored her and touched her hair, causing her to flinch. "And if even a single strand of hair should escape that prim hairdo, I have no doubt you would run for the mirror and scrape it back into place. Any attempt at all to rediscover your womanhood would send you scurrying, wouldn't it?"

She was so angry, she thought she might faint. She had to get control. She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly. "How I dress and wear my hair is none of your business," she managed, wanting desperately to double up her fist and punch him. "And neither," she added, "is my womanhood."

"I'm grateful for that," he answered, almost congenially. "My schedule is full enough and believe me, madam, turning you into a real woman would require more time than I have to spend."

Unable to restrain herself, she drew back, raised her hand, and slapped him full across the face. Her hand stung. How wonderful that had felt!

They stared at one another, he in disbelief, she in amazement that she had actually struck him.

Eleanor recovered first and forced herself to smile up at him. "Thank you so very much. I feel ever so much better now." She marched off, feeling relieved until she remembered that she had lied to him about her and Sylvester. If their conversation ever got back to him, she would be mortified.

And she had struck someone. That was simply poor manners. It wasn't like her, not at all. But never in her entire life had she felt such surging anger for another person.



Stroking his cheek, Dante watched her leave, a small smile lifting his mouth. She might be plain, and she was annoying as hell, and intelligent to boot, but damn! She had fire. And courage— a rare trait to find in a man, much less a woman.

He suddenly remembered what he had learned about Amos Rayburn, and wondered if all of her fire would sputter and die if she ever discovered the truth about the man.

Dante knew Sylvester Conway. Their paths had crossed often. Sylvester had once told him he admired Dante for his unorthodox work and had become one of Dante's supporters. And, Dante thought with a smile, Sylvester still lived with his mother.

Dante almost chuckled aloud, yet there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach as well. She might appear bland and meek to some, but Dante knew that beneath those widow's weeds and that scraped back hairdo and sensible shoes there lurked a woman of incredible passion.

A woman who had thrown her head back and actually laughed at him. At him. That had rankled. A woman who had hauled off and slapped him. A slap, he thought, wincing, that carried quite a punch.

She was like no woman he had ever met. He normally didn't even glance at women like her. His women were beautiful, and if not outwardly so, than inwardly, because their adoration for him had shone in their eyes. His women wore fine clothes, enjoyed flaunting their bosoms and cooed and tittered when he took them to bed. His women spread their legs eagerly, because he was the master lover. They all had told him so.

He frowned, suddenly morose. His women, he realized, were whatever he wanted them to be. They were trained, like hunting dogs, to do his bidding. And suddenly he wasn't very pleased with them, or himself.

But if the insipid Sylvester Conway thought he could handle Eleanor, he was wrong. She might, however, Dante thought with a sly smile, be a match for Theodora Conway, Sylvester's mother and the matriarch of the family.

He decided it was time to look up Sylvester and invite him over for a drink.
Eight

The more Eleanor thought about her encounter with Dante, the angrier she got. Just who did he think he was, acting so surprised that she should remarry? Not that she was going to, but he had acted like no man on earth would take her as his wife.

As she passed the office door, she felt the urge to vent her anger. Sister Mary Francis looked up from her desk when she entered. "Yes, dear?"

Eleanor released a breath. "I have just had the most annoying encounter with Mr. Templeton."

Sister Mary Francis' smile reached her eyes. "Oh, he can be a frustrating person to encounter, I agree. I have had that experience for years."

Eleanor resisted the urge to speak harshly, reminding herself that it wasn't the nun who incurred her wrath. "I have no doubt of that. He is by far the most exasperating man I have ever met."

The nun's expression continued to be sunny. "Perhaps before you get too addled over Dante, you should learn more about his background."

Eleanor raised a cynical eyebrow. Where had she heard that line before? "Why?" she asked, her voice laced with sarcasm, "was he left on your doorstep or something?"

The nun nodded serenely. "Yes. He was."

Eleanor felt immediate remorse at her derision. "I hope you're joking."

"Oh, no. Both Dante, who was barely two, and his older brother, Damien, who was a few years older, were dropped at my door like kittens in a basket."

The nun related many facts about the Templeton brothers, most of which Eleanor could scarcely give credence to. Had they not been told to her by a Catholic nun, she might not have believed a word of it.

"And Dante was quite a handful, I will admit, but I guess that's why he's so good with Victor." Sister Mary Francis laughed lightly, the lines around her mouth softening.

"He has often said that he was Victor, or a boy just like him. He was fortunate to have Damien, for as they got older, Damien proved to be the sensible one. And Damien was the only person Dante listened to, or respected, for a very, very long time."

It scarcely made any sense to Eleanor. "Were they here long?"

"Only until Damien turned fifteen. Then he took Dante and they went to sea as cabin boys. It was there that …"

She sighed and shook her head solemnly. "It was there that Damien drowned. I don't think Dante is over his brother's death to this day. He mourns him always, and in his heart, he blames the captain for his loss." Her expression remained grave. "Until he can let go and forgive, he'll never heal."

Eleanor thanked the sister for the enlightening information, and let her go back to work. Eleanor, however, felt too scattered to return to the music room. Her discovery about Dante had sparked intense interest in learning more about him.

As she left the orphanage, something Amos had said while they were at sea came back to nag at her. The next thing she knew, she was on her way home to rummage through what was left of Amos's things, hoping what she wanted would be there.

Once in her room, she dragged out his old sea trunk and there, at the bottom, beneath a wool coat and some tattered woolen socks, she found the log from The Dragon.

She closed the door to her room, curled up on her bed, and began to read. She hadn't gotten very far when she found what she was looking for, and it made her heart sink. With a resigned sigh, she tucked the log into her satchel and hurried off to discover if what she had read was the truth.



She stepped into the merchant's office, the room that had started all of her misery, and felt a bite of anger. It was here that she had learned that Amos had betrayed her. That's how she had felt— betrayed. Left with nothing. She shook off her feelings and went in search of someone who could help with her current questions.

She glanced into a room where a harried-looking little man with a mop of yellow hair sat working some numbers. "Yes'm?"

Eleanor stepped into the room. "I'm looking for a crew member from the old ship The Dragon. A Mr. Galvin."

"Cappy Galvin?"

Eleanor felt a wave of excitement. "Yes. Cappy Galvin."

"Well, Cappy can be found down at the Butter and Eggs," the little man answered.

Eleanor frowned. "Butter and eggs?"

"It's a tavern down on the docks," he explained, giving her more complete directions. "But you take care," he warned. "The Butter and Eggs is no place for a lady."

Eleanor thanked him for his concern, left the office and walked to the waterfront. The smell of the sea brought back waves of memories. She waited for the feelings of dread that she'd had to overcome once Amos died and she'd had to aid in getting the vessel back to port. By the time they returned, she'd absolutely despised the briny smell and everything associated with it. Oddly, it didn't bother her now.

She glanced ahead of her, noting the Butter and Eggs tavern sign hanging from two rusty hinges. Painted in the background were spirelike inflorescent yellow and orange flowers that resembled small snapdragons. The foliage consisted of small, linear, bluish-green leaves. Despite the beauty of the flowers, it was an odd name for a tavern.

An elderly man with a face as weather-worn as cowhide sat out front, smoking a pipe. Beneath a filthy knitted cap were wisps of downy hair, hanging nearly to his white, caterpillar eyebrows.

He glanced up at Eleanor. "You lost, missy?"

She shook her head. "I'm looking for Cappy Galvin."

The man stroked his stubbled chin. "Whatcha want 'em fer?"

"I'm looking for some information." She saw him hesitate, then added, "I know him. We … have mutual acquaintances."

The old man looked her up and down, clearly skeptical. He tossed his head toward the door. "Inside. He's always there." He laughed, a wet, wheezy sound. "Hope ya find him sober."

Bolstering her courage, Eleanor paused, gave the door to the tavern a closer look, and almost lost her nerve. It wasn't exactly a place she wanted to enter.

"Go on, missy. No one in there'll bite ya." He cackled. "Unless ya wants 'em to."

Eleanor took a deep breath and stepped into the dim, smoky interior. It had a stale, rancid smell, like odors from everything that had ever been cooked, drunk, eaten, or puked up still hung in the air or was forgotten in the corners. She fought the urge to press a handkerchief to her nose and mouth.

The room was almost empty. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she searched the place.

"What can I do fer ya?" The man behind the bar was wiping a glass with a grayish-looking towel that looked to have also been used to wipe up the floor.

"I'm looking for Cappy Galvin."

The bartender turned toward a door at the back of the bar and barked Cappy's name.

To Eleanor's relief, Mr. Galvin stuck his head out.

"A lady here to see ya," he was told.

Cappy squinted toward her. "Miz Rayburn?"

Eleanor smiled, a little nervous. "Hello, Mr. Galvin. It's good to see you again."

He hobbled out, gimpy-legged, and drew her to a table in the back where he motioned for her to sit. He eased himself into the chair across from her, clearly uncomfortable. The barkeep brought him a shot of whiskey, which he downed in one swallow. "What're you doing down here, ma'am? This ain't no place for your kind, you know."

Eleanor straightened in the chair. "Mr. Galvin—"

"Cappy."

She smiled. "Cappy, you served with Amos on The Dragon many years ago, didn't you?"

He nodded. "Yep, 'bout fifteen years ago. Why?"

"I'm looking for information regarding an incident that happened during one of the voyages."

She explained exactly what she was looking for, then paused, waiting for a reaction. When she didn't get one, she added, "He and his brother were on board together, apparently working as cabin or steerage boys."

Recognition lit Cappy's gaze. "Well, maybe one of them was working, but that young one. He was a hellion."

Excited at this news, Eleanor asked, "Do you remember their names?"

His rheumy eyes became thoughtful. "Odd names, they were. The only reason I remember either name t' all, was because the older one kept yelling the hellion's name, asking him to behave, or he'd get whipped. Again."

Eleanor flinched at the word "whipped." "And what was his name?"

He suddenly appeared thoughtful. "Well, let me think." The barkeep brought him another whiskey, and he downed it, then scratched his chin. "Dirk … David …"

Cautiously excited, she sat forward. "Could it have been Dante?"

He nodded. "Yep, that was it. Dante and Damon, or somethin' like that."

He had pronounced Dante as if it rhymed with "ante." "Damien," she corrected, feeling an odd chill clutch at her chest. "Do you remember what happened, exactly?"

He eyed his empty glass. Eleanor caught the bartender's gaze, and nodded. She dug into her purse and placed a coin on the table.

When Cappy had gotten his third whiskey, he began telling the stories he recalled, and the incident when Damien fell into the sea and was lost. His recollection was much like Amos's entry into the log. It did nothing to reassure Eleanor, however.

"Was there an attempt to rescue him?" she asked.

"Oh, sure. Amos tried. We all did, but the sea, she was a choppy one that day. And that Dante. It took three of us to keep him from jumpin' into the drink after his brother." The old salt shook his head.

"Ain't often that we lost one so young," he said, his voice pensive. "They was a rambunctious pair, them two. Damien, the older boy, done his work, though. That Dante." He shook his head. "Amos whipped him to shape him up, but there was no tamin' him."

The thought of being whipped made Eleanor's skin hurt. "So Amos really whipped him?"

"Yup. Often and hard. But not just to be mean, although, if you'll excuse me, Miz Rayburn, Amos could be cruel. I don't mean no offense."

"None taken, Cappy. Did … did the whippings leave scars?"

"You betcha," Cappy answered with a nod. "I hear tell that after his brother died, the hellion went off and got himself royally tattooed, attempting to cover them." He shrugged. "I don't know if he succeeded or not. Ain't heard nothing about him since."

She thanked him, wished him well, and left the tavern. Although it was getting dark, and the docks were not a decent place for a woman no matter what the time, she decided to walk home.

The day wind that constantly buffeted the shoreline had died down, and she occasionally got a whiff of tangy salt air peppered with the odor of rotting fish. Every now and then, through an open window, she smelled someone's dinner cooking.

She walked through The Common, beginning to get a picture of who Dante Templeton was.

Although it sounded a bit dramatic, maybe he was a man out for revenge, and she, the wife of the man he probably blamed for his brother's death, was his target. If that were the case, it was no wonder that he was barely civil.

As she made her way up Pinckney, she wondered if she should confront him with the truth. He would probably deny it. No one wants to look into his own soul and discover that he's wrong. Especially not a man like Dante Templeton.



The blue-footed booby is an unforgettable sight. While named after the Spanish word "bobo," meaning dunce, because they would not fly away when approached to be killed, they are extraordinary divers and can often be seen diving into the ocean from sixty or seventy feet in the air.

Their feet are a bold, striking blue and they have some comical courting rituals, dancing toward one another, plodding about, showing off as if to say, "Look at me, am I not beautiful with my big, blue feet?"

Dante blotted what he'd written, placed the sheets carefully in the drawer, then checked the time. His guest would arrive soon.

After settling himself into one of two plush leather wing chairs that bracketed the marble fireplace in his library, Dante gazed around the room he loved. It was his favorite.

His most recent additions to the room were built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, something he realized he needed when he discovered he was stacking his much used reference books beneath his desk and behind the chairs because he had no more room for them in his freestanding bookcases.

The walls had been painted in deep, warm tones. One of his two favorite paintings, the one of his ship, Whispering Winds, painted by the elegant Chester Harding, hung from silk cords over the fireplace.

Dante never ceased to marvel at the intricacy of the piece. All twenty-one sails were clearly defined. He always felt that if a stiff wind should somehow enter the library, Whispering Wind's sails would fill and his vessel would sail away, so realistic was the image.

The other was a sketch that he, himself, had done of Damien, from memory, a number of years ago. It hung between the windows above the Hepplewhite-inspired card table.

Except for his cottage at the end of Nahant Peninsula, this was the one room where Dante felt the most at home, probably because he had furnished it himself, with pieces he loved. He could usually think clearly in this room.

While he waited, he thought about what he actually knew of Sylvester Conway. He had heard that the man was widowed, but no one remembered him ever having had a wife. It could have been before he moved to Boston from Providence. Young women died in childbirth all the time.

But as long as Dante had known Sylvester, he had lived with his mother, a difficult, demanding, controlling woman. Dante had a hard time believing Theodora Conway would approve of Sylvester taking a bride. Or another bride, if that truly were the case. And if Sylvester did, indeed, bring one home, Dante would pity her. Even if that bride was Eleanor Rayburn.

He glanced toward the door just as Sylvester came through it, and raised his glass. Sylvester gave his greatcoat, hat, and umbrella to Horace, Dante's manservant, and joined him for a drink.
Nine

Sylvester lowered himself into the wing chair opposite Dante, his oversized reddish eyebrows raised in question. "Nice of you to invite me for a drink, Dante, but I must admit I was a bit surprised."

Dante understood that. Except for large gatherings, they hadn't socialized. Dante had an excuse ready for just such an occasion. "I thought you might be interested in hearing about my last trip." He gave him a generous smile. "You invested in that one, you know."

Sylvester accepted a drink from Horace. "Why, yes. Where did you go this time?"

The fire crackled in the highly polished marble fireplace. "The Galapagos Islands."

Sylvester frowned and mouthed the words Galapagos Islands. "Where are they, again?"

"Off the coast of South America, between five and six hundred miles west of Ecuador." Dante rose from his chair, crossed to the rolling globe stand, and rolled it over to where Sylvester sat. "Here," he said, pointing to a tiny group of islands in the eastern Pacific Ocean.

Sylvester reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. He leaned forward and studied the area. "And did you find what you were looking for?"

That question always made Dante smile. He never knew what he would find, anywhere. So many places he had studied were in the path of the shipping lanes or the whalers; those were the places Dante knew he would find trouble, especially after the whalers and other hunters had discovered the barrage of riches to be taken from the sea.

"The Galapagos are relatively isolated, although they haven't been completely spared."

He rolled the globe back to its place near his desk then returned to his chair. "It was my second visit, and I'm now doing everything I can to see that the entire marine population isn't wiped out. I have a report nearly ready to publish. Would you care to read some of it?"

Sylvester nodded, pensive. "Indeed I would. Since I'm not much of an adventurer myself, I thrive on the adventures of others."

Dante went to his littered desk, rummaged a moment, then came up with what he wanted. "You might find this interesting," he answered, handing the paper to his guest.

Sylvester read, his expression grave. "This is true? About those giant turtles?"

With a nod, Dante answered, "I've known ships to return from there with hundreds of live tortoises stacked upside down on top of each other in the holds for over a year with no food or water. Apparently they can still be made into fine soup, even after that sort of treatment."

"That's barbaric," Sylvester remarked, with a shake of his head and a frown. He studied Dante for a moment. "Have you heard of this Darwin fellow, and his outrageous ideas on— what does he call it—'natural selection'?"

"Yes, but I haven't read his papers through yet."

"What do you think about that? It's rather far-fetched, wouldn't you say?"

Dante was in no mood to get into a lively discussion about something he found fascinating and his guest felt was nonsense.

One of Darwin's theories, that thirteen similar species of finches probably descended from one original species, particularly fascinated Dante.

It was realistic to believe that after arriving on the Galapagos, each finch produced offspring that were slightly different from the parent.

In these new environs, some of the chicks were better suited to survive. Those reached maturity and produced young, passing on the new genetic traits to their offspring. Darwin noted that now, some had short, thick beaks for splitting seeds, and others had long, thin bills for catching insects.

But he didn't want to discuss this with Sylvester Conway. "Ask me again when I've finished reading his theory."

Sylvester smiled and nodded blandly. "Do you enjoy what you do?"

Dante stood again, went to the side table, and poured each of them another brandy. "I love what I do. I can't imagine doing anything else," he admitted. "There are times, however, when we've been at sea for months, or even years, that I admit to longing for home," he added with a smile.

"Oh? How so?"

Dante thought about the trials and tribulations of sea travel. "One gives up a lot of creature comforts to go to sea, Sylvester."

"Yes," he responded. "I imagine so."

But Dante knew that no one would understand the massive planning that had to be done on a ship unless they had been on one. On his last voyage, he'd had a crew of seventy-four, which included medical men, a chaplain, and a ship's artist, who recorded the places they visited, and the animal and plant life they found there.

And in addition to the food they had to take, they also had to come prepared for the inevitable scurvy by packing pickles, dried apples, and lemon juice. Toward the end of that voyage, weevils had invaded the biscuits. Other sources of meat, besides weevils, he thought wryly, were stored in brine.

Sylvester cleared his throat. "What do you do for drinking water when you're gone so long?"

Dante smiled, pleased with the question. "Whispering Winds holds fifteen tons of fresh water. Of course, we use every opportunity to get more whenever we can."

Sylvester nodded, although Dante wasn't sure he really understood. "So, Sylvester. Are you keeping busy?" he asked, handing his guest the snifter.

Sylvester cleared his throat again. "Well, yes and no. Mother has been in Newport for the past few months, taking in the sea air." He ran a stubby finger around his collar, as if it were suddenly too tight. "She still has much to say about the business, you know. She finds your research very interesting, by the way. She reads each article with zeal."

"A very intelligent woman," Dante answered, not at all surprised, for Theodora Conway was not in the least bit handsome or attractive. "But I find it unusual that a woman would find such things of interest."

Sylvester laughed quietly. "You'd be surprised. Actually, I find intelligent women very stimulating."

Ah, Dante thought, now that was no surprise. And he had offered the perfect segue. "I … I hear you've been keeping company with, ah …" He pretended to deliberate, as if trying to remember what he'd heard.

Sylvester blushed and cleared his throat again. "Eleanor Rayburn."

Dante appeared thoughtful. "Rayburn … Rayburn … I've heard that name somewhere.…" His voice drifted off.

"She's Calvin Simmons' sister," Sylvester offered. "She's widowed."

Dante nodded. "Ah, yes. Is it serious, then?"

Sylvester laughed, a nervous, almost feminine sound. "Oh, my, no. Well," he amended, "I'm not really sure."

Dante swirled his drink, watching the firelight glint off the amber liquid. "Odd, I thought I heard that you had become engaged."

Sylvester had taken a long pull on his drink, and Dante's words sent him into a coughing fit.

Horace was at his side immediately with a glass of water. Sylvester nodded his thanks, got control of himself, then pulled out a handkerchief to mop his high, freckled forehead.

"Wherever did you hear such a thing?" The man's pale eyes were wide with what almost looked like fear.

Dante waved away the question. "I don't remember. Perhaps I was mistaken."

Sylvester took a small sip of his drink. "Truthfully, I could … marry a woman like that. She's demure, kind, intelligent, and she has a sweet disposition. I don't believe I have ever heard her raise her voice or do anything not becoming to a lady."

Now it was Dante who nearly choked on his brandy as the memory of the sting of her palm revisited his cheek. "And your lovely mother? Does she feel the same way about the woman?"

Sylvester continued to sweat. "Actually, Mother hasn't met her yet."

That was a meeting Dante would pay to see. He also had the distinct feeling that whatever Theodora Conway wanted was what Sylvester would do.

After Sylvester left, Dante continued to drink his brandy, becoming more ill-humored with each snifter he downed. He glanced up when Horace stepped into the room.

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

Dante stared at him. "Horace, do you remember how we met?"

"Of course, sir. It was a day I shall never forget."

"Nor I," Dante answered, somewhat chagrined. "You pulled me out of a London brothel before my bankroll was stolen."

"Yes, sir. I thought it was high time the madam quit doctoring the drinks," Horace recalled, his smile grim.

Dante shook his head. "She wasn't a very attractive woman, was she?"

"No, sir, she was not a handsome woman, but she was very sharp."

"Sharp," Dante repeated. "And intelligent?"

With a quick nod, Horace answered, "Oh, yes, sir."

Dante waved to the chair opposite him. "Pour yourself a drink, Horace, then have a seat. I want to ask you something."

Horace raised his eyebrows, but did as he was told, then took a seat across from Dante.

"Do you like intelligent women?"

"Do I like them, sir?"

"Yes, as opposed to, you know, beautiful ones."

Horace attempted to stop a smile, but failed. "That's a very dangerous question, sir, for you are implying that a woman cannot be both."

Dante shrugged. "I've never known them to be."

"Pardon me for saying so, sir, but you obviously have not looked very hard."

Dante hunched into his seat and frowned. "Oh, I expect they're out there, all right, but … don't you find their intelligence exasperating and bothersome?"

Horace nodded slowly. "Sometimes. But I also find them stimulating. Personally," he began carefully, "If I had to choose, I would rather spend the rest of my days with an intelligent woman than with a beautiful one. I believe her intellect would not only keep me interested, but in time, tend to make her more beautiful, in my eyes, anyway."

They sat together in silence, then. Horace finished his drink and stood. "Will that be all, sir?"

Dante nodded. "Thank you, Horace. Would you extinguish the lamps, please?"

Horace nodded. "Shall I prepare your bed clothes, sir?"

"No," Dante answered. "Go on to bed. And thank you, again. Good night."

Dante sat in the library, the only light coming from the waning fireplace fire. Was that what was missing from his life? An intelligent woman who could match him wit for wit?

He swore. In his own house this evening, he had been in the minority. Sylvester and Horace, both honest, honorable men, admitted to preferring intelligence over beauty.

And if Sylvester did, indeed, marry Eleanor, he would certainly be gaining an intelligent woman. But … beautiful? No. She wasn't beautiful.

But a part of him, some deep, dark, secret pocket inside him, didn't want her wasting her time with a mama's boy. A milquetoast. She deserved someone who could match her ire. Her fire.



What Eleanor had learned from Cappy Galvin kept her thinking of little else. She had pored over The Dragon's log, reading and rereading the section involving the fatal accident, and each time she wondered if such an incident could have caused Dante to still carry a grudge against Amos. He had been, after all, just a boy at the time. It would be natural for him to carry around some grief. And obviously, at the time he had himself tattooed, he was still angry about the incident. But would any sensible, reasonable adult continue to go through life with a chip on his shoulder because of something that had happened fifteen years before?

Perhaps she was reading something into Dante's treatment of her. Perhaps he simply didn't like her. He had told her plainly enough that he didn't care for intelligent women. And she was certain he didn't believe she could handle a ship and a crew. It was possible that he didn't even remember Amos's name, and had put the entire incident aboard The Dragon out of his mind.

No matter what he felt, he had no right to treat her as he did. She wanted to have it out with him, once and for all. It ate at her day and night, and she thought she might go mad if she didn't face him.

She got her chance the following week, when he sauntered into the music room at the orphanage as she was straightening up. She had kept The Dragon's log with her, just in case she was able to confront him. Now, it sat on the bookshelf, a tattered reminder of a truth she was certain Dante Templeton didn't want to know.

They were alone, a situation she normally tried to avoid, because he caused so much destruction— mental, emotional, and physical— inside her, despite her vow to the contrary.

They didn't speak at first. He took a leisurely stroll around the room; she watched him. He was tall and straight, yet he did not carry himself like a seaman, not like Amos had. This man before her carried himself like a panther.

His shoulders were wide and thick. His waist was minimal; his hips more so.

He briefly turned away from her, and she cast a furtive glance at his buttocks. She told herself she was merely assessing him, nothing more. But as she noted that his trousers fitted over his bottom, sculpting them, making them appear as hard as a flexed forearm, she felt that awful fluttering in her stomach, and glanced away.

"How is your job?" he asked, interrupting her appraisal.

She blushed at where her thoughts had been and gave him her back, making a great show of stacking some songbooks onto a shelf. "Fine." Her voice was terse, more out of anger with herself than with him.

She turned. "Might I have a word with you?"

His response was to raise his eyebrows. They arched over heavily lidded dark eyes. Eyes that had a fringe of black, spiky lashes above and beneath. But they were menacing eyes. Bedroom eyes, she realized, that he undoubtedly and intentionally used to reel female victims into his bed like flounder into a fishing boat.

She shoved away the vision and concentrated on the result— he was a user. Women meant nothing to him. She had seen that first hand, by the way he had treated his mistress. And, she realized, trying to force down the flush that seeped into her face and neck, the way he had treated her that same night.

She exhaled, the sound loud in her ears, and suddenly she didn't know how to begin. For days she had been planning this. For days she had thought of nothing else. He was such an exasperating man, one who could, without even trying, scramble a woman's brain.

Nervous, she blinked and cleared her throat, bringing her hand to her collar to stop the erratic pounding of her pulse. "I think I know why you won't release my whaler." She still didn't know this for certain, but she didn't know how else to begin.

One jet-black eyebrow went up, and Dante leaned against the wall, his thick arms bulging against his crisp white shirt as he crossed them over his chest. "Enlighten me."

She sucked in a gulp of air, and on its release, the words tumbled out so quickly, she nearly tripped on them. "I think it's because you blame my late husband Amos for your brother Damien's death and since you can't take it out on him, you're taking it out on me."

Dante's menacing eyes narrowed. He shoved himself away from the wall, crossed the room, and stood so close to her, she could see the flecks of fire in his irises.

"Don't you dare speak my dead brother's name." His breath smelled of sweetened coffee and his words were quiet, but his rage was palpable.

"Wh—"

"You, of all people," he spat, glaring at her with loathing.

Eleanor stepped back, suddenly afraid.

He stalked her. "Their names should not be used in the same sentence. Even the thought of him," he accentuated, "fouls the very air I breathe. And you," he growled, pointing at her, "are every bit as bad as he was."

He had backed her up against the wall. His nostrils flared, his eyes filled with fire. Angry heat flowed between them, and there was a trace of man-smell that heightened her fear.

"Me?" she squeaked. "What did I do?"

He grabbed her chin, his touch surprisingly gentle considering the level of his ire. "You married the son-of-a-bitch. You let him put his disgusting hands on you."

She stared at him, startled at his words, and flinched with rage. "How dare you! My marriage is none of your business and has nothing to do with this."

Other than disgust, his gaze was unreadable. "Did he beat you as he did me?"

Astonished at such a question, she replied, "He was not a monster."

"Like hell he wasn't." Dante tore open his shirt, the buttons scattering. He exposed the expanse of the dragon she had seen the first time she laid eyes on him. In spite of her revulsion, her gaze was riveted on his chest.

The sight of the dragon was nothing compared to the scars it was meant to cover. Long, angry lashes, healed into tough, fibrous furrows crisscrossed his chest, from the base of his neck to the waistband of his slick, black trousers, where they disappeared. Woven into the disfigurement was the dragon, the ragged, puckered, tattooed skin looking like the dragon's scaly hide.

"You can't believe it, can you?" His voice was deadly. "But it doesn't end here," he added, running a finger along the top of his trousers. He unbuttoned the top button. "Do you want to see the rest?"

Eleanor turned away and brought a hand to her mouth, shuddering against it. Never had she imagined such a thing.

"Do you think I enjoyed these beatings?" His voice was threatening.

She couldn't speak. She glanced back at his torso, feeling her own skin ache as though it had been scalded with boiling water.

He shoved his shirt into his trousers. "I did not enjoy it, and I did not deserve it." His wrath was unmistakable.

A muscle in his jaw worked and his eyes were mere slits in his face. He spun away from her and strode to the window.

Eleanor could not have imagined his reaction. She had thought to have a civil conversation with him. She had thought to make him understand that he had altered the facts in his own mind. Oh, what a stupid ninny she was! If he had once thought her a sanctimonious fool, his instincts were no doubt now carved in stone.

"I had no idea it had been so severe …" She inhaled, surprised to hear the rattle of tears in her voice.

He spun from the window, his emotions barely leashed. "Now. What was it you were going to discuss with me?"

She couldn't back down. Surely the worst was over. Braver because of that thought, she said, "You and Damien were cabin or steerage boys aboard The Dragon."

She waited for a response; she wasn't disappointed.

His features hardened further. "And what fairytale did that murderous bastard tell you? That Damien's death was my fault? That I am to blame for his fall into the ocean?"

She refused to falter. "Yes." Her voice was barely audible.

He stood still as stone; the only thing moving was a muscle in his jaw. The air between them was thick with emotion.

Suddenly he was at the piano, and he brought his fist down hard upon the top. The harp encased in the cherry wood hummed. "He let him drown. He let my brother sink to his death! I ran to the side." His eyes were bleak. "I had to save him. He was my brother, don't you see?"

His fingers raked through his hair. "They pulled me back. I watched him go under. Do you know what that vision does to me every day of my life? Do you?"

She, too, had watched someone die, but she said nothing. She feared that Dante had suffered more from Damien's death than she had from Amos's. But she continued, intent on saying everything she had started out to.

"It … it didn't happen that way," she argued softly, understanding his pain.

He had gained control, eyeing her dangerously. "And how, madam, did it happen?"

She ignored his sarcasm. "If it were just Amos who claimed that he had tried to save Damien, I might have wondered at the truth. I knew he could be cruel," she admitted. "But one of his crewmen remembers it the same way. You …" She hesitated. Dante had turned away from her again and was staring out the window.

"You were playing on the rigging. Damien tried to coax you down."

He didn't turn, but he didn't interrupt her.

She licked her lips and inhaled a shuddery breath. "When you wouldn't come down, he climbed up to get you. He … slipped and fell into the sea."

"And Amos Rayburn let him drown." There was curdling bitter-tasting hatred in his voice.

She shook her head. "No. The weather was bad, the sea choppy. The log indicated that was the case. Here," she said, pulling the log from the bookcase where she had put it. "Amos's crewman confirmed it. He said there had been an attempt at a rescue, but to no avail."

When he would not take the log, she dropped it onto the top of the piano and released a breath.

He still stared outside, not moving.

Eleanor walked to the door. "For what it's worth, Amos felt responsible, nevertheless. I know he was a hard taskmaster, I saw that first hand.

"But … I always believed he truly cared for the boys who sailed with him. He was hard on them because he wanted them to learn. To survive. He—" Her throat clogged and her eyes stung. "He always wanted a son of his own," she finished, her voice breaking.

She hurried out of the music room, closing the door quietly behind her, anxious to lick her own wounds.



Dante's insides were cold. He had heard the hitch in her voice, knew she was thinking of her own child, lost at sea. It hadn't touched him. Had he wanted to, he could have reduced her to a quivering mass of sorrow and disbelief: He could have told her Amos Rayburn's history. Yet he had not. He didn't know why.

He didn't want to believe a word of what she'd told him. That would make him responsible, and God help him, he couldn't live with that. He couldn't.

His memory of the events leading up to Damien's death was the only thing he'd had all these years. It couldn't have been any other way. It couldn't.

Slowly he turned and eyed the leather-bound book on the piano.
Ten

At first, Dante had thought to drink himself into oblivion. One brandy had turned into two. With the third, he poured in some schnapps he had picked up in Holland the year before. He drank two of those as well.

All the while he drank, he stared at the log, which sat on his nightstand, the battered cover beckoning him. Finally, he swore and picked it up, opening to the first page. There, in Amos Rayburn's script, was the date, the name of the ship, and the destination.

Dante pushed away the black, blinding anger and began to read. At first, he looked for falsities so he could prove to himself that what Rayburn had written hadn't happened. He read into the night, very often reliving sightings and kills, even remembering the smells that had permeated the deck, smells he had found exhilarating— at the time. Now, when he watched a whaler sail into port, heavy with barrels of oil, he was offended. Angry. Frustrated that he could do so little about it.

At last, as the dawn crept into his bedroom, he admitted to himself that for fifteen years he had altered the truth to save himself from blame. For fifteen years he had carried around a pocket of bile near his heart, a hatred so strong it was a wonder he hadn't killed someone, or himself.

In his youth, he had been defiant and disorderly. He had hated the captain's strict rules, his dour expression, his humorless attitude. He had pushed everyone's patience to the limit, even Damien's.

Damien. Dante slouched on the bed, the log dangling from his fingers. How many times had he wondered what he and his brother would be doing if Damien hadn't died?

But he had died. And Dante was responsible. He tossed the log onto a chair by the bed. Maybe he had known that all along. Some small part of his brain, some missive that had been neatly folded and tucked away until now made him realize that he wasn't all that surprised to learn the truth.

He missed Damien. He always would. He blamed himself for what happened; he should be held accountable. It was a burden he would carry with him for the rest of his life. But he would punish no one, not even himself, any longer.

And, if he were a vindictive man, with information only he had, he could cause Eleanor's life to tumble down around her. But there were things better left unsaid. Had he wanted to use his ammunition, he should have done it months ago. And for some reason he couldn't understand, he hadn't.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he realized he had the morning free. He had scheduled a meeting of some of his investors after lunch. There was one errand he wanted to run before his day was filled up.

He called for Horace and ordered a bath and a shave, anxious to be on his way.



Eleanor knew she would be late getting to the orphanage because Willa insisted she do a few chores first. It was her way of punishing Eleanor for not showing more interest in Sylvester.

The doorbell rang as Eleanor was dragging a rolled up rug through the foyer. She dropped the end, stepped to the door, and opened it.

Her stomach dropped. She automatically started to smooth back her hair, then stopped herself. "Mr. Templeton," she said with a nod.

His smile was wide and friendly. "When are you going to start calling me Dante?"

She brought a finger to her chin and appeared thoughtful. "When swine take flight, perhaps?" She didn't hide her sarcasm.

His hearty laugh so startled her, she nearly stumbled backward.

"I am returning The Dragon's log," he said, producing it with a flourish.

"Thank you." She gave him a wary look, then took the book from him.

"Now, as a way of apology, I would like to show you something."

Surprised at his attitude, she answered, "You … read the log?"

"From cover to cover. And then again."

"I see." Did she? "So, you no longer believe Amos was responsible for your brother's death?"

"That is correct."

That had to mean he finally had come to terms with what actually had happened. "Then, you'll release my whaler?"

He continued to smile. "No."

"But—"

"I won't be held accountable for allowing another whaler on the seas, Eleanor. However," he said, holding up his hand to keep her from speaking, "it's not for the reason you think."

Exasperated, she placed her hands on her hips. "Then, why?"

"Eleanor," he began, ignoring her pique, "do you like dolphins?"

Puzzled, she said, "Of course. Who doesn't?"

"Do you believe that a man could dive underwater and swim with one?"

She laughed, surprised. "Well," she said giving it some thought, "I've never heard of it."

She recalled dolphin sightings at sea, remembering how playful and almost intelligent they appeared. They didn't seem dangerous, like the sharks or whales, but no one entertained the thought of diving in to find out. "It seems unlikely, but … I guess anything is possible."

He seemed pleased with her answer. "I'd like to show you something. Will you accompany me to my townhouse?"

She was taken aback. "You want me to go to your home?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" he said with a laugh.

She tossed a quick glance at the clock. "I'm already late for the orphanage, and I haven't finished my chores …"

"I'll haul this rug outside for you and drive you to the Sheltering Arms if you will do this one small thing for me."

"You will?"

"Indeed," he responded, still sounding friendly. It was as if someone else had taken control of his body.

She glanced down at her clothes. "I really should change into something else."

"You look fine," he assured her.

She raised a cynical eyebrow. Well, that was a first. "What will this serve?"

Suddenly he was serious. "You will learn what it is that I do. And you will understand why I can't deliver your whaler."

Eleanor drew a deep breath, expelling it slowly. She needed to find out why he wouldn't release her vessel. That was reason enough to go, if there was no other.

"I guess it would be all right," she said.

His smile dazzled. "Of course it will."

Suddenly from behind her, Eleanor heard footsteps. She tensed until Lydia spoke.

"Hello, Mr. Pirate."

Dante bowed. "Mademoiselle princess. You look lovely today."

She came and stood next to Eleanor, who noticed she was wearing some of Butterfly's gaudy jewelry and had swept her hair on top of her head, holding it there with a strip of cloth.

Lydia took a step forward. "Did you know that 'dreamt' is the only word in the English language that ends in 'mt'?"

Dante nodded. "Ah, very interesting. But did you know that the giant squid has the largest eyes in the world?"

Lydia studied him seriously. "You sure know a lot about the sea."

"Perhaps," he offered, "but when I was your age, I didn't know half of what you know." He nodded toward Eleanor, then picked up the carpet and slung it over his shoulder. He gave her a questioning look, and she motioned to the back of the house.

"I shall return," he promised.

Both Lydia and Eleanor continued to stare at the door.

"I think he's the handsomest, most nicest man I've ever met," Lydia commented. She turned to Eleanor. "Don't you, Aunt Ellie?"

Eleanor raised her eyebrows, still mentally reeling from the change in him. "Well, he's certainly the most unpredictable."



She sat next to him in his carriage, certain that every eye was watching as they drove to his house.

If she had only known him as he was today, a handsome, pleasant gentleman with a dazzling smile, she might have fallen in love with him herself. But that was a foolish thought. She wasn't his type, and he certainly wasn't hers. She could, however, imagine having a man like him for a friend, if he could fight his way out of antiquity and treat her as his equal.

They stopped in front of a handsome Welles-Gray duplex townhouse at the corner of Kingston and Summer. It was painted gray to emulate stone, but she knew that it was built of brick.

"This form of housing was introduced by Charles Bulfinch, wasn't it?"

He shot her a look of surprise. "Yes. How did you know that?"

She chuckled, a low sound that came from her chest. "Like Lydia, I have a head filled with useless trivia."

He continued to stare at her, and she found it extremely disconcerting. Finally he alit and came around to help her out.

She had to force herself not to gape in awe when she stepped into the entrance hall. Directly in front of her was a grand staircase with Georgian-style turned balusters and a mahogany handrail. To the right, down a hall that led to another part of the house, was a marble-topped walnut sideboard flanked by two balloon-back side chairs with embroidered stitching in the cushions. A handsome seascape in a heavy gold frame was hung from silk cords over the sideboard.

"I'm already impressed," she said honestly.

He removed her cape and hung it on the oak mirrored hall rack to the left of the staircase and put her gloves and bonnet on the seat.

As Eleanor continued to admire the foyer, a trim man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair stepped into view.

"Horace," Dante said, "this is Mrs. Eleanor Rayburn. We'll be in the library. Would you have Mrs. McGill prepare some tea?"

Horace glanced at Eleanor, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. With a nod in her direction, he said, "Of course, sir."

Dante led Eleanor into his library.

Eleanor stopped and stared. "Oh, my," she said, barely above a whisper. She gazed at the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, filled top to bottom with books of every size and shape. She was most impressed to see that they all looked well used, and weren't there just to impress visitors.

"I want to show you what I'm working on." He took her elbow and led her toward a long pedestal desk, the top of which was barely visible because of stacks of papers and books. He picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to her.

She took them, reading the top sheet. My Quest to Save Marine Life, it said in bold, masculine script, by Dante Templeton.

She opened the first page and began to read. Page after page she leafed through, her interest growing greater with each entry.

This was amazing. He had catalogued plants and animals that she had never even heard of. He'd drawn them in intricate detail, dividing them into the sections of the oceans where they thrived.

Carrying the papers with her, she crossed to one of a pair of comfortable-looking wing chairs that flanked a low table, curled up in it, and continued to read Dante's scripted words.

He wrote of "swimming with dolphins," describing their intelligence and humor as if they were human. He wrote of waters so blue, they took his breath away, of passive yet extremely unsightly lizards called "land iguanas" and agile, slick marine iguanas that could attach themselves to the rocks and withstand the blasts from the waves. And of turtles so old, they had seen a century come and go.

I came across a tortoise weighing well over two hundred pounds eating a cactus. The leader of the settlement on Charles Island explained that once they had found one so large, it had taken eight men to lift it and when they butchered it, it gave over two hundred pounds of meat.

I also discovered that the tortoises that live in the higher elevations where it is lush and green are fond of water and will travel great distances to get it. They can drink large quantities and when their bladders are distended with fluid, it is like a storage place.

After a long period without drinking, the volume of fluid decreases and the fluid itself becomes less pure. The locals, if they find themselves thirsty down on the dry coastal plain, will often kill a tortoise just to drink the contents of the bladder.

But what if they continue this slaughter? What happens to this unique animal, when they have disappeared because of the ease with which the natives have killed it for food and drink?

Although I find it abhorrent that a man will kill a tortoise because he needs food, when there is other, more abundant prey available, it's abominable to think the species could die out because men kill them so they can drink their urine.

His words, so passionate and insightful, held her spellbound.

Because the room was warm, Eleanor absently unbuttoned the top two buttons of her gown and fanned herself with the papers she held in her hand.

Someone stepped to her side. She looked up to find Horace holding a tray with tea service and some delightful fruit-filled cookies. He placed the tray on the low table.

"Mr. Dante will return soon, madam," he informed her.

She glanced up, surprised and foolishly frightened at the thought of being in his home alone. "He's gone?"

Another almost-smile. "No, madam. He's in the kitchen with Mrs. McGill, the cook."

She frowned, finding it an unlikely place for a man like Dante. "Does he often hang about in the kitchen?"

When Horace graced her with a kind smile, she wished she hadn't spoken.

"As often as he must, madam." He turned to leave.

"Horace?"

He turned at the door. "Madam?"

"Have you been with Mr. Templeton a long time?"

"Many years."

His eyes softened when he spoke, and Eleanor instinctively knew he and Dante had forged a strong bond. She also had the feeling there was something between them that bridged the gap between man and servant.

She raised a sheet of paper toward him. "How long has he been doing this?"

"For many years, madam."

"Does he often leave for lengthy periods of time?"

Horace thought a moment. "I believe the longest he has been away is three years. He has a similar voyage coming up next year, I think."

Eleanor sank against the back of the chair. "Three years," she almost whispered. That was a long time to be away from home. It was as bad as whaling.

Once again her gaze went to the tea and the plate of cookies. "Horace, I'd like to freshen up before I have tea."

"Yes, madam. Up the stairs and second door to your right."

Eleanor took the stairs, glancing at the pictures that graced the walls on the way up. They were mostly of the sea and ships.

At the top of the stairs she turned right and found herself in what was undoubtedly Dante's bedroom. Feeling a bit flustered, she was about to return to the hall when an enormous picture on the far wall caught her eye. With a pinch of guilt, she crossed the floor and, while a flush crept into her cheeks, she studied the painting.

She had seen a smaller print of it before. It was, she remembered, called The Happy Lovers, painted by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. She stepped back to gain a better perspective of the voluptuous young woman who was being embraced and kissed by a handsome young man.

It wasn't a cynically sexual picture. It was purely about love. The young woman in the picture was naked, and the young man clothed. He supported her back with manly ease. As beautiful as the painting was, Eleanor guessed that it was not painted for a woman's fantasy, but purely for a man's.

Intrigued with his choice in art, she crossed to a smaller painting near the door, and clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a gasp. Never had she seen one like this! Common sense and propriety urged her to leave the room. Curiosity compelled her to stay.

The illustration depicted a family scene— with a seductive twist. Sitting naked in a chair on a wide, pillared porch was a man. He held a naked woman on his lap. One hand fondled her bosom, the other rested on her soft stomach. He had … entered her, for her legs were eagerly spread.

Although Eleanor scornfully wondered if the two had actually sat for the portrait, she found it hard to keep her eyes off it.

The woman's head was turned, and she caught the man's kiss. Her hands rested on a child's bed. A child reclined inside. The etching was signed Marcantanio Raimondi.

Beside the painting, in an ornate brushed gold frame, was a poem. She bent to read it.

Sleep, my child, close your eyes

Like the song says.

And you, and you, charming mother,

See how the assault of my cock wakes up your con

Eleanor's blush deepened, but she read on:

What a most enjoyable exercise

Regular movement, my how you are sweet!

We do our jobs very well, us two

I cradle, I rock, and you screw.

At the bottom was a name— Pietro Aretino. Eleanor released a giddy, if astonished breath and stood mesmerized.

Realizing that she was loitering in a very dangerous area, she rushed from the room. On the landing, she nearly bumped into Horace.

"You found the room, madam?"

She nodded in quick, jerky movements, then all but ran down the stairs. Once in the library again, she caught her breath, pressing a shaky hand to her heart to keep it from flying from her chest. When she was certain her hands had stopped trembling, she poured herself a cup of tea, sipping it slowly, scolding herself for sneaking around in Dante's bedroom.

Her embarrassment served her right. But he need never know. And she surely wouldn't tell him!

Although she scolded herself for thinking about it, she wondered how many women had been invited into his bedroom. In other words, how many women had he pleasured? Many, she had no doubt. And he was probably very good at it.

And although she would never admit it to another soul, even she had felt those fleeting stirrings of arousal when she studied the art.

A thought began to germinate in her mind, but she shoved it away, for it was too outrageous to consider.

She inhaled deeply and appraised the library. In this room there were no lewd and sexual pictures. At least, she thought, eyeing the bookcase with a bit of skepticism, not visible. The room had warmth. Dante no doubt loved it dearly.

Feeling warm near the fire, she placed her teacup on the table and crossed to a tall display cabinet. Inside, enhanced by the mirrored back, she found rows of scrimshawed whales' teeth.

She scolded herself for snooping, but decided that nothing she saw here could possibly be as outrageous as what she'd seen upstairs. She opened the doors and studied the pieces further. Most were of ships or whales or other marine life. But one, she noticed, was of a young man. Curious, she lifted it out and studied it.

It was a drawing of a handsome lad, perhaps midteens, with a shock of curly hair and a generous smile. The artist had done a magnificent job in capturing the young man's personality, she thought. She replaced it, shut the cabinet door, and strolled to a folded card table that stood against the wall between the windows, above which was a sketch that she suddenly realized was of the same young man.

Then it hit her. Damien. It had to be. The likeness was not Dante, the hair was wrong, as was the face. Still, there was a similarity.

A sound behind her made her turn. What she saw nearly sent her reeling.

"Who in the devil are you?" The intruder stood in the library doorway, one hand on her hip and the other twirling a blue velvet bonnet by the satin ribbons.
Eleven

Marguerite Banning wore a royal blue dress with a fitted bodice and pagoda sleeves. Her tiered skirt fell effortlessly over her hoops. She looked very beautiful.

Eleanor felt sick to her stomach, but swallowed her unease and stepped forward, planning to introduce herself. "I'm—"

"Do I know you?" the mistress interrupted, eyeing her.

Eleanor forced a tight smile. "We've never been formally introduced, but—"

"I've seen you somewhere," the mistress interrupted again, her smooth, alabaster brow furrowing. She suddenly sighed and shrugged, dismissing the thought. "It doesn't matter. If it had been important, I'm sure I would have remembered."

In an instant, Eleanor's feelings of inadequacy fell away. The woman might be beautiful, but she was crass, shallow, and rude as well. "Yes, you're probably right—"

"But what are you doing here?" she interrupted again.

Eleanor was not feeling one bit remorseful. "Why, Dante invited me." At the mistress's shocked expression, Eleanor continued. "Mrs. McGill prepared tea for us," she said, motioning to the tea tray on the low table.

The mistress continued to frown. "Mrs. McGill?"

"Why, yes. The cook. Surely you know—"

"Yes, yes," the mistress interrupted again with a dismissive swoop of her arm.

Eleanor touched her cheek, noting that it was still warm, undoubtedly from her foray in the forbidden–Dante's bedroom. As she lowered her hand, her fingers grazed her open collar.

Embarrassed at having been caught so ill-dressed, she hastened to button her dress. "I guess I got rather carried away. But then," she said, "you would know much better than I how Dante can make one forget about the time."

She'd meant it sarcastically, but the moment the words were out, she wished she could have taken them back, for they had sounded intimate, and she hadn't meant them to.

The mistress glared at her, her eyes nearly bulging from her head as she discharged a loud shriek. "Dante!"

Surprisingly, Dante stepped into the room. "Marguerite," he said tersely, "what are you doing here?"

The mistress whirled, her hoops nearly displacing half the furniture in the room. "Who is this … this wretched woman?"

He frowned. "You haven't been introduced? Marguerite Banning, this is—"

"I don't give a damn who she is, Dante Templeton. What is she doing here?"

In silence, hoping to be completely unobtrusive, Eleanor watched the exchange, noting that the mistress's complexion had become mottled with rage.

"I believe she was reading." He turned to Eleanor. "You were reading, isn't that right, my dear?"

Eleanor coughed, nearly choking on the intimate address. "Yes, I was … I was reading," she answered honestly. Well, she had been reading before she went upstairs.

The enraged mistress expelled another shriek, her gaze swinging from Dante to Eleanor. "I don't believe you. Either of you. Why, her … her dress was unbuttoned, and … and she as much as admitted that—" she sputtered, unable to continue.

Dante gave her a look of mock disbelief. "Why, Marguerite. We were merely having … tea," he finished, after a suggestive pause.

"Tea!" she spat. She turned, giving Eleanor a scathing look before facing Dante again. "How could you? She … she's nothing. She's no one." The mistress shook her head in disbelief. "Look at her gown. It's … drab and homely and ugly."

By the look in his eyes, Eleanor deemed that Dante had had enough.

"Marguerite, what do you want?"

The mistress pressed a hand to her mouth and looked as though she was trying to gather her wits. "I … I came for my clothes."

Dante steered her toward the door. "Didn't I tell you not to ever come unannounced, and that if you did, you would no longer be welcome here?"

She went with him, although Eleanor wasn't sure how willingly.

"Yes, but … I thought, I mean, I didn't think you meant it." Her voice was meek now, as if she were trying to atone for her appalling behavior.

"I never say things I don't mean." His voice was cold, indifferent. "Horace has put your things in your carriage. Now, good day, Marguerite."

"But … but Dante, darling—"

"Good day, Marguerite," he repeated emphatically.

The front door closed and Eleanor waited, hardly daring to breath, until Dante returned to the library. When he did, he looked at her, his brows gathered over his eyes, and shook a finger at her. "Shame, shame, Eleanor."

Her flush deepened and her guilt at trespassing into his private domain made her defensive. "What? What did I do?" Oh, what if Horace had seen her coming out of Dante's bedroom, and told him so?

"I was returning to the library and overheard your conversation." He tried to bite back a smile. "She doesn't understand subtlety."

Eleanor's shoulders sagged with relief. She hadn't been found out. "I didn't mean to imply anything, Dante, really."

"Don't you dare apologize," he interrupted, barely containing his laughter. "You might have been perfectly serious, but she didn't take it that way. She wouldn't. You see, to her, another woman in my home means only one thing." His gaze was warm and there was hidden meaning in his tone.

Understanding dawned, and Eleanor blushed. "Oh, but surely she couldn't think that I—" Her gaze flew to his, and she couldn't finish the sentence.

Dante merely laughed again. "Do you care what she thinks, Eleanor?"

"I'm not quite sure," she admitted. Actually, she didn't know what she felt. In the first place, she would never willingly hurt another person, but … "I have to admit, seeing her so completely unravel before my very eyes was quite extraordinary."

Warmth lingered in his steady gaze. "Marguerite might be many things, but she is not extraordinary."

Eleanor frowned. "But … she's your … mistress."

He finally glanced away. "Was. She was, Eleanor. She is no longer welcome here."

Eleanor felt light-headed, almost glib. "Oh, but I'm sure she won't be the last."

He looked at her, his countenance oddly introspective. "Why would you say that?"

She straightened, taken aback by his question. "Well, I don't know," she said honestly. "I guess I was thinking …" Her words trailed away before she regained her mental balance.

"There you go, Eleanor, thinking again." He gave her a teasing smile.

She laughed, understanding that he did not mean to insult her. "Come to think of it, you didn't help the situation much, lingering so suggestively over the word … tea." She gave him a wicked smile.

They laughed together, and Eleanor couldn't remember when she'd had such a good time.

"Eleanor," Dante said after he'd caught his breath, "come sailing with me tomorrow."



Later that evening, when he was alone, he realized he'd been thinking about Eleanor a lot. She wasn't beautiful in the normal sense. But she had remarkable eyes, eyes that were wide and intelligent and gathered in everything around her. And her hair was uncommonly luxurious, even though he had never seen it down. And … and her hands. They were small, yet he knew there was strength in them, for she was not a woman to sit about and do nothing.

Horace entered the den. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

Dante motioned to the chair across from him. "Sit a moment, will you?"

Horace complied.

"What did you think of my guest today?"

Horace raised one eyebrow. "Which one?"

Dante cringed, then laughed softly. "Mrs. Rayburn."

Horace studied his employer, then turned his gaze to the fire. "I do believe she is the only woman who has been here and read your papers, sir."

Nodding, Dante replied, "Yes. She's quite intelligent."

One corner of Horace's mouth lifted briefly. "Yes, sir, she is that."

"When I first met her, she annoyed the hell out of me," Dante admitted.

"They will do that, sir."

"I mean," he went on, perplexed at his own feelings, "at one point she laughed at me, and another time she actually slapped me across the face."

"She did seem like she could be a lively companion," Horace commented.

Dante cleared his throat, a little uneasy. "She's rather stiff though, don't you think?"

"Stiff, sir?"

"You know," Dante hedged, "kind of … resistant to … pleasure, if you get my meaning."

Horace offered a knowing smile. "If you permit me to say so, sir, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover."

Dante mulled that over. "Well, I don't know—"

"She requested to wash up before tea. I sent her upstairs, giving her directions to the small water closet next to the linen cupboard."

"And?" Dante probed.

"I believe she took a wrong turn and ended up in your room, sir."

"In my—" He shot Horace a look of pure horror. "My bedroom?" At Horace's nod, Dante sank deeper into his chair, appalled. "And she didn't run from here, screaming?"

"No, sir. But she did have a very becoming blush to her cheeks when I met her on the stairs."

After Horace left, Dante ruminated on their conversation. While at first he was dismayed that Eleanor should have seen his erotica, he finally decided that if they were going to be friends at all, she would have to accept who and what he was: a man who so enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, he hoped he was still able to perform well into his twilight years. She didn't have to like it, she surely wasn't expected to participate in it, but she had damned well better accept it.



There had to have been at the very least a dozen reasons why Eleanor should have refused his invitation: It wasn't proper. She had work to do. It wasn't proper. The children at the orphanage would miss her. It wasn't proper. Sylvester was supposed to call on her that evening. And, above all, it wasn't proper.

In the end, she acquiesced. After all, he had promised to bring Victor, and Eleanor knew it was time for her to get to know the boy better. And with Victor along, it wasn't like they would be alone together. Besides which, Dante had promised that he would have her home before anyone even missed her.

The sun wasn't up yet when she crept, like a thief in the night, from the house. No novice to the mercurial changes in the weather when on the water, she dressed for the occasion, drawing on an old pair of Amos's woolen drawers over her own, beneath her gown.

At her request, Dante picked her up two blocks from Calvin's home. He helped her into the carriage, and she snuggled beneath a lambskin lap robe.

She glanced in the back seat. "I thought you were picking up Victor first."

Dante expelled a long breath of air. "He woke up with a fever this morning."

The brief flash of alarm didn't come as a surprise. "Oh. Then … we'll be alone?"

He slanted her a glance. "Does that make a difference?"

She sighed. "Well, it isn't proper, Dante."

He was quiet a moment, then asked, "Because you're betrothed?"

She flushed. "Oh, it isn't that. And I'm not, you know. Not yet, anyway."

"Do you wish to be?" His voice was cautious.

"To Sylvester? Oh, I don't know. He's a kind man. Quite persistent, really. It … it wouldn't be a bad life." It wouldn't be the life she, in her foolishness, had dreamed about, but she'd almost given up on those silly fantasies.

"I only said that because you had made me so unbelievably angry that day." She didn't even like to think about Sylvester. Why had he brought it up?

Dante made a noncommittal sound in his throat. "Yes, I can be rather pigheaded at times."

She turned and gave him a curt not. "And pompous, and arrogant, and insidious, and vain, and—"

"All right, all right," he conceded. A dry chuckle escaped. "You certainly know how to knock a man down to size."

"I'm just being honest, Dante. I'm sorry that I can't titter and swoon over you like other women. My forthrightness has gotten me into trouble more than once, I'm afraid."

He laughed again. "I can believe that."

She gave him a playful punch on the arm.

They arrived at the wharf and Eleanor lifted her gaze toward the ocean. "Oh, Dante," she said, her voice hushed. "Look."

Dante followed her gaze, and together they looked into the most beautiful sunrise Eleanor had ever seen.



The sunrise, as beautiful as it was, had concerned Dante at first. There was something about it that had been unsettling, but he couldn't put his finger on it. He was a fair sailor, considering the number of times he had been to sea, but his expertise was not in weather warnings. He had always hired someone else to watch the signs.

At the wharf, he had observed Eleanor carefully as they boarded his craft. It was loosely styled after a Dutch canal boat, small yet hardy, and although the canal boat had a flat bottom, Dante's was fashioned for rougher waters, having a keel, or centerboard, that was lowered to prevent the boat from being blown sideways by the wind.

And not surprisingly, he discovered that Eleanor was a reliable, even capable, first mate. She knew starboard from port, fore from aft, she clearly understood that masts, yards, and booms carried the sails, and that shrouds and stays held up the masts. She never questioned his directions, and the only time he had to repeat them was when the wind carried his voice away.

As they sailed passed Castle Island, Dante had relayed an incident that happened fifty years before of a duel that had been fought because one man had accused the other of cheating at cards. A young lieutenant was slain. His friends got his killer drunk, led him to a small chamber deep within one of the fort's lowest dungeons and shackled him to the floor. Then they sealed up the entrance and left the man to die.

Dante had been both amazed and amused by Eleanor's reaction. Unlike any other woman he knew, she did not plead with him to stop or pretend to be fainthearted. Instead she had asked if they had ever found any proof of the story. To his knowledge, they had not. But that was Eleanor— pragmatic, factual, and sometimes irritatingly logical.

They had skirted Lovell's Island, where he had regaled her with stories of buried pirate treasure, shipwrecks, and ill-fated lovers who had frozen to death in each other's arms. There was even a secret tunnel leading to a mysterious fort.

He had planned to have their picnic on Great Brewster, for although there were few trees, wild roses grew in profusion. The intertidal zone and the tidal pools were rich with blue mussels, barnacles, starfish, horseshoe crabs, and sea anemones, living fossils whose history went back hundreds of millions of years, and he had decided Eleanor would enjoy that.

Now she stood at the tiller, facing the wind, her splendid chestnut hair escaping its pins and whipping freely behind her. She looked quite magnificent.

She turned toward him, frowning as she pointed at the sky. Dante's gaze followed, and he felt a stir of alarm. A fog bank crept over the water from the ocean. It came at an alarming speed.

"Can we turn back?" she shouted.

He approached her and took the tiller. "We won't make it."

She gazed at him, her eyes wide, but not frightened. "What will you do?"

He motioned to his right. "That's Great Brewster over there. It's where I had planned to stop, anyway. We'll pull in and hope this thing blows over."

But the fog rolled in upon them, thick and wet and cold, obliterating the shoreline. All Dante could do was pray.
Twelve

The fog shrouded everything in a misty gray cloak. It was like blindness; Eleanor could hardly see her hand in front of her face. Shivering and wet, she dragged herself from the cold water, weighed down by her drenched clothes. "Dante!"

"Eleanor, are you all right?"

His voice came from somewhere in front of her. She followed it, wishing she could push the vapor aside, like a veil covering a doorway. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Are you?"

"Yeah." He sounded disgusted. "Just damned angry, that's all."

She found him beside a drifting piece of the wreckage. "Where are we?"

"I'm not sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say Middle Brewster."

Eleanor peered into the fog, seeing nothing. "How can you tell?"

He bent and picked up a piece of the keel, then tossed it away with disgust. "We smashed against an underwater ledge. Middle Brewster is famous for its hidden ledges and jagged rocks that lie just beneath the surface."

Small pieces of wood washed ashore. "I suppose the hull is damaged," she murmured.

Dante came and stood beside her. "I can fix it, but it might take a while. And it doesn't make any sense to leave now, not in this fog."

She began to shiver again.

Dante swore. "You're freezing. Wait a minute." He left her, waded into the water, and returned with a large package— and the picnic basket!

"Come on," he urged. "If we're where I think we are, there's a thicket of small trees over this way."

She tried not to shake too much, but her clothes felt like they were frozen to her skin. "What do you have in the package?"

He put his arm around her to warm her; she leaned into him. "Provisions."

"W-what k-kind?"

He rubbed her arm as if trying to get her circulation going. "A blanket, a box of matches, and a bottle of brandy, among other things."

She moved her feet methodically; they felt like chunks of wood.

They stopped, and Eleanor could see nothing but a vague, dark shape in the distance. "Here we are," he said. "I'm going to start a fire."

Eleanor collapsed, shivering uncontrollably. "What can I do to help?"

He tossed the package of provisions on the ground in front of her. "Can you open it?"

Slightly peeved that he would think she was helpless, she snapped, "Of course I can open it."

With a wry chuckle, he left her, no doubt to search for wood.

Eleanor fumbled with the twine that held the oilskin package together. Once it was open, she discovered a wool blanket, the matchbox, which she carefully set aside lest her wet clothes should dampen it, a bottle of brandy, and some small tools, the uses of which she couldn't be sure, a long flannel shirt, and a pair of lightweight trousers.

Everything was laid out on the oilskin when Dante returned with an armful of twigs, branches, and driftwood. He dropped them on the ground then arranged them, tenting them against one another. Eleanor pushed the matchbox filled with sulfur matches toward him, and he started the fire. When it caught, it popped and hissed, crackling the wood, snaking into the muzzy air.

"Get out of your wet clothes," he ordered.

She didn't balk. "All of them?"

He tossed her the dry flannel shirt, then turned his back. "All of them."

Eleanor turned away, too. With cold, numb fingers, she disrobed, spreading her clothes over the ground, praying they would dry. Amos's wet, wool drawers gave off an offensive odor, and she wrinkled her nose against it. When she got down to her chemise and drawers and hesitated. "Dante—"

"Eleanor," he interrupted abruptly from behind her, "take off your underwear and lay it by the fire. It will dry in no time."

With a sigh, she did as she was told, then slipped quickly into the shirt. Despite the fact that she wore little, she felt better.

Dante had stripped, too. He wore the dry lightweight trousers, but his chest was bare. The dragon gleamed in the firelight. He lay the oilskin on the ground near the fire and motioned her to sit on it. When she did, he draped the blanket around her shoulders and handed her a cup. "Drink it."

She took a whiff. Brandy. "Shouldn't we eat something first?"

He handed her a rather soggy piece of chicken. "Your wish is my command," he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.

It was delicious. She devoured it, along with a very mushy biscuit, then sipped the brandy. They sat together companionably; words seemed unnecessary.

She felt so at ease with him. It didn't make any sense at all. She took another swig, her stomach beginning to warm. There was a pleasant buzzing in her head. She remembered what she'd been thinking about the day before, after she'd trespassed into his bedroom. "Dante?"

He rose and hunkered near the fire. "Yes?"

"We've sort of become friends, haven't we?"

"Yes, you could say that," he answered.

"I have something to ask you." Last night when she'd gone to bed, she had mulled it over and over in her mind. It was a daring idea, bold, to be sure, and not at all like her. Now, with the brandy buzzing in her brain, she wondered why the thought had bothered her.

"What is it?"

"Well, if I should ever marry again—"

"Sylvester?"

She shrugged. "Perhaps, if he asks me."

Dante was quiet for a long moment. "What about it?"

She wasn't so tipsy she could blurt out just anything; she still had some of her senses left. "Let me preface my request by admitting that I mistakenly entered your very private bedroom the other day, and I'm ashamed to say that I didn't leave immediately."

"Oh?" His voice was cautious.

"I do apologize for that, but … you really do have some very … interesting art." Despite her buzz, her cheeks got hot.

He chuckled, a deep, husky sound. "It's called 'erotica,' Eleanor."

"I know what it's called," she replied, sharper than she meant to.

"Then say it."

She glanced sideways at him. "What?"

"Say the word, Eleanor."

With a little snort, she rejoined, "What will that—"

"Say it."

She cleared her throat. "E … erotica. There. Are you satisfied?"

"Not very," he murmured, almost under his breath. She noticed he was smiling.

"Stop grinning like a fool and let me finish before I sober up and realize that what I'm about to ask you is insane."

He poured her another spot of brandy. "Sorry. Go on."

"Well, as you are completely aware, I am a rather … stern and straightforward woman."

"Stiff."

She cocked her head at him again. "What?"

"The first word I thought of when we met, was 'stiff.' Like your clothes and your body had been dipped in starch and set out in the sun to dry."

Eleanor screwed up her face. "Well, I thought you were nothing but a predatory, painted peacock."

"I remember," he answered, a smile in his voice. "You nearly fainted."

"I didn't," she argued, although she remembered being quite light-headed at the sight of him standing before her, his chest blatantly bare. "I merely thought you were uncivilized, that's all."

"And I thought you were a prim, prissy prude."

She nodded and sighed. "That's why I need your help."

He gave her a cautious look. "You want me to help you, how?"

"Help me understand what makes some women enjoy … mating." The flush crept into her cheeks again.

"Mating?" His voice held laughter.

"You know what I mean," she admonished.

"Like, what makes some women want to share a bed, and much more, with a man?"

She expelled a sigh of relief. "Yes. Thank you for putting it so delicately. And," she added, "explain to me what it is that men want."

"What do men want in bed?"

Eleanor was impatient now. He was acting as dense as a stone. "What is it that your mistresses do that gives you pleasure, you dunce, and why are they willing to do it!"

He laughed out loud. "First of all, they don't call me unflattering names."

"Well, you seem inordinately thick-witted," she remarked.

"And you aren't being particularly clear, Eleanor."

She blinked and cast a nervous glance at his bare chest, then at the ground. "I know. It's just very hard for me to ask such a favor of you." His gaze was on her, and in spite of the buzz in her head, she was embarrassed.

"You want to know how to please a man."

"Exactly," she responded, relieved.

"And what makes you think—"

"I know, I know," she interrupted. "What makes me think I even have the capability for such a skill. I'm a plain woman, and I'm outspoken, I despise empty conversation and, according to you, my intelligence and sarcasm are huge obstacles for me to overcome."

"That wasn't what I was going to say, Eleanor." His voice was soft.

She frowned. "It wasn't?"

"No. I was going to ask you why you thought I could help you."

"It's rather obvious, don't you think? I doubt that you are ever without a mistress. From what I've heard, women practically swoon at your feet. You have an extraordinary affect on them. Why, you even had an effect on me, until I realized that you were just trying to embarrass me."

His expression was puzzled. "When did I try to embarrass you?"

"The night of Calvin's party. In my bedroom."

He smiled grimly, remembering. "Ah, yes." He studied her, his expression curious, almost teasing. "Did my kiss affect you?"

"I will admit that it did, at first." She remembered only too well how surprised she had been after the kiss, waiting for a revulsion to sweep over her that never came. Instead there was an exciting tingling of her lips, and the brisk tempo of her heartbeat.

"And then?" he probed.

"And then I realized that you had done it to shock me, and that you weren't interested in me as a woman. Once I understood that, I could sweep the entire incident aside." And she would never allow herself to dwell on "what if's." She was too practical for that.

"Besides, no one hangs erotica in their bedroom unless they mean to take advantage of it." After all, it had worked on her, and he hadn't even been in the room.

He chuckled that deep, husky sound again. "Dear, sensible Eleanor. You've thought this through quite thoroughly, haven't you?"

"Yes. Now, will you help me?" Her buzz was wearing off.

"If I do this," he began slowly, "you must promise not to become offended by anything I say or do."

"I won't, I promise." And she would try. Truly, she would.

"Things could get quite intense, Eleanor—"

"Intense?"

"Even though we are just friends, there are feelings and desires that may be dredged up that could make you uncomfortable."

She swallowed. "Desires? But you're not in love with me. How can those desires surface if there's no love?"

"Desire, need, eroticism, hunger, these are feelings that will be awakened, Eleanor. They have nothing to do with love," he explained.

Eleanor suddenly remembered the erotic dream she'd had shortly after she'd met him. She had awakened feeling very needful, indeed.

"And if I do this, I'll have to touch you," he warned.

She hadn't thought about that. But he would be the teacher and she the pupil. She would learn from him, then, one day, she would use what she had learned on her husband— whomever that might be.

"All right," she said, convinced. "Now, will you help me?"

"I'll do my best."

His answer was humble, but Eleanor sensed he could barely contain a belly laugh.



She had shocked him. He could hardly hide his surprise at her request. He didn't tell her so, but he knew she was going to be a tough pupil. He wasn't even sure his manhood would survive, but here they were, alone on an island, surrounded by fog, with little else to keep them occupied. He could think of no better activity to while away the time.

And this was strictly business, for although Eleanor was not the type of woman he was attracted to, he had not bedded a woman in months. Not that he couldn't abstain. He did so every time he went to sea, and it hadn't killed him. But there were no women aboard his ship, no temptations. And with time, even Eleanor could become a temptation.

He released a sigh and glanced at her. In sleep, she looked youthful and vulnerable. He raised an eyebrow. Awake she could emasculate a man with her tongue.

He turned on his side and rested his head on his arm. She made a little sound in her throat and turned away from him, presenting her back. He smiled. Not a problem. Perhaps he should see just how willing she really was.



Eleanor woke, warm and comfortable, feeling a heavy weight across her waist. What—? It was Dante's arm. With an exasperated snort, she lifted it off and flung it behind her.

"See?"

The sound of his voice so close to her ear startled her. "What?"

"You won't even let me put my arm around you." He clucked his tongue then sighed. "I knew this wouldn't work."

"No. Wait," she pleaded. "Do it again."

He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She tried to relax, but it was such a foreign sensation for her.

"This is called 'spooning.' " His breath was warm against her neck. Because her legs were bare, she could feel the texture of his trousers against the backs of her thighs and calves.

"Spooning," she repeated, attempting to ignore the heat that stole over her. "Do people actually sleep this way?"

"I do," he said simply. "I like it."

She stayed very still. "Why?"

"Because it keeps both of us warm, and I have access to your body," he explained.

"Access?"

"I'll show you, but promise you won't jab me with your elbow."

She realized that she had given him every reason to believe she was nothing but a harridan. "Go ahead. I promise."

His hand moved slightly, and it splayed across her stomach, moving in small circles over her shirt. That seemed harmless enough. She relaxed.

"That's … nice," she murmured, snuggling against him. "Is there more?"

"There can be much, much more," he promised.

"Show me." She stiffened, ready for the assault.

His hand moved slowly toward her ribcage. "Relax, Eleanor." His voice shook.

"Are you laughing at me?"

Laughter escaped. "I can't help it. You act like I'm going to poke you with a sharp stick."

She tried to do as he asked, but when his fingers grazed the underside of her breast, she inhaled sharply. Instinctively she tried to move away.

"You want me to stop." It had been a statement, not a question.

"No. No, I … I was just surprised." Her heart was beating hard.

His hand cupped her through the flannel shirt, and she not only felt her nipple harden, but her entire breast as well. A warmth seeped into her belly, too, and she had the urge to spread her legs. Never, ever before, had she felt anything at all in that place between her thighs.

He continued to caress her breast and she thought she might fly apart from the pleasure. How could this be? She barely liked the man, and didn't always respect him. How could his touch do this to her?

She couldn't let him proceed, but she couldn't push him away, either, for she had promised not to. She turned quickly, facing him. "That … that was nice."

He grinned down at her, his eyes languid. "Nice? Your nipple was as hard as a diamond, Eleanor."

She swatted his chest. "Don't talk that way."

"That's how lovers speak. Candidly. Openly. It heightens the desire between them."

She straightened so her body didn't touch his. "Well, we're not lovers, Dante."

He rolled onto his back. "But you wanted to learn how to become one, didn't you?"

"I guess so, but do all lovers talk that way?"

"I have no idea. I just know that I do, and I like it."

Her gaze roamed his face, then slid to the healed lash marks on his chest. They glowed in the firelight. Releasing a sigh, she touched one of them. He flinched.

"I'm so sorry." She felt like crying, not because of who he was now, but who he had been when he'd felt the need to put himself through such punishment. And although she sensed that he wanted to move away, he didn't.

"You didn't do it."

"At one time you blamed me, though," she responded, remembering his outburst in the music room.

"I blamed you the day I met you." The words were harsh, but his tone was not.

A tear slid down her cheek, again for the sad, angry boy he had been. "And I couldn't understand why you hated me so."

"I was filled with rage for years," he admitted. He hoisted himself onto his elbow and studied her. "How did you feel when he died?"

She gave him a sad smile. "I tried to mourn him properly."

"You tried?"

With a nod, she murmured, "I couldn't. I felt like the worst person in the world because I'd experienced more sorrow when I lost my baby than when I lost my husband."

"You didn't love him, then." Again, not a question.

"No. But to be fair, I don't think he loved me either." She gazed at the smoke that drifted upward into the foggy early morning air. "There was always something between us, like an impenetrable wall. I don't know how to explain it. Maybe it was because we were together so seldom and just didn't have a chance to learn about each other." She shrugged. "I don't know."

She moved closer and traced the dragon, from the flames at Dante's neck to the dangerous tail that curved over his ribcage. "Was it very painful?"

"The beatings, or the tattoo?"

She gave him a shaky smile. "I'm sure the beatings were."

"I was into pain back then," he said, with a self-deprecating grin. "Come here," he ordered, motioning to his outstretched arm.

As Eleanor snuggled against him, he put his arm around her. Oddly, it seemed the most natural position in the world. She rubbed her palm over his chest and stomach, feeling the coarse ridges of his scars. Her hand moved lower, over his navel, and she discovered a thick patch of hair. She felt an odd quickening in her stomach. "You don't have hair on your chest," she observed. "Is that because of the scars?"

"I don't know." He squeezed her. "But never fear, dear lady," he intoned with the flare of a Shakespearean actor, "I have plenty of hair everywhere else."

"Oh, stop it," she answered with an embarrassed laugh.

They were quiet for a moment, and Eleanor wondered, again, how he'd become the success he was. "What did you do after Damien died, besides get yourself tattooed?"

"I signed on to a merchant ship. The captain was, unlike your late husband, a kind and gentle man. He was an amateur naturalist, of sorts, and got me curious about the natural order of things, and how fragile it all is, especially with the whalers and hunters killing everything in sight."

She absently ran her palm over his chest as she listened. "It's none of my business—"

"Since when has that stopped you?"

The humor in his voice prevented her from pinching him. "It's not my concern, I know, but how did you become so wealthy?"

"The merchant captain had no heirs. When I learned that I had inherited his modest wealth, I realized that I had a good head for business. I invested well," he finished.

"And you support the orphanage."

"I do what I can."

His modesty was a surprise. She'd always thought he was simply arrogant and vain. Her fingers found his ribs, and she traced them around to his back, which brought her closer to his side.

All of a sudden, he rolled away from her and stood.

She looked up at him, disappointed. "What's wrong?"

He nodded toward the fire. "It's almost out. I need to get more firewood." His voice was gruff.

"Are you angry with me? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," he answered brusquely, then strode off.

She stared after him, puzzled and disturbed.
Thirteen

Dante strode through the small woods, picking up branches, breaking some off from dead trees.

What in the hell had happened? She'd aroused him, and she'd done nothing more than innocently touch him and listen to him talk about his past.

But this was Eleanor, for Christ's sake, not bawdy Marguerite, or seductive Theresa, or lusty Lorraine. This was a woman who didn't know the first thing about seduction. Not the first thing!

She didn't know that to arouse a man, she could lodge a plum in the entrance to her vagina and insist that he suck it out with his mouth.

She didn't understand that all she needed to do was spread a drop of honey on each nipple, and a man would go wild licking it off. Or drizzle liquor between her breasts, allowing it to pool in her navel, and lower, then demand that a man lap it up.

She didn't know that there were more positions to making love than even he could count.

He doubted she was aware that one way to please a man was to take his erection into her mouth and slowly move it up and down, occasionally flicking the end of it with her tongue. She surely didn't realize that all she would have to do was ask, and a man would use his tongue on her as well. Gladly. Happily.

But he also knew that mistresses were best used for such purposes. Seldom had he heard of a man who did such things with his wife, although surely, if he were married, he would insist on it.

And she didn't realize that so much of what he had learned about sexual pleasure had come from the writings and carvings of wise old men who had lived in India and China centuries ago.

He stopped and drew in a breath, adjusting his erection behind his trousers. Just thinking about having sex aroused him so much, he almost felt like spending like a boy. He cursed Eleanor for making him think about it, talk about it, yet be unable to do it.

With an armful of branches and twigs, he started back toward their camp. But when he cleared the trees, he stopped and stared. Through the fog, he saw that Eleanor was shedding the flannel shirt. Dante stood, silent as stone, and watched, marveling at what had, until now, been hidden beneath layers and layers of starchy, black clothing.

She bent to pick up her chemise, her full, round breasts jiggling slightly as she moved. They were perfect. And in the cool morning air, her nipples tightened into nubs— as hard as diamonds, he recalled.

Briefly she turned toward him, and he saw the dark patch of hair between her thighs. His arousal grew. He swallowed hard, ordering himself to turn away.

With a wry smile, he realized that he never had taken orders very well.

Her legs were long and slim, her ankles delicate and feminine. Her waist was small; her hips ample. Her buttocks round, dimpled, and delicious enough to eat. He was amazed, even shocked. He had never imagined she would be so dainty and appetizing, for he was always doing battle with her mind, and there was nothing fragile or fainthearted about that.

He gritted his teeth, for he grew harder and larger behind the worn trousers.

Muttering a curse, he decided he couldn't go through with her request. She was a woman, after all, and one he had just discovered was somewhat desirable. He'd have to tell her. He would rather she hated him for not going through with it, than for what could happen if he did.

He retreated slightly, then returned and made enough noise so she could hear him approach.

She quickly slipped into her underclothes, and donned the shirt over them.

"You're back," she said, inanely, hurrying to cover up.

Too late, he thought, clearing his throat. "We're going to have to look for water soon. There's a freshwater marsh on the east end of the island. We might be able to extract some water from there."

"What about our food supply?" She fiddled nervously with the shirt buttons.

"What's left in the basket is inedible, but fish and lobster are abundant off the craggy rocks."

"Sounds wonderful," she expressed, a little too enthusiastically.

"Eleanor," he began, unsure of how to continue.

She combed through her long, dark hair with her fingers, then flung it behind her. The innocent motion was more seductive than a row of lusty mistresses spreading their anxious thighs before him. "Yes?"

He drew in a breath, then exhaled. "Eleanor, I don't think this … teacher-pupil relationship is going to work."

Her quizzical expression changed, becoming crestfallen. "Oh, Dante, I know I'm not someone you could be attracted to, that's why I thought it would."

Had she ranted at him, like he thought she might, he could have stood his ground. But her disappointment changed him, and he suddenly realized he wasn't ready to give up.

"All right. But again, I want you to promise you won't get upset or angry at anything I might ask you."

She looked at him as though he were witless. "Dante, I'm not asking for a lifelong commitment," she reminded him. "I have already promised, haven't I?"

On a sigh, he said, "Yes, you have promised. But I seriously doubt you have any idea what you're letting yourself in for."



Had Eleanor been a weaker woman, she might have taken his reluctance more personally. She might have rued the day she was born plain and intelligent instead of beautiful and dumb. Not that his unwillingness had not affected her, it had— on some level. But she quickly went beyond that. She truly wanted to learn from him.

That evening, after they had dined on lobster that had been cooked over the fire, Dante began in earnest.

"Eleanor, how long has it been since you've been with a man?"

She was grateful her clothing had dried; she somehow felt safer wrapped in all of her garments. " 'A man'?" she asked, unable to curb her sarcasm. "You mean Amos, don't you?"

His look was steady. "You have never slept with anyone else?"

She straightened, ready to issue a sharp comment until she remembered his warning. "No, I have never slept with any man but my late husband."

"How often did he bed you?"

A flush stole into her cheeks. "Really, Dante, what does this have—"

"Eleanor," he warned.

She listened to the penetrating sounds of distant gulls, amazed at how eerie those sounds were when the birds could not be seen. It was like they were mere figments that the fog had conjured up, that they were not real at all.

"Well, since I was a whaling widow for the first four years of our marriage, I imagine it worked out to be about once every couple of years." Actually, she could count the number of times on both hands with fingers left over.

"And when you joined him on the St. Louis?"

She lifted a sardonic brow. "Not at all." Glancing at him across the fire, she added, "I was pregnant, remember?"

"Pregnancy does not prohibit intercourse, Eleanor."

She was honestly surprised. "Really? But, he said—"

"I don't care what he said. It's not true. When a woman is carrying a man's child in her womb, she often becomes even more beautiful, at least to the man who has planted his seed there."

Eleanor thought of her dreams, of the perfect partner who would be the mate to her soul, who would love her, laugh with her, kiss her each night before bed. She had never imagined such a man might feel as deeply as she did. Amos certainly hadn't.

"As long as the woman is healthy," Dante continued, "intercourse is possible until very close to the date she is due. Many men find it extremely erotic."

Eleanor made a soft, disgusted sound, finishing it with a quiet curse. "Well, obviously Amos didn't have that problem."

Dante's lingering gaze caught hers. "Amos had a lot of other problems, Eleanor."

Eleanor shrugged, letting thoughts of Amos drift away like smoke on the wind. Suddenly curious, she asked, "Have you ever sired a child?"

He chuckled. "Not that I'm aware of."

She felt braver. "When was the last time you had intercourse?" The word sounded foreign on her tongue, but she forced herself to say it.

He leaned back and looked into the bleak sky. "We're not discussing me."

"I thought it was a fair question. I only want to know how often a man feels the need for a woman."

"All men are different," he commented. "Some men sleep with their wives out of duty, then have their needs fulfilled by a mistress or a prostitute."

She had a long string of cutting remarks for him on that subject, but held her tongue. "If you ever marry, will you keep your mistresses?"

He exhaled deeply. "It's a moot point, Eleanor. I don't ever see myself as a husband."

"But if you did," she urged.

"It's a common practice."

Eleanor grew pensive. "I couldn't live with that. It would be more hurtful than anything I can imagine."

"You might have no choice," he warned her.

"Then I would leave him."

He laughed softly. "And where would you go?"

"To the orphanage," she answered, realizing that was exactly what she would do. "I would ask them to let me work with the children for my room and board. Maybe I'd even become a nun."

He guffawed, the sound echoing in the misty air around them.

"And what's so funny about that?"

His gaze was warm and filled with humor. "Eleanor, you might be prim and prudish on the outside, but I guarantee you that on the inside, you're seething with an abundance of passion. Once it's awakened, you could never accept the life of a nun."

She wasn't sure if that was a compliment. "You think I have passion?"

"I do, indeed."

They sat quietly, Eleanor mulling this news over and over in her brain.

Dante broke the silence. "I think we've covered enough for now. Tonight, dear Ellie, I will teach you a couple of things every good wife should know about keeping her husband's shoes from appearing under another woman's bed."



They rested against the wooden lean-to that he had made earlier, sipping the last of the brandy before the fire. Dante realized he actually liked Eleanor. Yes, she was straightforward, outspoken to a fault, and brusque, but she could be charming and naive, and even funny.

What he knew about Amos would hurt her. He no longer wanted to. As far as he was concerned, she need never know.

"Dante? What do you usually sleep in?" Before he could answer, she added, "I can't quite imagine you in a cap and nightshirt."

He moved to get more comfortable. "When I'm aboard ship, I often sleep in my clothes because I don't want to be taken off guard by a storm or some other surprise."

"And when you're at home?"

Her question stirred him. "Nothing."

"And … and your mistresses? What do they sleep in?"

He grunted impatiently. "This session isn't supposed to be about me, Eleanor."

"I know, I know. Just answer it."

"It isn't what a woman wears that touches a man's erogenous zones—"

"Erogenous zones?" The word slurred very slightly.

"Something that awakens all of his carnal instincts," he explained.

"What are they?"

"Do you want them all?"

She snuggled against him, a purely feminine reaction, and one that no longer surprised him. "Just name those you think are the most important."

He stroked her knee through her gown. "In women, I think the most sexually arousing erogenous zones are the mouth," he said, softly touching her lips with his fingertips, "the ears," he continued, blowing into hers very lightly until he heard her laugh quietly and move away, "and the neck," he finished, dragging his lips over the skin just below her ear. He felt her shiver, and was tempted to continue.

"What else?"

He decided to get brave. "Nipples are very erotic."

"Show me again," she ordered, her voice soft.

Dante held his breath, then touched her breast through her layers of clothing, not surprised to find a considerably erect nipple beneath his fingertips.

Eleanor gasped and quickly pushed his hand away. "Oh, my. That sensation forges a path all the way to my toes." She slanted him a curious look. "How can that be?"

"What do you mean?"

On a sigh, she said, "We don't mean anything to one another, yet … your touch moves me. Why?"

Dante swore under his breath. She was so damned practical and businesslike. "Do you have to analyze everything?" he asked, more sharply than he'd meant to.

"Well, it puzzles me, Dante. It doesn't make sense."

"Feelings and emotions never make sense. They can't be explained. That's why they don't call them 'facts' or 'certainties.' Now, where were we?"

She rested against him again. "You were explaining erogenous zones. Tell me another." Her voice was breathy, her words a little fuzzy.

He swallowed and cleared his throat. "The inner thighs."

She made a soft sound. "No one has ever touched me there."

"Probably because they were afraid of castration," he said wryly.

She hit him with her fist, then rubbed the area, as if to erase the aggressive gesture. "I'm trying to change. Where else?"

He went for broke. "The vaginal lips and the clitoris."

"Oh, yes," she said on a whisper. "That last thing—"

"The clitoris," he repeated. "Say it, Eleanor."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, then, "Clitoris. Is that what gives a woman pleasure?"

"If it's stroked, it often brings a woman to orgasm," he advised.

"That's what it's called? Orgasm?"

"It is," he answered.

"Exactly what is it, this pleasure?"

Dante cursed under his breath. The conversation was bizarre, to say the least. "It's intense sexual excitement."

"You can't explain it any better than that?" she asked, sounding disappointed.

"It's one of those things that is better experienced, than simply talked about," he answered dryly. Although sometimes, like now, talking about it could make a man pretty damned horny.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "A woman doesn't always experience that, does she?"

"No, I don't suppose she does." Good Christ! No one he knew would believe this conversation.

She was quiet again, then admitted, "I've never had an orgasm."

He wasn't surprised, but didn't say so.

"And even if I marry, I might not have one." She gazed into the night. "I could live my whole life and not have an orgasm. Do you realize that?" She straightened and looked at him, her eyelids a little heavy; the brandy had affected her.

"After all," she continued, gesturing dramatically, "most men are primarily concerned with their own needs. How could I be sure the man I marry would care about mine?"

He almost said something, but she rambled on.

"Oh, sure," she continued emotionally, "a man might promise to make her the happiest woman alive, but that doesn't mean he really knows how, does it?" She sniffed and wiped her nose with her sleeve.

She turned to him again and shook a finger in his face. "I'll just bet gentle, sweet Sylvester doesn't even know what a clitoris is, and saying the word 'orgasm' out loud would probably send him into apoplexy.

"Oh," she continued with a shudder, "I can't even imagine him without a shirt and trousers on. He would probably undress beneath the covers, for fear that I would see his pasty, freckled skin, and he would turn scarlet with embarrassment if I ever asked him the questions I have asked you."

Dante laughed, in spite of his efforts not to. He grabbed her finger and squeezed it gently. "Eleanor, you're drunk."

Pulling from his grip, she said, "Not yet, but hopefully I will be soon." She drained her cup, smacking her lips as she tossed the tin vessel onto the grass.

She rose, weaving slightly as she moved in front of him, parting his knees so she could get closer. "So," she began, all businesslike again. "Have you seen one, and if you have, what does it look like?"

Dante groaned. "Eleanor—"

"My rules, Dante. Answer me."

He wanted another cup of brandy but decided one of them should stay sober. "Yes, I've seen a clitoris."

She raised her eyebrows. "And?"

"It's an erectile structure similar to the corpora cavernosa of the penis." He had lifted this from a translated version of a Chinese book on sex.

She stared at him. "It's an erectile 'what' similar to the 'what' of a penis?"

Realizing his mistake, he said, hoping she wouldn't punch him in the mouth, "Like the penis, it gets hard when you're horny."

To his relief she tossed her head back and laughed, expelling an indelicate snort as she did so.

"All right." He had some experience, to be sure, but much of what he learned had been from ancient readings and descriptions during a time when such things were discussed quite freely.

"An average one is perhaps an inch long, but most, if not all, of its length is hooded, or covered by a flap of tissue. But the size doesn't matter, Ellie, because it's liberally endowed with sensitive nerve endings which make it the kind of button that, when stroked, will cause a woman to scream with pleasure."

She made a disparaging sound in her throat. "Scream?"

"So I've heard."

"Did your mistresses scream?"

Actually, none of them had. "I don't have to answer that."

She turned between his legs and rested against him. "I'd like to have an orgasm." Her voice was wistful.

He gave her a fatherly pat on the arm. "I'm sure you will one day."

"No," she said, turning slightly. "I mean now. I want you to give me one."

He laughed softly and shook his head. "Eleanor, you're an extraordinary woman."

She turned, her expression wary. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he explained, "since I've known you, you've laughed at me, slapped me, nagged me, and generally tried to emasculate me. Now, you're asking me to bring you to orgasm."

"Well, I've learned you're not such a bad person," she admitted, "even though you sleep with married women, which," she added sternly, "is not a nice thing to do, Dante."

He was beginning to realize that more and more, but they were still safer than single ones.

"So? Will you do it?"

"You'd kill me once you sobered up," he reasoned.

"You won't do it." She slumped against him, disappointed. "So, I'll never have one."

He pressed his nose against her hair, which hung down her back in a long, thick braid. She had always smelled good to him. Clean, without artifice. "I love your hair, Ellie. Even that first day I met you, as I watched you leave my office. The sun glinted off it, making it shine like nothing I'd seen before."

"Yes, yes," she answered impatiently. "We weren't talking about my hair. We were talking about my orgasm."

He expelled a gust of air. "I could give you one, but—"

"But, what?" she interrupted. "But … you don't want to touch me there? Why not? I'm asking you to. Dante, if you don't, I may live the rest of my life never knowing that kind of pleasure."

That would be a crime. But she had to understand something. "Eleanor, lovemaking should flow like music," he explained. "Does that make sense?"

"You mean, things should change and progress easily from one thing to another."

She was remarkable. So often he found they were on the same page, the same plain, the same sheet of music. "And to force something to come makes it stilted and mechanical."

"Yes, I understand that."

"And if I were to reach under your skirt and attempt to arouse you without preparation or seduction, neither of us would be satisfied."

She expelled an exasperated sigh. "I suppose you're right, but—"

"Why don't we just wait and see what happens?" he suggested. Suddenly he wanted to do it. He wanted to see the surprise and the pure lust on her features when she felt it coming. He wanted to know what kind she would have. He needed to know if she would be loud and uninhibited, or quiet and demure. Never for a moment did he even consider that she might not have one at all.
Fourteen

Sometime during the night, Dante woke, cold. "Eleanor," he whispered, "you're hogging the blanket."

She rolled onto her side. "Spoon," she murmured, settling against him.

He pulled her close, tucking in the blanket over them as she wiggled her bottom into his crotch.

"Better?" she asked, her voice croaky with sleep.

"Much," he admitted, but he immediately hardened against her. All the talk about orgasms had sent him to bed unsatisfied.

Eleanor lifted her arm, allowing his hand and forearm to rest against her stomach, while she brought her arm down on top of his. "Warm yourself," she whispered. Both nights of their isolation, she had slept in her bloomers, her chemise, and the flannel shirt he had in the provisions kit.

He moved his hand around, finding her bare stomach through the opening in her drawers. She sucked in a breath, but did not push him away.

"Your skin is so warm and soft," he said without thinking, for it was true.

"And your hand is cold," she volleyed, but did not remove it.

"It will warm up fast," he promised her.

She emitted a low chuckle. "And what will you do with it in the meantime?"

It wasn't a blatant invitation, but it was a start. "I shall be a perfect gentleman," he promised, the fingers on his unoccupied hand crossed at the lie.

"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered, so softly he wasn't sure he heard her.

Her fingers stroked his forearm. "I've admired your arms, Dante. You're strong. The veins stand out like paving stone."

Her movement brought one breast in contact with his arm, and he moved his hand up to cup it. She gasped, then sighed. "And I saw your breasts the day after we arrived," he admitted. "They jiggled so sweetly and should never be hidden beneath so many ugly pieces of clothing."

She chuckled, a husky, sensual sound. "And what should I be doing with them? Baring them for all to see?"

"No," he said. "Only for me. We are the only two people in the world." And it was so, their world had shrunk to the size of Middle Brewster Island.

"Ah, yes. Here we are, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden." Her voice was languid.

"And until the snake tempts us, we will wear not even a fig leaf," he teased.

She laughed again, then took his hand and drew it lower, over the waistband of her drawers. "Untie them, Dante."

He pulled the ribbons loose and slowly, slowly moved his fingers inside, onto the soft, velvety warmth of her bare stomach.

"Oh, my." She drew the words out on a long, desirous sigh.

"You feel like velvet, Ellie," he said.

"Really?" came her shaky reply.

"Oh, yes." The tips of his fingers touched her mons, and the hair that covered her was thick and soft. His middle finger dipped lower, just to her warm, welcome opening. She gasped again, then moved her legs apart and expelled a quiet moan.

"Patience, Ellie," he instructed, skirting the outsides of her nether lips, purposely avoiding the inner labia that were, he had no doubt, beginning to swell.

He stroked the insides of her trembling thighs, evading what she wanted him to touch, drawing out her desire.

"When are you going to touch it, damn you!"

"I said, patience," he repeated.

She turned onto her back and spread her legs. "Oh, please," she pleaded, her voice thick with desire.

Dante slowly drove his middle finger into her heat, her warmth. "Ah, Ellie," he murmured against her ear. "You're so wet."

She was breathing erratically. "That … that's a good thing, right?"

He chuckled. "That's a very good thing." His finger slid over her slick, slippery vaginal opening, dipping inside for more of her sweet, succulent juice. Then he touched her clitoris, stroking it, moving below, moving above. It was thick and hard, beautifully aroused.

"Oh," she groaned sweetly, "it feels so … so … so good." The last word was a moan.

"Tell me more, Ellie," he urged, continuing to stroke the wet, swollen center of her.

"Oh, God, it's … it's like nothing I've ever felt before." Each word was accentuated with a hint of awe and arousal. "I can't explain—"

Suddenly she stiffened and her voice rose in impatient, lusty screams, over and over, louder, higher into the trees. She gasped for breath, shaking, sobbing, laughing, until she finally collapsed into his arms.

Dante held her, deeply moved. This was real. There had been no artifice in her response. Never before had a woman come crashing to orgasm for him like this. He kissed her wet cheeks and stroked her back, hugging her tightly against him.

He continued to hold her, listening as her breathing slowly stabilized, not knowing what to say.

She said it for him. "Oh, Dante. That was a symphony." In less than a minute, she was asleep.

When morning came, Dante was certain he hadn't slept at all.



Eleanor woke up alone. She sat up quickly at first, then as she remembered the night before, her movements slowed.

How amazing it had been! Of course she could survive the rest of her life without knowing that ecstasy again, but did she want to? Not every man considered a woman's pleasure, of that much she was certain.

Would Sylvester?

She groaned and pressed her face against her knees. Why was she even thinking about him? Although he was a nice man, he paled so next to a man like Dante. And now that she had experienced such absolute joy, she knew with a startling certainty that she could never settle for anything less.

Which meant, she realized, as she stood up, that she would probably spend the rest of her days alone.

She dressed, knowing that if she met someone with whom she could be as comfortable as she was with Dante, it might happen. Someone with whom she could speak her mind, like she did with Dante. A man who wouldn't be appalled by her shocking questions and scandalous requests, like Dante.

In other words, she thought with a mingling of glumness and irony, Dante. And that was about as likely as finding tits on a boar.

She went in search of him, the fog appearing to have lifted some during the night. Unlike the freshwater marsh where they had gotten fresh drinking water, which was surrounded by bramble and cattails, the flora on this part of the island was sand and rock.

The shrill, scolding cries of the seagulls that nested on the eastern shore could be heard through the mists. Yesterday afternoon they had trudged to the southeast corner of the island to look for driftwood and discovered a rookery of blue night crown herons.

And, she thought with a shudder, there were the rats that scurried along the shoreline, feeding on anything that moved— or didn't.

There wasn't much to see on Middle Brewster, and it was just as well that she couldn't see beyond it to the distant Boston Harbor, for it would only serve to remind her of the fix she was in.

No one knew where she was. That suddenly alarmed her. She had not planned on being gone more than a few hours, and she hadn't felt her destination was anyone's business but her own.

She picked up driftwood as she walked toward the shore where they had hit the jagged rocks, knowing Dante would be there repairing the boat. Hopefully, once the fog lifted, they could be on their way.

Odd, though, how idyllic it was in this place. It was as if they were in a world of their own and outside forces didn't exist.

But they did. And Eleanor wondered what kind of hell there would be to pay when she returned to face them.

She came upon Dante, who had pulled the boat from the water and was working on the damaged hull. He did, indeed, look like the pirate Lydia imagined him to be, for he had three days growth to his beard, and his hair was pulled back from his face and tied with a leather thong.

There was an awakening in her when she looked at him. This frightened her. "Dante?"

He looked up from his labors. "What is it?"

"About last night—"

"Eleanor, forget it."

"I can't," she admitted. "And … and last night you called me Ellie."

He continued to work without looking up. "What's your question?"

That unwanted, unsummoned inner awakening puzzled her. "If you say that a man is capable of arousal with a woman even if he doesn't love her, is the same true for a woman?"

He fitted a piece of driftwood over a small hole, placed a nail over it, then reached for his hammer. "I don't know. I suppose some women can be aroused by a man they don't love, but I think a woman has to have more invested in the relationship."

Eleanor mulled over his words and frowned. From his point of view, she was either capable of being aroused by any man, or she was falling in love with Dante. Neither prospect sat well with her.

She had never been aroused before, and she surely wasn't falling in love with Dante. Or was she? No. That was ridiculous. And besides, it would lead to naught even if it were true.

"In other words," she said, carefully sidestepping her inner turmoil, "a man thinks with his penis and a woman thinks with her heart, and that, in turn, relays messages to her erogenous zones."

He stopped working, threw his head back, and laughed. "Eleanor, you never cease to surprise me. I couldn't have said it better myself, although I might have said it a bit more plainly."

Despite his compliment, Eleanor was miserable. Was she beginning to feel something for him, and if she was, did she even want to pursue it just to make sure?

"Dante?"

"Now what?" he asked, appearing a bit impatient.

She ignored it. "I want you to kiss me." She cleared her throat.

He stared at her, skeptical. "Why?"

"I'm just experimenting," she explained with a shrug, not really sure what she was doing.

He gave her a look of disbelief.

"All right, then, don't." Feeling piqued, irritated, and just a little bit hurt, she turned and walked quickly toward the camp. Why was he so reticent?

He caught up with her. "Eleanor—"

"It isn't as if I'm asking you to bed me, for heaven's sake. You've dipped your wayward oar into many an illicit water, and it hasn't caused you to so much as blink. All I've asked for is one little kiss."

He continued to stare at her but said nothing.

She was defiant. "What!"

A wealth of emotions crossed his face, but finally he said, "The boat's ready."

A surge of mingled feelings jolted her. "We can leave? What about the fog?"

"There's a southwesterly wind blowing it away from the coast. By the time we gather what we need to take back with us, it will be clear enough to set sail."
Fifteen

Even though, at her request, Dante had left Eleanor at the corner of Pinckney and Belknap, it wouldn't have mattered where it had been, for news of their arrival beat her home.

Willa hung in the entryway like a vampire bat on the attack. "Well, I don't believe it. I simply do not believe it."

With a weary sigh, Eleanor closed the door behind her, noting that Willa's voice held anger and impatience, but no concern or relief that Eleanor had returned.

"Thank you, Willa, I'm just fine," she answered lightly. "Your concern is very much appreciated." She took the stairs to the second floor, Willa close on her heels.

"Oh, no you don't," Willa scolded. "You'll not turn this entire fiasco around and make me the guilty one. First of all," she began, "we were worried sick about you. No word, nothing. Why, you could have been lying dead somewhere, for all we knew."

Realizing that she had to make some concessions, Eleanor reached the second floor landing then turned to face her sister-in-law. "It was my fault, I grant you that. I thought I'd be gone for only a few hours, and since an explanation was, at best, complicated and misleading, I chose to say nothing at all."

"Just like you," Willa admonished. "Only thinking of yourself."

"Yes, that's me," Eleanor said, so fatigued she thought she might collapse, "selfish to the core."

"Don't you get sarcastic with me," Willa threatened. "Perhaps you didn't deem it necessary to tell Calvin or me where you were going, but you might have had some concern about Lydia."

That stopped her cold. "Why? What's happened?"

"Well … well, nothing," Willa admitted. "But she almost got sick she was so worried about you."

Eleanor trudged up the third floor staircase, anxious to get out of her clothes, bathe, and crawl into bed. "I'm sorry about that, truly I am. It was never my intention to hurt or alarm anyone. We didn't plan on running into a fog bank."

Willa was right behind her. "So, it's true that you were with Dante Templeton?" Disbelief rang in her voice.

"Yes, it's true."

Willa grabbed Eleanor's skirt, stopping her. "But … why?"

Too tired to explain, she merely said, "Because he asked me."

"Have you no concept as to what this has done to your reputation? You've compromised yourself with a man who will never have you," she wailed.

"It was not my intention to be compromised, Willa; it was a twist of fate that no one could have predicted." She massaged her neck. "This is all just a whirlwind in a washtub. It will blow over and be forgotten."

"Oh, that's what you think," Willa warned. "This is not just gossip, missy, this is a scandal."

Eleanor paused and slanted her sister-in-law a puzzled look. "Scandal?"

"You have brought shame and dishonor to this family," she announced. "You should have told him no."

"Maybe I should have, but I didn't. It's too late now, so what's the point of rehashing it?" She was being harder on Willa than the woman deserved, but oh, she was so tired … and her bed beckoned.

"And what do you think this will do to poor Sylvester?"

Ah, yes. Now came the crux of the matter. "Not that it matters one way or the other, but I would hope he wouldn't believe idle gossip."

"Gossip nothing! It's fact. You were marooned on an island, alone with a well-known womanizer, who may or may not have compromised you—"

"Willa," Eleanor warned.

"All right, he probably didn't. After all, you aren't exactly the Marguerite Banning type, but that's beside the point. You were betrothed."

Leave it to Willa to remind her that she wasn't the type of woman men pursued, Eleanor thought. "I wasn't betrothed."

"But … but Sylvester would have asked you. Now, he certainly won't." She choked back a sob. "How selfish and inconsiderate of you to do this to us. You owe us. I … Calvin and I were hoping this union would finally get us out of financial trouble. That's the least you could have done after all we've done for you."

From Willa's point of view, Eleanor would forever be in her debt. "Yes, you took me in when—"

"That's not what I meant," Willa interrupted. "By marrying Sylvester, you could have repaid the dowry we gave Amos when he agreed to marry you."

As Eleanor's ears perked up, her stomach dropped. "Dowry?"

Willa looked like she wanted to take the words back.

"What dowry?" Eleanor asked, her insides fluttering nervously.

Willa's shoulders slumped. "Calvin promised Amos five thousand dollars if he would marry you."

"But … why?"

"Because we heard that he was looking for a young wife, and you were here with no beaux," Willa almost whined.

"But why Amos?"

Willa tried to laugh. "Well, there certainly weren't any other suitors banging down the door."

Eleanor slumped onto the bed, stunned. For the first time in a very long while, she felt the despicable and ruinous pinch of self-pity. How was she ever to find a man who would love her if even an old, cranky, salty, miserable sea captain couldn't? If it weren't so pathetic, it might be funny. She laughed, a soft sound that wasn't filled with much mirth.

"And just what's so funny?"

"Well, I guess I'm not really surprised." She knew he hadn't loved her. Unlike other whaling widows who got letters from their men when they were at sea, Eleanor rarely heard from Amos. Her biggest question was, what did he do with all that money, plus the loan against his shares in the whaler, and why had he needed it?

Willa paced inside the room. "This isn't over," she threatened. "There is much, much more for you to deal with."

Eleanor had removed her dress, shoes, and stockings and crawled into bed, too tired to request a bath. "I promise I'll deal with anything you want, Willa. Later." Now, she just wanted to sleep. To escape. To postpone the inevitable, whatever that might be.



Later that evening, while sitting in a bath that Butterfly had prepared for her, Eleanor pondered her situation. Perhaps she should never have accepted Dante's offer to go sailing, but she had, and there was nothing she could do to change that. And no doubt every tongue in Boston wagged over the story of her and Dante being stranded alone together for two nights and three days.

Personally, she didn't care what people thought. Despite the truth, they would come to their own conclusions, embellish them, and brand her a harlot and Dante a rogue. Which, of course, she never would be, and he already was. So, as far as she could see, she was the only one who would come out of this worse off than she was before.

Lydia would still love her, the nuns and the children at the orphanage would hopefully want her back, and she had her piano students. She wasn't destitute.

She was wrapping a towel around her washed hair when the door squeaked open. "Aunt Ellie?"

Ellie. Dante had called her Ellie. Had that been just yesterday? Lord, it already seemed like a lifetime ago. Eleanor turned and smiled. "Come in, Lydia."

Lydia's face was creased with worry. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, dear. Come here and let me look at you."

Lydia stepped to the side of the tub, wearing a delicately flowered cotton nightgown, her cinnamon hair flowing in waves down her back. "I was so worried, Aunt Ellie."

Eleanor stroked her cheek with the backs of her fingers. "I know, darling. I didn't mean to worry anyone, and I wouldn't worry you for anything in the world. I'm so sorry."

Lydia's eyes were grave. "Is it true what they said?"

"What did they say?"

"That … that you and the pirate went away together, and that he brought you back because he didn't want you anymore?"

She suppressed her surprise, and her misery. "What do you think, honey?"

Lydia lowered her gaze. "I don't know. I don't want to believe it. I like the pirate, and I don't think he would do that to you."

Eleanor's heart filled with warmth. "The truth is, he invited me to go sailing, but we ran into lots of fog. The boat hit some rocks, and we were stranded on Middle Brewster Island until the fog lifted and he could fix the boat." She tweaked Lydia's chin. "I had no intentions of being gone more than a few hours."

Lydia didn't meet her gaze. "Mama and Papa are awfully upset. They say that now Mr. Conway won't marry you."

"I don't think I would have married him even if he'd asked me, Lydia."

Tears welled in Lydia's lovely big eyes. "But where will you go?"

A tiny bite of concern, if not alarm, rose within her. "Where will I go?"

Lydia nodded, swiping at her tears.

Just then, the door swung open and Willa stepped ceremoniously into the room. "Lydia, it's past your bedtime. Crawl in, and I'll kiss you goodnight after I've had a word with Eleanor."

Lydia gave Eleanor a forlorn look, then did as she was told. Eleanor didn't remember ever seeing her niece quite so docile and spiritless.

She rose from the tub, draped a towel around her, and waited for Willa to begin. It didn't take long.

"Well, you can kiss any chances you had of reuniting with Sylvester Conway goodbye," she announced, definitely piqued.

Eleanor dried herself then slipped a clean nightgown on over her head. "You've spoken to Sylvester?"

"I didn't have to. His mother paid me a visit early this evening."

"His mother?" Now Eleanor was curious.

"The woman who controls the Conway fortune." Willa nearly choked on the words. "She said to inform you that her son would not be calling on you ever again."

Eleanor removed the towel from her head and began drawing a comb through her long, heavy hair. Dante's compliment about it touched her thoughts. She tried to push it aside, but felt an odd pleasure in it. "That's a relief."

"A relief!? You find some humor in this … this outrage?"

Suddenly contrite, she answered, "Of course not, but—"

"To think that a gentlewoman of her stature and reputation should come to my home, believing we are willingly harboring the Jezebel who has sullied her dear son's name—"

"I may be a lot of things, and right now I realize you think very little of me," Eleanor interrupted, quelling her own anger, "but I'm hardly a Jezebel."

Willa gasped a sob and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. She blinked back a sheen of tears. "You couldn't possibly have done anything worse to us, Eleanor."

Eleanor actually felt sorry for her. Willa's life was superficial and vain, but it was the only life she had ever known, and now it was in jeopardy.

"I would never have gone with Dante if I'd thought for even a moment that we wouldn't be back in a few hours. I would never purposely do something to harm your reputation, or Calvin's. Surely you know that. I'm sorry this all had to happen, sorrier than I can say." And she meant it.

Willa shook her head, her eyes still shiny with unshed tears. "That's not good enough. An apology just isn't good enough."

Attempting to remain calm, Eleanor braided her damp hair. "What else can I do?"

Willa swallowed convulsively. "You'll have to move out."

There was a brief, sinking sensation in Eleanor's stomach. "I see. And Calvin agrees?"

A quick, jerky nod. "Oh, you know he doesn't want to, but this isn't good for business, Eleanor, surely you must understand that. Why, they could let Calvin go just because of the gossip."

For once, Eleanor did not even think of disparaging Willa, even to herself. This entire disaster had landed on her sister-in-law's shoulders, and to save her family and her name, she had done what she'd had to do: convince Calvin to put his own sister out into the street. And oddly enough, Eleanor didn't blame her. She actually applauded her.

"I'll look for lodgings in the morning," she promised.

"Mrs. Lauder has a room," Willa offered, her voice quiet. "Calvin and I will pay your rent for a month."

"That's not necessary, Willa. I've saved money from my piano students, and future lessons will help me pay Mrs. Lauder."

Willa's expression became even more grim, and Eleanor sensed there was additional bad news. "I do still have my piano students, don't I?"

After a long pause, Willa's answer was almost contrite. "I'm afraid not." She looked quickly at Eleanor. "I had nothing to do with their cancellations. They all … obviously heard, and made their own decisions."

"I understand." Eleanor wondered if this was just a bad dream, for everything seemed quite unreal. "Well, then, I might have to take you up on that rent money, at least until I can find other employment."

Willa gave her a nervous smile and edged toward the door. "Of course. Good night, now." And she was gone.



In bed, Eleanor continued to think about her predicament. Oddly, she wasn't afraid of a tentative future; she almost relished it.

She wasn't pleased at having to be back in Mrs. Lauder's clutches, but she vowed she wouldn't stay there long. Hopefully she could find a room closer to the orphanage. That would be ideal. She had given a brief thought to asking the nuns if she could stay there, but that was expecting too much, even for them. It would be selfish of her to count on those wonderful women to harbor her like a criminal.

But she still had to have an income. What could she do? Even if she regained all of her piano students and got new ones, it was not a lucrative profession.

She could apply for a position as a nanny or a housekeeper. She had Willa to thank for giving her plenty of experience for that position, she thought wryly.

And she was a passable nurse, having cared for her mother through her long, sad illness.

Eleanor decided that she was fortunate that she could do something, that she hadn't been so indulged that she'd grown up knowing how to do absolutely nothing useful.

The door squeaked open. "Aunt Ellie?"

"Come in, Lydia." Eleanor scooted over in bed and raised the quilt as her niece climbed in beside her.

"I feel so sad for you," Lydia murmured as she snuggled close.

"Oh, my dearest," Eleanor crooned. "Don't feel sorry for me. I'll be fine."

They were quiet for a while, then Lydia asked, "What did you do on the island?"

Eleanor inhaled, remembering the sights and smells, knowing she would never forget a moment of what had happened to her. Knowing that if she never found a man to love her as she hoped she would in her dreams, she would still have memories of Dante. "Well, first we looked for wood and built a fire."

"And then what did the pirate do?"

"He explained why he had wanted me to come sailing with him in the first place."

"And why did he?"

Eleanor told Lydia of Dante's work, of the papers he wrote on his voyages. She explained that he had wanted her to see some of the flowers and wildlife that grew in their very own Boston Harbor. She talked about his voyages to far off places to save the whale and the sea otter and those big, huge turtles he had told her about weeks before.

She told about exotic places he had been, and that he hoped the papers he was writing would get people to understand that if they killed all the sea animals, there would be none left for the children who are born in the generations after Lydia's.

She explained that if all of those wonderful sea animals were to be slaughtered, the only way other children would ever learn about them would be in books.

Actually, she told her everything she had learned at Dante's townhouse, and nothing of what they had actually done on the island.

Lydia sighed. "If he's afraid those animals will be gone, why doesn't he write a book about them himself?"

An insightful question. "Even though he can write about them factually, perhaps he doesn't feel he has the knack for writing about them in an entertaining way."

"I wish I could see those creatures, Aunt Ellie; then I could write about them."

"And you'd do a wonderful job," Eleanor assured her, knowing it was true.

"But he is wonderful, isn't he, Aunt Ellie?"

"He's a very special person," she admitted.

"He was nice to you there, wasn't he?"

"Yes," Eleanor answered. "He was nice to me." He was wonderful to her. He was, unfortunately, the man of Eleanor's dreams. Although it was dark in the bedroom, she felt Lydia's gaze.

Finally she spoke. "I heard Mama tell Papa that the pirate would never marry you, even though he's responsible for what happened."

There was truth in that, Eleanor knew it. "It isn't all his fault, Lydia. I'm responsible, too, because I went with him, even though we had no chaperone."

"But do you think he would marry you?" Lydia pressed.

"No," Eleanor answered, remembering their conversation on the island, and knowing it was true. "I had asked him a question about something else, and he told me that he would never be a husband. That he would never marry."

"But," Lydia urged, unable to give up the subject, "if he asked you, would you marry him?"

Eleanor smiled into the darkness. It wasn't a question she had even dared allow herself to ask, because if truth were told, except for his womanizing, Dante was just the sort of man she would want. Of course, he would have to love her, and because she knew he didn't, it was all moot anyway.

"In a make believe world, if he proposed, and I could change a few of his bad habits, and if I were sure that he loved me as I loved him, I would marry him."

Lydia snuggled closer. "I knew it. He likes you, Aunt Ellie."

Yes. Eleanor knew he liked her, and she liked him. As a matter of fact, she was afraid it was beginning to feel like more than that, and it worried her.

As Lydia slept beside her, Eleanor realized that since she'd come home, she hadn't given Dante too much thought. And she knew why. It was easier to look forward to her future if she forgot about him, for to remember what he'd been to her those few brief days, and to even dream that it might continue, was to tempt folly.
Sixteen

Nothing at the rooming house had changed. Mrs. Lauder stood in the doorway with her hand out for the rent, her hair still a color of red that could not be found in nature, her spittoons splattered with her own tobacco spittle, and her cough no better than it had been before.

And as Eleanor took the dusty stairs to her room, the crone informed her that had it not been for Willa and Calvin Simmons's generosity, Eleanor would not have found a room, for the landlady did not take kindly to rumors or scandals. Eleanor didn't believe a word of it, but she didn't argue. What was the point?

She kept herself busy at the orphanage, and on her way home each afternoon, she searched for more lucrative employment. The nuns had been wonderful, though, promising to continue paying her to give the children piano lessons. It was something, and she was grateful for it.

She had looked for Dante there, but had not seen him. One of the sisters had told her that he had gone to New York on business just after they had returned from Middle Brewster. No one knew how long he would be gone.

Part of Eleanor had been disappointed, but she was relieved, too, because she had no idea how she would feel once she saw him again.

Toward the end of her first week at the boarding house, Mrs. Lauder met her at the door. "You got a caller," she announced, pointing a bony finger toward the parlor.

A flurry of butterflies attacked Eleanor's stomach, for she had thought, maybe hoped, it was Dante.

It was not.

As she stepped into the room, a tall, thin man with a hawklike face turned from the window. He studied her briefly, his gaze lingering on her face before he finally issued a small smile. "Good day, ma'am."

"Good day," she answered, then moved toward him.

He handed her a card. Jonathan Keller, Attorney at Law. A San Francisco address was scripted beneath the name.

Puzzled, she asked, "What can I do for you, Mr. Keller?"

He went to the slant-front desk, opened a handsome leather case, drew out an envelope, and handed it to her. "I have a letter that was to be delivered to you upon the death of Amos Rayburn."

With shaky fingers, Eleanor took the envelope and stared at her name on the front, written in Amos's stark script. She glanced up. "You came all the way from San Francisco to deliver this?"

His expression was grim. "I just recently heard about the captain's death, and I had business in New York, so thought a personal delivery was proper."

Eleanor inhaled, realizing she was nervous. "Well, thank you, Mr. Keller. I'll walk you to the door."

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I've been asked to wait until you've read it. You may have questions."

"I see." She opened the envelope, slipping her thumb along the closed edges, then pulled out the letter. She sat on the worn settee and took a deep breath, expelling it slowly before she began.

Dear Eleanor,

As you read this, you already know that I have somehow met my death. I have much to tell you, so will not be egregious in my explanations.

You may or may not already know that your brother, Calvin, gave me $5,000 if I would marry you. To be blunt, I needed the money, so I agreed.

That, alone, might have been a shock if she hadn't just learned of it. She read on.

Before you realize how much you despise me, which you have every right to do, do not think that I wasn't pleased to have such a bright, unpretentious girl as my bride. I was. But I often wondered if you ever questioned my especially long treks to sea, for when other whaling wives were entertaining their husbands every year or so, you usually did not see me for two or more. I am compelled to tell you the truth, albeit I am a coward for doing it this way.

As I write this, you have just told me about the babe you carry. I am cautiously elated, for I will not deny that I desperately want a son.

I want a son, you see, because I already have five daughters.

Eleanor gasped and read the line again. Her gaze flew to the lawyer, but he stood with his back to her, gazing out the smudged window. She returned to the letter.

And a wife. Her name is Genevieve. We have been married for over twenty years.

Eleanor's insides quaked. "You knew of this other family?" she asked the attorney, stunned at his assenting nod. Again, she continued to read.

So you see, my dear girl, I am a bigamist, and I willingly became one for two reasons. Because whaling is not providing for my wife and daughters, I need money to support them. And I desperately needed a son, but my Genevieve is no longer a strong, healthy woman. She is ill.

Glancing up from the letter, Eleanor listened to her erratic breathing and the click-clack of the old clock that sat atop the fireplace mantle. They both sounded out of sync, just like her thoughts. She swallowed and bent to resume reading, amazed that with her heart and her brain so scrambled, she could even understand the words.

So, Eleanor, I am a bigamist, a cad, and a selfish bastard who has only used you. And when I'm gone, you will also discover that my shares in the St. Louis have been sold to pay for Genevieve's medical costs.

I'm sorry to have hurt you. There are a great many things I admire about you, your youth and your strength, among them. While my Genevieve may not survive, I know that with your strength, you will.

Again, I am sorry.

Amos

Fingers still shaking, Eleanor folded the letter and held it in her lap, her gaze fixed on the far parlor wall and the tattered, peeling wallpaper. Her heart beat a savage tempo, and her stomach knotted like harpooning rope.

Mr. Keller cleared his throat. "I also represent Genevieve Rayburn."

Eleanor blinked and looked at him. "Does she know of me?"

"Captain Rayburn wrote her a letter as well," he explained. "But what he did not do was provide for them should he … pass on before his time."

Eleanor tried to laugh, but could not. "And how does this affect me? As you can see, Mr. Keller, he did not provide for me either."

"Genevieve Rayburn, the captain's legal wife, is requesting any assets that may be due her."

Eleanor gave him a sidelong glance. "Mr. Keller, if you can find any of Amos's assets, the woman can have them with my blessing."

"They would be hers in any case, madam."

Her smile was bleak. "Yes. Of course. I fear it will be like squeezing blood from a stone, but I hope you can find something for them."

Suddenly a thought came to her. "Surely, all of Amos's daughters aren't still living at home," she contemplated. "Are they not able to help with their mother's care and expenses?"

Mr. Keller's expression reflected sympathy. "The eldest, who is twenty, is … addled. Retarded, if you will. The youngest is not normal, either. She is slow and has unusual features, including slanting eyes, a rather broad, short skull and short fingers. I believe there is a term for it, I just cannot recall what it is."

All at once, Eleanor felt great compassion for Amos, despite what he had done to her. "I believe they call it mongolism."

The lawyer nodded. "Yes. Well, as you can imagine, the three middle children are trying very hard to keep their sisters from an asylum, and their mother from dying in the poor house."

"How very, very sad." Eleanor couldn't imagine the anguish the poor family was going through, now that Amos was gone.

Mr. Keller closed his leather case. "Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Eleanor stood, discovering that her knees shook, but she walked him to the door anyway. "I hope you find something, Mr. Keller, but I expect that you won't."

After he left, Eleanor stood on the rickety porch, digesting what she'd learned.

So, who was she, anyway? Eleanor Simmons, or Eleanor Rayburn? She shook her head and smiled sadly. What did it matter? Now, at least, she understood why Amos had married her, and also why he had sold his shares in the whaler.

She didn't agree with his reasoning, but she was certainly in no position to disapprove of his actions. Until she faced a great trauma in her own life, she could not make such a judgment.

She went inside and crossed to the stairway.

"So."

Mrs. Lauder's voice from the parlor doorway startled her, but she didn't respond.

"So," the crone repeated. "You married a bigamist."

Eleanor's spirits sank further. Mrs. Lauder had no doubt been lurking just beyond the door, listening to every word.

"So it appears," she answered, hoping to end the conversation. She took the stairs to her room, anxious to be alone.

She was looking out the window at the docks, watching the bustle of activity, when the landlady knocked once, then opened the door.

"Yes?" Eleanor did not turn.

"You dropped this," Mrs. Lauder announced, shoving Amos's letter under her nose.

Eleanor snatched the letter. In her confusion and disbelief, she must have let it fall to the floor. Now, she had no doubt whatsoever that everyone in Boston would soon know her business down to the most sordid detail.



Dante returned from New York to discover that all of Boston was buzzing about the news that not only had Eleanor's reputation been ruined by him, but that she had had a visit from a lawyer who informed her that the late Amos Rayburn was a bigamist.

At first, his own guilt in Eleanor's predicament was a shock; he had left Boston on business so quickly, the gossip hadn't had time to catch up with him.

But the other news was no surprise to Dante. Once he read the captain's obituary in the Boston Evening Bulletin, he had made it his business to learn everything there was to know about the man. It was information he'd kept to himself, at first to use against Eleanor if he wanted to, then to keep from her, for to tell her would mean hurting her needlessly.

And now she knew. Dante had no doubt that she was not only hurt, but humiliated.

"It's quite scandalous, sir," Horace related, as he unpacked Dante's Italian leather valise and removed his clothes and toiletries. "Everyone is talking about it."

Dante undressed, anxious to bathe. "Poor Ellie."

"Yes, sir," Horace responded. "I wonder how she's taking it."

"Aren't you acquainted with someone who works next door to her brother?" Dante shed the last of his clothes, stepped into the tub, and sank into the hot water.

"Oh, yes, sir, but Miss Eleanor isn't living there anymore."

Dante bolted upright, splashing water onto the expensive Oriental carpet. "Why not?"

In spite of Horace's normal reserve, he appeared agitated when he relayed to Dante all the details of Eleanor's current dilemma, including Willa Simmons's visit from Theodora Conway, Sylvester's blatant absence, and Eleanor's banishment from her brother's home.

When Horace had finished, Dante was seething. To have every person she had once relied on turn his back on her was indefensible, and that included him. He stepped from the tub, accepted a towel from Horace, and rubbed himself down.

He should have been there for her. She was a courageous woman, but she shouldn't have had to shoulder all of this herself.

"She holds her head high, sir."

Dante's laugh held no mirth. "She would. And you say she is living in a boarding house?"

Horace nodded, handing Dante a freshly laundered shirt. "That is where she learned the captain already had a wife and five daughters. The boarding house is dockside, sir. I don't know the name, but the proprietress is a woman named Lauder. She's the one who has been spreading the gossip, I believe, not only about the captain's misdeed, but about … the two of you and your stay on Middle Brewster."

Swearing, Dante slipped into his shirt and angrily stuffed it into his trousers. "That tightfisted, degenerate old crone."

"Pardon me, sir, but some are calling Miss Eleanor a Jezebel because of what happened."

Dante's stomach continued to churn. "Horace, while we were marooned, I discovered many things about Eleanor Rayburn, and one thing she is not, and that's a Jezebel."

"I know that sir. And you know," he said, hesitating, "she is no longer a Rayburn. She never legally was." His voice was kindly, understanding.

"God, what a mess," Dante growled.

"Others are making jokes about her," Horace continued. "Some say they pity her, but I feel it's only lip service, for they, too, are relishing the gossip."

Frustrated, Dante ran his fingers through his damp hair. "She doesn't want pity. And not that I give a damn, but what are they saying about me?"

Horace lifted one eyebrow. "Oh, you are the scoundrel, sir. The rapscallion. The rogue who could take the starch out of a prig— pardon me, sir— like Miss Eleanor."

Despite his bath, Dante hardly felt refreshed. Every neighborhood in Boston was glorifying his reputation and sullying Eleanor's.

"You like her, don't you, Horace?"

"Very much."

"Why do you like her?" Dante urged.

Horace had placed Dante's shaving soap and razor on the shaving stand Dante had brought back from a trip to China. "Because she's kind, and she listened to me as if she were truly interested in what I had to say. And," he finished, "because she is intelligent." He gave Dante a wry look. "And you know how I feel about intelligent women, sir."

Dante's answering look was similar to Horace's own. "How could I forget?"

"Will there be anything else, sir?"

With a shake of his head, Dante answered, "No. Thank you, Horace."

After Horace left, Dante shaved, his mind on Eleanor and her last request of him before they left the island, one with which he hadn't complied. That he kiss her.

Knowing Ellie, it probably had something to do with an experiment, as most of her requests were, and nothing to do with her feelings for him. But he'd been reluctant. Why? Why had that appeal for a simple kiss been so hard for him to give? God knows he'd kissed enough women in his time, more than he could count, if he thought about it.

But after she had asked him, and before she had strode away from him, she seemed … different, somehow. Surely in appearance, for the mists had softened her, made her skin even more dew-kissed than before, and the damp air had turned her lush hair into masses of thick, wavy, even curly dishabille. But also in demeanor. She had been … desirable. And it had scared the living hell out of him.

As to the bigamy, Dante still didn't know the particulars. And no offense to Ellie, but Dante didn't think Rayburn had married her because he couldn't help himself. The fact that they had rarely been together attested to that.

Dear, spirited Ellie. How had he ever thought her plain and stiff? She was quick-witted, clever, resourceful. She was funny. Warm. And to endure what was happening to her now, she had to be the most courageous woman he had ever known.

A great share of this was his fault, and somehow he had to rectify it. The possibilities were few, and those there were did little to make him feel better.

Horace appeared at the bedroom door. "Sir? Mr. Pogue has just sent this note."

Dante took the note, opened it, and read the contents. "Horace, call the footman. There's a fancy San Francisco lawyer waiting to see me at my office."
Seventeen

Eleanor flopped onto her bed, removed her shoes, and rubbed her aching feet. She'd spent the better part of the day following up on leads for jobs— which had come to naught— and rooms for rent— which had been filled by the time she'd gotten there. She was suspicious about a few of the positions, for she was perfectly suited for them, but she had the sense that because of who she was, and what had happened to her lately, she wouldn't get them.

She still had two weeks before rent was due again; hopefully something would come up before then. If not … well, she'd deal with that situation if it came about.

There was a knock at her door. "Come in," she answered, too weary to get up.

Mrs. Lauder barged in, a note dangling from her bony fingers. "This just came for you. The delivery brat said it's from the fancy man. Better watch your step, missy, or you'll be out on the stoop with no place to park your supposedly high-minded ass."

Eleanor bit back a scathing reply, crossed the room, and snatched the note. Her name on the front was in Dante's script. "Thank you, Mrs. Lauder," Eleanor said as pleasantly as she was able. "Would you mind leaving me alone?"

The landlady shrugged and left the room, shutting the door soundly behind her.

Eleanor's heart did a little dance in her chest. Dante had returned.

She turned the note over and noticed that the seal was broken. A slow, angry burn steamed through her. Whatever Dante had to say, her landlady undoubtedly knew it before she would. Eleanor read the contents, which revealed nothing, but in which he informed her that he would send a carriage around for her at half past six that evening. Glancing at the old clock that sat on the table by her bed, she discovered she had only a few hours before the carriage would arrive.

She crossed to the mirror, studied her reflection, and frowned. She appeared nothing less than bedraggled. Her gown was old and well worn, for it was one of the few she had been wearing since she thought she'd become a widow.

Her gaze went to her trunk, which Calvin had sent over from the house. It contained gowns and underwear that she had not worn since her marriage— or whatever it was— to Amos. Perhaps there was something more suitable. At least something different. It would doubtless be out of date, but that hardly mattered.

It wasn't that she was trying to impress Dante; she had gone beyond trying to impress anyone anymore, and she could imagine he was only going to tell her how awful he felt about her current situation.

But she was tired of looking like a dowager. She removed the pins from her hair, shook it, and gave it a good, long brushing. She wanted a softer hairdo, something she'd had many years before. And, she rationalized, it had nothing to do with an evening at Dante Templeton's townhouse.



Dante arrived home later than he'd expected and found Eleanor in the kitchen with Horace and Hoshi, his new cook.

"Hoshi has been entertaining Horace and me." She graced him with a warm, genuine smile, one he couldn't help but return.

She looked wonderful. Her glorious hair was softer and she wore a pale blue two-piece dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a flattering neckline. It wasn't new, nor was it particularly fashionable, but she looked very nice. And she obviously was no longer in mourning for a man who hadn't legally married her in the first place.

"Horace tells me your housekeeper has gone to Nantucket to take care of the children while her daughter recovers from a difficult birth," she said.

Dante lifted a cover off a pot on the stove and inhaled the succulent aroma of an oyster sauce. "It's an unfortunate loss for me, but her daughter's gain."

"She won't be returning?"

"I'm afraid not," Dante answered. "Mrs. McGill arranged for someone to come in now and then to clean, though."

He took Eleanor's arm and led her toward the door. "Horace, some sherry, please?"

They entered the library and each took a seat in front of the fire.

"There can't be much to keeping the house tidied," Eleanor observed, glancing toward the door. "One person alone can't be too hard to pick up after."

"Horace keeps my things in good order, and this room is constantly in a state of clutter, and I insist that it stay that way. It's the only way I can keep track of things."

His disparaging smile tugged at Eleanor's heart. Since they had become friends, he had graced her with many such smiles, and she understood in part what it was that gave him a hold over women. "And I imagine Mrs. McGill served as both housekeeper and cook?"

"Very often, yes. That's something I'd wanted to rectify for some time, but she refused to allow it. At least on a permanent basis, anyway." He gave Eleanor a quizzical look. "Why do women become so possessive about cooking and cleaning?"

Eleanor's laugh was delightfully genuine. "It's a mystery to me."

He studied her, her uniqueness and frankness refreshing. "Then you don't suffer from that malady?"

"Hardly. I've done very little cooking, except for myself, and I had my fill of housekeeping when I stayed with Calvin and his family, for Willa pressed me into service immediately. Not that I minded," she amended quickly and without rancor. "I didn't expect to stay there without doing something for my keep."

She was remarkable. Most women in her position would have held a grudge, especially against a shrew like Willa Simmons. Not Ellie.

"I see." He touched his chin thoughtfully. "Eleanor, there is a position available for you here."

She sat back, surprised. "You're offering me a job?"

Horace entered, placed a silver tray with a bottle of sherry and two glasses on the table between them, then silently retreated.

Dante's hands shook briefly. He hadn't really thought this out, hadn't gone over the scenario in his mind. "Actually, yes." He poured her a glass of wine.

"As your housekeeper?" She took the goblet.

He watched as her dainty hand cupped it, and he remembered how fascinated he had been with the delicateness of her limbs, which, he thought at the time, had been in contrast with her abrasive nature. One tended to miss such subtleties when doing constant battle with her quick and clever mind and forthright manner.

"No, not really," he answered, his stomach churning.

She sipped slowly, her full lower lip clinging gently to the elegant rim of the glass. "Well, then as what?"

She held the sherry glass by the stem. Afraid she might snap it in two when she heard what he had to say, Dante reached across the table, took it, and put it down in front of her.

"As my wife." He managed to sound confident.

She didn't respond. Her expression told him nothing.

"Eleanor?"

Suddenly she pressed her fingers against her lips and chuckled. "Of course you're joking."

He leaned into the back of the chair. "I've never been more serious in my life."

She didn't believe him. "You had me going," she admitted, "but only for a moment." She reached for her sherry goblet, not surprised to see that her fingers shook.

"So your answer is no?"

"Dante," she said, laughter in her voice. "You don't want to get married, least of all to me."

"How do you know, Ellie?" His tone verged on belligerence.

Admittedly, the sound of her familiar nickname on his tongue sent her stomach spiraling into dandelion fluff. "Well, you told me on the island that you would never marry, and, let's be honest, I'm not your type. And," she hurried to add, "you're not exactly mine." A lie.

"What is your type, Ellie? Sylvester Conway? I seem to have heard that he's no longer calling on you, thanks to me. And," he added, "his tyrannical, overbearing mother, of course."

She glanced at him, then at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. "I suppose you heard about Amos, too."

A slight pause, then, "Yes."

"And the dowry?" At his puzzled frown, she relayed to him the story that Willa had told her about why Amos had agreed to marry her in the first place.

Dante looked stunned. "I can't believe it. I knew he was married, but I—"

Eleanor sat bolt upright. "You knew? When?"

"After I read his obituary, I dug into his past," he admitted.

"And you didn't feel the need to tell me?" She was both horrified and puzzled.

He didn't look at her. "I thought about using it against you in the beginning, but—"

Her heart thumped hard. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

He finally met her gaze. "No. He was dead, and it would only have hurt you."

Eleanor didn't know how to respond. She was angry with him for keeping the news from her, yet somewhat placated that he hadn't wanted to use it to hurt her.

"Well, the plot thickens, as they say." She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"So let me get this straight," she said, feeling oddly detached. "Now that you know my problems, you've taken it upon yourself to put the poor old bigamist's bride out of her misery by offering to marry her."

His gaze was unreadable. "Is that how you see it?"

"That's how it is. Oh, Dante, don't you see? We spent three days together, during which I begged you to teach me something you knew well, and I didn't know at all. And I practically had to force you to do it."

"Ellie—"

"Dante, don't. Let me remind you that you wouldn't even kiss me." Something that still tended to hurt a little.

She managed a condescending smile. "You don't want to marry me. You want to rescue me because you blame yourself for what's happened."

"Dammit, Ellie." Frowning, he stood and strode to the mantel. "Don't tell me what I want and what I don't want. And for God's sake, just once can you not analyze everything? For once can't you take something at face value?"

"I could," she answered, still a bit stunned, "if it were something reasonable."

He turned and studied her for so long, Eleanor wondered if he'd lost his train of thought.

"There's another reason," he finally said.

"What is it?"

"I want to adopt Victor."

Before she could utter a sound, he held up his hand to keep her from speaking. "I wasn't going to tell you yet, because I know how you feel about him, and I didn't want your answer to be contingent on your dislike for the boy."

"I don't dislike Victor," she assured him. In fact, she had come to feel very strongly about him, because she knew he was very much like the boy Dante had once been. That realization alone had softened her toward the child.

Dante continued to frown. "You don't?"

"Of course not," she answered softly. "I admit he gave me reason to pray for patience many times, but … I do think he and I have developed an understanding."

She gazed at him, her heart filling with emotions she wasn't sure she could deal with. "If you need someone to care for him, why not just hire me to do that?"

He snorted a harsh laugh. "You think that would save you from the rumormongers? You, living here, under my roof, as my— wink, wink— housekeeper and nanny for my newly acquired eight-year-old son?"

"It would be the truth, and I wouldn't have to live here, I could … find another place." Easier said than done.

He examined her, his gaze probing. "Haven't you already tried to do that?"

She bristled. "Are you having me followed?"

"I don't have to," he answered calmly. "You're the most talked-about woman in Boston. You had no sooner left the Stanton's on Beacon Hill this morning after applying for the housekeeping job when their footman told the neighbor's butler, who informed the cook in the house across the street, who saw Horace's nephew at the market … Do you see what I mean?"

Eleanor screwed up her face. "Don't these people have anything better to do?"

"Obviously not," he answered. "And you can't even receive an anonymous message without most of the boarders at the rooming house and half your neighbors knowing about it before you do."

She sagged against the chair. "Mrs. Lauder."

"I was certain she would read the note before you got it; that's why I said as little as possible in it. And news, especially scuttlebutt, travels fast. Never doubt that servants have a well-honed network, Ellie. Every one of them is related to someone who knows someone who works for someone, and so on and so on."

She studied her hands, which were still clasped in her lap, having no answer. No rebuttal.

"Even if you worked here, and didn't live here, don't you think people would talk just the same?"

"I don't care what people say about me," she countered, feeling testy and violated.

"Maybe not, but think about your family. If not your sister-in-law or even your brother, think about that sweet niece of yours. Children can be cruel, Ellie. You're the topic of conversation in many, many homes. Gossip may not be told in front of the children, but you can bet they hear about it anyway. And they won't keep the information to themselves, believe me."

For the moment, Eleanor was speechless. It was true. Lydia had innocently overheard her parents talking about Eleanor's future. Children were often simply unseen, even if they were in the room.

And she had already hurt Lydia. She didn't want to hurt her any more. This was all very frightening, because he was beginning to make sense.

"But … to marry …" Her hand went to her throat, and she could feel the pulse pounding in the hollow between the bones.

She looked at him, her heart dancing wildly. "To give up so much for me, Dante …" She couldn't even finish a sentence, she was so addled.

He just laughed. "What about you? You'll be giving up a lot more, believe me. As you have told me many times, Ellie, I am vain, arrogant, egotistical, conceited, a painted peacock, obnoxious—"

"I've never said you were obnoxious," she corrected.

His gaze held hers. "But I am vain, arrogant, egotistical, and conceited."

She expelled a long, quiet breath. "You are other things, too."

"Things that can make up for my shortcomings?"

Her gaze sharpened. "Are you making fun of me?"

His smile was crooked. And boyish. And tender. And it touched a place so deep inside her, she thought she might faint.

"Only a little," he answered, continuing to smile a frightfully wonderful smile.

Again, she was aware of how other women perceived him. Of how easy it had been to fall in love with him, and she had no doubt at all that she loved him. But oh, how quickly he could break her heart. Although, there was some safety in marriage, wasn't there?

She retrieved her goblet and drained it, the sherry stinging as it slid down her throat. Dante was there immediately to give her more. "You need fortification to make a decision, I gather."

"I … I do need something," she nearly stuttered. After another long sip of sherry, she repeated, "But you'd be giving up so much."

Horace appeared at the library door to announce dinner.

"Ellie, it looks like I'll have to give you some time to think about this."

He took her hand and helped her rise. She was grateful for the support, for her knees had prodigiously turned to the consistency of whale blubber.

"Yes. Yes, you've given me much to think about," she agreed, hoping her voice sounded normal. "When do you plan to adopt Victor?"

"It won't happen too swiftly," he promised. "If you accept my proposal, you would have sufficient time to become accustomed to things around here before I went forward with the adoption."

"So, this proposal is rather like a business arrangement," she replied.

He stopped and studied her, his expression unreadable. "If that's the way you want to look at it."

No, she thought, it wasn't. But he had not offered to marry her because he loved her, she knew that.

If she accepted, she dared not ever let him know her feelings for him. She must approach the arrangement as he did, for to do otherwise would surely be her ruin.



She slid into bed that night, wishing she had Lydia beside her, someone to bounce her feelings off.

Marriage. To Dante. Unable to believe such an impossible solution to her dilemma, she laughed aloud, then cupped a hand over her mouth.

But it wasn't funny. If she agreed to marry him, it would undoubtedly be amusing to everyone in Boston, but it would never be so to her.

It could be the cruelest, most heartless thing he had ever done or could ever hope to do, because she had fallen in love with him, and he would, without even meaning or intending to, break her heart.

What had she thought earlier? That there was some safety in marriage? That was hogwash, of course, because he still had his mistresses, and he had told her on the island that for married men, mistresses were a common practice.

Cursing, she rolled to her side and punched her pillow. And what had she told him? That she couldn't live with that? That she would leave a husband who had a mistress, and become a nun? She laughed again, this time letting the sound escape into the dark, empty room.

Somehow, if she accepted this … this insane proposal, she would have to decide how to deal with it. She was in no position to demand that he no longer see his mistress. Even if she did so, he would do as he pleased, she was sure.

How would she cope? She wasn't the crying, tantrum-throwing type. She wouldn't threaten to leave him, for he'd probably simply show her the door. And she couldn't threaten to take a lover of her own because he might tell her to go ahead, and then what would she do?

She loved him, she fully admitted that. If they were to wed, she would willingly allow him into her bed, because she knew in her heart and soul that no man on God's earth could make her feel the way he had, and he hadn't even entered her. What marvels would there be when he did? She couldn't even imagine such joy. But … what if he promised not to touch her? No. No, she refused to think of such a thing.

Perhaps it would be wisest to say nothing of his dalliances. If he kept them to himself and did not flaunt them in public, she might be able to live with it. It would hurt, she knew that. But if she could force herself not to dwell on it, maybe, in time.…

But what of the mistresses? Everyone seemed to know who his current one was. Eleanor had been there when Dante had banished the Banning woman from his home. But surely there would be others.

Eleanor tried to envision how her life would be, and the most troublesome part was living with the knowledge that her husband would sleep with and make love to other women. At parties and gatherings, Eleanor would be relegated to the parlor with the other wives, none of whom would speak of their husbands' indiscretions, but all of them would know what they had in common.

And they would chatter about children and servants and gossip about their neighbors. They would drink tea, knit, play cards, plan weekly menus, and do cross-stitched patterns on linen handkerchiefs.

And all the while, Eleanor would cast a longing glance at the den, where the men were gathered, loudly discussing politics or whaling or slavery and abolition and the possibility of war with the states to the south. Topics that fueled Eleanor's intellect but topics only men seemed able to openly enjoy.

But there would always be Victor, a boy she could watch grow to manhood. And perhaps she and Dante might even have a child of their own. Perhaps.

Her entire body quaked with the anticipation of a life with Dante. There were pluses and minuses galore to marrying him. Before she had left his townhouse that evening, Dante had given her a week to make a decision. She still wasn't sure if a week was too long, or a month simply not long enough.

But before she went to sleep that night, she knew what she would do.
Eighteen

Willa stared at her, slack-jawed. "You're what?" she almost shrieked.

"I'm going to marry Dante Templeton." Though she said it with conviction, the words sounded foreign to her own ears. She could imagine how they must sound to Willa, who believed Eleanor was so unattractive, a man had to be bribed to marry her.

Willa clutched at her throat. "This … this isn't happening."

"It will happen the day after tomorrow," Eleanor explained, folding her clothes into a valise.

"Everyone will laugh at you," Willa warned. "You do know why he's doing this, don't you?" Without waiting for Eleanor to answer, Willa continued, "He feels sorry for you. You've become his charity case because he has ruined your reputation. It's pitiful."

Eleanor held her tongue.

"And think about what it will do to us!"

Eleanor opened her trunk and folded an old, black dress into it. "I don't see that my marriage to Dante has anything to do with you."

"Your brother and I will become a joke."

Eleanor suddenly realized that nothing she did would please her sister-in-law, even a "pitiful" marriage to a rich man. "Then I guess I can't expect the two of you to attend the ceremony, can I?"

"We will have no part of it," Willa announced. "You will be the laughingstock of Boston, Eleanor. Even his mistresses will have more respect than you will." She stormed out and slammed the door.

Ah, yes. His mistresses. Ever since she'd agreed to marry him, her stomach had been in knots. Finally, this morning, she had come to grips with what she was about to do, and in one fell swoop, Willa brought it all back to her.

The door squeaked open. "Aunt Ellie?"

"Come in, sweetheart."

Lydia rushed to her and hugged her around the waist, burying her face in Eleanor's skirt. Eleanor lovingly smoothed her niece's hair.

"I'm going to miss you," Lydia said, her voice muffled.

Eleanor smiled down at her. "I won't be that far away. I'll want you to come visit often."

On a sigh, Lydia answered, "I only hope Mama lets me."

"Your papa will," Eleanor assured her.

Lydia looked up at her, dark blue eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. "But Papa never talks to me anymore. It's almost like he's afraid of me."

Eleanor's heart broke for her niece. "Oh, he's just busy, dear. He loves you, you know."

Lydia sniffed through her tears. "Who will I tell what I've learned? You're the only one who was ever interested. This … this morning I learned that you can't sneeze with your eyes open. I felt a sneeze coming, and was determined to try to keep my eyes open, but I couldn't."

"When you come to visit, you can regale me with everything you've learned, dear. And … and Dante, too. Remember? He thinks you're so very special, as do I."

They stood together, one clinging, the other wondering if she'd made the worst decision in her life.



Although neither of them was Catholic, they were married at the orphanage by the priest who came to the chapel every week to hold mass.

Horace was Dante's best man, and Sister Mary Francis stood beside Eleanor.

Now, as they left the orphanage in Dante's landaulette, he found that his palms were sweating.

"Don't tell me now that we're wed, you're going to quit speaking to me," Eleanor scolded softly.

He smiled. "Believe it or not, I'm nervous. I've never been married before, you know."

She released a sigh. "And it wasn't that long ago that you claimed you never would." She studied him. "I still can't believe you've done this for me."

Dante couldn't believe it, either. This entire script was one he could never have believed he would act out.

They stopped in front of his townhouse. Eleanor was ready to get out of the carriage, but Dante touched her arm. "We're not going in."

"We're not?" Her expression was puzzled.

The driver came to Dante's side. "Everything is in the back, sir."

Dante thanked him. "Well, Ellie, are you ready to go?"

"Go? Go where?"

"On a honeymoon, of course." Would it be? He wondered.

Clearly startled, she replied, "We're going on a honeymoon?"

He couldn't help but smile. "Isn't that what I just said?"

"Where are we going?"

"Back to Middle Brewster. We had such fun the first time, I thought we'd return." He turned and saw her horrified expression, and he guffawed.

"You're not serious," she murmured.

"No," he answered. "Where we're going is a surprise." He lifted the unwrapped gift from the back. "Here." He tossed her a velvet full-length bottle-green cape with a Persian lamb-trimmed hood. "Put this on. It's going to get chilly."

She took the cape, her eyes wide. "Dante. This is too beautiful to wear." Her expression became suspicious. "Whose is it?"

He laughed again. "It's yours. I bought it for you; it has never belonged to another woman, unless, of course, the lamb was a ewe."

Her hands moved over the fabric as if she were learning the texture by touch. She was quiet.

"You don't like it?"

"Don't be foolish," she scoffed. "It's just that … that I didn't expect you to buy me anything. Thank you."

Dante glanced away, her naked expression of gratitude and disbelief almost painful. "You wouldn't let me buy you a new gown to get married in," he reminded her.

"This was certainly good enough," she countered.

"It's very nice," he agreed, glancing at the heavy white hand-loomed cotton skirt and gray silk blouse. "But I picture you in more vibrant colors, like the cape."

He helped her into the garment, then took the driver's seat. "Now, are we going to argue, or are we going on a honeymoon?"

Eleanor's expression told him she was done arguing. "May I ride up there with you?"

He leapt down, helped her out of the seat, and settled her next to him.

Occasionally, as they drove through the streets toward their destination, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She sat tall, proud, the wind catching wisps of her bountiful hair, tossing them haphazardly about her flushed face. More than once he had to look away, his emotions as taut as knots on a bell-rope.

They followed the coast road north to Lynn until they reached a road that went east, out onto a small peninsula.

"Now will you tell me where we're going?" Eleanor pressed, her voice filled with excitement.

"To Nahant," he answered.

"What in heaven's name is there?" She craned her neck, as if she could see in the waning light.

"Oh, a little fishing shanty I bought a number of years ago." He bit the insides of his cheeks to repress a smile.

"How delightful! Oh, Dante, I love to fish."

He chuckled softly. Leave it to Ellie to be excited about the possibility of going fishing on her honeymoon. "Then we shall fish."

"And … and walk the beach? Watch the sunrise?"

He slanted her a glance. "You won't miss the city?"

She shook her head passionately. "Not one scrap." She inhaled deeply. "Oh, I love the smell of the ocean, I truly do."

He brought the small landau to a stop and listened. The sound of the waves hitting the rocks was music to his own ears.

Eleanor glanced at the large cottage with the candlelit windows that sat at the end of the peninsula overlooking the Atlantic. "That's a lovely place. Why are we stopping here?"

Dante hopped to the ground. "Welcome to the shanty, Mrs. Templeton." He raised his arms to help her down.

She gaped. "This? This is your little fishing shanty?"

"Indeed it is," he answered, immediately feeling at home.



Eleanor stepped into the cozy entry, quietly comparing it to his townhouse in Boston. His place in town was lovely, decorated with taste and style. The "cottage" was homey. Warm-hearted. The fire in the enormous stone fireplace in the great room filled the place with heat and light. The furniture was luxurious country, richly overstuffed. Two beautifully upholstered wraparound Sleepy Hollow armchairs bracketed the fireplace, perfect for curling up in and reading.

Eleanor twirled slowly in the room as Dante entered with their bags. "Oh, it's wonderful."

"I'm glad you approve," he answered, smiling. "But it's pretty isolated, Ellie," he warned. "If you get bored—"

"Bored? How does one get bored in a place like this?"

She hurried to the bookcase that was built along one wall and scanned the titles of the books. Some were about the sea, some were poetry. There were novels by Washington Irving and James Fenimore Cooper. There was Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, The Birds of America by John James Audubon, and dozens of almanacs.

At the end of a row on the bottom shelf, she read the title, Aristotle's Masterpiece, exhaled sharply, and pulled the book from its place. When Dante returned from one of the bedrooms, she held it up for him to see.

"I've heard about this book. Isn't this the one that fathers hide, and young men read behind the barn?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

Dante's smile was crooked. "Ah, yes. The 'sex' book that masquerades as the work of Aristotle, but is not."

Eleanor briefly leafed through it, finding pictures of woodcuts that made her blush. "I shouldn't be surprised to discover that you have a copy."

He took the book from her and replaced it on the shelf. "No, you shouldn't," he answered, still smiling.

Remembering the vast array of erotica in his bedroom, she turned nervously and took a quick stroll through the kitchen, which was at one end of the great room. He had a new cast-iron cook stove.

"The door on the left is to the pantry," he explained. "The other is a washroom with a door leading outside. Beyond that is a small herb garden. There are probably some vegetables growing there as well."

She peered through the window, seeing nothing but the darkening water of the Atlantic. "Does that mean I shall be expected to cook?"

He laughed softly. "I'm not sure I trust you in the kitchen. After all, you claimed not to have had much experience in that area."

She shrugged. "I could probably boil a potato or two." Actually, she was a fair cook, despite what she'd told him.

"I think I shall be our chef, Ellie."

"That suits me," she answered. She ambled toward the doors she assumed went into the bedrooms, her nervousness increasing.

"Your luggage is in the room on the right," he specified.

Her heart sank, but she answered cheerfully, "Thank you, Dante. I think I'll put some things away, if you don't mind."

Anxious to be alone, she hurried inside and shut the door, briefly resting against it. A spermaceti candle enclosed in a clear, globe-shaped lamp was lit and placed on a crisply clean linen cloth that covered the bedside table.

She crossed to the bed and sat, sinking onto the luxurious stuffed feather bed. The quilt was a gaily colored patchwork style. There were extra quilts folded at the end of the bed.

Eleanor glanced around the room, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Well, she had thought this might happen; she would sleep alone. She wondered if there was anything she could do to change it.

She had made it very clear when they were marooned that she wanted to experience all the adventures availed to a married woman, although at that time, neither had known they would end up together. Even so, he couldn't have forgotten. No, he hadn't forgotten, he just wasn't interested. And they had both understood that this was a business arrangement.

She stood, went to her valise, and opened it. With a weary sigh, she pulled out a long, silky item from her valise, paused and frowned. She brought the garment to the bed where there was more light and studied it. Why, it was a peignoir, sheer enough to read a book through!

Still frowning, she glanced back at her luggage, then at the gown. She returned to her valise and riffled through it, finding expensively embroidered camisoles, some with lace, others plain, eyelet lace trimmed split-crotch bloomers, soft, lawn petticoats and nothing, absolutely nothing familiar.

She flipped the latch on her trunk, flung it open, and saw not one piece of clothing that belonged to her.

With an exasperated cry, she rushed to the door and opened it. "Dante?"

He stepped in from outside. When he saw her expression, his own became worried. "Is something wrong?"

She could hardly get the words out fast enough. "Horace must have made a mistake. None of the clothes in my valise or trunk are mine. Whose are they?"

She caught her breath, then put her fists on her hips. "If he packed up your mistresses' things and accidentally put them in the landaulette—"

"They are your things, Ellie," he interrupted softly.

She swallowed and looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "Mine?" With a quick shake of her head, she added, "I've never seen those clothes before."

"I bought them for you." He stepped into the pantry, returning with two bowls.

Still stunned, she stuttered, "I … you … you did?" When he nodded, she asked, "But why?"

"Because I wanted to," he answered.

She chewed her bottom lip. "But how do you know they will fit me?"

He put plates and silverware on the rough hewed table then placed the bowls down in the middle. "I'm a pretty good judge of that."

"Aha." She gave him a scathing look. "Which comes, no doubt, from all your experience undressing mistresses."

He shook a finger at her. "Now, Ellie," he scolded, "we won't talk of them, all right?"

Another sinking sensation. Right. It was best not to bring up his dalliances, especially on the honeymoon. "Well, what did you do with my clothes?"

"Do you really care?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly.

"Why don't you go in and put your things away," he suggested. "By the time you're done, I'll have supper ready."

She stood for a moment, part of her feeling guilty for allowing him to prepare the meal, and part of her reeling from his admission that he'd bought her virtually an entirely new wardrobe. No one had ever done such a thing for her before. No one at all.

He glanced up, noting her indecision. "Get along, now."

When she returned from the bedroom, their meal was ready. They sat down to a delicious repast of minced beef-filled corncakes, navy beans cooked with pork and molasses, and a succulent fish stew.

They finished the meal in front of the fire, each sipping a glass of rich, red port wine.

Eleanor listened to the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks. Although it was a lonely sound, it didn't make her feel lonesome or sad. "Is there anyone else around?"

"No one at all," he said.

"What made you decide to come up here?"

His gaze moved over her, slowly, deliberately. "I had my reasons."

Eleanor squirmed, her corset suddenly binding and uncomfortable.

"Model your new underthings for me, Ellie," he murmured.

The tempo of her heartbeat kicked up a notch, but she was suddenly shy. "I would feel foolish doing that."

"Haven't you ever done something foolish?"

She thought a moment, gnawing at her lower lip. "I don't think so."

"You should try it. I guarantee you'll like it," he promised.

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Here was her chance to draw him to her bed. But could she do it? For a brief moment, the face and luscious figure of Marguerite Banning loomed before her, and Eleanor knew that she could not compete with that.

"I'd be happy to model the clothes in the trunk," she offered.

He barked a laugh. "Of course you would. Why not start with the wool-lined petticoat, or the pea jacket? Maybe you'd like to model my sack suit?"

She drained her wine goblet and stood, his harsh words what she deserved. "I'm sorry, Dante, I can't do what you ask." She rushed to her bedroom and slammed the door, wondering just what kind of fool she was.

The peignoir lay across the bed like a fallen gauze curtain. She picked it up and studied it, recalling that there had been no other type of nightgown in her valise.



Dante stared into the fire. What had he expected? That she, of all the women he knew, would simply disrobe and march around in her sensuous new underwear, just to please him? That wasn't Eleanor.

But after learning a little about her wishes, desires, and passions, he thought it might happen. Hell, he had hoped it might.

He rose from the hearth and was about to go to his room when he heard a noise behind him.
Nineteen

Eleanor stood in the doorway. "I need something to read," she stated, the peignoir shimmering like gossamer over her body.

Dante's senses leaped to life, and he bit back a smile. "Of course you do."

She straightened, unaware that in doing so, her tight-nippled breasts poked against the sheer fabric. "I did not come out here so you could ogle me."

"Then why are you wearing that?" he taunted softly.

"Because you bought me nothing else to wear to bed, that's why." She sounded prim and tart.

He hid another smile. "You could have come out to find a book before you changed for bed."

She moved toward the bookshelves, avoiding his gaze. The garment clung to her in places that would have made her blush, if she had been aware. "I didn't think of it until I'd undressed."

Light shimmered off her hair, making it look like she wore a halo. She didn't look all that angelic, however. "Lame excuse, Ellie."

Ignoring him, she studied the books.

He strolled to the far corner of the shelf and removed the "sex" book. "You seemed inordinately interested in this one earlier." He went behind her, put his arms around her, letting her loose breasts rest on his forearms.

She was the perfect height for him. If he bent his head slightly, he could nuzzle her ear. If they were ever to dance together, she would fit against him, the perfect partner. Not too short, not too tall.

He opened the book in front of her. The pages contained prints of erotic art carved in sandstone.

"Some scholars believed these sexual acts were an offering made to a deity. Even later," he continued, murmuring close to her ear, "they were thought to be a secret code referring to exalted states of being."

He breathed in her fragrance, the spicy aroma of her hair, the fresh, clean smell that was Eleanor, and briefly closed his eyes against the pleasure.

"But," he continued, pressing lightly against her backside, "it's hard to believe the figures represented are not having a good time. Don't you agree?"

Her breath quickened, and he could sense the tension in her body as she leaned against him.

"I like this one," he offered, moving his thumb over the picture of one man entering a woman from behind. Another woman stood by while the man stimulated her with his hand.

He flipped the page. "And here," he said, pointing to a scene with a man and seven women in what appeared to be every man's fantasy.

"Is that what men want? Seven women to satisfy their needs?" Her voice, although shaky, held a caustic edge.

"Oh, but look, Ellie. Notice that everyone is being satisfied, not just the man." He waited while she studied the picture, knowing that it would excite her as it excited him, for while there was just one penis to go around, the women found other means of pleasuring themselves.

She shuddered against him.

"And, how about this one?" A woman was on her back, her legs spread wide while a man licked and stimulated her clitoris with his tongue. She, in turn, took the head of his penis into her mouth.

"People don't actually do that, do they?" Her astonishment was absolutely free of the attempted aloofness she had manifested just moments before.

"People have been doing that since before they thought to draw it on cave walls or sculpt it in stone." He rubbed his cheek against her hair and he wanted to drown himself in it.

She exhaled a long, shaky breath and leaned against him, her head lolling against his shoulder. "Is there a name for such things?"

"Cunnilingus," he said, pointing to the one.

"Meaning?" Her body quaked against his.

" 'One who licks the vulva.' "

"Oh. My." Both her voice and body trembled.

He pointed to the other. "Fellatio."

Her breathing was shallow and rapid. "Meaning?"

"To suck."

"I … I feel as if I've been living in a cave," she answered, sounding flustered.

He closed the book, laid it on the table beside them, and turned her toward him. He took the braid that hung over her shoulder, loosening it so that her hair hung in long, loopy curls. "You look very beautiful in your peignoir, Ellie."

"I'm not beautiful—"

"Don't interrupt," he ordered.

He put his arm around her waist, dipping his fingers lightly across her buttocks, and steered her toward the fire.

The outline of her body beneath the gown showed her rich, luscious curves. Her rose colored nipples teased the fabric. Lower, through the gauzy material, he could see the dark richness of her pelt; it was thick and soft to the touch, he remembered.

A wave of desire weakened him as he recalled the slick wetness of her when he had stroked her to orgasm. He slowly pulled her down to the rug in front of the hearth.

"I don't know what we have here, Ellie, but it sure as hell isn't a business arrangement."

She answered with a jerky nod, her eyes wide and dark. "I know."

He moved his hand up the outside of her thigh, over the peignoir, to the base of her buttocks. "When I came upon you on the island and you were changing into dry clothes, I couldn't believe the beauty that had been hidden. Your buttocks," he continued, "have delicious dimples. And your thighs are soft, the color of cream. The kind that every man dreams of being cushioned between. Did you know that?"

A tentative shake of her head as her eyes drifted closed.

"You have a tasty body, Ellie."

She uttered a nervous laugh. "You are equating me with food, Dante."

"That's because I'd love to eat you. Nibble on your delectable, secret parts. Parts you would not even dream that I should touch with my lips and tongue." He dipped and nuzzled her neck; she moved her head to give him access.

"Like … in the picture?" Her voice was a mere whisper.

"Exactly," he assured her.

"But, I … I'm not beautiful, Dante, nor am I dainty, delicious, or delectable," she said, her voice breathy as she exhaled.

"That's what I thought at first, too. Your quick mind and acerbic tongue put me off, and I saw you as nothing but a termagant, out to make my life miserable."

"I was," she reminded him, moving so that her breasts were available for his touch.

He sat on the rug and drew her between his thighs.

"Are we going to talk?" she asked, murmuring softly.

He stroked her breasts, lifting, kneading, tugging gently at her nipples. He was hard. Ready for something, but he'd be damned if it was talk.

"Is that what you want?" His fingers moved lower, over her soft belly.

"We—" She inhaled sharply. "We could talk, couldn't we?"

"Are you getting nervous?" His hand moved lower, his fingers finding her velvety pubic hair.

She hesitated a moment, then explained, "I … I have some marks on my abdomen, Dante. Marks left from my pregnancy. They're quite unsightly."

He rubbed his fingers over her thatch of hair. "So you're warning me, is that it?"

Her legs scissored against the rug. "Yes."

"I want to see them."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "As you wish." She turned sideways, taking herself out of the shelter of his body and started to lift the gown. He stopped her.

"Take the gown off, Ellie."

"All the way off?"

He nodded, and she stood, removed the gown, and held it in front of her. Her head was bowed, resigned, as though she waited for his rejection.

He caught a grin. "You look as though you're going to your own execution."

"It's not a pretty sight." Her voice was a mere whisper.

Dante rose to his knees in front of her and gently tugged the gown from her grasp, tossing it aside.

In the firelight, he studied her. Perfect breasts with hard, rosy nipples. Tiny ribcage that ended at a small waist. Hips that flared generously, rounded to perfection. Dusky pubic hair, thick and fine as ermine fur. And above it, below her navel, he saw them. Fine, silvery striations that glowed in the firelight.

Again, his desire quickened, thickening his blood, singing in his ears. He reached around her, pressed his palms against her buttocks and brought her to him. With his tongue, he slowly and deliberately traced the precious lines. Her body quaked and quivered, but she stood before him, allowing him to minister to what she believed were her imperfections.

Her hands went to his head, and she drove her fingers into his hair, shuddering quiet breaths.

He moved lower, allowing his tongue to graze the top of her mons, then lower, barely brushing against the top of her clitoris.

Her legs buckled, and he caught her, gently guiding her to the rug.

"Are they not ugly?" she managed, though her voice trembled.

He took her onto his lap and held her, loving the feel of her naked flesh. "They are a badge of honor, and no such mark is ugly." He touched them with his fingertips, memorizing their slight ridges and indentations.

His hand slid between her thighs and he groaned into her hair. "You're wet, Ellie. So very, very wet." One finger dipped inside. "And swollen. Your inner labia are swollen, and your clitoris," he said, rubbing his thumb over it, "is engorged."

"Well, what are you going to do about it this time?" Even though her voice shook with need, it held the dare; he could only respond to it.

"I'm going to get out of my clothes," he began, reaching for a patience new to him, "and you're going to watch."

As he stood and removed his shirt, she found herself holding her breath. Her entire body hummed with a hunger so intense, she would plead with him to take her if she had to.

His dragon leaped to life as his shirt hit the floor, and she uttered a small cry as she remembered his pain. "We both have scars," she reminded him. From the same man, she thought, but didn't say.

He didn't answer her, but he slowly removed his trousers, letting them pool around his feet before he kicked them aside.

Eleanor stared. A yearning swelled inside her. "It's, it's … big."

"There are those who are larger," he informed her.

She shook her head. "It is big enough. What would one do with a bigger one?" It was long and thick, and grew from a thick bush of black hair. The end, which had a bulb-shaped appearance, glistened in the firelight.

"Touch it, Ellie." His voice was husky, raspy.

She shook her head again. "Oh, no." But she wanted to. Oh, now she wanted to.

"Please," he asked quietly. "Touch it."

Eleanor got to her knees. Slick wetness slid down between her thighs, and she had an ache for him so deep, she thought she might fly into pieces.

She reached out and touched him, her fingers stroking lightly at first. "It's so hard, yet like velvet on the outside," she mused, amazed.

He groaned, and she moved her hand away, but he brought it back, teaching her how to encircle him, stroke him.

Closing her eyes, she let herself examine his length, the slick and easy way the skin moved over the hard surface of his erection.

He groaned out loud. "Now we're going to lie here in front of the fire, Ellie. I think it's time we finish this."

Resting back on her elbows, she spread her legs, exposing her needy body, the throbbing so intense she thought she might faint.

He joined her on the rug, and they came together, his arms drawing her so close, she felt the length of his need against her belly.

"I've never been naked with anyone before," she murmured, reveling in his touch.

"I love being naked," he admitted, darting his tongue in and out of her ear and nipping at her earlobe.

He was warm and hard, big and muscular, and suddenly she felt free and uninhibited.

She ran her fingers over his chest, his navel, his thick, hard arms. She drove her fingers into his hair when his mouth came down on hers, and she quivered inside at the sensation.

He moved lower, taking one nipple into his mouth, and she arched against him, nearly screaming for the pleasure it gave her.

Finally, he nudged her knees apart and touched the aching place between her thighs, and she bucked against his hand.

"You're so ready, Ellie, sweet, sweet Ellie," he announced, pressing her onto her back. At long last he entered her, and although she was ready for him, he stretched her more.

He was still for a moment, waiting.

Eleanor wrapped her legs around his back, urging him deeper.

He began. Slowly pumping into her, deeper and deeper until she wondered how she had lived so long without such bliss. Above her, his arms straight, his palms on the rug, he gazed down at her.

"Do you like this, Ellie?" His voice was a husky whisper.

He was there, deep inside her, and she couldn't imagine anything more erotic. More sensual. More blissful. Briefly closing her eyes, she nodded. "Oh, yes."

"I'm watching us, Ellie." And he described, in terms hotly arousing, using language she had never heard before, what he was doing to her. "And each time I pull out, Ellie, your sweet lips cling to it, as if fearing it won't return.

"Now I'm going deeper, Ellie. Can you feel me there, deep inside you?" With long, deep pumps, he brought her closer and closer to the edge.

"Y-yes," she stuttered, but that other feeling was starting. That swirling, ecstatic sensation that started at her clitoris and spread through her, robbing her of breath.

"Oh, Dante," she cried, "it's coming, oh, yes!" She tensed, then clasped her arms around his neck as the sensation spread and spun and whirled.

She heard her cries, her screams as the ecstasy created spasm after spasm of rapture, freedom, pleasure, until she collapsed, barely able to breathe. And then, she began to cry, tears of satisfaction, tears of release. Tears of joy.

Shortly after, he stiffened, shuddering with his own release.
Twenty

Dante chuckled into her hair. "Now, that's the reason I brought you out here. There's not another soul around for miles."

She laughed, too, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "Oh, I shouldn't be so noisy, should I?"

He gave her a crooked grin and rolled onto his back. "I love it." And he did. Never had a woman been this way with him. Not one of his mistresses had experienced an orgasm like Eleanor, and he began to wonder if any of them had reached orgasm at all.

Eleanor touched his dwindling penis. "What—" she licked her lips and swallowed. "What shall I call it?"

He laughed softly. "There are many things it can be called."

"Like what?" She squeezed him.

He inhaled sharply. "Careful, Ellie, or we'll be doing this all over again."

She glanced up, surprised. "So soon?"

"Well, maybe not quite yet."

She rested on her elbow, her hair falling over her breasts. She looked magnificent and he already knew he would take her again before morning.

"What are some of the names? Besides penis, I mean."

He brought his arms beneath his head, totally comfortable with his nakedness. "Let me see. There's 'Aaron's rod,' 'Adam's arsenal,' 'bald-headed hermit,' 'Cupid's torch,' 'pikestaff'—"

"That's from Shakespeare," she interrupted. "I don't think I'll call it that."

"Ah, let me see," Dante continued, loving her hands on him. "There's 'best leg of three,' 'Father Abraham,' 'hanging-Johnny,' 'Jack-in-the-box,' and 'Jacob.' Shall I go on?"

She held his penis, amazed that it was growing again. "None of those is quite right," she apologized. "Just a few more, please?"

Taking a breath, hoping to slow down his reawakened desire, he continued, " 'John-Thomas,' 'jolly member,' 'ramrod,' 'Timothy-tool,' 'radish'—"

She laughed out loud. "Radish?"

He shrugged and laughed with her. "So I've heard."

Still chuckling, she shook her head. "I think not." She lowered her head and brought her cheek against his half mast erection, brushing the soft outer skin against her.

He expelled a whoosh of air. "How about Willy Banana? Trouser snake, or Penny Whistle?"

She laughed again. "No, no, and no."

"Wife's best friend?" His voice was hopeful.

She kissed the side of it, gazing down at it with affection. "Well, it is that."

"Ellie, if you continue, I'll have to use it on you again," he threatened with a shiver.

Raising her head, she gave him a sultry look. "Is that a promise?"

His gaze was as hot as hers. "Absolutely."

With only the least bit of hesitancy, she took him between her lips and thrilled at his moan of pleasure.

"Damn it, Ellie, name the thing before I explode in your mouth."

She took him deeper, surprising even herself, then drew him out and licked the tip. "I will call him … Mr. Johnson."

Dante threw back his head and guffawed. "Well thank God that's over, but I don't understand your selection, dear wife."

"Well, that way, if I ever want to mention it—"

He smiled at her, his eyes warm as wine. "When? At a dinner party?"

"Well—"

"I can just envision it." He sat up and pulled her onto his lap, running his fingers over her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, causing her to shiver against him.

"We're sitting across from one another at a table crowded with guests. You've removed a slipper and have perched your foot between my legs, nudging me with your toes. Could you do that, Ellie?"

She swallowed hard, wondering what it would be like to be near him, fully clothed in a room full of people, and want him as much as she wanted him now. "Maybe I could," she admitted.

"Good. Could you carry on polite conversation with the stern-faced hostess, all the while feeling me grow hard against your toes?"

"Oh, I think so. I would simply announce that we must leave the table, for Mr. Johnson is in danger of exploding."

They laughed together.

"No one would probably notice," she said.

"They might, if they happened to see the bulge in my trousers."

They shared a private, seductive smile.

"Mr. Johnson or not," Eleanor explained, marveling at how big and hard he was again, "I don't believe I'll ever be able to look at a radish again without laughing or becoming excited."

"Then I think I'll plant several rows of them, just to watch you blush."

They laughed together again as she continued to play with Mr. Johnson until the old man was ready to please her one more time.



The next night, they stayed up to watch the stars from the special walkway that Dante had built on the roof of the cottage, but their hunger for one another intervened.

It began casually enough. Eleanor had undressed and wore a nightgown and robe even though Dante was still clothed. They sat side by side, their backs against the clapboard, their legs and shoulders touching. Soon, however, Dante's hand slid up her calf to her knee, and Eleanor instinctively parted her legs.

He learned she was always receptive, always wet and willing to extend their foreplay, prolong their pleasure. He toyed with the hair between her legs, noting it was wet. "You're a lusty wench, Mrs. Templeton," he whispered against her hair.

"And you always seem dressed when I'm not," she complained, attempting to tug at his trousers.

"Open my fly," he urged.

She unbuttoned him and took Mr. Johnson out of his pants.

"Now sit on him," he instructed.

Without hesitation, Eleanor straddled Dante, wrapping her legs around his back, and took him deep inside her.

"Find the rhythm, Ellie," he whispered, trying valiantly not to come too quickly.

She bobbed up and down.

"Move forward a little, so your clitoris is touching me."

She complied, pressing herself forward, opening her legs as wide as she could, and rubbed against him.

His hands found her breasts, and he rubbed her nipples, tugging on them, feeling them turn hard as diamonds against his fingertips.

When she stiffened and cried out, Dante grabbed her hips and plunged deeper still, until he, too, was spent.

They lay together beneath the stars, each panting to catch a breath, until Dante took her in his arms. It was almost dawn when they woke up, shivering from the cool, damp ocean air.

They had a long, languid breakfast, then Dante suggested, "Let's take a walk on the beach today."

"Wonderful," Eleanor answered.

The air had only a slight chill to it. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shore sedated them. They walked nearly the length of the south side of the peninsula and back again, stopping briefly to eat bread and cheese and drink a bottle of wine that Dante had hidden behind a rock the day before.

They sat, watching the ocean, and Eleanor removed her slippers and stockings and wiggled her toes in the sand. "I do love it here, Dante." She didn't want to return to Boston, but she couldn't tell him that.

"I do, too," he answered. He took her foot and placed it in his lap, then massaged it.

"Oh," she moaned, "that feels so good."

He grinned and moved his fingers higher, rubbing her calf. "As good as this?"

She gave him a seductive smile. "Almost."

"Ellie."

"Yes?"

"Lift up your skirt and spread your legs for me."

She raised an eyebrow. "You didn't ask nicely."

He pulled her to him and gave her a long, deep kiss, one that sent her heart beating and her body humming.

"Please, wife, lift your skirt and spread your legs for me."

Feeling like a wanton, Eleanor leaned against the boulder and hiked up her skirt, revealing her drawers. Slowly she drew her legs up, then spread them. The ocean breeze nudged her skin through the slit, and she shuddered.

Dante sat back and stared. "Oh, Ellie, you should see what I see."

She swallowed hard. "Tell me what you see."

"Your beautiful, fleshy lips are pouting out through the slit in your drawers. They glisten, Ellie, they're wet with your sweet juices."

Her juices ran stronger, and she squirmed. "What … what else?"

"I think they want to be stroked, don't you?"

Her heart thumped hard. "Maybe."

"Touch yourself, Ellie," he urged.

"Me?" She almost straightened, but stopped herself. "Oh, I couldn't."

"Please, Ellie. For me."

"It … it would be easier if I removed my drawers, don't you think?"

"Oh, definitely," he agreed, and she noted the hint of humor.

She untied her drawers and slid out of them, kicking them to the side.

"How do you feel?" He continued to stroke her calf.

"I feel naughty," she admitted, squirming.

His fingers moved higher. "Now touch yourself."

Closing her eyes, she raised her skirt and spread her legs. She reached between them and touched her mound, moving her fingers back and forth, learning the texture of her pubic hair. With her middle finger, she touched the inner surface of her vagina, throwing her head back to delight in a delicious itch that saturated the sensitive, engorged area.

Lightly, she ran a finger back and forth, first to the right, than to the left of her clitoris, scarcely touching it. The intense feeling raced through her body to her breasts, spreading from the inside to embrace her every nerve.

Dante's hand stilled hers, and she opened her eyes, questioning him with a look.

"Lie down, my sweet," he whispered.

She slid from the boulder to the sand, looking up at him as he continued what she had begun.

Dante placed his thumb at the base of her clitoris, nudging it gently. He then put two fingers deep inside her and stroked, in and out, in and out, pressing against the outer wall of her vagina. The sensation was too exquisite to bear!

She undulated her hips to the movement of his fingers while he gently pinched her clitoris with one hand and continued to stroke her wet surface with the other.

The sensation built, and she found that she couldn't spread her legs wide enough, couldn't move her hips high enough, couldn't get enough of his touch.

Suddenly his tongue was there, probing her entrance, going inside, then lightly licking her.

Wanting more, she pulled her heated flesh to each side, opening herself to his fervent lip washing. He pressed his tongue firmly against her clitoris. She reached down to grab his head then rubbed against his mouth.

She could hear the sounds she made, the moaning that came from deep within her throat, the gasps, the cries. All at once her clitoris was between his lips and she rode his face, carefree, saturated. Suddenly, she burst into a sequence of endless spasms and heard her clamorous cries of release as it rolled over her in waves.

When it was over, she hazily opened her eyes and found him staring at her, his eyes warm, yet hot with unfulfilled passion.

"Please," she pleaded, reaching for him.

Dante quickly removed his trousers and slid easily into her warmth, spilling his seed deep inside her.



That night, Dante drew her a bath. "You probably have sand all over your delectable ass, my sweet," he murmured.

She chuckled. "And here I always thought an 'ass' was a donkey."

"It's one of those words that conjures up more than a mere 'bottom,' 'bum,' or 'butt,' " he explained, his eyes warm. "And yours is much more than any of those."

"You're saying mine is too big to be a mere bottom?" she answered priggishly.

"I'm saying," he said, testing the water, "that looking at your lovely ass and touching it, even thinking about kissing it, makes me so hard, I nearly spend in my trousers. Now," he added, "get in, my love, your bath awaits."

Eleanor let her gown fall to the floor and stepped into the tub. She closed her eyes and sighed. "Perfect."

She looked glorious sitting there, her bountiful hair piled on top of her head, her smooth shoulders gleaming, her breasts bobbing slightly on the water.

Dante shook away an emotion he didn't want to name and got to his knees beside the tub. "I'm your slave tonight."

She smiled, her eyes still closed. "Good. Then wash my back, slave."

He picked up the cloth, dipped it into the bath water, then soaped it. "First things first, madam."

Her eyes flew open, her expression suddenly filled with understanding. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. Really."

Though she blushed a pretty pink, she allowed him to wash her breasts. Dante noted that her nipples hardened before he even touched them, and he hardened as well. He was amazed that he hadn't already had enough of her.

He scrubbed her back, listening to her make orgasmic noises, and he smiled to himself.

"Oh," she crooned around a sensual smile. "That's the second best feeling I've had today."

"Well, thank God it comes in second," he murmured. "Now, stand up."

"If I can," she promised, then struggled to her knees in the tub. "Is this good enough?"

His gaze raked her stomach, her precious womanhood and her soft thighs and he experienced that disturbing emotion again. "I guess it will have to do," he answered, before dropping a kiss on her navel.

She straightened her arms, grabbing the sides of the tub, and watched him through eyes that were pools of melted chocolate.

He soaped the cloth again. "Must get the sand off your delicious ass," he explained as he gently rubbed it.

"Oh, no doubt," she said with a shaky laugh.

He then drew the cloth over her wet pelt, listening to her sharp intake of breath as he touched her.

"Did you know," he began, as he discarded the cloth and soaped his hands, "that there is a story of a woman whose pubic hair grew so long, it stretched to below her knees?"

She shook with quiet laughter. "Nonsense."

"It's true, or so I've heard." He touched her vaginal lips with his soapy fingers and rubbed, watching her head loll and her pelvis come up to greet him.

"Oh, heavens, Dante," she said on a breath. "It's certainly clean by now, don't you think?"

He sighed, pretending dejection. "Oh, I suppose. Go ahead. Sit."

She nearly fell into the tub, rested her head against the sloping back, and gave him a look that was both blatantly sexual and scolding.

"I suppose," she began, "there are names for that, too?"

Ah, yes, he thought. There were some, but most he would not say aloud, for they were demeaning. "A few," he answered.

She rinsed her arms by scooping water into her palms. "Tell me."

"Pussy."

She became thoughtful. "I suppose that's not too vulgar, although I don't understand the significance."

He hid a smile. Eleanor would have to understand the significance. There was little she took at face value. "It can be traced back to Old English, or maybe even Scandinavian. It means 'pocket' or 'pouch.' "

"What's another?" She took the cloth and laved her ears and neck, places he had no interest in washing for her.

"Crumpet."

She threw him a puzzled look. "Like an English tea cake?"

He shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't know the connection there, Ellie."

She scrubbed her feet, and he gazed at the beauty of her inner thigh as she did so. "Another."

"Where the Monkey Sleeps."

She stopped, tossed back her head, and laughed. "Well, explain that one to me, if you can."

He grinned. "That's probably where 'Willy Banana' goes to get his pleasure."

They laughed aloud together while he held the towel. She stepped from the tub and he rubbed her down, noting, with pleasure, that they were both ready for Mr. Johnson to satisfy her again.

Before he could lead her to the bed, she pointed to the tub. "Your turn," she ordered, her eyes glistening with heat and humor.

And she bathed him, asking for an explanation of every tattoo, bending to kiss each one as she rinsed it. She soaped his bush and his balls, taking special pleasure in washing Mr. Johnson until he nearly spent in her hand.

Later, while she slept beside him, Dante stared at the ceiling, wondering what had come over him. He felt different about Eleanor. He couldn't explain it any better than that.

He wanted to stop thinking about her, but he wasn't able to. The beauty of her body came into his vision. She was meant to be loved, to be aroused, to be taken by a man who knew how to please her, for that, in turn, caused her to please the man.

And please him she did; whether she was aware of it or not, she had pleased him like no other. In every way, not just in bed. And that was perhaps the most frightening thought he'd had in recent memory.

Tomorrow they would leave, and although he sensed she didn't want to return to Boston, there were many reasons why he was glad they would.

He would never forget their long walks on the beach, their lively discussions about politics while they fished, and their quiet times when they had simply sat on the sand and watched the ebb and swell of the ocean.

He wasn't getting tired of her, and he couldn't understand that. He had always tired of a woman after they had spent time together. He had even tired of a woman's body if she thrust it at him too many times.

But so far, he hadn't tired of Eleanor in bed or out of it, and that scared the living hell out of him.



Eleanor sat up in bed and looked out the window. Her heart swelled at the sight of the endless wash of waves, crashing over one another to get to the beach.

Oh, how she would miss this place! No cares, no worries. It was Eden, and Boston and all of its scuttlebutt was the serpent, ready to take it all away from them.

She dreaded returning to the society that had mocked her so. Even though she had Dante's support, she knew it wasn't going to be an easy transition. And they hadn't talked about what he expected of her. What was her role in this new life?

"Good morning."

She turned from the window and found him standing in the doorway, fully dressed and holding two steaming cups of coffee. "Good morning," she answered, trying to stifle her disappointment that he wasn't coming back to bed to love her again.

He put the cups down on the table beside the bed, then crawled up next to her. "What do you see out there?"

He smelled like fresh air, and the familiar scent she'd discovered over the past few days, a scent that was wholly him. A scent that stirred her.

"I was just looking at the waves."

He expelled a long sigh. "I never tire of watching the ocean."

With a reticent smile, she answered, "Neither do I."

He patted her shoulder like a father would. "Nervous about going home?"

She propped her elbows on the windowsill and watched a seagull swoop toward the water. "Yes," she answered honestly.

"Everything will be fine," he assured her, giving her another fatherly pat. "Horace and Hoshi are eagerly awaiting our return, I can guarantee you that. They both have fallen for you, you know."

But have you? She wondered, and doubted it. "That's very sweet."

"The first time Horace saw you, he told me you were special." When she didn't respond, he asked, "Do you know why?"

She shook her head.

"Because he has always felt intelligent women became— how did he put it— more interesting with time."

Intelligent and interesting. She had heard those words most of her life. Now, with Dante, she wanted to be more. She wanted to be beautiful and sexy and intoxicatingly irresistible. And most of all, she wanted to be loved.

"He's a very nice man," she managed.

Suddenly he got off the bed and cleared his throat. "Eleanor, I haven't hired a housekeeper yet. I mean, no one permanent."

Her heart sank a little lower. "That's all right. If I could manage Cal's house, I can certainly manage yours."

"No. I don't want you to feel you have to do that. But I'm afraid that by the time we return, things will need a real cleaning, since the girl I hired after Mrs. McGill left decided it wasn't the sort of work she wanted. I'll leave it to you to find someone else."

"Dante, I certainly can—"

"No," he interrupted. "Hire someone. Mrs. McGill was referred to me by a friend. I wouldn't know what to look for in a housekeeper."

"All right," she answered, almost tentatively.

"Good. Now," he said, picking up his coffee cup and moving toward the door, "drink your coffee while you dress. Unfortunately, I have a meeting tonight so must get back to Boston as soon as possible."

He left her alone, to dress, to pack, to wonder why he had suddenly become so distant.



She wasn't a stranger in his home, but she felt like one, for Horace, Hoshi, and Dante went about their daily routines, and she was at loose ends with nothing to do.

Dante was rarely home, and when he did finally return each day, he appeared to have mountains of work to do in his study and asked that he not be disturbed.

And he had not slept with her or made love to her; she missed him beside her, his arms around her. The first few nights she had gone to the library, expecting that when he saw her in her filmy nightgown, he would eagerly follow her to bed.

But he had explained to her, his voice slightly condescending, that he would be working until midnight, and for her to go on up to bed without him. She expected to discover him next to her sometime during the night, but each morning she had awakened to find that his side of the bed had not been slept in. Eventually, she knew better than to ask. And he did not join her.

And it hurt. Fool that she was, she had thought that even though he didn't love her, he enjoyed making love to her. And oh, how she missed him, for even when he was sitting across from her at dinner, he seemed miles away.

Over the next few weeks, she tried not to think of the reason for the change, but after careful analysis, she decided it was because he had gone back to his mistress. And her "careful analysis" was quickly followed by a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

But when had he had the time? He wasn't creeping out each night, for she had seen a pillow and blankets in disarray on the library sofa each morning before Horace had put them away.

Whatever the reason, she had no choice but to keep silent. Because of the conditions of her marriage, she was in no position to confront him in spite of her desire to do so. And even if she did, he was not obligated to tell her anything he didn't want her to know.

So, she had thought many times, this was marriage. She began to wonder how women put up with it, for it gave them no share of freedom. It merely bound them to someone who hogged it all for themselves.

Finally, Eleanor came to terms with the status of her marriage. She was a fool to think that what they'd had at the cottage would continue once they were home. Instead of moping about, she got down to business.

Through one of the nuns, she found a young Irish girl to come in and clean the house twice a week, thus completing the one duty Dante had asked of her.

At dinner that evening, she announced, "I'm going back to work at the orphanage."

Dante glanced up from his meal. "Fine idea."

She raised her eyebrows. "You don't mind?"

He looked surprised. "Why should I mind? I didn't expect you to change, and I know you can't sit around with nothing to do. I'm just surprised you've waited this long, Eleanor."

That was another thing. Since the morning they had left the cottage, he had been calling her "Eleanor." Gone was the affectionate, intimate "Ellie" that she'd grown accustomed to, and that she loved.

"By the way." He wiped his mouth, then folded the napkin alongside his plate. "We've been invited to a party at the Taft's tomorrow night."

Eleanor experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach. So, this was it. Her baptism by fire.

"You know them, don't you?"

She offered him a bland smile. "Yes. I gave their twins piano lessons." Until they learned that I was marooned on an island with you.

He studied her from across the table, then stood and walked to the dining room door. "Wear that new light blue silk gown." And he was gone, into his study again, with the door closed firmly against her.

With a weary sigh, she went upstairs and pulled out the blue silk from the wardrobe. It was lovely. Rich and elegant. Far prettier than anything she had ever owned in her life. With the Limerick lace trim on the body, sleeves, and skirt, it seemed just a bit too dressy, but certainly he knew best.

But she didn't want to go. It didn't matter how beautiful or expensive the gown, she wouldn't feel comfortable with any of the guests. She already wondered how many would come just to see if she would be there, for she knew her marriage to Dante was still a lively piece of gossip and entertainment.

With a dread-filled heart, she chose a simple headdress of black velvet composed of loops, bows, and ends, confident it would compliment such an extravagant gown. But her confidence ended there, for she was already apprehensive about the evening to come.



The following afternoon, on her way home from the orphanage, she stopped to see Lydia. When Eleanor returned from Nahant, she learned that Calvin, Willa, and Lydia were visiting Willa's family in New Bedford. This was Eleanor's first opportunity to stop by.

Willa answered the door and Eleanor followed her sister-in-law into the house. "We just returned home a couple of days ago," Willa commented.

"We were gone a while, too," Eleanor answered.

"Where did you go?"

"He has a cottage on Nahant," she explained.

"Nahant? You spent your honeymoon on Nahant? Isn't that rather off by itself?"

"It's built at the end of the peninsula where there's a wonderful view of the ocean and plenty of fresh air."

Willa frowned. "But … what on earth did you do out there?"

Spending so much time alone at Dante's townhouse had allowed Eleanor to think about her honeymoon often, and how perfect it was, at least for her.

She wanted to tell her sister-in-law how they had made love by the fire, on the roof, on the beach, in the sand. How Dante had loved her with his hands, his mouth, his penis, which she named, for it was too wonderful not to have a name of its own.

She wanted to shock Willa by saying that she had taken Dante's erection into her mouth, kissed it, and licked the tip. Eleanor longed to see Willa nearly faint as she explained how she had straddled him, riding him, and how she'd had crashing orgasms every single time.…

"Well?" Willa's harsh voice interrupted her thoughts.

Eleanor discovered that just thinking about what they had done together aroused her, and she felt flushed.

"We, um, rested, walked on the beach, went fishing, read, ate wonderful food—"

"Surely you must have gotten bored," Willa suggested.

Bored? The idea of being bored was ridiculous. It was the most perfect time in her life, and if things never got better between her and Dante, she would still have Nahant to remember. "Not at all. It was wonderfully relaxing."

Willa gave her that "you poor, naive girl" look. "It's too bad you couldn't have gone on a real honeymoon. You know, like to London or Paris."

Obviously meaning that had he married anyone else, he would have taken her out to show her off, not hide her away in a cottage on an isolated peninsula. And suddenly, for the first time, Eleanor realized that her sister-in-law had a point, and it tarnished the glow of her memories.

"I enjoyed his cottage very much, Willa." And she had. Never for a moment had she questioned why they had gone somewhere so secluded. She hadn't once wished he had taken her to a busy city, where they might have attended concerts and plays or visited art galleries.

But suddenly she wondered where he would have taken a bride that he was madly in love with. Would he have paraded her around the city, showing her off, instead of hiding her away from the world?

To Eleanor, the cottage had been the perfect honeymoon spot. She had never stopped to think how others would view Dante's choice, but now she would always wonder.

Willa turned toward the stairs. "Lydia!" she screamed. "Come down here."

When Lydia saw her aunt, she flew into her arms. "Oh, I've missed you, Aunt Ellie!"

Eleanor hugged the child. "And I, you."

Lydia gazed up at her, excited. "Did you know that a shark is the only fish that can blink with both eyes?"

"No, I didn't. And where did you learn this piece of information?"

"Papa got me some books on the ocean." She leaned closer and whispered, "I didn't tell him why I wanted them, but I wanted to learn about the sea, like the pirate, so I could ask him questions he can't answer."

"Oh, he'll be very impressed." And Eleanor knew he would be, for he adored Lydia almost as much as she did.

"When can I see him again?" She was wistful, eager.

"Well, I don't know," Eleanor answered thoughtfully. "We should arrange something, shouldn't we? I'm sure he'll be very anxious to match wits with you again."

Surely, Eleanor thought, Dante would make time for Lydia even though he didn't appear to have time for her.

"Can you stay a little while?" Lydia pleaded.

Eleanor glanced at the clock, noting that she had only an hour before she was to be ready for the party. "I'm afraid I can't today, sweetheart. But I'll come by again soon, and we'll arrange for you to visit."

When Eleanor left, Lydia's face was pressed against the window, her expression so filled with longing one would have thought she had lost her best friend.
Twenty-one

Eleanor was out of breath when she reached the townhouse. She hurried inside where an angry Dante met her.

"Where have you been?" He clutched a rolled-up newspaper in his fist, as if he were about to scold a puppy that had just made a puddle in the hallway.

Rather taken aback by his anger, she forced herself to calmly hang up her cape and remove her bonnet and gloves. "I stopped to see Lydia."

His dark eyebrows slammed down over his eyes. "Do you realize you have only one half hour to get ready before we must leave?"

She stared at him, still surprised. "Am I being scolded?"

"You're damned right." Slapping the newspaper against his thigh, he paced in front of her. "I stopped at the orphanage to give you a ride home, and they told me you'd left an hour before, yet when I arrived here, you were nowhere to be found."

She watched his performance, amused. "Well, send out the troops."

"Don't get glib with me," he snapped at her.

She tried not to smile, but failed.

"It's not funny, Eleanor. I was worried." He paced to the door, then back again. "Something could have happened to you."

"You were worried about me?" Her heart warmed at the thought.

"Yes," he spat.

"But, Dante, I've been walking in Boston for over a year, and nothing has happened to me yet."

He steered her toward the stairs. "That's not true. I learned not long ago that you had your purse snatched one day on your walk home from the orphanage."

"Oh, yes," she murmured, remembering the day she had met Sylvester for the first time. "But now I keep my purse under my cape where it's safe."

He mumbled something under his breath, then said, "Get up there and change. Horace has laid out your things."

Eleanor went upstairs, feeling guilty that Horace had to act as her ladies' maid, but also feeling oddly giddy that Dante had actually been worried about her.



Dante glanced at the newspaper in his fist and hurled it across the room. He was so angry and worried about her, he had wanted to paddle her with it when she came through the front door. In his frame of mind, however, he probably would have wound up baring her ass, forgetting his purpose, and taking her right there in the entryway.

Muttering a low curse, he shrugged into his double-breasted blue cloth tailcoat and straightened his shirt cuffs. When had all of this happened? When had he begun to care for her? He refused to believe it was love. He had never loved any woman. But he did care for her.

He realized this even before they had left the cottage, and he knew he had to distance himself from her. Now, he was sure she wondered what had happened, because he had virtually avoided her since they had returned to the townhouse. He hadn't slept with her, either, bunking down, instead, on his soft leather sofa in the library.

That had been the hardest thing to do, pretend she no longer interested him, physically. More than once he had gone so far as to watch her sleep, aching to crawl in beside her and hold her, touch her, move between her creamy thighs and drown in her soft, wet warmth. Listen to her cries of joy when she reached orgasm. Wrap his arms around her and hold her until dawn.

Those first few nights when he rejected her had been most difficult. She had stood in the doorway, swathed in the sheer gown he'd bought her, her luscious body visible and inviting even from where he sat, behind his desk.

He had thought that if he stopped bedding her, the urge would go away. It always had before, with the other women in his life. Once they began to bore him, he no longer wanted intimacy. But Eleanor had never bored him.

He was afraid to touch her, because if he did, he'd want her. And it wouldn't have to be a touch meant to arouse. In fact, just such a moment had happened the night before, as he guided her into dinner. He lightly touched the small of her back, and quick as a flash, he wanted her naked so he could press his lips there.

So, he thought, this was marriage. They should have called it something else. Like mental and physical devastation, or extreme chaos, for never had he felt such confusion.



Eleanor studied herself in the tall, Hepplewhite fret-carved mirror that hung on the wall beside Dante's wardrobe. She made a face at her reflection. The gown was exquisite. The headdress classic, not overdone. But she was a fraud. She no more belonged in gowns like this than Dante belonged in a hair shirt.

"Madam?"

She turned to find Horace at the door. "Yes?"

"Your husband is waiting. He's quite anxious to be on his way."

She raised an eyebrow, but her stomach dropped. "This is my baptism by fire, Horace."

His expression was sympathetic. "I understand, madam. But I wouldn't worry about it if I were you."

She pinched her cheeks, intent on gaining some color to her white, apprehensive-laden skin. "Easier said than done. It's not you who is being sent into that pack of society jackals."

"I don't mean to be forward, madam, but you are head and shoulders above all of them."

She tried to smile. "That's generous of you."

"It is not meant as flattery. Many weeks ago, Mr. Dante and I had a conversation about intelligence in women. He believed women were of two kinds: beautiful or intelligent. I corrected him, reminding him that one cannot always tell a book by its cover."

Eleanor picked up her dark blue cut-velvet bag with the ornate silver clasp. "Meaning, I suppose, that you think a woman can be both."

"I do, madam."

She gave Horace a warm smile. "Maybe I should have set my cap for you."

He blushed. "You do look beautiful tonight, madam."

"Thank you, Horace. That comment will help me get through the evening." She stepped to the head of the stairs and saw Dante at the bottom, holding a black coat. As usual, he looked perfect, and every nerve in her body agreed, nearly twanging like piano wire.

Unlike the night she'd seen him at Calvin's, he was dressed quite conventionally. She liked the look. But then, she liked everything he wore. He had a special flare for always being the best dressed person in a room. Unlike her.

Suddenly her marriage seemed more of a sham than ever. What madness had prompted him to propose, anyway? They were nothing alike. He was flamboyant; she was drab. He was a peacock; she was the hen. He would never love her, and she loved him with a passion that would soon break her heart, shattering it into thousands of irretrievable pieces.

He gave her a quick once over, seeming satisfied with her appearance.

"Am I acceptable?" She kept an edge to her voice.

He glanced away, fiddling with the coat. "You look very lovely, Eleanor."

Ignoring his perfunctory approval, she noticed that the coat he held was not his. "Is that for me?"

He unfolded it, holding it by the shoulders. The length nearly touched the floor. And it was, she knew, Battenberg lace. The sleeves were full with deep cuffs and the neckline was draped with black macramé silk cord trimmed with jet beads and sequins. Another gift. A possession. He was trying to appease his guilty conscience.

All she wanted was his love; instead she would have a wardrobe bursting at the latches with exquisite gowns, capes, and coats. Many women would find that a suitable compromise. She did not. "It's beautiful," was all she could manage.

She turned away and slid into the wrap, trying to ignore the foolish sting of tears that threatened. "You don't have to continue to buy me things, Dante."

"You can't very well go to a party without a wrap," he groused.

"The bottle green cape would have been more than ample."

"With this gown?" He made a snorting sound. "You have a lot to learn about fashion, Eleanor."

Searing humiliation and anger swept through her, and it was all she could do not to turn and retaliate, which was her nature. Instead, she answered tightly, "You're right. Of all the subjects I am prepared to discuss with brilliance, fashion is not one of them."

He turned her toward him and studied her. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? What could be wrong?" she said with almost vicious gaiety. Her new husband had suddenly lost interest in her, rarely spent any time with her, made excuses not to be with her, and he had the audacity to ask her if something was wrong?!

They rode in silence. As they approached the Taft residence, a beautiful, three-story, free-standing home on Mount Vernon Street, the party appeared to be in full swing. Eleanor was already feeling like the outsider and she hadn't even stepped into the house.



Neva Taft, an attractive, although large woman who wore gowns that almost successfully hid her broad back and great butcheress arms, greeted them at the door.

"Welcome." She took Eleanor's hands in hers. "You look absolutely lovely." Her German accent was negligible. Eleanor knew that Neva took speaking lessons from a professor at Harvard. Heaven forbid that she should reveal her heritage.

She leaned close to Eleanor and murmured, "I'm sorry we had to stop the twins' piano lessons. With their schoolwork and the duties we have for them at home, it was not possible to continue." She patted Eleanor's hand. "It had nothing to do with you, my dear. Perhaps in the future we can start them up again, yes?"

Eleanor forced a smile. Now it began. The sanctimonious, pretentious, superficiality of the Boston rich. "Perhaps," Eleanor answered, determined to be polite.

At first, Dante stayed close to her side, and for that she was grateful. She knew many of the couples, but obviously had not socialized with them. And more than once she saw women's heads together, as they no doubt whispered about what she wore, how she looked, and why a man like Dante Templeton had married her in the first place, when he could have had any woman in Boston, bar none.

Their society faces were pleasant enough until she passed, then she knew they were replaced by sly looks and hushed tones. She was certain that at one point she heard "Nahant" followed by a stifled giggle.

She was on display, and she hated it. Had she not known this would happen and prepared herself, she might have run from the house and hid in the carriage. But as much as she dreaded the evening, she refused to give a single one of the guests the pleasure of seeing her fall apart before their very eyes.

Calvin and Willa stopped to greet them, Willa talking nonstop to Dante about Calvin's successes, virtually ignoring Eleanor.

"And how is that lovely daughter of yours?" Dante asked at one point, when Willa finally had come up for air.

Willa stepped back, surprised. "What? You mean Lydia?"

"Yes," he said, smiling blandly. "She's quite brilliant, charming and entertaining. I've missed our little verbal duels."

Willa appeared baffled. "With Lydia?"

"Indeed," Dante responded. "I would like her to visit us."

His invitation made Eleanor turn and look at him. She tried to hide her surprise.

Willa stood, mouth open briefly. "You … want Lydia to visit?"

"Yes," he replied.

Willa flitted and fluttered like a bird that had fallen from a tree and hadn't yet caught its stride. "Well, I guess I could bring her by one day."

"No," Dante answered, "that won't be necessary. I'll send my footman along with my coach to get her. How's next Friday? We'd love to have her stay the weekend, wouldn't we, Eleanor?"

Eleanor watched Willa flail about and bit the insides of her cheeks to prevent a smile. "I would love it."

Calvin gave them a wide grin. "How about the weekend after?"

Dante shrugged. "That would be fine. We don't have any other plans, do we, Eleanor?"

"I know I don't, but of course I don't know about you." She spoke warmly and smiled, but when he looked at her, her eyes spoke of the distance that had come between them, and he quickly glanced away.

Calvin nodded eagerly. "Wonderful! Willa and I have been asked to take the weekend at Newport. We had thought to bring Lydia with us, but I know she'd rather stay with her Aunt Ellie. That sounds good, doesn't it, Willa dear?"

Willa's mouth worked but nothing came out. Finally she said, "I guess that would be all right," she answered, as Calvin led her toward the buffet.

Dante cleared his throat and turned toward Eleanor. "I have to meet with Herschel Taft in his library. I won't be gone long, I promise." He gave her a sterile peck on the cheek.

Eleanor stopped herself from grabbing his arm and begging him not to leave her alone. Foolishly, she wanted someone to cling to, but there wasn't a soul she could count on for that, obviously not even Dante.

She watched him leave her; then she strolled to the sideboard and took a glass of hard cider. That this group called for something with a kick was an understatement. She moved to the back of the crowd, unwilling to mingle, preferring to watch, as she always had. A fine gown and a new husband hadn't changed any of that.

Once Dante left her side, she was pretty much invisible to the other guests. She scanned the crowd, her gaze finding a woman with brilliant red hair. Immediately Eleanor's stomach did a little lurch as the woman turned. It was Marguerite Banning, and she looked absolutely stunning. Wound in her vibrant hair was a long string of pearls, similar to those that were sewn on her black silk gown with the chinchilla border. She walked toward Eleanor.

Eleanor's first instinct was to slink further into the corner, for the last thing she wanted was another confrontation like the one in Dante's library.

But the mistress barely glanced at her, focusing her attention on a couple who had just entered.

Eleanor gave herself a disparaging smile. Why was she not surprised that Marguerite didn't recognize her? Actually, it was a relief.

"Excuse me."

Eleanor turned to find a small, tight little woman with a small, tight smile plastered on her thin face standing at her elbow.

"Yes?"

"Did you hear about Mr. Banning?" The woman peered up at her, a sly expression on her pinched face.

"No. What happened?"

The little bird moved close and announced, "He died."

Startled, Eleanor brought her hand to her chest. "Oh, my. How … what happened?"

The woman leaned into Eleanor again. "They think it was his heart."

Eleanor's first theory was that Marguerite had probably broken it; then she scolded herself for the petty thought. "Well, that's just awful."

The messenger nodded. "Yes, but to see her here so shortly after burying the man, why, it's just not right."

Eleanor kept silent, but she did agree. "When did he die?" The woman told her, and Eleanor realized it was two days after she and Dante were married. Surely Dante knew about this, but he'd said nothing to her.

Eleanor continued to study the new widow, whose gown was cut low enough to produce an overzealous bosom probably the size of Canada. Well, at least she was wearing black, Eleanor thought dryly.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the new widow glanced directly at her and let fly a shriek. Eleanor wanted to fade into the woodwork, but that wouldn't work this time.

Suddenly the mistress was in front of her, her usually creamy complexion once again mottled with rage. "So, it is you."

Eleanor nodded slightly. "I'm sorry to hear about your husband."

"You should be," came the widow's mysterious answer, her face still etched with fury.

Puzzled, Eleanor asked, "I beg your pardon?"

"It won't matter in the least, you know."

Eleanor was completely at sea. "What won't matter?"

"All of Boston knows why Dante married you."

Although Eleanor's heart was drumming like a tympani, the rest of the room had become strangely quiet. Every ear was tuned to the confrontation between the mistress and the wife. Any wife's worst nightmare.

"Like I said. It won't matter. He'll still prefer me over you."

Eleanor wondered how the woman could, with any conscience, speak of this with her husband so recently dead. In a soft voice, so as not to be heard, Eleanor murmured, "No doubt you're in great personal distress, Mrs. Banning, or you wouldn't be speaking of such things at this time."

"My husband was a fine man, but he's gone and I must live my life," she spat. "And that life, so help me God, will include your husband."

"I rather doubt that," Eleanor said with far more conviction than she felt. "He all but tossed you from his home, ordering you never to return."

Marguerite opened her mouth to speak, but Eleanor stopped her. "And don't beg to differ, Mrs. Banning. I was there when it happened."

The woman's eyes narrowed, filling with hate. "We all know what happened with your first so called 'marriage.' Don't expect your second one to be much better, for a marriage out of pity is almost as bad as bigamy."

Eleanor couldn't speak, for humiliation swept over her in nauseating waves.

"And sooner or later, Dante will come crawling back. To me." The widow's eyes glittered with fury and hatred.

Just then, Dante left the library. Marguerite burst into tears and ran to him. "Oh, Dante, my poor Millard is gone, gone."

Much to Eleanor's dismay, Dante gathered her against him and steered her into the library, closing the door behind them. The humiliation Marguerite Banning initiated only deepened, and Eleanor wanted to disappear through the floor.

Every eye in the house was on her, waiting for her reaction, and Eleanor knew it. She attempted a smile, then strolled to the buffet table as if examining the food, knowing that if she tried to eat anything, it wouldn't move past the lump in her throat.

She had no choice but to stay and wait for Dante. Not that she couldn't find her own way back to his townhouse, but because to leave now would advertise to everyone that she was exactly what Marguerite Banning had indicated she was— a pity partner.

She had to show courage. Faith in Dante as a husband. Belief that he would, no matter how it looked, do the right thing by his wife and not humiliate her any more than he already had.

When Dante finally reappeared, he called for Eleanor's coat and they left together, neither having said a word to the other.
Twenty-two

When they arrived home, Eleanor shed her coat, handing it to a waiting Horace, and started up the stairs.

"Meet me in the library when you're ready for bed, Eleanor."

She swung around to face him, reigning in her anger. "Is that an order?"

Emotions too numerous to count marched across his features. "If that's what it takes to get you there."

"Then let's do it now," she demanded, striding past him into his precious private domain.

He entered and closed the door behind him. "What's gotten your drawers in a knot?"

She stared, then exhaled sharply. "Thank you so much for a very successful evening. Although I'm no longer a virgin, why didn't you simply pick me up and toss me into the volcano? Lord knows, I felt like a human sacrifice."

He frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"You can't be that thickheaded," she countered.

He poured each of them a drink, but Eleanor shoved hers away.

"Spit it out, Eleanor." He sounded tired, patronizing.

"All right, I will. Why did we go there tonight?"

He sipped his brandy, studying her over the rim of the snifter. "Because we were invited, and I had business with Herschel Taft."

Eleanor wished none of this mattered. If she didn't love him so much, it probably wouldn't matter at all. But she did, and because of that, she was unable to act as if nothing was wrong. "You knew I'd be on display, didn't you?"

He studied his brandy. "I wasn't surprised that you were. You looked stunning tonight."

Eleanor expelled an exasperated cry. "Oh, that's not what I mean, and you know it."

"You think they were all whispering and snickering behind your back?"

"Think it? I know they were. I expected it."

"Then why are you so upset?" He sat casually in the deep chair, appearing unconcerned with her distress. "Like it or not, you will have to learn to cope with these people, because many of them invest in Whispering Winds and the causes I've come to champion."

"Eventually they will accept you as my wife. You don't have to like it, and you don't have to like them. In fact," he added, "I don't like many of them myself, but their contributions are important to my cause."

She realized he was right, but … "Pretense is very hard for me, Dante." But she knew she would try, for she would probably walk through fire for him.

"I know I can count on you," he answered, his gaze warm.

Eleanor glanced away, for there were other issues bothering her. "Did you know Millard Banning had died?"

For the first time, he looked chagrined. "Yes. I knew."

"And you didn't think it was important to tell me?"

"Why? What has his death got to do with us?"

She stifled a mirthless laugh. "You missed his widow's performance. She showed not one shred of remorse until she saw you, Dante. Not one shred. I can't believe you were taken in by her theatrics."

Dante appeared to weigh her words, then asked, "You aren't jealous, are you, Ellie?"

His use of her pet name startled her, causing her determination to crumble just a little. She sat down across from him, slumping deep into the chair, her voluminous petticoats billowing out in front of her.

"I don't know what I am, Dante. All I know is that I had promised myself that the subject of mistresses would never come up."

He gave her a brief smile. "And you said you would sooner live in a nunnery than live with a husband who had one," he reminded her. "A mistress, that is, not a nunnery."

Unable to rise to his attempt at humor, she merely stared at her hands, which were partially hidden in the folds of her gown. "Yes," she whispered. "That's what I said."

"If you thought I would have one, why did you marry me? Are you that anxious to run off and take a vow of chastity? It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

He was taking the entire conversation far too lightly, and it hurt. But how could she answer him? How could she possibly tell him that she loved him? She felt the damned sting of tears again. She swallowed convulsively until she was back in control. "I thought that perhaps the subject would never rear its ugly head, and I could pretend it didn't exist."

He studied her again for a long moment, then asked, "Does Marguerite's widowhood threaten you?"

Eleanor replayed the confrontation in her mind, still feeling sick as she recalled the scene. "She's already told half of Boston that now you will be hers. Then she creates that little scene for you and you fall right into the trap by dragging her off into the library so you can be alone."

His scrutiny was almost painful. "Is that what you think?"

"Can you deny it?"

"Must I answer to you, Ellie? Is that what I must do? For if it is, then we're in trouble already, because I haven't answered to a woman since I was ten years old."

Releasing a sigh, Eleanor pinched the bridge of her nose. He was right, of course. He had no reason to tell her everything. And even if they had married under different circumstances, he didn't have to tell her anything he didn't want her to know.

"I suppose not. After all," she continued, trying to mask her sarcasm, "your vows didn't include the word 'obey' as mine did. Another set of rules written by a man, no doubt."

His smile was almost gentle. "Obedience is a hard lesson for you, isn't it?"

"I took the vow, I will try to abide by it," she answered.

"Don't become too dutiful, Ellie. It doesn't suit you."

The warmth of his words nearly undid her. "We've gotten off the subject, Dante."

"Ah, yes. The Widow Banning. You want to know why I ushered her into the library tonight."

"It's none of my business, really," she demurred.

"Of course it is. I guess I didn't realize how bad it would look, nor did I think that everyone was watching. For that, I must admit some naïveté. I also didn't know what had gone on between the two of you before she flung herself at me."

"I can hold my own against her, Dante, and although I don't give a whit what anyone thinks, it seems pointless to give them any more fodder than they already have."

"Then, my seeing Marguerite alone tonight has given them extra feed to fuel their imaginations?"

"Of course."

"But you saw me nearly toss her out of here, Ellie," he reminded her.

She nodded. "Yes. And were this a different kind of marriage—"

"Ellie," he interrupted, "none of that should matter. It was my fault, and I apologize. Does that settle it, then?"

So he didn't want to acknowledge what kind of marriage they had, either, but something Willa had said continued to eat at her.

"There's one more thing." Eleanor bit down on her trembling lower lip.

He sat forward. "What is it?"

"Why did we go to Nahant for our honeymoon?"

He looked surprised. "Because I love it there, and I thought you would, too." He paused, then asked, "You did, didn't you?"

She gave him a quick, jerky nod. "Yes, but …" She didn't want to tell him. She couldn't expose her vulnerability by asking him why he hadn't taken her somewhere where they could be seen together.

"But, what?" He sounded patient, baffled.

She inhaled, shaking her head as she laughed at her foolishness. "It's nothing, really. Just something Willa said that has sort of bothered me."

He lifted an eyebrow. "I can't believe you let anything that woman says bother you."

Eleanor looked at her lap. "I usually don't."

"I gather this has something to do with my choice of honeymoon locations."

She answered with a small, one-shouldered shrug.

"Let me guess." He put the snifter on the table then tented his fingers on his chest. "She wondered why I hadn't taken you somewhere exciting. Somewhere exotic. And she implied that I had taken you to Nahant because I was ashamed to be seen with you."

She lifted her gaze. "You're very perceptive."

"Eleanor, Eleanor, I'm surprised that you let that harridan get to you."

But her feelings for Dante were new and fragile, and anyone, especially peevish Willa, could make them all crack like an old mirror.

Eleanor stood and started for the door. "I know. I'm sorry. It was stupid of me to bring it up." Although he hadn't answered the question, either.

"Ellie?"

She turned, her heart on the verge of shattering. "Yes?"

He swirled his brandy, the firelight making it glint amber. "You were very courageous tonight."

Her laugh caught on the tears snagged in her throat. "Oh, by all means, if I have anything at all, I have courage."

"And you could have made quite a scene, if you'd put your mind to it," he offered.

"I don't like to draw attention to myself, Dante; that isn't my style. Unlike others," she reminded him.

He smiled at her, quietly toasting her with his snifter. "Ellie?"

"Yes?" She tried to sound patient, but she just wanted to get away from him.

"Would you rather have gone to Paris?"

She swiped at an unwanted tear and sniffed. "No." Nahant had been perfect. Everything had been perfect until she'd fallen so deeply in love with him.

She hurried from the room, rushed up the stairs, pulled off her clothes, and climbed into bed, curling into a protective ball.

But as Eleanor lay there, she realized how much she hated feeling so threatened and insecure. Not only had she had been victimized by Marguerite Banning, a woman who had no scruples, no morals, and no compassion, but she had allowed Willa, a woman she neither liked nor admired, to strip her of her own valued self-confidence. It was time for all of that to stop.



Dante continued to study the fire long after she'd left the room. He knew the Taft party would be hard on Eleanor, but she would have to get over her unwillingness to socialize sooner or later, because like it or not, many of those people supported his work.

On the subject of Marguerite, Dante knew that he had not helped the situation by ferrying the woman off into the library in front of an entire room full of people.

He'd only done it because he wanted to avoid a scene. Instead, he had set the stage for one that was far more dangerous than if he'd let her beat on his chest in front of everyone.

He'd known she was dramatizing, of course. She was exceptionally good at it. Once they were alone, he had expressed his sympathy at Millard's passing. She had all but brushed his condolences aside, telling him of Millard's avaricious children, and how they had descended upon her immediately upon hearing of their father's death. She emphasized how much they had always disliked her, and how now, they were going to take all that was rightfully hers.

Dante was certain that Millard had left Marguerite comfortable, but no doubt he had left something substantial for each of his children. And Marguerite was not a woman who lived like a Spartan. With Millard's wealth divided among her and his heirs, she was not likely to have as much to spend as she was used to.

Horace entered. "Was the evening a success, sir?"

Dante exhaled and settled deeper into his chair. "I guess that depends on your point of view."

"She looked especially beautiful tonight, don't you agree, sir?"

"I do indeed." He couldn't forget what he had felt when Eleanor stood there, at the top of the stairs, more exquisite than he'd ever imagined she could be. She had taken his breath away. "Horace, was I wrong to take her to Nahant? Does a woman expect more on a honeymoon? Something more exciting?"

"Some women might, but not Miss Eleanor."

Dante nodded. "That's what I thought, too. In fact, I had considered going abroad, but first of all, I couldn't really spare the time, and secondly, I truly believed she would enjoy the cottage."

Horace cocked his head, surprised. "And she didn't?"

"Oh, yes," Dante said quickly. "I'm sure she did. But someone put doubts in her head, doubts that made her wonder if I had merely taken her there because I didn't wish to be seen with her in public."

"Who would do such a thing, sir?" Horace asked, his voice filled with quiet outrage.

Dante slanted him a glance. "No one important. That's why it surprised me when she mentioned it."

"She … doesn't appear very happy, sir."

Dante suddenly felt glum. "I know."

"Then why not do something about it?"

"I plan to, Horace, I plan to." He didn't like seeing Eleanor defenseless. It hurt him, because she was normally strong and self-assured, and marrying him had somehow punched a hole in her armor and allowed the vulnerabilities to seep out.

They were quiet for a while, then Dante said, "I want to get her something special, Horace. Something very special."

"Pardon me, sir, but I don't think she wants more belongings or possessions."

Dante looked into the fire and smiled. "She'll want this, Horace. Believe me, she'll want this."

"As you say, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?"

"No. Thank you, Horace. As always, you have the ability to clear my head."

After Horace left, Dante went to his desk, rummaged through the mess of papers, and found what he was looking for. He sat down, quickly wrote off a letter, signed it, sealed it, and addressed an envelope.

If Eleanor wasn't thrilled with this attempt to make amends, he would give up trying to impress her.



Eleanor had just dozed off when the door opened and Dante crossed, none too quietly, to his wardrobe. She sat up when he lit the lamp.

"Oh," he said, plainly sorry, "did I wake you?"

Squinting at him, she brushed the hair from her eyes. "What are you doing?"

He removed his waistcoat and shirt, tossing them onto a chair, then unhooked his trousers. "I'm preparing for bed," he answered nonchalantly.

Suddenly awake, she said, "You're sleeping up here?"

He looked around, as if puzzled. "This is my bedroom, isn't it?"

She gave him a dry look and pushed her hair from her eyes again. "I was beginning to wonder. You haven't slept here since we returned from Nahant."

"Then it's about time I did, don't you think?"

Despite their earlier conversation, her body tingled and she couldn't wait for him to join her, even if it was just to sleep. "It's your room," she murmured, slipping beneath the covers.

"And you aren't going to keep me from my own bed?" It sounded like a threat.

She gazed up at him, hoping the love she felt wasn't blatantly evident in her eyes. "I would never keep you from your own bed, or mine, Dante."

He stood before her, naked and glorious. His tattooed torso was not threatening to her; in fact she'd learned it meant he was vulnerable.

He gazed down at her, feet apart, hands on his hips, Mr. Johnson standing at attention. "And what are you wearing, Ellie?"

Beneath the covers, she quickly unbuttoned her nightgown, grateful it opened nearly to her waist, and slipped out of it, shoving it to the bottom of the bed with her feet.

"The same thing you are," she responded, wanting him so badly she thought she might erupt.

He slid in beside her and took her in his arms. "God, Ellie Templeton, you feel so damned good."

Her eyes drifted shut, and she released a long sigh as she ran one hand over his back, his hip, his firm backside. "You feel pretty good yourself." He nudged her, and she put one leg over his hip. "Mr. Johnson feels pretty good, too," she whispered on a breath as his hard length touched her wet, aching nether lips.

After they had made love, Eleanor nestled against him.

Dante pulled her close. "Ellie," he murmured, sounding content, "you've come a long, long way."

She hugged him, celebrating his return to her bed. "All thanks to you. You were a consummate teacher."

"And you, luscious woman, were the ideal pupil."

Eleanor slept peacefully and content for the first time since their return from the honeymoon.
Twenty-three

One day the following week, as she returned from the orphanage, Dante met her at the door. He seemed unduly anxious, although his eyes were bright.

A bite of concern swept through her. As he removed her cape and hung it on the coat tree, she asked, "Is something wrong?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid so, Ellie."

Alarmed, she asked, "What? What is it?"

He took her arm and led her toward the salon. "You'll see," he answered somberly.

He allowed her to enter, then came in behind her.

Eleanor gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. "Oh, Dante," she murmured on a breath.

"Do you like it?"

She swung around and looked at him, then returned her gaze to the pianoforte. "Like it? Oh, oh, I absolutely love it." She hurried to it and sat on the stool, staring at the black and ivory keys, almost afraid to touch them.

"Play something for me, Ellie."

Tears clogged her throat. She closed her eyes, feeling the wetness run down her cheeks as she started a passage from Mozart.

The touch was perfect; the tone impeccable.

Dante stood behind her; she felt his warmth. "This is the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me." She continued to play, trying hard not to expose every bare shred of her feelings.

"You deserve it, Ellie."

She stopped, turning once again on the stool, and gazed up into his handsome face. "Why?"

He placed a hand on her shoulder. A warm tingling moved through her. "Because you've been through much in your life, and I'm to blame for some of it."

She lifted an eyebrow, feigning sarcasm. "It's a pity present?"

"Don't be foolish," he scolded softly. "I just wanted to hear you play every day for the rest of my life."

She blinked repeatedly and glanced away. Every day. Every day.

As she had thought many times before, marriage to Dante was not an easy way to live. Her love for him continued to grow, and she knew he cared for her, but she also knew it would never be enough. Days could go by when nothing undue would happen, and she would get comfortable, forgetting just how tentative their union was.

Days like this, when he surprised her with something so totally thoughtful, were often cancelled out by days like yesterday, when she'd picked up a note from the table in the foyer and discovered it was from his former mistress, pleading with him to meet with her. She would rather not have found the note at all, than to wonder if he had.

"Ellie?"

The sound of her name startled her, and she shook herself. "I'm sorry, Dante, my mind wandered." She gave him a wan smile. "My life has been pretty decent, really," she mused.

"Of course it has." His dry tone was meant to remind her of the hell she had lived through in the last few months.

"Oh, I know some unpleasant things have happened to me, but," she said, feeling warm and smiling, "nothing so terribly tragic, except when my mother died. And let's face it," she continued, "you were less fortunate than I, because you didn't even know your mother."

She turned back to the pianoforte and played while Dante massaged her shoulders. "That may be true, Ellie, but still, there are those far more hapless than I was, too."

All of a sudden, she thought of Amos's sick wife and his mentally ill children and the insurmountable bills the family certainly had. She abruptly stopped playing, feeling selfish and confused.

"What is it?" Dante's voice held concern.

She turned on the stool once again and gazed at him, her eyes pleading for understanding. "Oh, Dante, it's … it's a wonderful gift."

"But?" It was a threatening sound.

She released a sigh. "But I can't keep it."

"And why the hell not?" he all but roared.

With a shake of her head, she answered, "Amos's family."

His expression was puzzled.

"Dante, how can I accept such a gift when I know his family is suffering so? I've been so lucky. And what luck have they had? I know that when the lawyer from San Francisco left me, he found nothing that could possibly have benefited those poor women."

She stood and went to him, clasping his hands in hers. "Dante, they need help so badly. I know it probably sounds ungrateful, but … I want you to return the pianoforte and send the money to them. Would you do that? For me?" she added, hoping that her wishes carried some weight, despite the thoughtfulness of his gift.

Dante's expression was warm. "Ah, my dear wife." He bent and kissed her cheek; she briefly rested against his chest. "I can't do that."

Disappointed, she asked, "But why not?"

"Because I have already done something for them that is quite generous, I believe."

He looked rather smug. "What?"

"I sold the St. Louis and had the proceeds sent to them."

Eleanor's heart swelled with love for him, and she wished she dared express it by telling him so. Instead, she threw her arms around him and hugged him. "Oh, Dante, you are truly a wonderful, generous man."

Behind them, Horace cleared his throat. "Excuse me, but Miss Lydia has just arrived."

Eleanor gave Dante a quick kiss on the mouth, then dashed to the door of the salon in time to see Lydia bounding into the entryway.

"Aunt Ellie!" She ran into Eleanor's arms and they held each other.

"Oh, it's so good to have you here, Lydia."

"Where's the pirate?" she all but whispered.

"Right behind you," Dante answered.

Lydia freed herself from Eleanor's embrace and turned, her eyes bright with anticipation. "Did you know that a whale is an animal, and not a fish?"

Dante attempted to hide a grin. "Did you know that a narwhal is a toothed whale with a long ivory tusk on the left side of its mouth that sticks out like a sword?"

Lydia stepped close, hands on hips, and stared up at him. "Did you know that a giraffe's tongue is a foot and a half long?"

Eleanor watched the exchange, and when Dante threw his head back and laughed, she thought she might faint, she loved him so much.

"All right, you two," she scolded gently, "enough is enough. Save some of your brilliant repartee for later."



Lydia's weekend stay turned into a lengthy one when they received word that Willa had come down with a fever and was unable to travel. After a week, when Calvin brought Willa home, Eleanor reluctantly agreed to send Lydia back as well, although she would have loved to have kept her niece with her.

At dinner one evening, Dante asked, "What's the latest on Willa's condition?"

Eleanor toyed with her poached salmon. She hadn't felt well for days and food didn't appeal to her at all. "She still isn't well. The doctor is afraid whatever she had initially has gone into her lungs."

"That doesn't sound good," Dante reflected.

"No. And they can't seem to get her fever down to a manageable point, either."

"Lydia would be better off here, with you."

Eleanor gave him a wan smile. "I know. If something should happen …" She couldn't finish the thought, much less the sentence.

Dante finished both for her. "If something should happen to Willa, you're not sure Calvin could raise Lydia."

She knew her expression was pained, but she looked at him anyway. "It's an awful notion, for I'm not giving Calvin much credit, but … he's never been strong, Dante, and Lydia needs so much interaction to keep her from being bored. And as she grows older, she will need a firm hand and discipline."

"He could remarry," Dante reminded her.

Eleanor's stomach dropped. "I couldn't bear to have another woman raise her, Dante, I just couldn't."

He reached across and took her hand. "We'll deal with whatever happens, and pray that Willa rallies."

She squeezed his fingers. "Thank you."

Later that evening, when Dante was still working in his library, Eleanor counted the weeks since her last menses. It had been just before her marriage. Suddenly, all of her tears, nausea, and discomfort made sense. She was pregnant with Dante's child. The realization confounded her, for she could think of nothing more wonderful. Yet she knew that even having his baby couldn't force him to love her. And if she could have only one thing, it would be his love.



It had been a week since Calvin had brought Willa home and her condition hadn't improved. Dante noticed that Eleanor was taking it hard. She moped about the house as if someone were already dead. Her appetite was next to nothing, and her mood swings often took him by surprise.

That night, he went to sleep with Eleanor beside him, yet when he had awakened sometime past two in the morning, her side of the bed was cold and empty.

He shrugged into a silk dressing robe, went down the stairs and heard the soft pianoforte music and sad, quiet singing coming from the salon. His bare feet were quiet as he crept to the door and listened.

" 'But, apart, there standeth one

Who would all this gladness shun;

On her ear the laugh of glee

Falls like bitter mockery.

Mingled with the music's tone,

She can hear a childish moan.…' "

Something squeezed Dante's heart. Stepping into the room, he said, "Eleanor?"

She stopped immediately, then turned, her expression apologetic. "Did I wake you? I tried to be so quiet—"

"Your music didn't wake me. Your absence from my bed did."

She stood. "I couldn't sleep."

He put his arm around her shoulders and led her from the salon, into the library, where embers still glowed in the fireplace. "I'm going to beef up the fire."

She sat in the deep chair, her feet curled under her. "You should go back to bed."

"Not without you."

Once the fire was crackling, he took her by the hands, lifted her from the chair, and settled her next to him on the rug in front of the fireplace.

"Something's terribly wrong, Ellie, and I don't think it has anything to do with Willa."

She gave him a blinding smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Why would you say that?"

His answering smile was sympathetic. "I may be a vain peacock, but I'm not dense, no matter what you think."

"I don't think you're dense, and you're not as vain as I once thought."

He kissed her, drawing in the warmth from her mouth, the moistness she shared. When he was done, he gazed into her upturned face.

Her skin was flawless, smooth, with a mere hint of pink beneath the surface. Her lips were perfectly shaped, her nose small, tilting slightly upward, giving her an almost hoydenlike appearance. Her eyes were closed, the thick dark lashes curling at the ends and crowding in the corners, as if there was not enough room for all of them. A maze of thin blue veins were delicately etched on her eyelids.

She was truly an exquisite creature. "Won't you tell me what's wrong? Have I somehow made you unhappy?"

She nestled into the curve of his arm. "No, it's not you, Dante. You've been so good to me, and kind, and generous …"

He drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. "That song you were singing when I interrupted you. What was it?"

"It's actually from a poem by Julia Mills Dunn, called 'The Bereaved Mother.' I just sort of made up the tune to go with it."

It suddenly dawned on him. "You were thinking of the child you lost?"

Her smile was brief, melancholy. "In a way. Even though I lost him before he was ready to be born, he still has a place in my heart forever."

Dante's own heart was so full it nearly spilled over. Hugging her to him, he murmured, "You are a wonder, Ellie."

She sniffed and her shoulders began to shake.

Bewildered, he turned her toward him. "You're crying," he said inanely.

She shoved him away. "It's nothing."

"Of course it's not nothing. It's something, and I want you to tell me what's wrong."

With a shake of her head, she dug into her wrapper and pulled out her handkerchief.

"Ellie, tell me," he ordered.

Her shoulders sagged. "You want to know why I'm sobbing? You really want to know?"

God, but women still baffled him sometimes. "Isn't that what I just said?"

She turned and faced him and he realized that even when she was in tears she was beautiful.

"I'm in love with you." The words spilled out like an angry threat.

Too stunned to respond, he merely sat there, his mouth open, and stared.

She hiccoughed a laugh. "Isn't that a joke? Me, the plain, peevish, argumentative, peahen, in love with the vain, handsome, womanizing, arrogant, peacock."

She pulled away from him, drew her knees to her chin and clutched them to her chest, her shoulders still shaking with tears.

He didn't know what to do. God, what could he say? Could he tell her he loved her, too? Could he do that, or would it just be words to console her? Maybe he did love her, he didn't know.

"Eleanor, I—"

"Oh, don't you dare," she shot back viciously. "Don't you dare placate me with empty platitudes, Dante Templeton." She stood quickly, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm going back to bed. Alone." She ran from the room, leaving him to stare blankly into the fire.

He didn't sleep the rest of the night. When he finally looked at the clock, it was almost six. Shortly after that, Horace stepped into the room, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Horace?"

Horace's gaze circled the room, then returned to Dante. "You are scheduled to go to New York today, sir."

With a nod, Dante answered, "I know. Is my bag packed?"

"Everything is ready, of course."

"Is Mrs. Templeton still asleep?"

"I tried not to wake her, sir. She has seemed quite exhausted lately, and not herself, if you don't mind my saying so."

"So I've noticed," Dante responded wryly. "You will keep an eye on her while I'm gone?" Two weeks was going to seem like two months, but perhaps this separation was a good thing. Damned if he knew how to approach her, now that he knew her feelings. It confused everything.

"Of course, sir."

"Maybe young Lydia could come and stay a few days," he suggested.

"I will recommend it, sir."

"And see that my wife doesn't walk to and from the orphanage, Horace. If she's tired, that will only make her more so."

"I will do my best, sir." He paused a moment, then said, "You have only an hour before you must be at the train station."

Dante was both reluctant and relieved to be going away for two weeks. He needed time to think.
Twenty-four

Eleanor was glad Dante was gone. At least, that's what she told herself, for otherwise she would have had to face him so soon after making such an utter fool of herself.

That, however, wasn't her biggest concern. It wouldn't be long before she would begin to show. It would be different if he had avoided her, but that hadn't happened. He was as lusty a lover as he'd always been.

She worried about his reaction to the pregnancy. In his mind, would he feel he had a right to return to his mistress? Even though she tried not to think about it, the abhorrent thought occasionally slid into her mind.

But she also remembered something he had said once before, that oftentimes a husband finds his pregnant wife even more beautiful. But surely that was other men. Men who had married their wives, knowing they were beautiful in the first place. Not men like Dante, who could have married any beautiful woman in the world, but married her to rescue her from a scandal that he'd helped create.

She had blurted out her love for him because she could keep it bottled up no longer. She hadn't expected him to say he loved her, too, but she wanted it.

Oh, yes, she was no different than any woman on God's earth. She wanted a husband who loved her with such depth, he would do everything in his power to protect her. She wanted a husband who couldn't abide being away from her, but when he was, he thought of no one but her. She wanted a husband who couldn't keep his hands to himself when they were together. She wanted a husband who hungered for her, not just with lust, but with a love that spanned the endless bridge of time.

She wanted a miracle.

"Aunt Ellie? When will Uncle Dante come home?"

Eleanor glanced at the library door. Lydia had arrived shortly after Dante had left, and had been referring to Dante as "uncle" ever since. "Probably not for another week, dear. Come in and sit with me."

Lydia squeezed into the chair with Eleanor. "Papa said he'd stop by tonight and let me know how Mama is."

Although Lydia's presence made Eleanor's loneliness for Dante bearable, she worried constantly about her niece should Willa not survive, and Willa wasn't doing well.

The last time she saw Calvin, he had looked haggard and thin, barely hanging on to his own health and sanity when he told her that the doctors held out little hope that Willa would recover.

"Your papa has a lot to deal with now, doesn't he?"

Lydia toyed with the rose colored sash on her pink silk dress. "Papa isn't very strong, you know."

Eleanor hugged her niece. "Your papa will do all he can, sweetheart."

"I don't know what he'll do if Mama dies." Lydia's voice was calm, but Eleanor noted an undercurrent of concern. "Even before Mama got sick, he often didn't know I was around."

"He always had a lot on his mind, dear. He's a busy man." Eleanor didn't like defending him, because she knew Lydia was right.

"I know Mama wasn't always nice to him, but that's just the way she was. She wasn't always nice to me, either, but I loved her anyway because she's my mama."

"I know, dear. Mothers have that effect on us. They are women with faults and failings like everyone else, but they are our mothers, therefore they are most special."

"Mama was special to me," Lydia replied.

Eleanor found it odd that Lydia spoke of her mother in the past tense, but she didn't want to give the child false hope, either. "Whatever happens, Lydia, we will deal with it together."

Lydia sniffled and snuggled closer. "I love you, Aunt Ellie."

Eleanor kissed the top of Lydia's head, trying to fight her own tears. "And I love you back, sweet girl."

They were quiet a long, comfortable moment, then Lydia asked, "What's it like being married to Uncle Dante?"

Eleanor thought a moment. "Being married to a man who is usually home is quite different than being married to a whaling man."

"You mean like Uncle Amos, and your papa, Grandpa Simmons."

"Exactly."

"But, I mean, what's he like to live with? Do you have great discussions?"

"Yes, sometimes we can talk on a subject for hours," Eleanor admitted, for it was true. One night while on Nahant, they had discussed the virtues, which were few, and vices, which were many, of slavery, long into the wee hours of the morning. "He's very well read, which is something I didn't realize when I first met him."

Lydia nodded, content. "The last time I was here, he told me that when you first met him, you didn't like him very much."

That was an understatement! "True. I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Because I thought he was arrogant, vain, and shallow," Eleanor answered. "And mule-headed."

"Mule-headed?"

With a nod, Eleanor explained, "I found him very resistant to my intelligence. He seemed to be of the notion that smart women were nothing but a nuisance."

Lydia grinned, as if they shared a secret. "He changed his mind, though, right?"

Eleanor returned the private smile. "At times."

"Do you tell each other secrets?"

Eleanor frowned. "A few, but not everything, not yet."

"When I marry, I will tell my husband everything," Lydia vowed. "Don't you think Uncle Dante is handsome, Aunt Ellie?"

"Yes, I can't argue that." She wished he weren't. In her mind, that was his greatest flaw.

"And he has gentle eyes, don't you think?"

Eleanor gave that a thought. "I think when he looks at something beautiful and worthwhile, like you, he sees that which makes his eyes gentle."

"And when he looks at you," Lydia added, her voice filled with hope.

Eleanor didn't dispute her niece, she just said nothing.

"I've seen the tattoos on his arms," Lydia announced, making a face. "They're ugly."

"Perhaps one day he'll let you see the dragon on his chest," Eleanor suggested.

Lydia shuddered. "It might scare me. Did it scare you when you first saw it?"

Eleanor thought of their first meeting, remembering how repulsed she'd been— not necessarily with the tattoo, but with the man. "In a way, it frightened me."

"Why did he have so many tattoos put on him?"

"Well, sometimes men do strange things to themselves when they're young," she answered, reluctant to explain about his scars.

"Do you sleep in the same bed?"

Eleanor was taken aback. "Now, whatever makes you ask that sort of question, young lady?"

"Well, when I get married, I will sleep in the same bed as my husband. Mama and Papa don't, and I think it's dumb. Mama's feet always get cold, and Butterfly is forever replacing the bed warmer in Mama's bed before she gets into it at night. I figure," she went on, turning toward Eleanor, "that if you have a husband, you can put your cold feet on him and warm yourself up."

Eleanor actually laughed out loud. Whatever she had thought Lydia was going to say, it certainly wasn't that.

Lydia changed the subject effortlessly. "Horace said he would bring us tea and biscuits."

"I think Horace is smitten with you," Eleanor teased.

"No, he's smitten with you," Lydia countered. "He's always saying what a fine, pretty woman you are."

Eleanor chuckled. "Horace usually doesn't stretch the truth."

Lydia gave her a sideways glance. "You don't think you're pretty?"

"Not in the least," Eleanor said, without pity or rancor.

"Aunt Ellie? Do you remember when you told me that men like Uncle Dante didn't marry women like you, that instead they married women who were beautiful, like the one at the party?"

Eleanor paused, remembering the entire embarrassing evening. "I did say that, yes."

"Well, then, why did he marry you if you don't think you're pretty?"

At that moment, Horace entered, his face pinched with concern and his skin ashen.

"Horace? What is it?"

His hands were clasped tightly in front of him. "A message from Mr. Simmons, ma'am. I'm afraid there is terribly bad news."



Willa's death had not been unexpected, yet Calvin was inconsolable. He couldn't even comfort his own child. When left alone, Lydia floated through the house in a fog. Eleanor and Butterfly made all of the arrangements, and after a service at Trinity Church, Willa was laid to rest in a cemetery in her hometown of New Bedford, where Calvin also had a plot.

As Eleanor had expected, and it shamed her to realize it, her own brother was in no condition to care for Lydia. In fact, after Willa's internment, Calvin put the house with an agent, quit his job, and prepared to leave Boston, apparently giving no thought to his child. Eleanor could have strangled him for his thoughtlessness, but instead she packed up Lydia's belongings and swiftly moved her into Dante's townhouse.

She would do what she could for Lydia, begging Dante to let them keep her, raise her as their own. And she knew that over time, Lydia's memory of her mother would change, and all of the faults and failings would fade away, replaced by memories of a sensitivity that was never there, a tenderness that was never shown. And Eleanor knew that was the only way a person survived the death of a loved one. She often wondered if her own mother was truly the saint she believed she was.

But for every gray cloud, there was always a ray of sunshine. Hoshi, Dante's cook, had been offered a position in New York, where his family had settled, leaving an opening at Dante's, which Eleanor quickly offered to Butterfly, who accepted. It wasn't until later that she realized she had taken charge of absolutely everything, even Dante's household staff! But perhaps the best thing of all was that she had been so busy, she hadn't given her pregnancy and Dante's inevitable reaction to it much thought.

Two days later, however, when she knew Dante's train was arriving from New York, her own fears and worries began to assail her. She had to warn him of the changes before he happened upon them totally unprepared. Not only her pregnancy, but Willa's death, Lydia's permanence in their home, Hoshi's leaving, and Butterfly's arrival.

My, oh, my, he was going to be very surprised. With a rueful smile, she checked her reflection in the hallway mirror, discovering Horace standing behind her.

"Horace, I'm going to meet Dante at the station. When Lydia returns from the tutor, see that she gets her lessons done right away, and if she balks, remind her that we are all going to spend the evening together, but if she has schoolwork, she will be expected to finish it in her room. Alone."

Considering all of the tragedy that had befallen Lydia, Eleanor decided that to send her back to a school that she disliked in the first place was cruel and unusual punishment. She found a bright young woman, a student at Harvard, who was delighted to coach Lydia with her lessons.

"Madam, are you sure you wouldn't like me to accompany you?" He wore a rather panic-stricken expression.

Eleanor tied her bonnet under her chin, then drew on her gloves. "I want you here. Butterfly might need you."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he said, almost under his breath.

Eleanor grinned. "She's not giving you any trouble, is she?"

Horace's brow furrowed. "She's unlike any person I've ever met in my life, madam, and I've met my share of unusual people."

Eleanor squeezed Horace's shoulder. "She grows on you. Trust me."

Smiling wanly, he opened the front door, walked her out, and helped her into the waiting carriage.



Dante saw it happen: Eleanor waving from the street outside Fitchburg Station, completely unmindful of the traffic, oblivious to the runaway team that pulled the careening vegetable wagon. Before he could reach her, she was knocked off her feet and had gone down like a sack of flour, hitting her head on the cobblestones.

Now, at home, he paced the library floor, waiting for the doctor to give him some news. Lydia sat quietly, perched on a chair by the fireplace.

"She'll be all right, won't she, Uncle Dante?"

Her voice was soft, fearful. Dante suddenly realized that his infernal pacing was frightening her, so he stopped and squatted in front of her.

He'd been met at the door by a harried Horace who, while helping him get Eleanor upstairs to bed, had filled him in on what had happened while he was away. Lydia needed someone, and for the moment, he was it.

"Your Aunt Ellie is a strong woman, princess. She'll be fine. Just fine." He hoped and prayed it was true. Aside from the fact that he didn't know how he would cope if he lost her, he knew that poor Lydia couldn't bear losing another loved one.

When he learned what Calvin had done, he had sworn to hunt him down and knock some sense into him. Or carve out his heart. For as much courage as Ellie had, Calvin had that much cowardice.

Butterfly whisked into the room with a tray, a bottle of brandy, and two glasses. She poured one for Dante. "Where's that 'Horse' fella?"

Dante lifted one eyebrow as he scrutinized the woman, remembering a day long before when Lydia had marveled that Butterfly and the giant tortoises in the Galapagos were very nearly in the same weight class. It wasn't much of an exaggeration.

Not one to play down her size, she wore a long, loose dress in a garish orange with a pattern of enormous yellow flowers on it. Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun, and her wide, brown forehead was beaded with perspiration.

"It's Horace, Butterfly, not 'horse,' and are you working too hard? You look tired."

Butterfly made a beeline for the overstuffed chair and plopped into it. The chair expelled a "whooshing" sound of protest.

"I ain't seen a kitchen so fouled up since I took over at the Simmons. Whose been doin' your cookin' and cleanin' up, a gorilla?"

Dante hid a smile. She was colorful, if nothing else, and he already knew that she and Horace would butt heads.

He poured her a shot of brandy. "Here, better take this. You look like you need it."

Without a moment's hesitation, she took the glass and downed the contents in one swallow. "Oh, by the way, Mister Dante, at Miss Ellie's request, I removed most of the— pictures from your bedroom, because of 'you-know-who.' " She covertly nodded toward Lydia.

His erotica. Thank God for Eleanor. "Yes," Dante answered. "That was a good idea."

Butterfly snorted an indelicate laugh. "Looks like you musta had some mighty good times up there."

Dante hoped his look was censuring, but if it was, Butterfly ignored it.

They heard steps on the stairs and Dante stood, his gaze riveted at the door, his body tense.

"Well?" he demanded, as the doctor and Horace stepped into the room.

Horace eyed the sprawled Butterfly with disdain and poured the doctor a small shot of brandy. The doctor, like Butterfly, downed it in one gulp.

"She hit her head quite badly. Has a concussion, I'm afraid."

"And what does that mean?" Dante interrogated further.

"It means she could be unconscious for a few hours, or a few days. Only time will tell." The doctor wiped his forehead and shoved the rumpled handkerchief into his waistcoat.

Behind him, Dante heard Lydia start to cry.

"There, there, darlin'," Butterfly soothed, taking the child into her arms and rocking her. "God ain't gonna take her from us, too."

Dante wanted to ask what kind of a greedy God took so much from one family. Instead, he gathered his strength and went to the child, who quickly transferred her affections, clinging to him so tightly she wouldn't have fallen if he'd let go of her.

"What can we do?" he asked.

The doctor handed him a sheet of instructions. "She shouldn't be left alone, just in case she regains consciousness," he advised. "And because of the pregnancy—"

Dante's heart stopped. "The what?"

The doctor gave him a quizzical look. "You didn't know she was with child?"

Dante all but stumbled to a chair by the fireplace, still holding Lydia. "No. I didn't know."

"Well, I would venture to guess that she is perhaps two months along," the doctor speculated.

"And … and the fall, it didn't harm the child?"

The doctor shrugged into his coat and shook his head. "There's no bleeding, but I would watch that as well. Perhaps your cook could—"

"I will tend to her myself," Dante nearly snarled. "No one will go near her but me."

He felt a tiny warm hand on his cheek. "Uncle Dante, can I help, please?"

He looked into Lydia's large, sad, eyes and her tear-streaked face, discovering the fragility and vulnerability that was just beneath the surface of her quick, clever mind, and felt a weakness completely foreign to him. She had become his responsibility, his to defend, and his to nurture. From that moment, he knew he would protect this child, raise her and love her as his own, always and forever.

"Of course, princess. Of course. We will tend to your Aunt Ellie together."
Twenty-five

Dante was finally alone with her, on his knees beside the bed, praying— something he had rarely done— it was not too late.

While he was away, he had thought of little else but Ellie. He had been in a meeting and found himself gazing out the window, remembering a day similar to that one when they had first met. It had been blustery, yet when he'd watched her stride purposefully down the street toward the bank, a shaft of sunlight had landed on a stray lock of her hair, and it had shone like gold.

That was his first realization that there was something more beneath the starchy clothing and grim demeanor.

Early one morning, he had taken a walk along New York harbor, and remembered the day they had set sail and were marooned together on Middle Brewster. With a warmth new to him, he recalled her wish to learn to please a man. He would never forget the softness of her skin, the willingness of her body, and how at odds it was with her sharp, sometimes acerbic tongue and quick mind.

That was when he began to understand that a woman could be both beautiful and intelligent, although he certainly hadn't admitted it then.

He had sat on a bench at the end of a long pier and was reminded of their week on Nahant. Their walks, their intelligent, lengthy, sometimes spirited discussions, and most of all, their lovemaking.

That was when he realized he felt something for her that frightened him and he briefly pulled away.

Everywhere he looked, something prompted a reminiscence of her. Everything he smelled, tasted, or saw brought back a memory.

Sleeping alone brought little rest, for he missed being able to reach out and touch her, draw her to him, run his hands over her soft, warm body.

He loved her. He knew it the moment he left her. Maybe he had known it before that, but he hadn't admitted it.

It was the first thing he was going to tell her when he came home, and now she might never awaken and know the feelings in his heart.

And she carried his child.

The ache in his chest was unbearable. Never had there ever been a woman with whom he had wanted a child. Never, before Eleanor.

And she loved him. This brave, courageous, beautiful, intelligent, intrepid woman loved him, and was carrying his child.

Tears dropped onto his hands, and he turned from the bed to find Lydia standing in the doorway, her expression horrified. "Is she dead?" she all but whispered.

Dante went to her and drew her to him. "No. She's still sleeping, princess."

Lydia wiped his cheek. "Then why are you crying?"

"Because there was something I wanted to tell her, and now I only hope I have the chance."

"You wanted to tell her you loved her?"

Dante smiled down at the intuitive child. "How did you know that?"

Lydia gave him an ageless look. "Because I just know. Aunt Ellie is the kind of person that everyone loves, once they get to know her."

"You're right about that," he agreed.

Lydia turned pensive. "Uncle Dante, now that Aunt Ellie is going to have a baby of her own, will I go to the orphanage to live?"

Dante leaned away from her and stared. "Why would you think that?"

With a tiny shrug, she answered, "I might be too much trouble. Mama always said that another baby would have been too much trouble for her, so I just thought—"

"Your Aunt Ellie isn't like that, princess. You will always have a home here, with us, and we will love you like you're our own."

Lydia hugged him, then glanced at the bed. With a sly look, she said, "And you will always love Aunt Ellie, won't you? I mean, always and forever you will love her and sleep in the same bed with her, and let her warm her feet on you when she's cold?"

He laughed as quietly as he could. "I will love her always and forever, you little minx, and she can put her cold feet on me anytime she wants."

Lydia beamed. "Did you hear that, Aunt Ellie? Did you hear?"

Dante turned and found Eleanor gazing at him, her eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. "You're awake," he said, inanely.

"And you love me," she answered, biting down on her quivering lower lip.

He whispered something to Lydia, who ran to the bed, kissed her aunt, then hurried from the room.

"I love you. I adore you. There wasn't a moment that I didn't think of you while I was away, Mrs. Templeton. Everywhere I turned, there you were, invading my dreams, interrupting my train of thought at a meeting, reminding me how cold and lonely it is to sleep without you beside me."

Eleanor sniffed and wiped her eyes on the sheet. "Oh, Dante, I'm pregnant."

"I know," he said, unable to stop his smile.

Inhaling deeply, she looked him squarely in the eye. "I will not share you with that Banning woman or any other. So help me, Dante, if you turn to a mistress, I will take Lydia and our child and join a convent. I mean it."

He snorted a laugh. "Barely out of an unconscious state, and already you're issuing your demands."

She studied the quilt that covered her. "I'm afraid so."

"Ellie, I haven't had a woman since before you walked into my life, and I will not have another woman but you for the rest of it."

"Oh, Dante." She sighed and scooted over in bed, wincing slightly. "Come here."

He paused, concerned. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I just have a headache. And you'll hurt me far more if you don't hold me."

He crawled onto the bed and took her into his arms, drowning in the feel, the smell, the warmth of her. He pressed his nose into her hair, dragged his lips to her neck and kissed her repeatedly.

"You meant what you said to Lydia? About letting her stay with us?" Her voice was tentative.

"Of course I meant it. I could strangle that brother of yours, and if he ever does come back, I'll see to it that he doesn't get her."

"But what about Victor?"

"Victor will be ours, too."

"And … and what about your trips to sea? I won't have you gone for months at a time, Dante Templeton. I simply won't have it."

"Good. Because I've already decided that when and if I venture to sea again, we're going as a family."

She pulled his hair back and looked into his face. "All of us? Aboard ship?"

"Yes. We'll sail to the Galapagos Islands and let the children run around naked. Hey, maybe we'll run around naked too." Like a lecher, he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

She smiled, unbuttoned his shirt, and rubbed her small, warm hand over his chest. "You are a wonderful man, even if your tattoos could frighten small children."

"And you, my wife, have done something no one else has ever attempted to do. You have tamed me. You are the dragon tamer."
Epilogue

SUMMER 1870, NAHANT

Eleanor opened the east window above her desk, allowing the ocean breeze to drift into the house. She opened her journal and began.

JUNE 24, 1870

Young Damien is out in the yard, intent on finishing the boat he and Dante are building before fall. At nine, he is both mischievous and thoughtful, serious and carefree. Dante says he is a combination of himself and our son's namesake. My heart warms at the sight of our Damien, who is handsome, healthy, and strong.

She paused, remembering that it was five years ago this month that they all returned from Ecuador and the Galapagos, where they had spent more than three years exploring, discovering, and drawing the plant and animal life that somehow survived on those rocky, lava-ridden spots of land.

They had just completed thorough studies of the flightless cormorant and the only penguin to live at the equator when they learned of the war at home from a visiting ship to Guayaquil, a sea port on the western coast of Ecuador, where Whispering Winds was normally moored at a pier in the bay when it was not sitting off the coast of one of the islands. By the time they returned, the war was all but over.

She bent over her journal again.

Victor and Lydia will return from school soon to spend the remainder of the summer. It's different around here without them, but certainly not quiet, with the twins constantly galloping— as Butterfly calls it— through the house.

Dante came up behind her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Butterfly says that as soon as she returns from the garden, she'll have lunch ready out on the patio, Ellie."

She raised her face for a real kiss, which he happily gave her. Eleanor's heart still raced at her husband's touch and embrace. "And the twins?"

"Horace has taken them fishing off the dock of the cottage. They're to have a picnic."

Upon returning from the Galapagos, Dante had built them a big, new home on Nahant, set back and to the south of the cottage, which they kept for visitors. On occasion, he went into his office, but Percy was a trusted right-hand man and ran the place beautifully.

They sold the townhouse, but Dante had recreated his den in the new home, almost to the millimeter. The only change was an enormous window that looked out over the ocean. It was still his favorite place to work.

She stood and went into her husband's arms. "Aren't the twins a bit much for Horace to handle?"

"Not when they're fishing. I think those two could sit with a pole in the water all day, if we let them."

"Whatever do you suppose they talk about when they're with Horace?" she wondered.

"I'd almost be afraid to ask," Dante responded with a smile.

Their seven-year-old sons were a handsome handful. Fraternal, not identical, Eleanor swore one looked just like Dante and the other resembled the sketch Dante had drawn of his lost brother.

"Geoffrey has more patience than Phillip," Dante mused, "but Phillip will not be outdone. I believe he's the more determined of the two, wouldn't you say so, Ellie?"

Eleanor put her arm around her husband's waist, which was still firm and trim. "He's lively and roguish, and absolutely detests taking orders from anyone. Probably very much like you were as a child."

"Hogwash! I was nothing like that," he argued.

Eleanor chuckled as they walked out onto the patio and sat, waiting for Damien to join them. She gazed at her husband, who had only grown more handsome in the past ten years. "From what Sister Mary Francis says, you were exactly like that," she reminded him.

He made an impatient sound in his throat and studied the sea.

There was so much more to her husband than Eleanor had ever dreamed. Shortly after they were married, she learned that Dante had paid the nuns to allow her to teach piano to the orphans, thereby assuaging his guilt at her predicament.

She was glad she hadn't learned about it before; she'd been quite resistant to him in every possible way. She might have refused to take the job, thus walking a different path altogether, which meant her life would have been different. She loved her life; she couldn't imagine it any other way.

She also learned that years before she even met him, he had set up a large trust fund to be used toward educating the children at the orphanage. And any time one of them appeared interested in college and serious about his schooling, Dante paid for that, too. Once while they were on Charles Island he had confessed that he wished he could adopt every child there. In many different ways, they were his, regardless.

"I love you," she murmured with a smile.

He looked at her, grinning in spite of his pique. "I love you more every moment of every day, dear Ellie." He took her hands in his. "You have put up with more than any woman should have to."

Before she could argue, he continued.

"I dragged you, our baby son, and two adopted children off to Ecuador and the Galapagos, forced you to live on the ship like a sea hand, and I don't believe I heard you complain once."

"There was nothing to complain about, dear. It was the adventure of a lifetime." She had loved it. Being with him and knowing that he truly loved her was more than she had ever hoped for. Even having the twins there in less than ideal surroundings had been an adventure she would never want to change, as difficult as it had been.

She bit her lower lip, her eyes filling with emotion. Dante had guarded his family well, always having a fully armed crew aboard when they moored off the islands, just in case there was trouble. And none of them went anywhere without an escort, especially the children. He was always alert, ever vigilant. And she only grew to love him more.

"All in all, darling, it was a wonderful experience. Perhaps Damien and the twins won't remember much about it, but Victor and Lydia certainly will, especially now that Lydia is writing her book."

"They're almost adults, Ellie." He frowned. "Haven't you noticed how the boys from the area seem to flock here when Lydia is home?"

Dante had been overprotective of Lydia from the beginning. Eleanor sensed that it was because he knew from experience what the boys were thinking about when they looked at her, and it made him want to shield her from the world, and men like he had been.

Lydia was a beauty. She was vivacious and bubbly, intelligent and sweet, never lording it over the others that she was brilliant. In fact, there were times when she downplayed her aptitude too much, Eleanor thought. Perhaps it was because the young men found her charming and she no doubt enjoyed the attention. Eleanor just hoped Lydia never compromised her intelligence in favor of her beauty.

"Victor keeps an eye on her, dear." Though it took a while for Victor and Lydia to adjust to their new lives, they eventually became close, and although they still competed strongly as brother and sister, Eleanor knew they would always be friends.

"Yes, but his eye is wandering, too, I have no doubt. Hell, by his age I had already—"

"No need to remind me of your early sexual peccadilloes, my darling," she teased, squeezing his knee.

She remembered the day Victor had been rummaging in the attic at the townhouse and discovered Dante's cache of erotica that Butterfly so carefully packed away when Lydia had come to live with them. He had been fourteen and had pocketed a few of the smaller pieces and hidden them in his wardrobe.

Eleanor still smiled when she thought about how Butterfly had found the pieces and had scolded Victor, then confiscated them, keeping them for herself. The remainder of the collection had been donated to an art museum in Boston.

Butterfly waddled toward them, carrying a pail of fresh vegetables. Sweat beaded her face and she mopped it with her apron. "Is 'Horse' and the twins joinin' you for lunch?"

"I thought you packed them a picnic," Eleanor answered.

"Well, hell, I did. But them boys, they prob'ly ate it before they reached the water."

She swung the basket toward them. "Just wanna wash off these radishes so's we can have 'em with lunch," she announced as she slowly made her way toward the house.

Eleanor swallowed a laugh, and Dante chuckled. A carriage rattled up the drive and stopped, startling both Eleanor and Dante.

"Mama! Papa!" Lydia jumped from the conveyance, the skirt of her fashionable blue foulard suit nearly to her knees and the feathers on her mauve hat flapping in the wind as she raced across the lawn.

Eleanor stood, thrilled to see her daughter. "Lydia, sweetheart, you're home a week early!"

Lydia ran into her mother's arms, and they hugged, then she went to her father and was enveloped in his embrace.

"My princess," he murmured against her hair. "How I've missed you!"

Eleanor looked up in time to see Victor slowly leaving the carriage, a cast on his foot. She gasped, hurrying across the lawn toward him. "Victor! What happened?"

"It's nothing, Mother, don't worry."

"Nothing?!" Eleanor's heart raced. "Dante! Victor has broken his foot!"

Dante ran to his son, Lydia right behind him. "What in the hell happened, Vic?"

"He was playing soccer, and some big bully stepped on his ankle when he fell," Lydia announced.

"It wasn't like that," Victor argued glumly.

"Yes, it was," she protested. "He's been picking on you all season."

Eleanor was concerned. "Victor? Is this true?"

Victor took the crutches from the coach and slowly made his way toward the house. "He's just trying to get a reaction out of me, that's all."

"Some reaction," Lydia said with sarcasm. "I thought the least you could have done was grab his leg and flip him onto his back."

"That would have served no purpose, Lyd, and you know it," Victor answered patiently.

Eleanor and Dante exchanged glances. Victor, the boy who bullied every girl at the orphanage and even Lydia for the first few months they were together, was growing up.

"What did you do to make him feel this way?" Eleanor asked, wincing each time he took a step.

"He took the bully's girlfriend out for a stroll along the Charles," Lydia answered with a sly smile.

"We went down to the river to feed the ducks, nothing more," Victor snapped as he collapsed into a chair by the table.

"But you knew they were sweet on each other," Lydia argued.

"That's what he said. She said no such thing," Victor explained, lolling his head back against the chair, appearing exhausted.

Damien came racing to the patio. "Vic! Gosh, what happened?"

The entire incident was explained all over again, but not before Butterfly came outside with a tray heaped with food.

"Git that boy's foot up," she ordered, shooing everyone away so she could pamper him.

Victor grinned, his white-blond hair gleaming in the sunshine. "Thanks, Butterfly, I knew you'd take good care of me."

Eleanor hid a smile. For some reason, the moment Victor had come into their lives, Butterfly had adopted him as her own. If anyone had done any spoiling of the Templeton children, it was Butterfly herself.

Lydia removed her bonnet, her lustrous cinnamon hair escaping down her back. "He couldn't wait to get home and have Butterfly coddle him." She placed her fists on her hips and stared at her brother. "Sometimes I think you're glad you broke a bone. Now you'll get all the attention you want."

Victor screwed up his handsome face. "Aw, Lyd, that's the dumbest thing you've said today."

"No dumber than you asking the driver if he knew where he was going," she countered.

"Well, he—"

"What about your lessons?" Dante interrupted, appearing anxious to stop the arguing.

Lydia waved the question away. "We both finished up early. Classes were a breeze, right, Vic?"

"More for you than for me," he groused.

"How's the book coming, Lydia?" Eleanor asked.

Lydia's expression became pensive. "Well, all right, I guess, but … I'm wondering if people will believe any of it."

"You're writing fiction, dear, you want to entertain your readers. They don't necessarily have to believe it."

"But all of it's true, Mama. Every adventure my young heroine has, I experienced myself on the islands and in the waters around them. Especially swimming with the dolphins and the sea lions. And who would believe that those big, ugly iguanas and the giant turtles would be so mild-mannered, that a person could actually hand-feed them?"

Lydia's book, which she had titled Fantasy Island, was intended for young adults. It was a concept that both Dante and Eleanor had encouraged from the onset. And not so surprisingly, she took to writing as easily as the marine iguana took to the ocean.

And when they worried that they were impressed merely because she was their daughter, they sent chapters to Dante's editor, who assured them that once the book was finished, he would see that Lydia found a publisher.

It was all very, very exciting.

Eleven years before, Charles Darwin had published his On the Origin of Species by Natural Selection, and although both Eleanor and Dante had read it and found it fascinating, Dante had admitted his interest was still in cataloguing, identifying, and somehow saving the kind of world that both he and Darwin had explored.

"Well," Eleanor began, her thoughts returning to Lydia, "I think you should put a letter in there to your readers, explaining the premise and where it all came from."

Lydia appeared thoughtful. "That's a wonderful idea, Mama. Thank you."

"And you'd better mention me in that book, Lyd," Victor warned. "Without me, the story would be a total bore."

Lydia's laughter tinkled in the air. "My heroine has a troublesome nemesis of a brother, Vic, and I'm patterning him exactly after you."

Dante took Eleanor's arm and drew her away from the clamor. No one seemed to notice that they had retreated.

"We have one damn fine family, Ellie Templeton, even if our children do sometimes butt heads."

Eleanor's heart was full. "Yes, we have been blessed." Victor and Lydia's bickering had never bothered her. In fact, she enjoyed it because it was something she didn't have with her own brother. It had been ten years since Calvin had left, and she hadn't heard from him.

It hurt, but Eleanor refused to let it eat at her. Weak and cowardly, he was a grown man who had abandoned his child, and she couldn't forgive him for that. But she also thanked him, because raising Lydia was a gift he had unknowingly given her.

When they formally adopted both Victor and Lydia, Dante and Eleanor had asked them what they wanted to call them, since, by all rights, they each had had a mother and a father before. It wasn't long before they were "Mama" and "Papa," to both, but as Victor grew older, he became more sophisticated, referring to them as "Mother" and "Father."

Eleanor also learned that after the deaths of his parents, Victor had inherited quite a sum of money. With Dante's acumen for business, he had been instrumental in making Victor's wealth grow, although Victor, himself, couldn't touch it until he was twenty-five.

They watched as Horace and the twins appeared from the shore, the twins dashing over the grass when they saw that their older siblings had returned.

"Horace has been looking tired lately," Eleanor noticed.

Dante hugged her close. "As have you. When were you going to tell me about the baby?"

Surprised, she looked up at him. "How did you know? I'm barely two months along."

Dante shook his head and smiled. "My darling wife, I know every nuance of your luscious body. You are pregnant, and you will have a daughter."

She rested against him, content. "I don't care if it's another boy, or a girl." And she truly didn't. But she knew that when the children found out, Lydia would pray that she would get a baby sister.

Dante nuzzled Eleanor's ear. "I'm feeling a bit randy, my sweet."

Eleanor experienced an instant reaction, as she always did when her husband suggested they make love. True to his word, he had made love to her long into her pregnancies, constantly reminding her of how beautiful she was, how desirable, how perfect she was for him.

"Tell Mr. Johnson to take a nap, sweetheart. We can't do anything with all the children right outside our bedroom window."

Dante glanced up at the small balcony off their bedroom on the second floor. "We can if we're quiet," he whispered.

She turned and gave him a knowing look. Although over the years she had learned to quell her out-and-out screaming during orgasm, she was still a noisy bed partner.

He laughed. "I hope you never change, my love." He stood behind her, pressing her close, his arms under her breasts. "All right. You win for now, but just you wait until tonight, Mrs. Templeton. We're going to take a little trip to the cottage."

Eleanor rested her head against Dante and clasped her arms over his, already looking forward to the tryst. "Tonight, Mr. Templeton, I will be more than ready, and even more willing," she promised.

She gazed at her family, at the children who were brought into the world by them, and those whom they had taken in, and knew there wasn't a woman alive who was luckier than she.

She had tamed the dragon, and they had made a wonderful, happy home together.