She Had Only Herself To Give

Catrina stretched out a timid hand and let it rest on the sunburnished flesh that showed where his cream colored cotton shirt was opened in the front.

"Captain Ashton. Take me back to England, I beg you." She forced her eyes to remain focused on the gold-flecked green ones that watched her so closely. "I'll give you anything you ask."

"What have you to give?" he demanded. "Your father's wealth belongs to your fiancé. Have you money with you? Jewels?"

"I have only myself," she murmured.

He cocked one dark, winged brow. "Your virginity?"

The hot blood flooded her cheeks as she nodded, lowering her eyes. "Yes," she whispered at last, "my virginity. It is all I have to give."

"You would give yourself to me?" he asked. "As payment for your passage back to England?"

She leaned closer, letting her body rest against him. "Yes," she breathed.

The desire he'd felt for her earlier came back with a vengeance and Flint knew he had to break the seductive spell she was weaving or risk his own undoing.

He forced himself to laugh disdainfully. "Perhaps Phineas Dodd was right after all," he sneered. "I do believe that with a little practice you'd have made an excellent whore." Other Leisure Books by Sandra DuBay: FLAME OF FIDELITY FIDELITY'S FLIGHT CRIMSON CONQUEST WHISPERS OF PASSION WHERE PASSION DWELLS BY LOVE BEGUILED BURN ON, SWEET FIRE SCARLET SURRENDER WILDER SHORES OF LOVE In Passion's Shadow Sandra DuBay For Larry,
who understands Romance.

A LEISURE BOOK

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
6 East 39th Street
New York, NY 10016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

Printed in the United States of America

Prologue

November1852
Natchez, Mississippi

The same brisk winter breezes that rippled through the Spanish moss festooning the stately oaks surrounding Oakwood whispered along the many-columned gallery that fronted the manison. Finding a partly opened window they entered causing the tasseled draperies of heavy French brocade to belly out into the elegant parlor they decorated.

Ashton St. James, the master of Oakwood, ignored both the breezes and the havoc they were wreaking on the carefully arranged crimson draperies. At one end of the long, ivory-walled salon, he was watching as a pair of house slaves removed a gold-framed mirror from above the fireplace and replaced it with a portrait, newly arrived from England.

The girl in the portrait was eighteen but looked younger despite her attempts to appear sophisticated and womanly. In a riding habit of blue velvet, she was posed beside a small dappled mare and her youth was evident in the flirtatious yet childishly demure tilt of her head, the dimples still evident in her rounded cheeks, and the honey-blonde curl straying unheeded over one shoulder.

Their task completed, the slaves were dismissed with a nod of Ashton's dark head. As the double doors closed behind them, he turned to the other occupant of the room with a questioning look.

The two men, second cousins, were as unalike as it was possible for them to be. Ashton St. James, the elder by two years at twenty-nine, was taller by half a foot topping six feet by several inches. His coloring was fairerhe had hair of rich dark brown that looked black in some lights while his cousin, Radford St. James, had raven hair which in the same light looked nearly blue. Ashton's eyes, too, were lighter, being green with flecks of gold, while Radford's were as black as his hair, the pupils being nearly indistinguishable from the irises.

The chief difference between them, however, was neither their height nor their coloring. It was their taste in attire. For Ashton's part, he followed fashion only so far as it suited him and demanded merely that his clothing be well made of quality materials. Radford, on the other hand, was completely and unashamedly a dandy.

As they sat together on a red damask sofa that winter afternoon sipping some of the wine for which Oakwood's collections were justly renowned, Ashton, with his waistcoat of pearl gray silk with pearl buttons, grey trousers cut to fit closely to his long legs, black silk cravat and unfrilled shirt, somehow managed to outshine his cousin. Radford had arrived at Oakwood that afternoon dressed to dazzle in a dark blue coat, azure satin waistcoat draped with a heavy watch chain hung with trinkets that jingled when he moved, white silk cravat held in place with an enormous sapphire, and flesh-toned trousers whose effect was extremely startling from a distance giving the impression that the wearer was nude from the waist down. On his right hand sparkled an exquisite sapphire ring.

But whatever the differences in their appearances, the look of admiration in their eyes as they regarded the gilt-framed portrait was identical.

"You always were the most fortunate of the family," Radford said, swirling the wine in his glass. "To marry the only child of such a rich man is extremely lucky, but to find her a budding beauty into the bargin . . ." He saluted Aston with his glass. "it's only a pity that her father's titles couldn't be yours as well. Still, his English estates will make you an immensely wealthy mannot that you are not that already." There was an air of irony in Ashton's smile. "Considering the debt Lord Lynleigh owes me, I could have had the greater part of his estates without marrying Lady Catrina."

"But now you shall have them both. Of course, Olympia is heartbroken. She always expected to be the next mistress of Oakwood."

Ashton laughed skeptically. Olympia St. James, Radford's sister, was a raven-haired, ebony-eyed beauty, the belle of Natchez society. It was true that many had expected them to marry thus joining Oakwood plantation with Radford's Belvoir plantation into one spectacularly profitable operation, but for Ashton's part he had never been overly attracted to Olympia. She was beautiful and exuded an air of luxuriant sensuality that he suspected was all for show. The few times he had found her in his arms, he had discovered her to be too coldblooded and calculating, apparently immune to the lure of physical pleasure for its own sake. Whatever man she married, he believed, would find himself with a wife who was a gracious hostess, a magnificient ornament to grace his home, but only a willing bedmate when she felt it served some purpose.

Not that that was any great tragedy. It was expected that men in his position would keep a succession of mistresses and he could have done the same. But he cherished the hope of finding both in a single womanan elegant lady of refinement in the drawing room and an uninhibited mistress behind closed doors. He stood and crossed the room to the portrait that hung over the fireplace of Egyptian marble. The girl, Lady Catrina Carlysle, product of generations of selective English breeding, smiled back at him. He had agreed to marry her, sole heiress to her father, Lord Lynleigh's, far-flung estates in lieu of payment for debts incurred during a disastrous try at a shipping partnership. He wondered as he studied the artfully rendered face if the portrait flattered the girl. Was her hair really that shade of rich honey-blond? Surely her eyes could not be that unusual huea clear, golden topaz. Her lips were full, the lower slightly pouting. Were they omens of an as yet unawakened sensuality?

"By the way you're gazing at that portrait, cousin," Radford drawled, coming to join Ashton at the fireplace, "it is to be hoped that the marriage will take place as soon as you arrive in England."

"No, it won't," Ashton disagreed, to his cousin's surprise. "As a matter of fact, the marriage won't take place until we are safely returned to Oakwood. Until then, Lady Catrina will not even know that I am her fiancé."

Radford blinked confusedly. "What can you mean?"

"As you know, there's been an enormous amount of thievery aboard my ships of late. I intend to captain the Golden Rose myself and try to catch those responsible. Naturally I'll have to assume another identity. The thieves would not dare steal any part of the cargo if Ashton St. James himself were aboard. If they think me merely another sailor like themselves, they may well take me into their confidence.''

"But what has this to do with lady Catrina?"

"Everyone will know that the primary reason for this voyage is to bring the lady back. If we were together on board the ship and she knew who I was, it might be all too easy for her to inadvertently expose me as Ashton St. James. In that case, I wouldn't put a guinea's worth on either of our lives."

Radford shook his head disapprovingly as he poured himself another glass of wine. "I don't like it, cousin. It sounds a risky business."

"With all due respect, Rad, you think a good gallop on horseback too risky a business for you." Ashton cast a meaningful glance toward the elegant phaeton that waited in the drive beyond the shady gallery in front of the mansion. "Still, nothing else has worked. All the men I've hired to undertake the job have died mysteriously while on the high seas or have been persuaded to join the thieves. It is something I must do myself."

"What name do you propose to use?"

"I thought I'd take my middle name, Flint. It's what those closest to me call me anyway. And for a surname, my first name, Ashton."

"Well then" Rad lifted his glass. "To Captain Flint Ashton of the Golden Rose. Godspeed and may the little heiress not prove too sore a temptation during those long weeks at sea."

Lifting his own replenished glass, Ashton St. James, or Flint Ashton as he would be known for the next few months, joined his cousin in the toast.

Chapter 1

November-1852
London

The piercing, wind-driven rain lashed against the gray stone walls of Lynleigh House which stood at No. 120 Piccadilly in the heart of fashionable London. Blindingly white flashes of lightning lit the rain-swept street and ear-splitting crashes of thunder seemed to set the thick, centuries-old walls atremble to their very foundations. But in the oval reception room at the front of the elegant manse, Lord Alastair Lynleigh's voice rang out like the crack of a whip.

"Catrina! I said you will apologize at once!" Poised before a gilt-framed pier glass, the object of his demand eyed him with the fires of defiance burning brightly in her heavily lashed, almond-shaped, topaz eyes. Barely eighteen, lady Catrina Carlysle was willful and proud. Not that her parents would have had her otherwisethe last of an illustrious line, Catrina was the sole heiress to the myriad estates of her father, the sixth Earl of Lynleigh. She was naturally expected to be prideful and self-willed; but obstinacy directed toward one's parents was something else indeed.

Her eyes left her father's noble face and traveled to her mother who sat across the room on a gilt-framed sofa. Their gazes met and held briefly before Catrina bowed to propriety and lowered hers.

"I apologize, Mama. I spoke disrespectfully. Please forgive me."

It was said matter-of-factly, without humility, and Lord and Lady Lynleigh exchanged a satisfied smile before lady Louise rose and came to kiss her daughter's pale cheek.

"I do forgive you, sweet. And I know that you will come to recognize and accept your duties to your papa and to me. Come along now. Cook has been waiting dinner."

"If you don't mind, I shan't go in," Catrina demurred. "I've no appetite tonight."

"Very well, then. If you want something later, send Jackson down for it."

Catrina watched as her mother and father swept from the room. They were an enviable pair. Even if they hadn't been her parents, she would have admired their elegance and style. To look at them, one would never in a million years imagine that they were poised on the brink of complete financial collapse.

It was precisely as that thought crossed her mind that a booming roll of thunder browned all other sounds. It seemed somehow ominousa heavenly portentand Catrina smiled ruefully as she left the room.

In the corridor she paused. Near the opposite end of the long, vaulted passage, her mother stood before one of the French mirrors that were spaced along the walls. Totally engrossed in herself, she was adjusting the fall of one of her butter-blonde curls over her milky shoulder.

She adores being Lady Lynleigh, Catrina thought. She craves the admiration and glamor; she thrives upon it like a cat upon cream. She would sacrifice anything to ensure her position in a society even her only child.

Which thought brought her sharply back to reality and reminded her of the reason for her confrontation with her parents in the oval reception room. Turning away from the sight of her mother's preening, Catrina climbed the stairs to her rooms lost in thoughts of the evening's revelations.

The rooms to which Catrina had moved upon leaving the nursery overlooked Piccadilly. Furnished in shades of yellow and cream, one end of the bedroom was bowed, following the lines of the reception room directly beneath it.

As Catrina entered, the gray-haired woman who'd been dozing in a wing chair near the fireplace started and rubbed her eyes.

Perdita Jackson, once Catrina's governess now her companion and chaperon, rose and settled her rustling black gown about her ample body. Widowed at a young age, she'd gone into service with Lord Lynleigh at the time of Catrina's birth and had always been more of a mother to the girl than Lady Lynleigh had ever bothered to be.

Her pale blue eyes filled with concern as Catrina walked to the window seat and knelt gazing down at the rain-washed street below.

"They've told you, then?" she asked gently.

Catrina looked back in surprise. "You knew?"

"Gossip runs rife in the servants' hall, sweeting. There's little goes on above stairs that would be news to anyone below. I don't know all the details, though."

Sighing, Catrina sat down and absently smoothed the gown of dusty-rose silk that accentuated her lithe, still girlish body.

"Apparently Papa entered into some sort of business agreement with a Mr. St. James of Natchez in America. He borrowed heavily from Mr. St. James and is now deeply in debt to him. Mr. St. James had demanded that Papa either pay his debtswhich would ruin himor agree to a marriage between Mr. St. James and myself in which case Papa would retain his wealth until his death. Then Mr. St. James will inherit everything through me."

"And your father has agreed?" Perdita said, knowing the answer.

Catrina nodded. "What else could he do? Can you imagine Mama living like a pauper? Anything would be better than povertyeven sending one's only child half a world away to be wedded to a man who is no more to them than a signature on some contracts."

At a loss for words of comfort, Perdita came to Catrina and cradled her gently as she had done from her charge's earliest childhood.

But Catrina could not be comforted. Pushing out of her beloved governess's embrace, she paced across the room nervously twisting a thin diamond bracelet about her wrist.

"Do you know the rest of it?" she demanded. "Papa has received word that Mr. St. James is far too busy with his plantation to come for me himself. He is sending a ship for me and the ship's captain will be my escort. I shan't even see this man, St. James, until I reach Natchez! What if he proves to be a hideous old villain?"

"Trina, the man is only nine-and-twenty. Only eleven years your senior."

"Still, he lives there in that unsettled land. I'll likely be carried off by wild Indians!" Ignoring the older woman's chuckle, she cried out: "The flower vendors and fishwives have a better life than I!"

"Now, 'Trina, you're only feeling sorry for yourself. Mr. St. James is likely a fine gentleman and you'll bless the day your father agreed to this marriage." She smiled, seeing the skepticism in Catrina's face. "Come on, then, did you eat? No? Then why don't I go down for some of Cook's sugar cakes and you can eat them while you're getting ready for bed." Catrina did not disagree but neither did she allow herself to be soothed by Jackson's reassurances. As the chaperon left the room to go down to the kitchen, Catrina sat on the window seat and began formulating her plan to escape the marriage with the loathsome Mr. St. James.

It was only a matter of weeks later, just after Christmas, that Catrina put her plan into motion. A messenger had arrived at Lynleigh House to apprise Lord Lynleigh of the docking of the Golden Rose, flagship of the St. James fleet. Its captain, one Flint Ashton, would call in the evening to begin preparations for Lady Catrina's departure for America and the Natchez plantation of her husband-to-be.

The news had sent Catrina to bed in a fit of nervesor so she told both her mother and Perdita. Left alone in her darkened room, she dressed in a plain cotton gown pilfered from one of the housemaids. Into a pocket in her skirt she slipped a handkerchief tied around her small collection of jewelry. Over the whole she pulled a pelisse of cinnamon-brown cloth and a bonnet that covered her honey-blonde chignon.

Leaving her room, her heart seeming to pound in her throat, Catrina made her way along the dimly-lit corridor to the backstairs. Descending these, she slipped out a little used side entrance of the sprawling mansion and disappeared into the dusk of the frosty London evening.

Making her way to the front of the mansion, she stood on the walk and gazed up at the brightly lit windows of the home she was fleeing. A pang of fear assailed her and she fought back an almost irresistable urge to run back to the safety of her room.

The sound of a carriage drawing up to the entrance brought Catrina sharply back to reality. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the carriage was emblazoned with her family's ornate crest. It could mean only one thingFlint Ashton!

Turning to flee into the darkness, she tripped and fell, her face perilously close to the spikes that topped the wrought-iron fence bordering Lynleigh House's front lawn. She sprawled on the walk like a broken doll, her hands scraped and her dignity in shreds. She struggled to rise and tensed when a pair of strong hands closed about her waist and lifted her to her feet.

"Are you all right, little one?" a deep voice, like warm black velvet, asked.

Afraid to lift her eyes for fear this emissary of her fiancé had seen the portrait her father had dispatched to Natchez, Catrina only nodded.

"Quite well, thank you," she murmured, trying without success to reclaim the cold, trembling hand he held between his two large ones. "Excuse me."

He brushed away flakes of dirt that clung to her palm and it seemed that strange, electric tingles ran up Catrina's arm.

"Your poor hand is bleeding,'" the voice sympathized, evoking in Catrina a maddening desire to glance upward toward its proprietor. "Why don't you come inside? I'm sure someone will bandage it for you."

"No!" Pulling her hand out of his, Catrina sidled away, her face still shielded by the brim of her bonnet. "Please, sir, I must go."

The long, well-muscled legs in their black, sleekly fitting trousers moved a step or two toward her and Catrina, still not daring to steal a look at his face, fled into the night leaving him to stare after her.

Flint Ashton found Lynleigh House in an uproar. Maids and footmen dashed to and fro, Lady Lynleigh lay on a daybed in near hysterics, and Lord Lynleigh paced the length and breadth of the grand drawing room with his hands clasped behind his back.

When Flint was announced, Lady Lynleigh gave a shrill, despairing squeal and collapsed in a faint. As the maids clustered about her plying vinaigrettes, Lord Lynleigh came to his side shaking his head mournfully.

"It's a sorry business, Captain Ashton," he told Flint. "A damned sorry business. I'd no idea the girl felt this strongly about the marriage."

Confused, Flint looked from Lord Lynleigh to the still unconscious Countess and back again. "I beg your pardon, my lord. But could someone tell me what exactly has happened?"

"Yes, yes, sorry. It's catrina. She seems to have . . . well . . the fact is . . . she seems to have run away."

"Run away!" Lord Lynleigh flinched. ''Yes."

"Alone?"

"So it would seem since all the servants are accounted for. She was rather opposed to this marriage."

"That seems an understatement, my lord. Have you contacted the authorities? Set anyone to looking for her?"

Lord Lynleigh tugged at the heavy gold watch chain that was draped across his waistcoat front. "Actually, Ashton, I do not intend to notify the authorities unless it becomes absolutely necessary. The scandal, you know. And I haven't had time to gather a search party. The girl was missed only moments before you arrived."

Lady Lynleigh, revived at last, brushed a hand over her forehead and cast an appealing look toward the tall, handsome man in black.

"Captain Ashton," she wheedled, her voice soft and coaxing, using the tone she saved for charming men into doing as she wished, "you know Mr. St. James. If the worst comes to worst and we cannot find Catrina, will you try to convince him that it was not our fault? Perhaps then he will find it in his heart to postpone collection of the debt until . . ."

Flint whirled toward her, his face a mask of disbelief. "Good God, madam! Your young daughter is alone and unprotected on the streets of London! doesn't that mean anything to you? Does money and position mean more to you than your daughter's safety?"

Lady Lynleigh gasped at the man's insolence and Lord Lynleigh blustered and protested, but outside the drawing room door Perdita Jackson nodded in agreement. Precious moments that could have been better used in searching for Catrina were being wasted in discussions of the potential scandal involved.

"If you don't care," Flint continued, "I assure you that I do. I have been sent to collect Lady Catrina Carlysle, in one piece and unharmed. If you will both excuse me, I shall go about finding her!"

Turning on his heel, Flint stormed from the room. In the corridor Mrs. Jackson touched his sleeve as he passed.

"Sir, I'm Perdita Jackson, Catrina's governess. Please, sir, you will find her, won't you?"

Flint sighed and a great deal of the arrogant confidence he had displayed in the drawing room deserted him. "I'll try my best, Jackson. I've been to London many times and I'm fairly familiar with the cityundoubtedly more familiar with some of the shabbier districts than Lady Catrina herself. But you must realize that London, like any great city, is filled with disreputable persons who prey on young, innocent women." He smiled a little to try and allay the fear that leapt into Jackson's pale blue eyes. "Can I count on your help?"

"Oh, yes, sir!"

"Good." He started down the corridor and Jackson followed, nearly running to keep up with his longer strides. "I presume Catrina's belongings are already packed?" He waited for Jackson to nod. "You!" He seized a passing footman. "See that Lady Catrina's trunks are delivered to my ship, the Golden Rose, and tell the first mate to be prepared to sail on my orders. "You!" He stopped a maidservant. "Find me something bearing Lady Catrina's picturea locket or miniature, anything. I'll need to show people who it is I'm searching for. You!''

Perdita Jackson watched as Flint forcefully and efficiently organized the search for her charge. He gives orders like the master of a great estate, she thought. He's used to ordering servants about and speaking to the gentry as equals.

A sudden, swift realization struck her, igniting a flame of suspicion in her mind.

"Well, that's that," Flint said at last. "Mrs. Jackson, I don't think I'll be seeing you again. I'll set sail as soon as possible, hopefully with Catrina. In any case, I'll write and tell you the outcome of my search. I believe that you are the only person in this house who truly cares what becomes of her."

Mrs. Jackson murmured her thanks and walked beside him to the grand entrance hall. Glancing about, she saw that they were alone. As he was about to step out the door, she spoke:

"Mr. St. James?"

Taken unaware, Flint glanced down at her. "Yes, what it it?" Immediately he realized his mistake and an admiring smile lit his dark eyes. "You're a shrewd one, Jackson."

"I don't understand, sir. Why are you pretending to be this person, Flint Ashton?"

"I cannot take time to explain. Suffice to say that my life and, more importantly, Lady Catrina's life could be in danger if the truth be known. I must ask you to promise that you will say nothing, even to Lord and Lady Lynleigh."

"I do promise, sir." She touched his sleeve beseechingly. "Find her, sir, please. She's not a bad girl, only willful. She doesn't realize the danger she's put herself into."

Flint's reply was cut off as a maid rushed up to them.

"Mrs. Jackson!" she cried, not daring to address the dark, intimidating man who stood beside her. "Meggie says that one of her dresses is missing and a pelisse and bonnet. A dark dress it was, ma'am, and a red-brown pelisse."

"A straw bonnet?" Flint demanded.

The girl jumped. "Yes, sir."

Flint remembered the girl who had fallen to the pavement outside. He had helped her to her feet and she had fled into the night.

"Damn!" he muttered.

"What is it, sir?"

"I saw her outside when I arrived. Why didn't I realize? Well, she can't have gotten far. Goodbye, Jackson."

"Goodbye, sir, and good luck!"

Watching him climb into the carriage that brought him, Jackson said a little prayer that he would find Catrina. If only she'd waited, Perdita told herself as she climbed the stairs. She'd have been enchanted with him, I know it! Lord, keep her safe until he can find her!

Not far away, Catrina pulled her pelisse closer as she made her way up Clarges Street. She was heading for South Audley Street near Grosvenor Square where lived her cousin, Caroline Phelps, the daughter of Lord and Lady Phelps, Catrina's aunt and uncle. She and Caroline had always been friends though Caroline lacked the adventurous spirit that would have inspired Catrina to a deeper affection for her. But she was unfailingly loyal and could be counted upon to hide Catrina for as long as it took to destroy all possibility of marriage to Mr. St. James.

Catrina ignored the repeated hailings of an elegant young dandy who leaned out of his carriage window as it followed her slowly along the street.

How dare he! she thought furiously. What does he think I am, some common drab to be shouted at . . .

Her eyes widened as a sudden realization struck her. Of course that was what he thought! What other impression could she give dressed in the plain, dark clothing of a servant and abroad alone after dark? He thought she was a . . . a . . . strumpet!

Giving up at last, the carriage rolled past her and the young man called to one of the women who strolled along the walks smiling wearily at the gentlemen who left their well-bred, refined wives at home and went abroad in search of more earthy entertainment.

Catrina was shocked to find them there, in the midst of fashionable London. A red-haired woman with a mirthless smile lounged before the elegant residence of the Duke of Grafton. Though Catrina had never given these creatures much thoughtprostitution being considered an unfit subject for feminine earsshe knew that such women existed. But she'd always imagined them as being confined to some distant part of London where their business was conducted in dark and dingy tenements. This new revelation amazed her.

She was still deep in thought on the subject when she neared the corner of Curzon Street which would take her to South Audley Street. So engrossed in her ponderances was she that she did not at first notice the pair of shadows that slipped along the moonlit street behind her own.

It was not until they stepped into her path that she looked up to find two grinning, ragged men blocking her way.

Chapter 2

Catrina glanced nervously around and as if divining her thoughts, the taller of the two men moved to block her escape. One man was dark, the other light, one wore a tattered pea-jacket, the other a bedraggled pilot coat whose few remaining immense buttons were chipped and cracked. Their trousers were soiled and stained and the long hair that hung from beneath their scuffed hats was lank, snarled, and greasy.

"Where're you going in such a hurry, girlie?" the taller, fairer, dirtier man asked, a leering glimmer in his small, mean eyes.

Catrina lifted her chin. "Let me pass!" she ordered imperiously.

But instead of moving respectfully out of her way, the men broke into delighted laughter.

"Let me pass!" the shorter man mocked. "D'ye 'ear that, Jack? Sounds like a bloody duchess! Who d'ye think ye are, then, the Princess Royal 'erself?"

Her heart pounding wildly, Catrina glanced about hoping to see a policeman somewhere nearby. Seeing her look, the men laughed again.

"Don't bother lookin'; the coppers ain't goin' to worry about the likes of you," the tall man, Jack, snarled. He reached toward her. "Here, now, let's see what we got."

Seized by four cruel hands, Catrina struggled. But her bonnet was torn from her head and her rich honey curls tumbled freely over her shoulders to gleam in the moonlight.

A grimy hand gripped her chin and tipped her face upward. Still holding her fast, the men stared down at her, agape.

"Cor, Fred!" Jack breathed. "She's a beauty!"

Greed shone in the littler man's eyes. "We could make a fortune sellin' 'er to a bawd!"

"Yea," Jack agreed softly. "But I've a mind to try 'er myself first."

"Yea . .," the little man drawled. "There's an alley over there . . ."

Panting now with terror Catrina fought them furiously. She tore her arms free but blond Jack grasped her skirt to yank her back. His long dirty fingers caught at the edge of her skirt pocket and it tore letting the lace-edged handkerchief containing her jewelry spill over the dusty pavement.

Stunned, the two men stared at the sparkling gems that lay glittering in the moonlight. Like greedy jackals they fell on the baubles, clawing them up and stuffing them into their pockets.

Taking advantage of their inattention, Catrina lifted her skirts and fled. But they were quickly after her.

"Catch'er, Fred! She must be some nob's brat. There might be a reward! Or a ransom!"

Their footfalls were drawing nearer and Catrina imagined she could feel their fetid breath on the back of her neck. Her lungs burned and her legs wobbled but she ran on. She was near the corner of Clages Street and Curzon Street when a carriage suddenly veered to the curb and a man leapt out brandishing a heavy walking stick.

"Be off with you!" he shouted. "Leave this child alone or I'll call a policeman and have the pair of you clapped in gaol!"

Deciding to make do with the jewelry they had already gotten possession of, the two men reversed themselves and disappeared into the night. Catrina, bosom heaving with exertion and fear, leaned heavily on the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the grand residence of Lord Sidney Bayard.

"Are you all right, my dear?" the man asked softly. "Those gutter-bloods didn't harm you?"

Afraid to tell him about the jewels for fear he too would try to ransom her back to her father, Catrina shook her head. "No, I'm well, thanks to you."

She looked up at him and found him younger than his voice suggested. His light brown, wavy hair was carefully styled and his clothing, though obviously of inferior quality and tailoring, was clean and fit his short, solid body well. She was about to take her leave of him when a feminine voice came from the carriage.

"Is she well, Phineas?"

Both Catrina and the man identified as Phineas turned to look as the woman stepped lightly from the carriage. Clad in a plain woolen gown and pelisse of bottle green, she was thin and pale and her narrow face gave no indication that she had ever had any claim to beauty.

"She's well," Phineas confirmed. "Only frightened, I think."

"As well she should be." Reaching them, the woman smoothed back one of Catrina's curls. "Whatever are you doing on the streets at this hour, child? It's plain that you're no common jade. Why don't you let us take you home?"

"No!" Catrina blushed, seeing the surprise on their faces. "I can't. I'm going into service, you see."

"Into service?" Phineas examined the soft, white hand he held. Its pampered perfection was marred only by the scrapes caused by her fall. "Have you ever been in service, child?"

Catrina firmly withdrew the hand from him. "No. I'm only starting out." She saw the open skepticism on their kindly, homely faces. "I can't go home!" She lowered her eyes, feigning shame. "I've been turned out. They'd never take me back.''

The man and woman exchanged a look. "But that's barbarous!" the woman exclaimed. "Who would turn a lovely little thing like you out into the cold night? A body'd have to be a monster!"

"Are you sure they wouldn't take you back?"

"Oh, yes, Quite sure."

There was another silent exchange before the woman spoke again.

"Look here, my dear. It's quite clear that you've nowhere to go. You cannot wander the streets alone this way. Had Phineas and I not happened along when we did . . . well . . . I shudder to think of your fate. As it happens, Phineas and I run a school of sorts for girls in your situation. The Dodds' School for Homeless Girls. I am Lizzie Dodd and Phineas, here, is my husband. You're welcome to come with us. We can't offer you much, a roof over your head and plain, filling meals. In return, you will be assigned duties at the school. Housekeeping and cooking and such."

Catrina listened with interest. Though she knew Caroline Phelps would have hidden her, it wouldn't have been long before someone came to Lord Phelps' house looking for her. Caroline was such a poor liar; she would be bound to give her away. But who would ever think of looking for the heiress of the sixth Earl of Lynleigh at the Dodds' School for Homeless Girls?

"This school of yours, it's in London?" she asked.

"Of course," Phineas assured her. "On St. John's Wood Road not far from Regent's Park."

Catrina nearly laughed out loud. It was too perfect. Her father would be scouring the city for her and there she would be, sheltered and safe, not more than two miles from home!

She flashed the Dodds a brilliant smile. "I should like to come to your school, please. May I?"

With a hug from Lizzie and a pleased burst of laughter from Phineas, Catrina found herself bustled into the rather shabby carriage and driven off down Curzon Street toward Park Lane.

The Dodds' School for Homeless Girls was located in a well-kept, genteel, though hardly elegant, house at the edge of St. John's Wood Road just west of Regent's Park. Catrina was most surprised by the house for it was furnished in pleasing style and in fact the front parlor contained several pieces of exceptional quality. As she entered the foyer with Lizzie and Phineas, a maid in black cotton came forward and helped Lizzie and Catrina off with their pelisses.

"We have seven girls here at present," Phineas told her. "Eight now that you're here. You will share a room with another girl. We will provide you with two changes of clothing." He led her into a small office off the foyer and took a ledger from the desk there. "I'll need your name, child."

"Charlotte," Catrina lied quickly, giving her middle name. Dodd regarded her quizzically and she realized that he was waiting for her second name. She thought of her beloved governess who was doubtless even then frantic with worry over her. "Jackson," she finished evenly.

Satisfied, Dodd inscribed the name and the date and replaced the red leather ledger on the desk. "Well, then, Charlotte Jackson, you must be tired. Why don't you follow Irene, there, and she will take you upstairs where you can have a wash and get to bed."

"Thank you." Catrina smiled at Phineas and Lizzie genuinely grateful for their intervention earlier in the evening. Turning, she followed the maid up the polished staircase and down the narrow corridor.

They stopped before a doorway and Irene turned to her. "This will be your room. You'll share it with a girl name of Dulcie. There should be a lamp burning and you'll find a nightdress on the peg behind the screen. You change yourself and I'll fetch the water for your wash."

Thanking her, Catrina let herself into the room. A lamp burned on the small table that was placed between the two beds. In the occupied bed a thin girl with stark black hair plaited into a single thick braid that lay over her shoulder was sleeping. After studying her for a moment, Catrina slipped behind the screen and found the plain cotton nightdress hanging on the peg. It was obviously not new and Catrina wonderd how many girls had worn it before. But then she shrugged. The nightdress, like the room, was clean and all in all the Dodds' School for Homeless Girls was a sight better than the danger of the night-shrouded streets outside.

Irene arrived with a basin and a pitcher of water and Catrina washed her face and the stinging abrasions on her palms, the result of her fall on the pavement outside Lynleigh House. After Irene removed the basin and pitcher, Catrina separated her hair with her fingers and braided the strands before climbing into the hard, narrow bed so different from the downy-soft four-poster she'd occupied at home.

Laying in the darkness, Catrina felt a strong pang of homesickness. She longed to lie again in her yellow and cream room, safe and secure. But she longed just as vehemently to escape the horrid marriage her father had agreed to. For that reason, she was grateful to the Dodds.

In the days to come, Catrina became acquainted with the other girls who called the Dodds' School home. It was not a school as such; there were no real lessons save those in household management in which Catrina, never before having set foot in a kitchen, proved herself hopeless.

At the time of her arrival, there had been seven other girls in residence. That number, she was told, fluctuated with the departure of some girls and the arrival of others. They went, so she was told, to positions in noble households all over England. Most became well-respected for the skills they learned at the Dodds' School.

For Catrina, however, there would be no position of responsibility and respect. Appalled at her complete ignorance of things domestic, the housekeeper had sent her to the kitchens to learn cooking but the cook had just as quickly sent her back to the housekeeper saying that Catrina was best suited to tasks such as dusting the bannisters of the long, curving staircase. Cloth in hand, Catrina stood on the stairs absently rubbing at the polished wood of the railing. She was dressed as were all the girls, in a plain dress of dark cotton with a white apron and black leather slippers. Her hair, brushed and shining, was caught back with a black ribbon and left hanging free down her back. Catrina thought the style a trifle childish but it was what the Dodds wanted and their word was law.

The house was unusually quiet that morning, the other girls seemed nervous and tense. Dulcie, Catrina's roommate, seemed to have disappeared. To complicate matters, a messenger arriving early had sent Phineas out of the house in a towering rage.

The slamming of the heavy front door brought her sharply out of her reverie. From the shadowy foyer Phineas appeared. He held Dulcie by the arm and the girl's expression was as terror-stricken as his was furious.

"Lizzie!" he bellowed. "Lizzie!"

There was no answer and he muttered an oath as he started up the stairs dragging a snivelling Dulcie behind him.

"Charlotte! Run and fetch Lizzie. Tell her to come up to Dulcie's room."

Catrina nodded, having grown used to answering to the false name she'd given upon her arrival at the school.

Curious, she did not move immediately. She watched Phineas drag Dulcie along the corridor to the room they shared. Thrusting open the door, he shoved the girl inside then paused and glanced back at Catrina.

"Now, Charlotte!" he snapped before disappearing into the room.

Leaving her dusting, Catrina went to the kitchen where Lizzie was going over the week's menus with Cook. The news that Phineas had returned with Dulcie in tow evoked a surprisingly vehement response in the normally placid woman.

"He found her, did he?" she snarled. "By God, I've a word or two to say to that ungrateful little slut!"

Dying of curiosity, Catrina followed the woman back through the house and up the stairs. Taking up her dust cloth once more, Catrina pretended to polish the already gleaming bannister but her ears were tuned to the sounds coming from the room down the corridor. But though the rest of the house was strangely silent, she heard only the muffled tones of voices raised in anger and once or twice the sharp sound of a stinging slap.

When the door opened again, she went swiftly back to her work pretending she hadn't heard a thing. It was only when the Dodds had disappeared from view that she scampered down the corridor and entered her room.

The draperies were drawn over the single window dimming the bright sunshine that would normally have illuminated the chamber. Dulcie's body was a shapeless mound on the bed and the only sounds were the muted sobs the girl tried to deaden with her pillow. Gently Catrina touched her shoulder. "Dulcie? Dulcie, what is it? What happened?"

"Go away," the girl muttered.

"Please tell me. Perhaps I can help."

"Help? No one can help."

"Dulcie, please."

Lifting her face from the pillow, the girl smiled twistedly at Catrina's shocked gasp. Her face still bore the red marks left by Phineas' beating and a half coagulated trickle of blood seeped from the corner of her swollen mouth.

"Why did they do this to you?" Catrina asked.

"Because I ran away."

"Ran away? Why would you want to run away from the Dodds?"

Dulcie's laugh was hollow. "Why indeed!" The crooked, mirthless smile slowly disappeared and was replaced by a look of surprise and curiosity. "You really don't know anything, do you? I didn't run away from the Dodds, actually. I'd have nowhere to go if I did. I ran away from Bostwyck House."

"Bostwyck House! In Grosvenor Square?"

"You know it?" Dulcie asked suspiciously.

"I know of it. I've seen it once or twice."

"Well, have you ever seen the master of Bostwyck House?"

Catrina nodded, wrinkling her nose. "Lord Bostwyck," she murmured, remembering the pasty-faced old reprobate who'd called at Lynleigh House on one or two occasions.

"You'd be hard put to find a fouler old lecher in all of London," Dulcie muttered. She lifted her chin. "Well I wouldn't have 'im. I ran away. He demanded his money back from the Dodds and Phinny came lookin' for me to get his revenge."

"You wouldn't have him? His money? What are you talking about?"

Dulcie was incredulous. "You've never even suspected, have you? Crikey! How can you be so stupid? Do you really think that this is a school? That the Dodds take in homeless girls and feed us and put clothes on our backs and expect nothin' in return? Didn't you ever wonder why one girl or another always seems to be missin' at breakfast time?"

Catrina's eyes grew wide in amazement. "You don't mean . . ."

"They sell us! There's a club, very fashionable, called Gatley's in Blackett Street. Most every night the Dodds take one or two girls there and auction them off to some genteel nob who wants a young girl for an hour or a night. Why do you think they dress us this way? The gentlemen seem to fancy schoolgirls." Catrina felt the sour bile rising in her throat. "But the girls who leave?" she asked desperately. "The ones who get positions in service."

"How soft in the head are you? No one goes into serviceat least not the kind of service you mean. The only girls who leave here are the ones who get too old to pass as schoolgirls or who catch a clap or start a brat. The Dodds don't let anybody go while they can still make money for 'em."

Stunned, Catrina sank down onto her bed. Trembling violently, she took deep, shuddering breaths to try to control the queasiness in her stomach.

Dulcie regarded her curiously. "You really didn't suspect anything, did you?"

Catrina shook her head. "Nothing. I never imagined"

"You've done it before, haven't you? Had a man, I mean?"

Catrina looked away, her cheeks glowing, embarrassed. "Never," she breathed.

"'Cor! And with that face and body! The Dodds must think they've their fortune made. They could retire on the money they'll ask for you!"

"I can't do it, Dulcie! I can't! I'll run away first!"

Dulcie laughed without humor. "Go ahead if you think it'll do you any good. But you better have somebody who'll hide you and you better go soon. The Dodds are too greedy to wait much longer to put you on the block!"

For the rest of the day catrina planned her escape. She went about her chores quietly trying to attract as little attention as possible but every time she found Phineas' or Lizzie's eyes upon her, her palms began to sweat and she trembled uncontrollably.

At last supper was served and she forced the tasteless mutton stew past the lump of fear that had lodged in her throat. When the girls were dismissed to their rooms, she went eagerly praying continually that she might be spared to make good her escape after the Dodds left for Gatley's and their evening's foul business. Lying in her bed, her loose-fitting nightdress pulled on over her day clothes, she listened for the footsteps in the corridor. Hearing Lizzie's voice and those of the two girls who were to be taken out that night, she wondered how she could have been so blind as to have missed guessing what the Dodds were about.

She listened closely as the footsteps descended the stairs and waited for the sound of the horses' hooves as the carriage was brought up to the front of the house. Then, slipping out of bed and pulling her nightdress over her head, she took down her pelisse from the peg behind the screen.

''It's to be tonight, then?" Dulcie asked.

Catrina jumped nervously. "I thought you were asleep."

"No one sleeps very soundly under this roof. You're going?"

Catrina nodded. "I can't risk waiting another day."

Climbing out of bed, Dulcie came to her and hugged her. "You've got somewhere to go?"

Catrina nodded again. "Good luck to you. I'll think of you."

"Why don't you come with me?" Catrina grasped Dulcie's hands. "The place I'm goingI know they'll take you in as well. Please, do come!"

"No. This is where I belong." She shrugged, resigned. "This is what I am."

"Are you sure?" Catrina persisted. Dulcie nodded and Catrina impulsively kissed her cheek. "All right, then; I've got to go. Goodbye."

Leaving the room, Catrina hurried down the darkened corridor to the stairs. Pausing at the head, she listened closely to the silence below before creeping down and making her way to the front door.

She was halfway across the foyer when the door was thrust open and Phineas Dodd appeared mumbling angrily.

"Damn it all, Lizzie, you'd forget your head if it wasn't fastened to your" He caught sight of Catrina, poised for flight. With a swift movement, he had seized her and held her fast in a cruel grip.

"And where might you be going, dearie?" he asked. "Out for another moonlight stroll?"

Catrina struggled fiercely, trying in vain to reach his restraining hands with her teeth and nails. "Let me go!" she screamed. "You'll not sell me like some common trull!"

He shook her until she was dazed and wobbly. "I won't, won't I? You ungrateful little trollop! You've been living off me for the past fortnight and more. You owe me your life and you'll pay me back! I'll sell you any way that I please, and since you've your heart set on an outing, I think I'll start sellin' you tonight!"

Chapter 3

Fight though she did, Catrina was no match for the man's superior strength. Hustled roughly out the door, she was led to a carriage and shoved inside where she found herself seated on the cracked leather seat between Fanny and Peg, two girls who, so Dulcie had said, had been with the Dodds for some time.

"Pick up your skirts, Charlotte!" Lizzie ordered sternly.

"Go to the devil!" Catrina retorted.

Phineas raised his hand to strike her but Lizzie caught his arm. "Not in the face, for God's sake, Phinny! Don't mar her face! Girls, hold her tight."

To Catrina's amazement, the girls on either side of her took firm, even painful grasps on her arms. While Lizzie held her knees, phineas slipped a cord about her ankles and pulled it tight enough to effectively hobble her, thus destroying any chances she might have had to run away from them.

For the rest of the ride to Gatley's, Catrina seethed with impotent fury. There was no chance of escapenot with both Phineas and Lizzie watching her and not with the other girls ready and obviously willing to help them. She moved her feet, testing the bonds, but found that each time she separated them by too great a distance the knots grew tighter and chafed her ankles through her knitted stockings. Escape before they reached the club was out of the question. She would have to be patient and watchful and wait for an opportunity to present itself.

To all outward appearances, Gatley's Club in fashionable Blackett Street was as respectable as any of the gentlemen's clubs frequented by London's upper crust. It contained, within its many-columned, golden stone walls, a billiard room, drawing room, library, smoking rooms, dining rooms both large and smallthe latter available for private engagementsand a coffee room in which coffee was by far the least popular beverage served. The decor was subdued, the furnishings heavy, dark, and decidedly masculine. Conversation, by and large, centered around politics, huntings, horse racing, and women. The hum of lowered voices never ceased and the pungent aroma of fine cigars filled the air, their smoke wafting from room to room like mist on a rainy London night.

It was in one of the smaller smoking rooms that Flint Ashton was ensconced in a tufted leather wing chair. His long legs stretched out before him, he held a cigar loosely between his fingers and a glass of fine Madeira stood on the table beside him. His other hand toyed absently with the gold locket that hung from his watch chain.

He didn't have to open the locket to see the smiling face of the girl portrayed in the miniature within. He had gazed at it so often in the past two weeks that every line of her small face was permanently imprinted on his memory. He was frustrated, disheartened, he felt his hopes of ever finding the girl dwindling with each passing hour.

Looking around him, he wondered what had made him decide to come this night to Gatley's. Did he really desire an evening of conversation and gaming with men of his own class or was it merely that he had grown so heartily weary of the slums and tenements he had frequented for the past fortnight that he needed a few hours in a atmosphere of gentility and cleanliness? He wished never to be forced to revisit the bowels of London which reeked with filth and squalor and teemed with thieves and cutthroats and starving, sickly children and prostitutes scarcely old enough to be out from behind their mother's skirts and those riddled with disease and alcoholism.

It sickened him to think of the conditions under which those people lived out their miserable lives. They were desperate people clawing for their very existence. The mere thought of Catrina, so young and sheltered and innocent, among them appalled him.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. From Mrs. Jackson had come the horrifying news that Catrina had taken all her jewels with her. God help her if she showed so much as a pearl earbob to the wretches of Whitechapel. He himself had been warned more than once to show no sign that he carried anything of value on his person. The beggars of the district had been known to tear a man apart if it was even rumored that he carried a handful of shillings in his pocket.

The thought spurred him into action. Stubbing out his cigar, he drained his glass and prepared to leave. But two gentlemen with whom he had shared dinner stopped him before he could call for his evening cloak.

Sir Lionel Aske and Lord Stephen Green stood before him, their pale, narrow faces alight with interest.

"Not leaving, surely, Ashton," Sir Lionel asked. "The fun is just about to begin." He leaned closer. "Don't spread it about, but Phineas Dodd is here tonight.''

"Phineas Dodd?" Flint's gaze shifted from one to the other of them.

Lord Green waved his cigar. "A thoroughly disreputable fellow. A real Whitechapel Bird if you ask me. But he knows a good piece of flesh when he sees it."

"Horse flesh?"

The other man chuckled. "No," Sir Lionel corrected. "Female. He runs a school, you see. Well, that's what he calls itI'd call it something else. At any rate, he frequently brings one or two of his little charges to one of the private dining rooms hired for the occasion and auctions them off. Just for a few hours, mind you, although you can have them for as long as you want providing you're willing to pay the price."

Despite the scent of fine food and good tobacco, Flint smelled afresh the stench of Whitechapel. He looked up as Lord Stephen tapped his arm.

"You're not attending, Ashton. I asked if you'd care to come to the auction. It's private, naturally, but we'll be glad to vouch for you."

Flint wondered if this Phineas Dodd might have come into contact with Catrina or knew someone who had. Though he had no taste for such goings on, he nodded, accepting Lord Stephen's offer, and followed them up the stairs.

The dining room to which they were admitted was already crowded with many of the same men Flint had met earlier in the evening. All were wealthy and highly placed in society, many bore titles that rang through the pages of British history. And here they were, crowded into a small, smoke-fogged room, waiting to bid on young girls who had had the misfortune to fall into the clutches of Phineas Dodd.

Flint, Sir Lionel, and Lord Stephen took seats in the back row. The air was hazy and thick but lamps had been placed around a long, heavy table that was the focal point for the evening's transactions. The murmurs and laughter died away as Phineas Dodd entered the room and stood before them.

"Milords, gentlemen," he called out, drawing all attention to himself. "I'm honored to see you all here tonight."

"Get on with it, Dodd!" ajowly marquess called from the third row.

Phineas smiled nervously. "Just as you like, milord. We've three young ladies tonight. None of 'em will disappoint the most discriminatin' tastes."

"I hope they're a damned sight more tractable than that young trull you sold Bostwyck last night!" a hawk-nosed viscount shouted.

"Spirited, she was, milord," Phineas admitted.

"Spirited my ass! The little doxy didn't know her place!"

Sensing impending danger, Phineas motioned for Fanny to join him in the lamplight.

While Catrina watched, hidden from view by the heavy red velvet portieres that hung in the archway separating the dining room from the retiring room next door, Fanny took Phineas' hand and climbed onto a chair and onto the table. With Phineas keeping up a constant, lewd banter, the girl turned to and fro, posing and posturing, a coy smile painted across her dimpled face. Bidding began slowly as though the men couldn't decide whether to take this girl or wait for what was to come, but eventually a pocked lecher named Partridge won Fanny with a bid of ten guineas. Peg followed and it went much the same although her price was fifteen guineas, presumably because she looked younger and fresher and presented a more demure countenance to the jaded men who discussed her loudly and intimately among themselves.

It was Catrina's turn. Her first instinct was to run, hobbles or not. As if reading her mind, Lizzie took her arm in a crushing grasp and held her until Phineas came to them.

"Come on, my girl," he snarled. "And none of your tricks. If you try anything foolish, I'll sell you to Lord Hilntern no matter the bid. That old faggoteer's so far gone with the clap you'd not be fit to touch once he's had at ya."

Catrina's stomach tightened with revulsion. "Please, no!"

"All right, then, come along."

Her wrist firmly in his grasp, Phineas led Catrina out into the light. Climbing onto the table, he lifted her up, sparing her the task of climbing with her ankles bound so tightly. At her appearance, all conversation in the room died away. Then a low murmuring began and built until the din seemed to pound at her from all directions.

In the back of the room, Flint prepared to leave. The proceedings repulsed him. He decided to go into the corridor to await his opportunity to speak with the loathsome Phineas Dodd. It was only the sudden, drastic reaction of the men in the room coupled with the stunned exclamations of his two companions that made him him glance toward the third and last of the girls brought to be sold.

The lights in her eyes, Catrina could not see the men whose discussions filled the room with noise. She knew from what Peg and Fanny had said as well as the things she'd heard while still at home that Gatley's was frequented by many of the most important men in London. She was suddenly thankful the betrothal had precluded her presentation into society. For them to recognize her as Lord Lynleigh's heiress would have been bad enough but for Phineas Dodd to be suddenly apprised of her true identity would have been disastrous.

She felt their eyes boring into her, their lascivious stares raking over her, and felt sullied and used. She was glad she could not see them but the thought that one of them was going to pay money to take her home nauseated her. Whatever happened, she silently vowed, none of those foul creatures would force her to their will.

Poised half way between sitting and standing, Flint stared at the honey-haired girl in the black cotton dress. He had no need to look at the locket. It was Catrina Carlysle. The young woman for whom he'd searched for the past fourteen hellish daysthe young woman he was to marry. A shout rose in his throat, a cry of outrage, and he wanted nothing more than to push his way to that lamplit table and shield her from those dozens of of probing leers. But to do so would have proved calamitous. It was obvious that Dodd didn't know what he had in herhe would not have dared to exhibit the Earl of Lynleigh's daughter so callously. It was equally obvious that none of the men in the room recognized her. Girls deemed too young for society were sheltered, hidden away in their virginal bedchambers with their governesses when company came. It was likely that most of them knew Lynleigh and were well aware that he had a daughteran heiress of her calibre was bound to be discussedbut as she'd been too young to enter society during previous seasons and was now betrothed, none of the men here would have known her on the street. Or indeed, Flint thought with a grimace, on a table about to be auctioned off like a common harlot. The question was how to get her away from Gatley's and still cause the least amount of fuss. The answer was obvious.

"Here 'tis, milords," PHineas crowed. "Isn't she a lovely bit of fluff, now? First-timer as well and not only on the block if you take my meaning."

Despite her determination to ignore the horror unfolding about her, the murmurs this last comment evoked brought a crimson flush rising into Catrina's cheeks.

"In view of these facts, milords, what say we start the bidding at . . . twenty guineas?"

In spite of herself, Catrina gaped at him. Twenty guineas! When any harlot in London would accommodate a man for a few shillings! Dodd's greed was clouding his reason. Surely no man in his right mind would pay . . .

"Twenty guineas!" a voice called from the shadows. "I have twenty guineas. Thankee, milord. Surely, milords, you're not going to let Lord Hilntern make off with the prize for a mere twenty guineas? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty five!" came a shout from the opposite side of the room.

"Thirty!"

"Thirty-five!"

Catrina was trembling openly. They were like animals, ravenous beasts, bidding for the right to violate her. And all because she had trusted Phineas and Lizzie Dodd and their deceitful offers of friendship.

"Come along, milords," Phineas was calling. "Do I hear forty? Who'll give me forty? Look at her, milords; that's blooded stock if ever I saw it. Confess, now, sirs, which of you has a by-blow you're not owning, then, eh?"

"Forty!"

Forty-five!"

Nearly delirious with glee, Phineas clamped a hand Catrina's chin to lift her face more fully into the light. "Fifty! Who'll give me fifty!"

Her fury at its apex, Catrina slapped his hand away with a sharp swipe and her voice rang out over the constant hum of discussion. "Take your filthy hand off me, you repulsive swine!"

The room was filled with a deadly silence for Catrina's voice carried none of the harsher tones of the London slums from whence the prostitutes who plied the capital generally came. Her words and inflections were pure Mayfair. Whoever the girl was, whatever her background or circumstances, she had breeding as well as beauty, a combination one did not often find for sale even at Gatley's.

A chorus of voices rang out in unison. "Fifty guineas!"

Catrina stared at them in horror. She'd assumed that her show of temper would be off-putting but it seemed to have fired their desires anew. She was truly lost.

Dropping her head dejectedly, she fiercely willed the hot tears scalding her eyes not to fall. It was bad enough that they had seen her rage and her mortification; they would not see her fear.

An argument broke out half way back on the left side of the room over whose bid of fifty guineas would be accepted. Catrina refused to listenit had ceased to matter. One of those finely tailored savages would be as bad as any other. She could expect no mercy from any of them.

Then, suddenly, all bickering was stilled as a new voice rent the air. "One hundred guineas!"

Catrina gasped and even Phineas Dodd seemed stunned into silence. Heads turned and the air was once more filled with awed murmurs of surprise.

"Well?" the deep voice called from the darkness. "Will anyone best my offer?"

The room quieted. The girl was extraordinary, not one man in the room would refute that. But one hundred guineas! It was unheard of.

"One hundred guineas once," Phineas called, his voice tremulous with excitement. "One hundred guineas twice. Gone! For one hundred guineas. If milord will step into the retiring room."

As the room began to empty, Phineas lifted Catrina off the table and led her to the retiring room to await her buyer. As the footsteps approached, Catrina kept her eyes averted. Until it was inevitable, she did not want to see the man who had purchased her.

Lizzie Dodd, however, didn't hesitate to look. "Cor, duckie," she breathed to Catrina. "You coulda done a damned sight worse!"

Unable to bear the suspense, Catrina looked up. Her eyes met a pair that were gold-flecked green and shone with compassion. They were set in a sun-bronzed face with fine, clean lines that bespoke strength, pride, and breeding. Had they met somewhere else under other circumstances, she would without a doubt have thought him the handsomest man she'd ever seen.

She swallowed hard and despite her efforts her lower lip trembled. The man, his eyes still gazing down into hers lifted a hand and brushed his fingers gently across her pale cheek.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly, as though neither Lizzie nor Phineas were there, watching. "I won't hurt you."

Catrina unaccountably began to tremble beneath his touch and she moved away. But too quickly. The knots about her ankles tightened and she stumbled. Almost before she knew she was falling, Flint's arm was bout her, righting her. He held her close and she leaned gratefully against him, feeling the strength of his long, muscular body flowing into her.

She didn't murmur a protest when he lifted her skirt and saw the cord tied about her ankles.

"What the hell is the meaning of this?" he snarled.

Phineas and Lizzie cringed in the face of his outrage. "We didn't want her running away, milord," Phineas stuttered.

"And so you bind her like an animal? My God, what scum you are!"

Phineas bit off a sharp retort as Flint bent to sever the cord with a small knife he carried on his sojourns into the slums of London. The man owed him one hundred guineas and Phineas was not about to endanger that gold by defending his already tattered reputation.

"I'm taking her with me," Flint told him. "Follow me in your own carriage and I'll give you your money when we reach our destination."

Content with that, Phineas and Lizzie followed them outside where a light, ice cold rain had begun to fall. Hailing a hansom cab, Flint helped Catrina inside and gave the driver his instructions. Climbing in, he sat beside her as they started off.

Catrina sat silently beside him wondering if she could win his sympathy if she told him the truth. She decided against it. Any man who would frequent such a sordid proceeding as the auction at Gatley's was not likely to to release a woman he'd bought and would soon pay for. She glanced toward the door on her side of the vehicle. Perhaps when they slowed to round a corner . . .

As if reading her mind, a large, hard hand closed about her wrist. She glanced up and found those unnerving, gold-flecked eyes boring into hers.

''Don't," he said simply.

The rest of the ride seemed interminable. With the leather curtains lowered at the windows, she couldn't even tell where they were going. Even if she managed to escape, she was very likely to be hopelessly lost.

The coach slowed and then stopped. The rain was falling harder now and with it came a thick, enveloping mist that swirled like a living thing reaching tendrils about pillars and posts and weaving its way even through the spokes in the carriage wheels.

Flint pulled off his evening cloak and wrapped it about Catrina nearly covering her head. "If you don't want to be soaked," he told her, "don't try to see where we're going. Let me carry you."

Resigned to at least reaching their final destination, Catrina nodded. Lifted from the carriage, she was cradled in his arms and carried up an incline, across a rain-swept plank floor, and down a flight of stairs to emerge in a narrow, lamplit corridor. Setting her on her feet, Flint kept one of her wrists imprisoned in his iron grasp. Then, taking a key from his pocket, he opened a door and led her into a warm, Turkey-carpeted, paneled room that contained a desk, armoire, washstand, small iron stove, and bunk that was fitted into a curtained alcove. A splendid Coromandel screen across one corner of the room hid the commode.

Leaving Catrina to survey her surroundings, he disappeared into an adjoining cabin for a moment and returned with a clinking drawstring bag.

"Here," he said roughly, tossing the heavy bag to Phineas. "Take it and get out."

"That I will, sir," Dodd agreed, weighing the bag in his hand. "But I was wondering. When will you be sending the girl back to us?" With the hundred guineas in his hand, he was already calculating the amount of ''Charlotte's" next sale.

"For a hundred guineas, Dodd," Flint snarled, "I'll keep her as long as I please."

No ordinary fool, Dodd had a highly developed sense of survival and his instincts at that moment told him clearly that the tall, dark man would like nothing better than to wring his scrawny neck.

"Just as you say, sir," he agreed nervously. With a respectful tug of his forelock, he disappeared, anxious to get his evening's haul home.

As Phineas retreated, Flint locked the door and turned to Catrina who stood in the center of the room. His eyes slid over her, narrowing as they skimmed the threadbare black cotton gown and the cheap leather slippers. Crossing to a sea chest at the foot of the bed, he pulled out a wooden box and handed it to her.

"Put this on," he directed firmly. "There's a screen over there if you're modest."

"Sir," Catrina began. "You seem an honorable man . . ."

"Do I?" He seemed amused. "I just bought you on the open market. Is that the action of an honorable man?"

"Please, sir . . ."

"Put it on!"

There was in the glint in his eyes and the set of his jaw a ruthlessness that told Catrina she could not expect to change his mind once it was made up. Taking the box behind the screen she opened it. Inside lay a nightgown of white silk and a negligee of white organdy liberally frothed with lace.

She hesitated. Surely he couldn't actually want her to . . .

"Do you need help?" he asked from across the room.

"No!" Catrina assured him quickly, her fumbling fingers already working at the buttons.

Slipping out of her gown, slippers, stockings, and underthings, she pulled on the nightdress and negligee and found that they fit as though they had been fashioned expressly for her.

It was a luxurious garment and she could not help but be reminded of the trunks of beautiful things that had been ordered for her trousseau. She had fled from the man her parents wanted her to marry only to be sold like a slave to a man who would take her without even the bonds of matrimony to make it honorable.

There was no escape. She had resigned herself to that. There were windows at one end of the room but they were small paned and apparently did not open. There were two doors but both were at the opposite end of the room and she would have to get past her gaoler before trying them.

With a sigh she loosed the ribbon that held her curls and let the rich honey waves cascade over her shoulders. At least he was handsome and seemed capable of gentleness. Lizzie had been right in that much at least. She could have done a damned sight worse. Taking a deep, calming breath, she stepped from behind the screen.

Flint was seated on the edge of the bed. He drew a harsh breath as he caught sight of her. God, but she was beautiful! Womanly and yet demure, innocent and yet with an air of knowing that the past two weeks had instilled in her.

"Tell me," he said softly. "Was Dodd telling the truth? Was tonight your first time on the block?"

Catrina's mind raced. Perhaps that was the answer! Perhaps he had been willing to pay such a price for her because he desired not only a woman, but a virgin! If he were to think himself cheated, he might return her to the Dodds thus granting her one more night's grace in which to plan her escape.

She forced a gay little laugh. "Lord, no! You didn't truly believe that, did you? That's only Phinny's lying. I've had men, all right. Dozens of 'em!"

Rising, Flint approached her. "Really? Dozens?"

Hundreds, maybe!" Catrina boasted, letting her bravado get the better of her. "Who can keep count?"

His sable eyebrows arched. "Well, then, that's just as well. I was afraid we'd have to go slowly. Now I can see that won't be necessary."

He took her by the wrist and felt her pulse beneath his fingertips. Her heart was racing, almost fluttering, belying her words. With a low chuckle, he slid his arms about her and pulled her hard against him. Catrina looked up, her topaz eyes alight with sudden fear. But Flint pretended to see none of it. Instead he bent his head and took her mouth in a hot, bruising kiss that seemed to draw all the breath from her lungs and all the strength from her body. The world whirled lazily about her, the colors melding. she felt his hand slip beneath her organdy negligee and move upward to close with unaccountable tenderness over the small, firm breast that was crushed to his chest. His thumb brushed lightly over her nipple as his tongue forced its way between her tightly compressed lips. The colors faded then and Catrina slumped against him.

Flint caught her as she began sliding to the floor. Hundreds of men indeed, he chuckled to himself. One kiss, a caress, and she falls into a maidenly swoon. Still, it had had to be done. He had to know if Dodd, or any man, had defiled her.

Laying her on the bed, he removed her negligee and draped it over the sea chest. After tucking the quilt around her, he went to his adjoining cabin and wrote a short letter to Lord Lynleigh telling him that Catrina was found, was safe, and was on her way to Natchez. To Perdita Jackson he wrote a less formal missive full of reassurances. This last he signed with his own name Ashton St. James.

With a last check on Catrina, he left, locking both the door leading to his cabin and the corridor door securely behind him. Even if she woke up in his absence, she could not escape. Climbing the stairs to the deck of the Golden Rose, he gave a sovereign to a young boy at dockside instructing him to take the letters to Lynleigh House. As the boy disappeared into the night, Flint went to his first mate who stood silently in the shadows.

"Well, cap'n?" the huge, red-haired man asked.

Smiling, Flint clapped his shoulder. "Weigh anchor, Mr. Merriman. We're going home!"

Chapter 4

It was nearly dawn when Catrina's dream commenced. She was back at Gatley's standing on the table in that smoke-choked room, bathed in the lamplight while hundreds of eyes examined her lasciviously. Phineas Dodd was beside her and he smiled, motioning forward the loathsome figure of Lord Hilntern whose bloated, pasty face was pocked with the pustules of his hideous disease.

Catrina moaned, writhing away from the demons that haunted her sleep. She saw the lecherous lord reaching toward her and cried out once, then twice, waking herself and bringing on the choking sobs she'd suppressed the night before.

On the opposite side of the room a key turned in a lock and a door swung open. Flint, having been awakened by her cries, strode toward her, his gold-braided black velvet robe swirling fluidly about his long legs.

Catrina gasped as his hands touched her, but his voice was low and comforting and his arms held her protectively, drawing her against him, cradling her cheek on the soft velvet that covered his warm shoulder.

"'Trina, 'Trina, shhh," he murmured into the silken tumble of her hair.

She clung to him instinctively, seeking the security his embrace freely offered. "Don't let them take me," she begged. "Don't let them hurt me." In her distraction she never noticed that he'd called her by nameher fear overrode any such mundane realizations.

"No one will take you," he promised. "No one will hurt you. Go back to sleep, my sweet."

Still bemused, Catrina relaxed against him. The warmth of his body and the soft thudding of his heart beneath her cheek lulled her back to sleep. Though she murmured a protest when he laid her back on the pillows, her lashes lay serenely like silky feather fans on her pale cheeks and she slept once again.

Flint drew the coverlet over her and stood back watching her, making sure that she slept soundly and dreamlessly. She had been like a child in his arms but there was nothing childlike about the emotions she aroused in him. In the dark silence of the cabin he chuckled wryly. She could not know who he was until they reached New Orleans and that meant he must remain merely Captain Ashton to her. He did not dare touch her. He was, after all, supposed to be only an employee of her finance. It was essential that she continue to believe that he was Flint Ashton. He would have to bide his time until they reached New Orleans when he would be free to tell her the truth and claim her as his wife. Then they could be married and she would be his in every way.

The thought brought all the turbulent desires of a few minutes before flooding back to him. He returned to his cabin shaking his head.

He lit a lamp and dressed knowing full well that further attempts at sleep would prove useless. Pouring himself a brandy, he sat down at his desk and opened his ledgers. But even the columns of figures, usually so absorbing to him, swam senselessly before his eyes.

Leaning back in his chair, he bolted down the brandy and massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers.

"It's going to be a long voyage," he murmured, and his eyes went automatically to the door that connected his cabin with Catrina's.

The morning sunshine already glowed behind the heavy draperies at the windows when Catrina awoke. Sitting she yawned and rubbed her eyes. Hazy images assailed herimages of strong arms encircling her, of the caress of velvet beneath her cheek and of a deep voice murmuring words of comfort in the darkness.

"Such dreams," she whispered. "Sweet heaven, such dreams!"

Opening her eyes, she saw first the sparkling whiteness of her negligee as it lay draped over the sea chest at the foot of the bed. In a terrifying rush the horror of the night before came back to her in all of its ugliness. She remembered being brought here by the big, dark-haired man who had bought her; she remembered his kiss, hard and probing, and his hand as it slid up over her ribs to caress her breast. Suddenly the dreamsof arms holding her against a warm body took on a new, shocking meaning.

Throwing back the quilt, she scrambled out of bed. The room was deserted save for herself and she wondered if the man had abandoned her, leaving her to find her own way back to Phineas and Lizzie Dodd. If that were the case, she was free! If she could find her way back to Piccadilly, her family would take her in. A slow blush crept into her cheeks. Surely Mr. St. James would not want her now. Not after

Determined to flee, she went to the screen to don her shabby dress. It was gone. There was nothing left of the garments she'd worn the night before. They'd disappeared leaving her with nothing to wear except for the gossamer-light gown and negligee her captor had given her.

A light tapping on the door sent her hurtling across the cabin to retrieve her negligee. It was diaphanous and frothed with delicate lace and offered her scant protection from prying eyes. Still it covered more of her than the low, revealingly cut gown. "Who is it?" she called, her voice quavering.

There was the sound of a key in the lock and the door swung open. A young cabin boy of fourteen, his soft, girlish cheeks as yet showing not the slightest trace of whiskers, entered with a tray balanced precariously on his arm.

"Yer breakfast, milady," he croaked, his voice cracking. He did not dare look at her. All his attention was focused on the tray.

"Put it on the table," Catrina directed tersely.

Grateful to be rid of his troublesome burden, the boy did as he was told. Only then did he cast a shy glance at "Mr. St. James's high-born lady" as she was called among the crew. No one had seen her as yet but the boy had heard the seamen talking about her. Having been born and raised on the banks of the Mississippi, he had never seen a titled lady before and he'd been consumed with curiosity.

What he saw when he ventured a glance her way was not the grand, haughty woman he'd expected, but a girl not many years older than himself with honey-colored curls falling in wild disarray over her shoulders. Her body, though swathed in yards of organdy, silk, and lace, was obviously uncorsetted beneath the exquisite garments. Eyes wide, he stared at her, awed by her beauty and uncomfortably aware of the sensual stirrings that had plagued him of late when the older crewmen discussed the women they'd had.

Catrina blushed under his scrutiny. These Yankees were really too rude! She drew her negligee closer and lifted her chin, about to deliver a stinging rebuke. But her words were stayed when the cabin boy stumbled, having been clouted on the head from behind.

He spun about and found himself face to face with Flint who towered over him. His face was set in a stern frown that terrified the younger man.

''You don't gape at a lady, boy," Flint growled. "Get about your duties."

Rubbing his head, the boy backed out of the cabin. "Aye, cap'n," he mumbled. Nevertheless, he stole one more glance at Catrina before disappearing into the corridor.

Flint closed the door and turned to Catrina who stood with her back to him. "You've made a conquest," he told her. "Even now the boy is likely telling anyone who'll listen what a beauty you are."

"Where are my clothes?" Catrina demanded, her back still toward him. Having been until recently sheltered from the attentions of men, she found their lustful gazes both disconcerting and discomforting.

"If you mean those rags Dodd gave you, I disposed of them last night."

Catrina whirled toward him. "How dare you? They were mine! You had no right!" His face remained impassive and she trembled with anger. "Does your cruelty know no bounds? First you callously rob me of my innocence and then"

Flint's laugh silenced her. "Your innocence, my sweet, is as intact at this moment as it was when you arrived here last night. And it was intact, despite your rather pitiful attempt to convince me otherwise." Catrina blushed furiously but he went on. "Believe me, Lady Catrina, I do not flatter myself when I say that had I taken you last night, you would surely be aware of it this morning."

"Oh!" The crimson flush spreading over her face, Catrina turned away from him. "You, sir, are the most thoroughly detestable" She stopped, her eyes widening as she realized that he had called her by her real name. Suddenly she remembered the voice in the night comforting her. "'Trina, 'Trina, shhh," it had said. His voice!

She looked back at him over her shoulder and he nodded, understanding the astonished expression on her face.

"Yes, I know who you are, Lady Catrina Carlysle. I knew last night. I knew the moment I saw you on that table at Gatley's."

"But . . . but how?"

Taking the golden locket from his pocket, he opened it and showed her her own portrait there. "I've been looking for you for more than a fortnight. You were foolish to run away, you know. Had I recognized you outside you father's home that night, I would never have allowed you to escape."

The flush faded from Catrina's cheeks leaving her as pale as the snowy organdy of her negligee. "It was you! When I fell! You must be . . . you can't be . . ." He swept her a mocking bow. "Flint Ashton, milady. At your service."

"Mr. St. James' agent."

"The same. Captain of the Golden Rose."

Catrina shook her head slowly. "It can't be . . ." Her eyes narrowed. "If you think you're going to take me to America, Captain Ashton, you'd best think again. I won't go! I'll run away again first!"

Flint laughed. "You'd be hard put to run away this time, milady. Unless, of course, you're a swimmer of prodigious talents."

"Swimmer? What do you . . ."

Suddenly it all made sense. The rain-swept plank floor they'd crossed the night before, the descent to the narrow corridor, the rocking she'd put down to her own unsteadyness. She ran to the windows and jerked the heavy draperies aside. The morning sunshine glinted on the calm, endless ocean. Nowhere was there the slightest trace of land.

She gripped the windowsill until her knuckles were strained and bloodless but even that could not stop the trembling that seized her. Her father had won. Despite all her efforts he had won and she was being delivered to the man who held her fate in his cold, mercenary hands.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, she turned toward Flint. "Take me back," she asked simply.

He shook his head. "It's impossible."

"Please. Last night at Gatley's, you felt compassion for my plight; I saw it in your eyes. Take pity on me now. Can't you see I'm only a pawn, helpless and alone? My father is using me to keep his wealth. He is selling me to this St. James man to stave off poverty. I'm no more than a chattel to be bought and sold."

The tears glistening in her topaz eyes affected Flint more than he dared admit. He longed to take her into his arms as he had in the night and tell her that he was Ashton St. James and that he would care for her and cherish her as her father had not done. But he could not.

He only shrugged. "What are any of us, Lady Catrina, if not chattel? The poor work to earn their bread and the rich marry for it. If your father had not affianced you to Mr. St. James, he would have arranged a marriage with some other manperhaps one of the young bloods at Gatley's or even one of the old bloods."

Catrina frowned, stung by his lack of sympathy. "You don't understand. It's not the same for a woman to be sold on the marriage market as it is for a man like yourself to earn your living. You don't have to . . . to . . ."

"To bed with my master?" Flint finished for her. "It's true, I don't. But I should think that a man would be more inclined to kindness to a woman he desires. And I know your fiance' well enough to say that he could not help but desire you from the moment he saw you."

Though completely innocent of physical matters between men and women, Catrina recognized the light in his emerald eyes. He wanted her. The realization both frightened and intrigued her. She moved toward him slowly trying to suppress the blush that suffused her cheeks when his eyes moved heatedly over her.

Reaching him, she stretched out a timid hand and let it rest on the sun-burnished flesh that showed where his cream colored cotton shirt was opened in the front. It looked pale and fragile there and Catrina was disconcertingly aware of the warmth of his skin and the silkiness of the black curls that furred his chest and how they twined themselves about her slender fingers as though with a life of their own. Her blush deepened and her pulse quickened and she drew a deep, calming breath before she spoke.

"Captain Ashton. Take me back to England, I beg you." She forced her eyes to remain focused on the gold-flecked green ones that watched her so closely. "I'll give you anything you ask."

"What have you to give?" he demanded. "Your father's wealth belongs to your fiancé. Have you money with you? Jewels?"

"I have only myself," she murmured.

He cocked one dark, winged brow. "Your virginity?"

The hot blood flooded her cheeks as she nodded, lowering her eyes. "Yes," she whispered at last, "my virginity. It is all I have to give."

She felt his hand at the small of her back and with the other he lifted her chin. "You would give yourself to me?" he asked. "As payment for your passage back to England?"

She leaned closer, letting her body rest against his. "Yes," she breathed. The desire he'd felt for her earlier came back with a vengeance and Flint knew that he had to break the seductive spell she was weaving or risk his own undoing.

He forced himself to laugh disdainfully. "Perhaps Phineas Dodd was right after all," he sneered. "I do believe that with a little practice you'd have made an excellent whore."

Catrina gasped, recoiling from him as if he'd struck her. Lashing out, she caught him across the face and her sharp little nails dug four furrows in the tanned flesh of his lean cheek.

Flint winced, one hand going automatically to his cheek. Pinpricks of blood dotted the angry welts but he ignored them as he advanced toward Catrina, a murderous light gleaming in his green eyes.

"Stay away from me, you despicable Yankee!" Catrina hissed, backing away as he approached. "If you touch me I'll see you punished! I'll tell Mr. St. James!"

"And what will you offer him to hang me, you spoiled little hellcat!"

For each forward step of his she took two backward. But the cabin was not overly large and a small cry escaped her as she felt the unyielding wall behind her back. Frantically she held out one hand to ward him off.

Flint laughed and brushed it away. "You're going to learn, Lady Cat, that I intend to tolerate none of your brat's ways."

"What are you going to do?" she demanded fearfully. She knew full well that his far superior strength left her completely at his mercy.

"If you insist upon acting the part of a pampered bratling, I'll deal with you as one!"

Catrina screamed as his arms closed about her waist and he lifted her off her feet. Despite her struggles he carried her across the cabin to the bed. Never having been physically disciplined, Catrina didn't know what to expect as he laid her flat across his knees. But when she felt the first painful crack of his hand on her buttocks, she shrieked with rage and humiliation. Again and again his hand descended, bruising the tender flesh that was protected only by the two layers of silk and organdy that comprised her gown and negligee.

When at last he released her, Catrina scrambled gracelessy to her feet and retreated to the far side of the cabin. Huddled against the wall, she eyed Flint reproachfully as one hand crept behind her to gingerly touch her injured backside and the other went childishly to her nose as she sniffled loudly.

A maddening smile on his handsome, marred face, Flint rose. "Don't try me again, Lady Cat," he warned. "At least not until that pretty little bottom heals a bit."

"I hate you!" she snarled. "You're vile!"

"Why, Lady Cat! And to think that only a few minutes ago you were offering me your virtue."

"Ohhh!" With a cry of outrage, Catrina flew across the room. Flint had turned to leave, his mocking laughter filling the cabin. Seizing one of the bed pillows, Catrina flung it after him with all her might. But her aim was bad and it merely glanced off the wall.

Opening the door, Flint turned back to her. He looked at the pillow lying on the floor and then at her as she stood seething in the center of the room.

"Temper tantrums, milady, are exceedingly childish."

With another mocking smile, he closed the door and Catrina heard the clicking of the key in the lock. Crossing the room she seized the latch and tugged at it furiously but the lock held. She was a prisoner and Flint Ashton, that infuriating man, was her gaoler. She pounded her small fists on the door but only bruised them. There was no escape. She was to be delivered to Mr. St. James in Natchez and until then she was completely at Flint Ashton's mercyif, in fact, he had any, which, as her bruised and aching backside could attest to, was seriously in doubt.

Snatching the pillow off the floor she retreated to the bed and jerked the curtains closed around it. Her fury turned to frustration and her indignation to humilation. The sobs she'd stifled earlier forced their way out of her and she dissolved into bitter, scalding tears that wet her pillow.

More than an hour passed before her heart-rending weeping ceased to echo down the narrow corridor outside her cabin. Flint paused at the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he let himself into her cabin. Catrina slept curled on her side. Her face, still wet from her tears, rested on a pillow that was darkened with the stains of her grief.

Standing over her, Flint felt a pang of conscience for the harshness of his punishment. He wondered if he might have injured her but knew that in her present state of mind it would take three of his strongest men to hold her down if he tried to examine her. Better to wait, he decided, and see if she seemed all right when she awoke. She seemed so delicate lying there, so defenseless, so innocent . . .

"Damnation!" he muttered to himself." I seem to spend half my time gaping at her like a lovesick stripling!"

Forcing himself to turn away from her, he went into his adjoining cabin and brought back a few of the trunks that contained Catrina's trousseau. Once she had settled down, he would offer to take her up on deck for some air and she could hardly go dressed in the filmy white ensemble she now wore. And there was more. He was anxious to have her spend her days properly gowned. It was he she would most often come into contact with on the voyage to New Orleans. He knew he couldn't bear seeing her day after day in such tempting dishabille.

Leaving the chests near the table where her untouched breakfast lay having long since grown cold, he left the cabin hoping she had the sense to dress herself when she awoke.

Chapter 5

The sun was balanced on the far western horizon when Catrina awoke. For a moment she was disoriented. In the span of a single day, she had experienced more than in the previous eighteen years of her life. Had it only been yesterday that she was living in blissful ignorance at the Dodds' School? Was it only last night that she had been taken from the horrors of Gatley's auction room by Flint Ashton? It seemed impossible and yet it was true.

Rolling over in the narrow bunk, she sat up but the pain of her bruised flesh brought a little cry to her lips which was closely followed by a distinctly unladylike oath she had learned from Dulcie at the Dodds'.

"That miserable wretch," she muttered, remembering her pain and humiliation at Flint's hands. "That greeneyed devil! I hope the bruises last until we reach New Orleans. We'll see how Mr. St. James feels about his captain's treatment of me!''

But the thought of taking down her pantalettes before a complete stranger and displaying her bruises for his inspection gave her second thoughts about bringing Flint's actions to her fiancé's attention.

Scowling, she crossed the room to the washstand. "He knows I wouldn't dare accuse him of brutality," she groused. "He'd point smugly to the scratches on his face and say I was a hellion. Then he'd tell Mr St. James that I offered myself to him as a bribe." She grimaced at her own reflection. "Oh, yes, he'd be just wicked enough to tell everyone about that!"

Adjusting the mirror in its swinging frame, she turned her back and lifted the skirt of her gown to try and see the damages inflicted by Flint's spanking. The creamy curves of her backside were marred by ugly purple marks that looked every bit as bad as they felt. But even the pain of her injuries did not begin to equal Catrina's fury at having been turned over Flint's knee like an errant child.

A soft rapping at the door ended Catrina's perusal and she dropped her skirts, her cheeks flaming as if she'd been caught in some shameful act.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Tom, milady," a voice replied. Its mid-syllable cracking identified him as the cabin boy who'd brought her breakfast. "The cap'n sent me with water for your washin.'"

"A moment, if you please."

Returning to the bed, she crawled in and drew the curtains closed. Though she knew she had nothing to fear from the awe-struck cabin boy, she preferred not to be ogled as she had been that morning.

"Very well, come in."

The key turned in the lock and there was the sound of footsteps crossing the floor. From her place of concealment Catrina heard water being poured into the basin and the sound of an oaken bucket being set on the wooden floor.

"There's not much of it, milady," the boy said apologetically. "Fresh water ain't easily come by on a ship but the cap'n says a lady like yourself can't use sea water on her delicate skin."

"I shall thank the captain when next we meet," she assured him, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I'll take your tray out. Good night, milady."

"Good night," Catrina replied. She waited for the footsteps to recede and the sound of the door being closed and locked before leaving the shelter of the curtained bed.

"So the captain is concerned about my delicate skin, is he? That didn't stop him from nearly breaking my"

With a disgusted 'humph' she let the sentence go unfinished. Lighting the lamps that flanked the washstand mirror, she pulled the screen around it lest Captain Ashton decide to make one of his unannounced entrances and find her unclothed. Thick towels had been left nearby and a small ball of scented French soap lay in a porcelain dish near the basin of steaming water. The Captain, it seemed, had thought of everything.

Catrina pulled off her gown and stood in the cool shadows of the dusk-shrouded room washing away the past day's grime. She hadn't smelled anythng so heavenly as the French soap since leaving Lynleigh House and she knew she would have to swallow her pride and thank Flint for it when she saw him again.

"If only he weren't so wicked," she told herself as she lifted the heavy curls and washed her long, slender neck. Another thought, unbidden and unwelcome, followed: "If only he weren't so handsome."

She frowned as she rinsed away the perfumed later. It troubled her that she was so aware of the captain as a man. She disliked the slightly breathless feeling she had when he stood too near for propriety and she was disconcerted by the quivering that started deep within her when he let those maddening green eyes of his sweep over her so insolently.

Resolutely she pushed the thoughts out of her head and, her mouth set as primly as a maiden aunt's, repeated one of Perdita Jackson's favorite maxims;

"Handsome is as handsome does."

Thus fortified against the disturbing thoughts that assailed her concerning Flint Ashton, Catrina finished her ablutions. She reached for the gown that she'd worn since the previous night but before she could pull it over her head, she noticed the trunks sitting against the wall.

She didn't have to see the golden initials her father had had put on them before her trousseau was packed inside to know what they were. Casting the gown aside, she went to them and turned the little keys in their shining locks. One after another she threw back the lids and stood surveying the luscious array of silks and satins and velvets in their glowing colors. In a separate compartment of one of the trunks her silver combs and brushes awaited her.

But instead of being pleased, Catrina jammed her fists into her bare hips and glowered.

"Damn him!" she muttered crossly." Just when I've convinced myself that he's the most contemptible man alive, he deliberately does something nice!"

Reaching into one of the trunks, she pulled out a beribboned corset of ivory satin that had been far and away the most beautiful of any her father had bought for her. There followed a diaphanous chemise, lace-frothed petticoats and a gown of sea green watered silk with stockings and slippers to match.

Roughly, begrudgingly, she pulled on the garments. The gown was worn off the shoulder and the wide bertha collar echoed the deep flounces of the skirt. Taking up her brush, Catrina wound her hair into a single, fat gleaming curl that hung over one bare shoulder. She had just laid her brush aside when there was a tap on the door followed immediately by the sound of the key turning in the lock. Catrina knew it must be Flint; only he would be so bold as to enter without waiting for her leave. Her heart fluttered ignoring the stern commands of her head. But when the door opened and Flint entered the room, she eyed him coldly.

Flint paused in the doorway. Having seen her in the lace-trimmed nothingness of the gown and negligée with her beautiful hair spilling down her back, he had not thought she could possibly look more lovely. But now, dressed as befitted her breeding, her arrogant little chin lifted, she was everything he could have wished for in a woman.

"You're exquisite," he told her simply, his voice filled with admiration.

Catrina's icy reserve cracked for a moment but she turned a haughty nose to him. "I hate you, Flint Ashton."

She wanted to see chagrin fill his gleaming emerald eyes; she wished beyond all else to see that her barb stung him to the quick. But her hopes were dashed when, instead of crumbling beneath her disdain, he threw back his splendid head and his deep, rumbling laughter filled the room.

"Tom!" he bellowed, and the gawky cabin boy skittered into view behind him. "Remove the lady's wash water, boy, and keep your goggling eyes to yourself."

"Aye, cap'n." The boy stumbled across the room, his pale eyes darting from the washstand and bucket to Catrina who stood completely still in the dim glow of the washstand lamps that were the cabin's only illumination.

"Hurry up, boy," Flint muttered, his eyes never leaving Catrina. "Take that water out and bring the lady her supper. And light another lamp."

Miraculously managing to spill very little of the soapy water, Tom wrestled the bucket from the cabin. In a few minutes he was back carrying a tray from which the succulent aroma of roast chicken wafted to Catrina's nostrils. Leaving the tray on the table, Tom lit an elegant silver lamp that rocked gently in its gimbal. With one last sly glance toward Catrina, he was gone.

When the door closed behind Tom. Flint went to Catrina who had gone to stand at the windows. Holding the heavy drapery aside, she gazed out into the darkness that seemed to envelop and isolate the ship at night.

"Come and eat, Lady Cat," he said softly. "You left your breakfast untouched this morning. You'll have poor Tom in a fit of the mother if you miss another meal."

"I'm not hungry," she said stubbornly. But in the silence of the room her stomach growled ferociously and she flushed with anger as she heard Flint's low chuckle.

Whirling toward him, she lifted her hand but he caught her delicate wrist in his powerful grasp.

"Keep your claws sheathed, my little hellcat," he warned. "Or has that pretty bottom of yours healed sufficiently to need another spanking?"

He knew a moment's remorse as he saw the glimmer of remembered pain fill her golden eyes. "Did I injure you this morning, Catrina?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Pulling her wrist from his hand, Catrina walked away. "I'll live." Stopping, she looked back toward him. "I'm sorry I hurt your face."

With a careless shrug, Flint passed her and went to the table where he took a sliver of the succulent meat and popped it into his mouth. "I've been scratched by angry kittens before."

Catrina took a seat at the table, her skirt and petticoats cushioning the hard chair. She was ravenously hungry but ate with slow delicacy, refusing to let Flint see her gobble the delicious food.

"Have you eaten?" she asked at length, realizing that he might be waiting for an invitation to join her.

"Yes. Had I not have, I would have helped myself."

"Without my leave?"

He shrugged again and poured himself a glass of wine. "Were I hungry enough, yes."

"Do you always simply take what you want?"

His green eyes met her golden ones in the glow of the lamp. "No," he answered softly, "I don't always take what I want."

There was something in his tone, something in the expression on his face that Catrina did not understand. But she knew instinctively that he wanted her badly and that he would not take her by force. The knowledge of his desire both flattered and frightened her. Patting her lips with her napkin, she rose and left the table.

Flint's eyes followed the gentle, rhythmic swaying of her rustling skirts as she walked the length of the cabin to the window seat. Replenishing his glass, he followed and sat beside her in the darkness away from the lamplight.

"Is the sea air warm?" she asked suddenly.

"There is a chill."

"I long for fresh air. Might I walk on the deck tomorrow?"

He took a long sip of his wine. "No."

Catrina gasped at the brusqueness of his reply. She looked away, hoping the darkness would hide her flushed cheeks. "Another of your punishments, captain?"

"Listen to me, Catrina, and heed what I say. I suspect there may be members of the crew who are thieves. No, more than thieves-cutthroats. They steal from ships of the St. James fleet and they kill those who try to stop them. I want you to remain here, in this cabin, where you will be safe."

"You can't mean to say that they would dare harm me," she objected.

"If they were threatened, you might make a very satisfactory hostage."

Sweeping her skirts aside, Catrina rose and moved away from him. "You're only trying to frighten me. How cruel you are! What have I done to deserve this?"

Casting aside his empty glass, Flint went to her. She turned her back to him but he took her by the shoulders and swung her toward him.

"Listen to me, you little fool. I'm not trying to frighten you. These men have stolen before and killed before."

"And taken hostages before?"

His eyes softened to a glowing color that semed to take its hue from the shimmering fabric of her gown. "No," he admitted, that peculiarly caressing tone creeping into his voice again, "but then there was never such a prize on a St. James ship before."

His fingers brushed across her shoulders and Catrina trembled. What were these feelings he seemed so uniquely able to evoke in her? What was it he wanted of her? And why did she seem to want it as well without even knowing precisely what it was?

Abruptly, she moved away. "I'm afraid," she whispered.

Flint was instantly beside her. His fingers stroked her cheek with infinite tenderness. The gesture and his nearness seemed at once to comfort Catrina and unsettle her. She lifted her face to his, wanting him to kiss her as he had the night before. For a moment it seemed as if he would; he bent toward her, his gold-flecked eyes narrowed and lingering on her moist, parted lips. But then, without warning, he left her. The spasmodic tic of a small muscle in his unmarred cheek was the only outward sign of the emotions raging inside him.

There was a long, awkward silence in the cabin before Catrina spoke. "If the thieves you spoke of took me hostage, Captain Ashton," she reasoned lightly, using his title pointedly to restore an air of formality between them, "Mr. St. James would simply have to pay my ransom. Would he, do you think?"

"Most definitely," Flint assured her. "But they may not content themselves with that."

She drew a sharp breath and her gaze flew to meet his. "They wouldn't dare . . . you cannot mean that they would . . ." She shuddered with revulsion remembering the two men who had accosted her. Had Phineas Dodd not rescued her from them, they would have dragged her into the nearby alley and . . . and . . . The unknown possibilities seemed endlessly terrifying.

Flint sighed, both at her innocence and at the breathtaking beauty of her wide, haunted eyes. "They might," he told her gently. "They're rough men, poor men. They've scarcely ever seen a woman like you let alone touched her."

Thoroughly horrified, Catrina flew into his arms and buried her face against his shoulder. Flint paled at the sudden contact of their bodies and felt the now familiar tightening of desire for her. But he willed it away and instead held her tightly cooing soft, meaningless sounds of comfort into her ear.

She turned her face upward and he saw that unshed tears shimmered in her eyes. "You won't let them, will you, Flint? Promise me you won't let them . . . touch me."

I'll never let anyone touch you, he vowed silently. I'd kill any man who tries. But he did not dare voice those thoughts and he cursed his own scheme to kep her in ignorance of his true identity until they were safely returned to New Orleans. To her he said: ''I promise, sweet Lady Cat, that they'll have to kill me first."

The look of trust in her eyes touched him and the sweet scent of her body pressed so guilelessly to his stirred him. He gently set her away lest he betray his desire in a manner that even her innocence could not mistake. To camouflage the reason for his sudden parting from her, he went to the table and poured them each a fresh glass of wine. Catrina sank onto the tufted, dark blue velvet cushions of the window seat and smiled as he handed her a glass and took a seat beside her.

She sipped the sweet wine thoughtfully and then turned to him and said;

"Men are lustful creatures, aren't they?"

Taken unaware in mid sip, Flint choked and sputtered. He studied her for a moment and realized that the question had been a serious one asked in complete earnest. Considering his own highly impure thoughts of only a few moments earlier, her question struck him as particularly incongruous. He laughed and Catrina flushed, offended.

"Why must you continually laugh at me?" she demanded, pouting prettily.

"I'm not laughing at you, my beautiful innocent. It is only that you do not suspect in the slightest bit precisely how lustful men can be. You have only the barest, the most superficial, conception of lust and no notion at all, I suspect, of love."

"Aren't they one and the same?"

"Not at all. Oh, they are akin to one another. Love is heightened by a little touch of lust and lust is sweetened when it is tinged with love but they are two distinctly different emotions."

"Have you ever been in love?"

"Oh yes."

"And is it wonderful?"

"More wonderful than you can imagine."

She frowned and looked off toward the lamp that was swaying gently with the motion of the ship. "Will my husband love me, do you think, Flint?"

Flint smiled tenderly and drew a caressing finger along the edge of Catrina's cheek. "How could he help himself, sweet Innocence?"

"I don't want this voyage to end," she confessed suddenly. "I'm afraid of what will happen when I am married to this man, St. James."

Desire for her raged inside Flint, pushing him inexorably toward the limit of his self-control. He knew he had to leave before he cast discretion to the wind, confessed the truth to her, and took her to the bed that stood all too invitingly in the alcove. Rising, he took his empty glass to the table. "You've no need to be frightened, Catrina. You will come to no harm in your marriage bed, I promise you."

He moved toward the door and Catrina followed, catching his hand as he would have left the cabin. "Please, Flint," she begged, "can't you see how this terrifies me? Surely knowing what to expect would allay some of my fears. I know a man such as you has not spent his life aloneyou have been in love. You must tell me what it is for a man and a woman to make love."

He shook his head. "I cannot tell you; don't ask me to."

"But why?"

He sighed. "'Trina, tell me truly. Have you ever seen a man unclothed? Have you any notion of the differences, the physical differences, between men and women?"

Blushing hotly, Catrina shook her head. "None," she admitted softly.

"Then I cannot tell you of lovemaking."

"But why? Answer me!"

He smiled gently and leaning down, kissed her with heartrending tenderness. "Because, sweet Innocence, you'd never believe me."

Smiling, he left the cabin and Catrina listened to the key turning in the lock and his footsteps echoing down the coridor outside. He had not helped her in the least. If anything, she was more confused now than ever.

Chapter 6

In the days that followed, Catrina saw Flint but seldom. The weather had turned foul and the Golden Rose needed all her captain's skill to come safely through the series of storms that seemed determined to devour her. On those rare nights that Flint left the deck at all, it was only to gulp down the rather meager meals the ship's cook managed to prepare in the tossing galley and then fall into bed barely taking time to pull the rain-soaked clothing from his weary, aching body.

For nearly two weeks it seemed that the ship escaped one storm only to be seized in the cold, merciless fingers of another. By the time the last of them began to pall, most of the crew believed that only a miracle would hold the ship's battered timbers together.

For Catrina they were terrifying days. Locked in her cabin alone, she huddled near the small stove for warmth as the icy wetness of the storm crept in to render everything clammy and damp. Wrapped in a sodden quilt, she neither slept nor ate well and the wild rolling of the ship combined with the ominous groaning of the timbers convinced her that the vessel would surely capsize and carry them all to a watery death on the ocean floor.

The only news she had of their progress came from young Tom who, between bouts of seasickness, brought her meals and what little water could be spared for her washing. A sailor, he told her on the morning that the last storm had broken over their heads, had fallen to his death from the rigging and the captain now insisted on climbing the treacherous ropes himself.

The thought of Flint being torn from his precarious perch by the storm's icy fingers and cast into the black churning sea filled her with a kind of despair she'd never known. It was as if her life were somehow intertwined with his and should his be lost hers must surely follow.

She had clasped Tom's hand impulsively. "Tell him to take care, Tom. Please, beg him to take no unnecessary risks."

"Aye, milady," Tom promised, "though I doubt he'll listen. The cap'n's a mighty stubborn man."

She nodded her agreement and returned to her thoughts never noticing the curious looks Tom cast at her as he gathered the scattered supper dishes and left her cabin. By sunset the gale had become a thunderstorm that seemed positively tame in comparison. Leaving the warmth of the stove, Catrina poured a basin of water and washed away the clinging mustiness that the dampened quilt seemed to leave on her pale skin. A look in the mirror showed her a tired, strained girl whose skin seemed unusually pallid. She realized that she had not had a full night's sleep since the storms began. As for the pallor, she had not been outside in the sunshine since leaving her father's house more than a month before. She'd gone on no outings while living with the Dodds and her entire three weeks aboard the ship had been spent within the four walls of her cabin. As a result, her complexion which had always seemed to have a rather unfashionable tawny cast was now alabaster white.

"Jackson would have been proud," she told herself ruefully, remembering the endless concoctions of lemon and Windsor soap her governess had smeared on her complexion in vain attempts to whiten it.

The thought of her beloved Jackson reminded her poignantly of her home. Though she'd felt no great affection for her distant, aloof parents and suspected they felt little for her, the elegant manse in Piccadilly had always meant security to her. And security was something she feared she would never know again.

Going to the armoire in which her clothing was now stored, she pulled out a long flannel undershirt Flint had given her. With its impossibly long sleeves and its high, buttoned neck, it was infinitely warmer than the delicate nightdresses of her trousseau. Catrina loved it most of all, however, because although it had been freshly laundered at the time he had given it to her, it still bore the faintest trace of his unique, masculine smell.

Seated on her bed, her tiny feet tucked under her, she brushed her hair into long silky curls. The thunder still rolled about the ship and the rain still beat an icy tattoo on the window panes but a bit of Catrina's fear was subsiding. They wouldGod willing, she hastened to addconceivably survive.

She paused, her heavy, silver-backed brush poised in mid-air, and listened. There were footsteps in the adjoining cabin. She heard the sound of furniture being moved. Flint!

Tossing the brush down, she ran to the connecting door and pounded on it hoping he could hear her above the noise of the storm. She held her breath when the footsteps approached the door but her joy was shortlived. The door opened to reveal not Flint but Tom who eyed her strange excuse for a nightdress.

"Aye, milady?" he asked with the curious gesture that was half bow and half nod.

Catrina sighed, disappointed. "I'm sorry, Tom. I thought perhaps the captain had returned."

"The cap'n's comin', milady. He says the worst is over and he's comin' to have a bath and go to bed. He sent me below to stoke the fire in the stove and fill his bath and make his bed."

For the first time Catrina entered Flint's cabin. It was similar to hers in size but its appointments were far more masculine. All about her Catrina saw parts of Flint's life she never dreamt existed. Volumes of poetry in several languages lay intermingled with nautical charts and clothing she had seen Flint wear lay scattered about in typically male disarray. Here, a voice inside her whispered, was safety; here was a haven where no harm could befall her. She desperately wanted to remain.

"I'll make the bed," she told Tom. "You fetch your captain's bath."

"Beggin' your pardon, milady, but I don't think the cap'n'll like me lettin' you do that. I don't even think he'd like your bein' in here."

"Never mind that. I'll deal with the captain. Go on, now, fetch his bath."

With the greatest reluctance, Tom agreed. He left the room and returned moments later with a large brass tub which he placed near the stove. From her place at the bedside, Catrina eyed the tub and felt a growing vexation when Tom reappeared bearing two buckets of steaming water.

"I see some of us don't have to make do with a simple basin and bucket," Catrina pouted.

Tom instantly took up his master's defense. "Pardon, milady, but this here's sea water. Though I heard tell that the cap'n's ordered a rain barrel secured on deck to catch water for you." Catrina turned her attentions back to her tasks feeling ashamed of her suspicions. "The captain is very kind."

She finished making the bed and turned to watch as Tom emptied the last bucket of water into the tub. When he turned to her expectantly, she smiled.

"Don't you think you'd best go back to your cabin now, milady?" he asked. "The cap'n'll be here any minute and he'll be wantin' his bath."

"Of course, you're right," she agreed. "Good night, then, Tom. I'm sure you have duties elsewhere."

Catrina walked slowly toward the connecting door and, as she'd hoped, Tom left the cabin forgetting that the door between the two chambers was to be locked at all times. When his footsteps moved off along the corridor, she returned to the bed and, climbing, drew the curtains closed about it.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep but the past two weeks had worn her nerves to such a state that fatigue overcame her the moment she found herself surrounded by the comforting warmth of Flint's bed. When she awakened at last it was to the sound of water splashing in a bathtub.

Parting the bed curtains with shaking fingers, she peered out. Flint sat in the tub, the soapy water washing about his narrow waist. The lamplight gleamed on his wet, sun-bronzed skin and played across his broad shoulders where powerful muscles rippled with his movements. As Catrina watched, fascinated, he sponged the water over the soapsuds that still clung to the dark furring of his chest. Then, satisfied with his bath, he yawned and tossed the sponge away.

His hands grasped the sides of the tub and he made as if to rise. Catrina held her breath. In a moment she would know what it was he had refused to tell her that night in her cabin. Her natural curiosity overrode her maidenly modesty and she bit her lip and watched wide-eyed and breathless.

A knock at the cabin door broke the spell and she quickly let the curtains fall together. Flint called for the intruder to enter and Catrina prayed it would not be Tom telling his captain of her help earlier and prompting Flint to go to her deserted cabin.

It was not Tom. Two burly sailors entered and wrested he tub from the cabin amidst much grunting and groaning.

"Sleep well, lads," Flint bade them as they made the difficult turn into the narrow corridor. "You've earned a rest."

Again Catrina peered between the curtains, her eyes searching the dimly lit cabin for Flint. She found him at his desk writing in a thick, leather-bound ledger. He was wrapped in his black velvet robe and its gold braid shimmered in the lamplight. As she watched, he laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and yawned. Though to Catrina he always looked disturbingly handsome, even her biased eyes could see the fatigue etched in his heavy-lidded eyes. Yawning again, he rose and one-by-one extinguished the lamps that lit the room. Catrina's heart begain to pound as he came toward the bed. Huddling against the wall, she willed herself to disappear as Flint cast off his robe and slid between the fresh sheets that had been delightfully warmed by Catrina's body heat. Without thinking, he leaned toward her smiling and kissed her cheek lightly. ''Good night, 'Trina, my love."

Catrina lay still in the bed as he settled down on his side facing her. He sighed and burrowed his face into the big feather pillow and for a moment she wondered if he were simply going to go to sleep. But the realization of what he'd just done suddenly penetrated his fogged, sleep-deprived mind. His green eyes popped open to gaze directly into golden ones that were filled with apprehension.

Bolting upright, he drew the quilts up around his nakedness as primly as a green girl on her wedding night.

"Catrina! What the hell!"

"Please, Flint, don't be angry," she begged, pressing herelf against the cool paneling of the wall. "I made your bed while Tom filled your bath. He thought I went back to my cabin but I didn't want to." Her voice fell to a whisper. "It felt safe here."

"'Trina"

She heard the reproach in his voice and hurried on before he could say more. "I've been so afraid these past weeks. So alone. Tom told me about the man who fell from the rigging and drowned and he told me that you were climbing the rigging" Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes and she looked away as though confessing some secret sin. "I was terrified that you would fall. I couldn't bear to think of you being swallowed by that cold, angry sea."

Touched, he lifted her chin and looked into her topaz eyes that swam with tears. "Sweet Innocence, how could I die and leave you here all alone?"

She smiled tremulously looking small and childlike in his too large shirt. "Let me stay, Flint, please say I may."

He sighed. "Don't you know what could happen to you here, Catrina?" She said nothing and he knew full well that she didn't know at all. Her eyes pleaded with him and at last he nodded. "Oh, very well, stay if you must. Heaven knows I'm so tired tonight I could do you no harm nor myself any good. Go to sleep, Lady Cat."

Obedient as a child, Catrina snuggled into the deep soft mattress and lowered her black-lashed lids. The tension of the past two weeks lifted and she fell into a deep, sound sleep even as Flint watched her.

Though the storm outside was moving off, the lightning still flashed. In its brief, blue-white glow his eyes devoured her. Her gleaming curls spread like a silken fan about her head and her small hands clasped the quilt that covered then both. Her thick, sooty lashes lay in black crescents over her cheeks and her lower lip pouted giving her the air of a beautiful, petulant child. Only her breasts, rising and falling gently, betrayed her maturity.

Flint leaned on one elbow and gazed at her, unable to take his eyes from her. He was torn. On the one hand, he desired her with a vehemence he'd never experienced in all his dealings with women. He longed to feel her tender body beneath his and hear her cry out with the passion that only he had the right to awaken in her. But another, hitherto unknown, part of him cherished her innocence, taking an almost fanatical pride in knowing that her virginity was his to take or to preserve. If he did not cross the delicate threshold of her maidenhood she would remain as she was, a changeling, half child, half woman, half knowing, half innocent.

The feeling was completely new to him. In the past he had taken his pleasure where he found it and a woman's past had meant nothing to him. Neither had the women, now that he thought of it. All had been beautiful in their own way; some of them worked for a living, charging for their favors; some had been the bored young wives of wealthy old planters eager to feel the strong, vigorous body of a handsome, passionate man against their own. He had made no judgments on their morals or his own and did not begrudge them the other lovers he knew he shared them with.

But Catrina . . . She was his and his alone. A black rage boiled up inside him at the thought of another man's hand touching her. He was glad they were well away from England; knowing her as he did now, he would not have hesitated to kill Phineas Dodd for the callous way he had displayed her at Gatley's.

Catrina stirred in the bed beside him tearing him away from his satisfying thoughts of Phineas Dodd's demise. Murmuring in her sleep, she cuddled against him, her head going naturally to rest on his shoulder.

Flint paled and a sharply indrawn breath hissed between his teeth. Exhausted as he was, her nearness was working on him, rousing him. He groaned softly in the darkness, steeling himself against the overwhelming urge to take her. Then, mercifully, Catrina sighed and turned over and the contact of their bodies was broken. Flint relaxed, warning himself sternly to resist pulling her back to him. After several agonizing minutes, the fatigue that had dogged him for the past two weeks crept over him clouding all thought and, impossible as it would have seemed only minutes before, all desires. For the first time he thanked God for the foul weather that had exhausted his mind and body making it possible to forget the beauty of the girl who slept so trustingly beside him.

The morning, however, was a different matter. Flint's body was rested, his mind was alert, and both were all too aware of Catrina's nearness. Her glossy, honey-gold hair was spread like a softly scented satin sheet over his darkly furred chest and her legs with their impossibly soft, alabaster skin were tantalizingly intertwined with his own.

Flint felt all his fragilely reined desires breaking free. His mind shouted a warning but it went unheeded as he rolled onto his side and gathered her into his arms. Catrina's eyes fluttered, then opened, and she smiled, a sweet, trusting smile that laid waste to any last, tenuous shreds of self-restraint remaining to him.

His mouth possessed hers hungrily, parting her lips and thrusting his tongue within to taste the sweetness of her. Catrina whimpered softly when his mouth left hers but he nuzzled her cheek and throat and was rewarded with her soft, nearly inaudible sigh.

His hand glided upward beneath her borrowed nightshirt savoring her silken skin and the gentle curves of her body. Catrina quivered beneath his fingers, stunned by the mind boggling onslaught of sensations his kisses and caresses were giving her. When his hand slipped up along her spine then slid around to gently cup her breast, she arched instinctively, pressing the tautly tipped flesh into his palm.

Tentatively at first, her small white hand began to explore him starting first with the thick, surprisingly soft curls that covered his chest. She touched him wonderingly, delighting in his shivers and in the knowkledge that, inexperienced as she was, she could pleasure him.

Though fully realizing the folly of his actions, Flint could not help himself. He was afire with the need of her and her tiny whimpers and cries, bespeaking the newly awakened passions raging inside her, only fanned the flames.

How long the pounding at the door had been going on before they heard it neither could tell but Flint noticed it as last and muttered an agonized oath.

"Yes, damn you!" he shouted huskily. "What is it?"

"A ship, cap'n," a seaman replied, his voice muffled by the stout oaken door. "Off the port bow. Pirates the lookout says."

Catrina grasped Flint's arm, her eyes huge. "Pirates?" she squeaked.

"Hell-fire! That's all I need! I'm coming!"

Leaving the bed, Flint pulled on his clothes and gestured for Catrina to join him. Tucking his creamy shirt into his trousers with one hand, he pressed a ring of keys into her hand with the other.

"Lock yourself in your cabin," he ordered, "and don't open the door for anyone save me."

"I have no weapon," she protested.

Flint scowled. "No weapon will save you, my love, if they are pirates and they get past the crew."

Leaning down, he took her lips in a last kiss that was filled with longing, then strode out of the cabin leaving her to stare after him with wide, frightened eyes.

Chapter 7

Despite flint's ominous words, Catrina was desperate for a weapon if only to hold in her hands as she awaited the outcome of the imminent confrontation. On a table at the far end of the cabin she spied a saber sheathed in a scabbard of brass and black leather. The sword was far too heavy for a woman of Catrina's size to handle with any degree of effectiveness, but as she carried it back to her cabin she felt immeasurably relieved to have found it. Should the worst come to the worst, she told herself confidently, she could do a respectable amount of damage before being captured.

Alone in her cabin, she dressed quickly then waited, listening for the first volley of cannon fire and the shouts of the crew as they prepared to repel any brigands intent upon boarding the Golden Rose. The minutes crawled by becoming a half hour and then an hour and Catrina's bewilderment grew. Surely Flint would not have surrendered without a fight, and yet there had been nothing to indicate that they were under attack. But Flint would not have left her sitting there alone and afraid if there were no danger.

She started as a shot rang out and then another. Not the booming of cannons that made the stoutest ship shiver but gunshots. And shouting, too, from above.

"What can be happening?" Catrina asked the empty cabin. "We haven't been attacked; we haven't been boarded and yet there is a battle raging on the deck of the Golden Rose."

The memory stirred of a night when they were not long out of London and Flint had told her of the men he believed were aboard the Golden Rose plotting to steal some of the cargo. Cutthroats, he had called them, killers. She knew at once that there had been no pirates, only the thieves putting their deadly plot into action.

She knew a moment's terror when she recalled Flint's warning of her likely treatment at the hands of such men but she pushed her fear to the back of her mind. If she was in danger of being held hostageused by the vicious and ruthless thievesshe had to at least try and hold them off. Ifand she shuddered at the mere possibilitythey managed to overcome Flint and those members of the crew loyal to him, might she not be better off dead than at their mercy?

Brandishing her saber, she unlocked her cabin door and stepped into the corridor.

She emerged onto the deck to find it littered with the bodies of wounded men. A few were lying still and the gaping, bloody wounds they sported convinced Catrina that they must be dead. The three-foot saber wavered in her hands. Sheltered as she had been, she had never seen such wanton destruction of human life. The wounded and the dead surrounded her and the stench of blood brought the sour bile rising into her throat.

She forced herself to look at the men, searching for Flint and at the same time praying she would not find him among them. The moans of the wounded filled the air drowning even the sounds of the fight that still raged near the opposite end of the ship.

Catrina gasped as she felt a tug on her skirt. A harsh, strangled voice croaked at her feet.

"Milady?"

She looked down and a small, despairing cry escaped her as she found Tom lying on the deck. The front of his grimy shirt was soaked with blood and his every breath rattled sickeningly in his throat.

Catrina's saber clanked on the deck as she knelt beside the dying cabin boy. She touched his face gently feeling helpless and useless, wishing she could do something to ease his suffering.

"Mutiny, milady," he wheezed.

"Shhh, Tom, don't try to talk. Save your strength." Tom clutched at her arm. "They want to kill him! They'll kill anybody who tries to help him."

"Tom"

"Hide yourself! If they kill him they'll come for you!"

Catrina laid a finger across the boy's lips partly to still the ramblings that were sapping his precious strength and partly to keep him from confirming her worst fears.

"Tom, hush, you must not"

"He's right, you know," a gruff voice said from behind her.

A tall, thickset man with steel-gray hair stood over her. Catrina wrapped one hand about the hilt of her saber but the man shook his head.

"No need for that, little girl. I'm only seeing to the wounded."

"You're a doctor?" she asked eagerly.

"I am."

"Help this boy, please!"

The man's dark eyes flickered over Tom's face and he gravely shook his head. "There's nothing in this world that'll help him now. Best to leave him be."

Filled with apprehension, Catrina looked down. Tom's head was still cradled in her lap but his eyes stared past her, unseeing, toward the clouds that dotted the sky.

With gentleness that belied his massive size, the doctor laid Tom on the deck and pulled Catrina to her feet. He watched as she scrubbed at the blood that stained her white hands and told her: ''You'd best go below, little girl. This is no place for a gently-reared lady."

Catrina shook her head stubbornly. "I've got to find Flint. I've got to know if he's still alive!"

"If it's the captain you're wanting to find, he's there, with Strunk."

Catrina's eager gaze turned in the direction the man indicated. There she found Flint, sword in hand, battling with a man whose long, thin face was set with grim, deadly determination.

"Help him," Catrina urged, clutching her companion's meaty forearm. "Help him!"

"Nay, little girl," the man disagreed. "Strunk's the leader of the mutineers. The captain'd never thank me for taking away the pleasure of killing him."

"But you must! He's your captain!"

"Aye, that he is. And one of the best I've served under. Don't worry, little girl. There are few men who are a match for Flint Ashton in a fair fight."

But even as the man spoke the fight became an unfair one. A man was creeping up on Flint from behind, a pistol at the ready in his hand.

With a cry, Catrina turned to her companion but she was alone. The doctor had left her to tend one of the wounded. By the time she could call to him, it would be too late. Casting caution to the winds, she took to her heels, running across the blood-smeared deck toward Flint, his adversary, and his unknown assailant. She saw Flint seize his advantage and drive his thrust home impaling the treacherous Strunk on the gleaming blade. But even as he did, the third man raised his weapon to fire.

"Flint!" she shrieked. "Flint, look out!"

Taken by surprise, the gunman swung toward her. For an instant their eyes met; for a second Catrina found herself peering into the black bore of the gun. Time seemed to have stopped and she heard the blast as from a great distance, echoing endlessly. In the same instant Flint cried out, a strange, despairing sound that was lost to her as a searing pain exploded in her head and she felt herself falling into a bottomless black abyss.

Flint saw Catrina fall, the bright crimson of her blood staining her rich golden curls. His cry rent the air and he swung on her attacker, his blood-stained sword held in both powerful hands. With a single savage stroke the man's head was separated from his shoulders and thudded to the deck while his body yet stood, his fingers still curved around the butt of his gun.

But Flint paid his victim no mind. Before the man's lifeless body fell to the deck, Flint was at Catrina's side, gathering her into his arms, shouting for the doctor to follow him to her cabin.

Catrina awoke to brilliant sunshine. The draperies of her cabin windows had been drawn back and the rays of the mid-morning sun fell in glowing pathways across the floor. But even as she blinked, dazzled by its brightness, the sun was blocked out and a great silhouette of a man appeared before her eyes. She drew back with a startled cry. "Easy, little girl," a gruff voice said. "It's good to have you back. The captain will be pleased."

"The captain?" Catrina asked, relaxing as she recognized the voice of the doctor who had been tending the wounded during the mutiny.

"Aye, he's been near to distraction with worry over you."

"He has?" A delighted smile broke over Catrina's face and the doctor shook his head.

"Smile at your husband that way, little girl, and you'll have him eating out of your hand before the first week is out."

As quickly as it had appeared, the smile was gone replaced by an expression of despair. "My husband," Catrina murmured.

The doctor turned away to hide his own expression. So that's how it is, he mused. The high and mighty Mr. St. James's fancy-bred wife has fallen in love with a lowly ship's captain. And the captain with her if I'm any judge.

Catrina's voice ended his speculations. "Excuse me?" she called for the third time. The man turned toward her. "I'm sorry, you've cared for me and I don't even know your name."

"Lewis, ma'am, Benjamin Lewis, at your service."

"May I get up, Dr. Lewis? I seem to be unaccountably stiff this morning."

"That's to be expected considering you've spent more than a week in bed."

"A week?" Catrina repeated, her eyes as round as moons.

"Aye, that and more. You were only grazed by the bullet but there was a concussion and a fever. There were times when we thought we might lose you." He examined the fading welt at her hairline just above her ear. "Much better. If you feel well enough there's no reason why you shouldn't be up and about."

He left her then and Catrina rose carefully. She felt a bit unsteady on her feet but suffered no ill effects otherwise. She was clean and fresh; it was obvious that she had been carefully tended. A bright crimson flush stained her cheeks at the thought of her intimate needs being seen to by a man, any man.

She pushed the troubling thought from her mind. It was far too embarrassing to bear serious ponderance. A bucket of water sat on the floor near her washstand and she pulled off her nightdress and washed herself with the rose-scented ball of soap that sat in its porcelain dish.

From the armoire she chose a gown of champagne-colored silk that Flint had not seen before. It had a flounced, dome-shaped skirt, and tight, fitted bodice with basques that emphasized her tiny waist. Its bell-shaped sleeves ended in lace ruffles that called attention to her small, fragile looking hands. In a box on the armoire floor she found a wide-brimmed hat with ribbons of amber satin and a parasol of creamy lace with ivory fringe.

Satisfied with her appearance, she left her cabin and went on deck to find Flint.

Emerging into the fresh, crisp sea air, she breathed deeply, filling her grateful lungs and feeling invigorated. Shaded by her hat and parasol, her eyes sought Flint. She was completely oblivious to the admiring stares of the crewmen around her and heard none of the comments that passed from one to another.

Standing near the wheel, his back toward her, Flint spoke to Oliver Merriman, a hulking, red-haired giant of a man, first mate of the Golden Rose. He towered over every other man on the ship, Flint included and his booming laughter, nearly deafening in close quarters, could be heard from one end of the ship to the other.

It rang out now drawing Catrina's attention to the men. Her eyes met Mr. Merriman's and his laughter dwindled away as he looked at her, his blue eyes filling with admiration.

"By damn but she's a beauty," he told Flint who turned and saw her standing there, hesitant to approach him while he was apparently discussing business. "I've never envied any man but I'd give much to be Ashton St. James if it meant marrying a woman that fine."

Pride surged through Flint as he held out his hand and motioned for Catrina to join them. Heads turned as she crossed the deck and murmurs of admiration followed her progress. He knew there wasn't a man aboard who wouldn't give all he owned to touch her. But she was his and his alone.

"Lady Catrina," he said formally as she reached them. "It's good to have you back among us. Are you sure you should be up and about?" "I'm feeling perfectly well, captain," she replied, taking her tone from his, knowing that before the crew there must be no hint of intimacy between them. "Dr. Lewis said I might get up."

"I'm glad to hear it. I've been exceedingly concerned."

"Exceedingly concerned!" Merriman's laughter echoed in Catrina's ears. "The man's been running distracted!"

Flint grinned. "He's right, I must admit."

"Thank you, captain," Catrina murmured.

Their eyes met and held, neither able to hide the longing that was like a constant flow of electricity between them. Merriman saw it, the love and desire that shone clearly in their eyes, and was amazed. Over their heads his gaze met Benjamin Lewis' and the latter cocked an eyebrow and gave a small, confirming nod. Merriman cleared his throat noisily, mercifully breaking the spell.

"My lady," Flint said quickly, "I don't believe you've met Mr. Merriman, first mate of the Golden Rose. Merriman, Lady Catrina Carlysle."

The huge man bowed over Catrina's hand with surprising grace. "Ma'am, I hope you'll be happy in Natchez."

Watching carefully, he saw the light die in her topaz eyes and noted the slight quiver of her lower lip before she caught it between her little, pearly teeth.

"Thank you, Mr. Merriman," she replied softly, pulling her hand from his grasp and hiding its sudden trembling in the folds of her skirt. "I've no doubt the lady will be very happy," Flint said confidently.

Both Catrina and Merriman gaped at him and Catrina's hand tightened on the handle of her parasol turning her knuckles as bloodlessly white as her face. How could he be so cruel! she asked herself, trying without much success to hid the pain his words caused her. How could he be so tender, so loving in private and then callously remind her that they would soon be partedthat she would soon be the wife of another man!

She lowered her head hoping the brim of her hat would hide her emotions. As from a great distance, she heard Flint excusing them and felt his hand clasping her elbow as he propelled her away from Merriman and toward a deserted part of the deck near the railing.

"'Trina, forgive me," he said softly. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

"It's quite all right, captain," she said coolly. "I understand completely."

"You don't understand, damn it! You don't understand at all."

"Make me understand."

He shook his head and looked out to sea. Catrina looked up at him. His dark hair was tousled by the wind and his creamy shirt accentuated the dark bronze of his skin; with its open neck showing the darkly furred muscles of his chest and its full sleeves rippling in the breeze, he looked so devastatingly handsome that Catrina's traitorous heart cried out for him. She tore her eyes away from him as he said: "I can't explain it to you, Catrina. Not here or now. But you must believe that I love you and trust in me."

Her little cupid's bow mouth twisted bitterly. "Oh yes, you love me. You love me so much that you sound positively blissful when you speak of my future life in Natchez with my husband." Flint heard her pain, saw it, ached to ease it, but he could notnot yet. Soon enough she would know the truth and he would be free to love away any hurts he had caused her. He put out a hand to stop her as she turned away but she stepped out of his reach.

"If you will excuse me, captain, I believe I shall return to my cabin. Suddenly I find myself heartily weary of ships. I shall be relieved when this voyage is at an end."

Flint watched her walk away. "And so it soon will be, milady," he called after her. "We dock in New Orleans tomorrow."

She whirled toward him, all pretense of hauteur gone from her shocked face. "Tomorrow?" she whispered, horrified.

He nodded. "If the wind serves and I think it will."

He saw it coming and rushed toward her but was not quick enought to catch Catrina as she slid to the deck in a dead faint.

Chapter 8

Alone in her cabin, Catrina spent the rest of the day trying to forget what Flint had told her. It was impossible. His words echoed over and over in her head even as she busied herself packing her clothing from the armoire into the trunks.

"We dock in New Orleans tomorrow," the maddening voice repeated again and again in her mind. "Tomorrowtomorrow"

She reached up to brush away a tear but it fell and left a small round stain on a skirt of rose moire. Another followed, and another, sliding down her cheeks, falling like raindrops on the precious fabric of her gowns. Flint loved her; he had said so. How she had longed to hear him say those words! But now that he had, they only seemed to make matters worse. To go to her husband knowing she loved another man was bad enough, but to know that that man returned her love in full measure was unbearable.

There was a knock at her cabin door and she hurriedly dried her eyes and forced back the choking sobs that burned in her throat.

"What is it?" she called.

The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered young sailor smiled at her uncertainly. He could see by her swollen, red-rimmed eyes that she'd been crying, but like most of the younger crewmen, he was in awe of her station and of the knowledge that she was the bride-to-be of the powerful owner of the St. James fleet. Like them, he was unsure of how friendly he dared be.

"Yes?" Catrina prompted when he'd stood there in silence for several moments.

"The cap'n sent me, ma'am, to ask if there's anything you need."

"Please thank the captain for his concern, sir, and ask if it would be possible for me to have a bath."

He left then and it was only a few minutes later that he and two others returned with the large brass tub she'd seen in Flint's cabin. They made two trips to the galley where the water from the rain barrel was heated and the tub was filled.

Taking a crystal flacon from a tray in one of her trunks, Catrina poured the sweet, heady fragrance into the water and the luscious scent of hyacinths filled the air. A ball of soap in the same scent was also in the tray and she clasped it in her hand as she sank into the steaming, fragrant water.

Idly, she smoothed the sweet-smelling lather over her pale, silken skin as unwelcome questions filled her head. Would Mr. St. James be at the dock to meet her when they reached New Orleans on the morrow? Would she thusly be denied even the bittersweet pleasure of a tearful farewell to Flint? And what of when they left the ship? Would he take her immediately to Natchez to the sumptuous prison his home must always be to her?

''What difference does it make?" she asked the empty room. "The end result will be the same. I shall be forever parted from Flint. I shall forever belong to the greedy, hateful man who exploited my father's avarice to buy me. Catrina Carlysle will cease to exist after tomorrow. Henceforth I shall be merely another possession, a decoration for his elegant home like his chandeliers and his Persian carpets. I will be an ornament to grace his arm in the gilded halls of society, a blooded brood mare to breed pedigreed heirs for him."

She smiled in spite of herself. How often had she crept down the stairs when her parents entertained in their mansion in Piccadilly and listened to the ladies gossiping in the drawing room while their husbands lingered over port and cigars? How often had she heard them speak of their spouses in the most disdainful of terms and confide to one another that apart from the social functions that were the obligation of those of their class they led separate lives? And very soon she would be one of them, merely another unhappy woman sold into a loveless marriage. "My case is worse," she murmured, clasping the sponge to her breasts, "for I have discovered love and now must lose it. How much more fortunate are those girls who are taken from the schoolroom to the marriage bed without any notion of what it is to love. They, at least, can be content, having never known any other way of life."

Sliding down into the water she wet her hair and washed it, concentrating on the motions to take her mind from the bleak prospect of such a life. But when her hair was rinsed and wrapped in a towel, her mind perversely returned to its previous, undesirable train of thought.

"Can I become as those women are?" she wondered sadly. "Can I spend my life in a marriage entirely devoid of love? Can I be the mistress of a man's home, bear his children, be his wife in every sense of the word when I care nothing for him? Indeed when I hate him for coming between me and the man I truly love?"

Dropping the sponge she buried her face in her hands. "Dear God, how can I stand before a minister and promise to love and honor my husband when my heart will always belong to another? How can I lie in his arms and give myself to him when my body aches for another man's touch?"

A cry of sheer hopelessness wrenched its way up from the very heart of her. "I can't! Heaven help me, I can't!"

Heedless of the water that sloshed over the carpet, she thrust herself out of the tub. Hot, salty tears burning her eyes, she dried herself and dressed. With the greatest of effort she brought herself under control enough to call for the seamen to remove the tub but they had no more than left the room when her fragile facade of self-control shattered and she threw herself across her bed and dissolved ino a paroxysm of grief.

The storm of her anguish had passed by the time Zachary, the tall, blond seaman who had taken up poor Tom's duties, came to inquire about supper. Forcing a smile, though her face still bore the ravages of her misery, she refused the meal and went back to her packing, hoping it would ease her mind.

Time, which had so often seemed to creep along at a snail's pace, now flew. Had she cared to go on deck and look, she would have seen the magnificent sunset that transformed the western sky into a panorama in shades of purple and pink.

The cabin was in near darkness before Catrina noticed and roused herself to light a lamp. Footsteps caught her attention. They were coming from the adjoining cabinFlint's cabin.

She waited, breathless, wondering if he would come to her. He did not. She longed to go to him, to be near him on this, their last night together, but after what had passed between them on deck she hadn't the nerve.

"It's better this way," she told herself sternly. "Break cleanly from him. Act coolly toward him. He doesn't know that I love him; I've never told him so. Better that he should not know. I could not bear for him to suffer as I am suffering."

Resigned, she turned back the quilt on her bunk determined to go to sleep and accept what the morrow brought as her fate. Pulling off her clothes, she rummaged in her haphazardly-packed trunks for a nightdress. But her hand struck something strangesomething she hadn't paid attention to before.

A small wooden chest lay at the very bottom of the smallest trunk. How she had managed to overlook it she didn't know but now as she pulled it out and opened it, she felt a shiver coursing through her.

A note, addressed to her and in her beloved governess's ornate handwriting, lay atop the parcel.

"For my darling 'Trina on your wedding night," it read.

She resentfully cast the note aside. Another reminder! She started to replace the chest's lid but curiosity got the better of her and she drew back the tissue in which the contents were enfolded.

A hushed sigh escaped her lips as she carefully lifted out the fragile, exquisite garment that was Perdita Jackson's wedding gift to her. The nightdress and matching robe were of the most delicate, snowy white silk Catrina had ever seen. Frothed in lace as fragile as spiders' webs that was threaded through with baby ribbon of palest pink, they were so gossamer fine that even as she held them up they seemed to float on the air currents in the cabin.

"Oh, Jackson, how beautiful they are," Catrina whispered as though her adored governess were beside her. "For my wedding night, when I am with my husband and he will . . . will . . ."

With sudden determination, she drew the gown over her head and let it float in airy ripples to her feet. With gentle fingers she slid her arms into the robe and tied its narrow ribbons at her throat. Her hair had dried in careless waves and she pulled her brush through them only to have them fall into great natural ringlets that twined about her shoulders and cascaded down her back.

At the connecting door she paused and listened to hear if Flint were alone. No sound save the scratchng of a pen on paper met her ears. Taking no time to ponder her actions, she entered Flint's cabin and stood in the shadows just within the door.

Seated at his desk, Flint bent over his ledgers finishing the entries that would complete his record of the voyage. The black velvet, gold-braided robe she'd seen him wear before accentuated his sun-bronzed skin and echoed the richness of his thick, sable hair.

Catrina's heart pounded as she watched him. She was terrified lest he send her back to her room with a disdainful sneer. He loved her, he had said so, but he was an employee of her husband-to-be and for all she knew he may have been strong enough to place his career before his desires. For a moment her courage failed and she felt behind her for the doorlatch. But it was too late. Sensing her presence, feeling her gaze upon him, Flint's head came up and he saw her there watching him timidly.

He rose from his chair and she came forward into the light. Her gown hid nothing from him and his gaze moved slowly over her. She was more beautiful than he had dared imagine and he felt a desire for her so strong it seemed akin to pain.

"Catrina," he said simply, but the single word was filled with such longing that Catrina knew he would not, could not, send her away.

"I thought you would come to me," she said softly, moving toward him, guilelessly seductive, her filmy gown alternately molding itself to her, revealing her, and swirling away to half conceal her in its diaphanous web.

"I didn't think I'd be welcome," he murmured. His desire for her was growing inside him like a fever and he wondered if she in her innocence could begin to imagine the havoc her beauty was wreaking on him.

Reaching him, Catrina laid her small hand on his chest and heard his sharply indrawn breath, like a gasp of pain. His eyes had darkened to the color of emeralds and they glittered in the lamplight.

"You said you loved me," she whispered. "Did you mean it? Do you love me, Flint?"

"Oh, yes," he breathed, his voiced husky and trembling. His passion was so urgent it was like a raw, gnawing ache devouring him.

"I love you," she went on. "You must know that-surely you must. After tomorrow I will belong to my husband and I know I must never betray him though I can never love him. But for tonight I belong only to myself. I am my own to give."

"Catrina" he began.

She shook her head, silencing him. "No, please, hear me. I cannot live my life without knowing what it is to love and to be loved. Show me what it is, Flint. For tonight let us belong to one another."

Flint closed his eyes and exulted. It was more than he'd dared hope for, the stuff of dreams. But the matter of his masquerade still lay between them. There was no reason to keep up the pretense any longer. The men he had adopted his disguise to catch were all either dead or in chains below decks. He was free to tell her that her fears of a loveless marriage were groundless.

He lifted a golden curl from her shoulder and watched it twine about his fingers ensnaring him in its living beauty. "My love," he told her, "There is something about me you don't know. Something I must tell you and I pray that you will understand."

"Hush," Catrina interrupted, laying her fingers across his lips. "There is nothing I need to know. Tonight nothing matters save that we love one another. If you want me then I am yours."

Flint gazed down into her wide, trusting eyes. It doesn't matter, he told himself, there's no need to tell her tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough for her to know.

Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the narrow bed and lay her gently across it. Dropping sweet, hot butterfly kisses across her lips and down the pulsing column of her throat to her soft, milky shoulders, his hands moved with tender expertise divesting her of the diaphanous barrier of her gown and robe.

Lying naked in the lamp's golden radiance, Catrina knew a moment's uncertainty, but the fiery emerald glow of desire in Flint's eyes drove all hesitation from her mind. She slid her arms about his shoulders and pulled him down to her, her body arching to meet his, reveling in his hoarse exclamation of delight. She writhed as his hands moved over her, bringing her alive, awakening all the slumbering passions she had never dreamed dwelt within her. As he bent his head to her breasts she moaned and twined her fingers in his hair. His lips caressed the warm, firm flesh, his tongue flicking out to tease the taut, aching peaks and she quivered beneath him.

Suddenly desperate to feel his skin next to hers, Catrina tugged impatiently at his robe, whimpering softly when it wouldn't yield to her. Flint leaned away from her and let the robe slide from his shoulders. In the lamplight his body gleamed, hard and bronzed, darkly burnished with perspiration. Unbidden, Catrina's eyes traveled over him. Flint heard her gasp and saw the flicker of fear that sprang into her eyes as they reached his manhood. Taking her quickly into his arms, he murmured soft words of reassurance into her ear as his hands caressed her, working their magic on her senses.

He held himself in check, reining his passion with a superhuman effort until Catrina moaned and writhed helplessly beneath his most intimate caresses. Then he moved between her thighs, delighting in how naturally they parted for him. He paused for an instant, poised above her, then took her quickly to minimize the pain of his entry.

Catrina gasped, her eyes huge with surprise and the sharp, stabbing pain that was already beginning to recede. But as Flint slid his arms beneath her, cradling her against him, she buried her face in his shoulder and wrapped herself around him.

He began to move, slowly, carefully, until he felt her move beneath him, instinctively answering his gentle thrusts. He quickened his pace and she, her innocent desires fully unleashed, matched him. They moved as one, giving and taking incomparable pleasure, until at last they shuddered, straining together, at the height of their passion.

Sighing, hearts pounding, they smiled into one another's eyes in wordless acknowledgement of the beauty they had shared. Flint kissed her eyes and her cheeks and buried his face in the tumbled mass of her hair, unable to bear the thought of leaving the hot, honeyed sweetness of her body. When at last he did, a cry of protest broke from Catrina's lips. Lying beside her, he gathered her into his arms and Catrina curved her small body against his far larger one.

"I love you," she whispered, almost shyly.

Flint breathed deeply of the sweet hyacinth scent of her hair. "I love you, my darling," he replied, his lips moving against the shining crown of her head. "My beautiful 'Trina."

Catrina looked up at him, her brow furrowed with worry. "Tomorrow" she began.

"Shhh," Flint hushed her, brushing a curl off her silken cheek with infinite tenderness. "Let tomorrow take care of itself."

All too content to do as he said, Catrina nestled against him and fell into a deep, blissful slumber that was untroubled by dreams of the future.

Chapter 9

The golden rose docked in New Orleans on a day when the sun glowed brightly in the sky. Catrina, standing on deck, the wind rippling her flounced silk skirts about her legs, glowered up at it. It should have been raining, she thought crossly. It should have been gray and stormy and foul; that would have been only fitting considering the occasion.

Her face softened as she remembered the night before. She'd slept in Flint's arms, cherished, loved, and awakened this morning to caresses that brought her quickly to the heights of passion. But the memory, precious as it was, pained her for she knew she would never again find such beauty in physical love.

She watched as her trunks were carried from the ship and taken to a wagon waiting on the dock. They would, so Flint told her, be taken directly to the riverboat that would take her to Natchez. There were no plans for an extended stay in New Orleans.

She, on the other hand, would be taken to a small hotel where she could rest, refresh herself, and wait the arrival of her fiance who would then conduct her to the riverboat himself.

''Well, Lady Cat," Flint said as he came up beside her, "are you ready to leave the Golden Rose?"

"No," she murmured, shaking her head. "I never want to leave itor you."

He tugged her bonnet ribbons playfully. "You'll see, my love, everything will be fine."

"How can you say that!" she cried, heedless of the attention she was drawing to them. "How can you believe that when you know that I'm"

"Shhh," Flint hushed her. "Trust me for a little longer."

A voice, calling from the docks, broke the spell. "Ashton! So you've made it back, have you? How was your captaincy?"

Flint scowled as he spied the man, a business acquaintance who knew him as Ashton St. James and knew nothing of his second identity. Fearful that the man might inadvertently expose his secret to Catrina, Flint excused himself.

"Wait here, my darling," he told her. "I must see to the man's business and then I shall return and take you to your carriage."

Catrina agreed and Flint left the ship and took the man to a place some distance away where they were out of ear reach and where a mountain of crates blocked them from view. Left behind to wait, Catrina toyed with the black silk frogs that fastened the front of her mantle. Though a brisk wind was blowing, the sun was hot as it beat down on her and she was uncomfortably aware of the attention being paid to her by the men who worked on the docks loading and unloading the ships that were the life's blood of the town.

The carriage that was to take her to her hotel waited near the baggage wagon and Catrina saw no reason why she shouldn't take advantage of its comparative privacy while she waited for Flint to complete his business. Leaving the ship, she walked across the dock, eyes demurely lowered, ignoring the dockhands and the gentlemen who tipped their top hats to her as she passed. Intent upon her destination, she went on and only the rich, thrilling sound of Flint's laughter managed to stop her.

"It's good to see you again," the gentleman who had hailed Flint from the dock was saying. "I trust you'll be staying close to home for some time to come."

"That is my plan, yes," Flint confirmed.

"I can't say that I blame you. You must be eager to get home and be alone with that lovely little wife of yours."

Flint's reply was lost to Catrina for it seemed that her ears were suddenly filled with a deafening buzzing that drowned out all other sound. She reeled back, stunned, sickened. His wife! Flint's wife! She remembered that he'd tried to tell her something when she'd gone to his cabin. He had said there was something she should know about him. Was that what he'd been trying to tell her? Was that the reason he seemed so unconcerned about their reaching New Orleans and her being claimed by her fiancé?

Stumbling slightly, she made her way back to the ship determined that Flint would have no cause to suspect that she had heard him. With her back to the dock, she breathed deeply again and again. She would, she vowed, control her emotions. Flint would never know that she'd overheard his conversation.

"Darling?" He was beside her and she turned and looked up at him, forcing a little smile. "Are you all right? You look very pale."

She shrugged. "The sun, that's all. I should have thought to bring a parasol."

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to leave you standing here this long. Business discussions can sometimes drag on interminably. Come, we'll go to the carriage and get you out of the sun."

Her hand resting on his arm, Catrina followed as Flint led her across the swarming dock to the carriage he'd hired.

Settling her inside, he sat beside her and as they rode through the city pointed out the various sights to her.

Though at another time Catrina might have found the beautiful old town with its narrow streets and exotic buildings adorned with balconies of iron lacework fascinating, she scarcely looked at them now. Her life, it seemed, had crashed around her. The last ray of sunshine had been cruelly shut out. Flint belonged to another. Somewhere in the city a woman waited, knowing that no matter what had happened during her husband's absence he was always and forever hers.

She looked up as he touched her hand and softly called her name. "I'm sorry?"

"'Trina, love, you haven't heard a word I've said."

She smiled a little sadly and, reaching up, touched his face as though committing it to memory. "I'm sorry, Flint. My mind seems to be a thousand miles away today."

"That's only natural, I suppose. Here we are."

The carriage drew up before an elegant building that seemed to be a hybrid combining the best of both the Spanish and French architecture so predominant in the city. Waving away the doorman who came to help Catrina down, Flint took her by the waist and swung her playfully around before setting her on her feet.

"It won't be long now, Lady Cat," he told her as he conducted her through the ornately appointed lobby, "and you'll meet your fiancé at long last."

Catrina bit her lip sharply to force back the tears. How cruel he was! He spoke so lightly of her fiancé's arrival. It was as if she meant nothing to him. As though last night had never happened! Could it truly have meant so little to him? They entered Catrina's suite and Flint watched as she removed her bonnet and mantle. There was a sadness about her that he ascribed to her belief that they would soon be parted. A part of him wanted to tell her the truth but another part told him that everything must be perfect. As he lay in his bunk on the Golden Rose the night before holding a sated, sleeping Catrina in his arms, he had concocted a plan to leave her at the hotel and then return as Ashton St. James, attired as befitted a man of great wealth and power, husband to an Earl's daughter.

"Darling," he told her as she perched nervously on the edge of a brocaded settee, "I must leave you now. There is business I must conducturgent business."

Catrina looked away. I can imagine what his urgent business is, she told herself. What other urgent business can a man have when he has been separated so long from his wife!

Aloud, she said simply: "When will I meet Mr. St. James?"

Flint grinned, already picturing her surprise when he returned. "Soon. He will come for you here and take you home to Natchez."

"Then this is goodbye," she whispered, an unmistakable quaver in her voice.

Flint felt a pang of conscience. Perhaps he was being cruel to keep her in such suspense. He took a deep breath, determined to tell her, but then decided against it. After more than a month at sea, another hour could make no great difference. "Yes, this is goodbye." He started toward her, meaning to kiss her, but she turned her face away and folded her hands primly in her lap. Flint didn't press the point. Contenting himself with a light caress of her honey-gold curls, he let himself out of the room.

Neither he nor Catrina had paid any heed to the closed black carriage that stood across the street from the hotel. But the occupants of the carriage had taken care to note their arrival. Now, as they waited to see what would happen next, Radford St. James turned to his sister Olympia with a smile.

"Don't you think you should be getting out, sister? After all, you want to be prepared if our opportunity arises."

Olympia St. James, as olive-skinned and raven-haired as her brother, smiled the dazzling smile that had already charmed every man of import in Natchez and most of those in New Orleans and St. Louis.

"You're right, of course. But what if he's told her already?"

"That wasn't the plan. You know our Flint; he seldom changes course in mid-stream. I'd be willing to wager he hasn't told her yet. Didn't you see the worried expression on her face when they arrived?" Radford's ebony eyes grew distant and wistful. "She's more beautiful that her portrait. I hadn't thought that possible. She'll make a magnificent hostess for Belvoir." He patted his sister's hand reassuringlyOlympia grew cross if another woman were praised in her presence. "As you will at Oakwood, my dear."

"Flint was supposed to marry me; everyone said so," Olympia pouted. "But that was before he found his little heiress. It's only right that I should have him."

"And so you will, but not unless you do your part."

Smiling slyly, Olympia left the carriage and took up her watch just up the street from the hotel entrance. There, in a doorway, she lay in wait for her prey.

It was only a few moments later that Flint appeared bound for the rooms his family kept in the Pontalba Apartments. There he would change his clothing and then return for Catrina.

Seeing him, Olympia left her lair and sallied down the street as though she had no notion in the world that Flint was about. They nearly collided and she gasped, feigning surprise magnificently.

With a delighted cry, she threw herself into his arms. "Flint, darling! When did you return? How fine you look, all tanned and trim! Where's Lady Catrina? You know we're all dying to meet her!"

Flint smiled, patiently waiting for the barrage of questions to cease. "We just arrived this morning, Olympia," he told her, "and Catrina is at the hotel."

"Tell me, cousin, what did she say when you told her you were Ashton St. James? I'd wager she was delighted."

"I haven't told her, not yet. I'm on my way to the Pontalba to get into some of my own clothes and then I'll come back and break the news to her."

Olympia's heart leapt. He was falling right into their trap. "What a marvelous surprise! You must bring her to Belvoir when you return to Natchez. Radford and I must be the first to welcome her. Promise me, now."

"I do promise. And thank you. What are you doing in New Orleans?"

She waved a languid, long-fingered hand. "Having fittings. They're so tedious. But I must have a new wardrobe. Everyone has already seen everything I bought last summer." She leaned close to Flint allowing her breasts to press his arm. "Tell me, darling, is she as beautiful as her portrait?"

"More so," Flint replied with a sigh that ignited a flame of hatred in Olympia. She detested the little upstart sight unseen! "I'll tell you what," Flint continued. "After you've finished your fittings, why don't you come to the hotel and I'll introduce you to her?"

"I'd love that," Olympia purred, seething inside, knowing that he was oblivious to her charms. "It's so good to have you home again."

She pressed herself against him, stretching up to kiss his mouth. But he caught her chin and, turning her face, kissed her cheek before moving away.

Olympia glared after him and only the knowledge of what was to happen next kept her from storming into the hotel and clawing the English heiress to pieces. Waiting until Flint was out of sight, she returned to the carriage and reported their conversation to her brother.

"Excellent," Radford said when she'd finished. "Now off with you, Olympia. Your part in this charade is not yet finished and mine is only beginning."

Tapping on the wall of the carriage, he signaled the driver to climb down and go on the errand which had already been explained to him.

Catrina waited nervously in her room expecting the knock on the door at any moment. Even so she started violently what at last it came. Opening the door, she found the black-clad coachman standing in the hall.

"Lady Catrina Carlysle?" he inquired.

"I am she," Catrina confirmed, unable to force her voice above a whisper.

"I am instructed to conduct you downstairs, m'lady. Mr. St. James is waiting in his carriage."

Catrina's heart seemed to leap, thudding wildly. With trembling fingers she pulled on her mantle and fumbled with the ribbons of her bonnet before following the man down the stairs and into the street.

Her first impression of Radford St. James was one of disappointment. He was handsome, there was no denying that, but his good looks were of a far different variety from Flint's. Where Flint was possessed of a masculinity that was so overpowering as to be threatening, Radford St. James seemed more like the hero in some young girl's daydreams. Not handsome really so much as possessed of a great physical beauty that pleased the eye but did little to stir the senses. His clothing was finely tailored and in the latest fashion but his sea green coat, azure waistcoat, magenta cravat, and brown trousers seemed far too dandyish to suit Catrina's biased eyes. A thick gold watch chain festooned with trinkets hung across his double breasted waistcoat and a huge baroque pearl held his cravat in place. In his button hole a scarlet rose reposed looking oddly dull in the midst of all that splendor.

Pulling off one white kid glove, he held out his hand and helped Catrina into the carriage.

"Dearest Catrina," he said, bending over her hand, "at long last we meet."

Feeling dull and colorless in her gown of apricot silk and gray silk mantle, Catrina smiled tremulously.

"Mr. St. James," she said simply, gently pulling her hand from his grasp.

"No formalities, I beg you. You must address me by my Christian name."

Catrina flushed, looking away as he lifted the monocle that was purely an affectation and examined her through it,. "I'm sorry, sir, but my father did not tell me your name."

Radford squelched a smile. Flint had played into their hands with amazing perfection. "Radford, my dear. Radford St. James."

Though he sat so closely beside her that he could almost hear the wild pounding of her heart, Radford had to strain to hear her repeat his name.

"Radford." Ferreting out her hand from among the flounces of her skirt, he held it between his gloved ones. It was trembling but he put her reaction down to girlish nerves.

''We shall leave for Natchez immediately, my dear. I think you will be pleased when you see Belvoir, your new home."

"I'm sure I shall," she replied dutifully.

With a tap of his bamboo cane, Radford signaled the driver and they were off. He studied Catrina's pale profile for some moments while she stared straight ahead seeming not even to breathe. She was really quite extraordinarily beautiful; when fully matured, she would be magnificent. He could almost commiserate with Flint. What hell it would be to lose her to another man! Almost commiserate, but not quite. When he thought of Catrina's inheritance lining his pockets while his sister became mistress of poor bereft cousin Flint's rich plantation and shipping empire, his tenuous sympathies vanished.

Of course, Flint could still take his revenge. When he discovered Radford's deception he could sue Lord Lynleigh and claim the major part of Catrina's inheritance. But Radford was counting on noble, gallant Flint to take pity on the poor, fragile, beautiful, wronged creature riding next to him and withdraw his claim rather than hurt her any further.

Smirking, Radford's black eyes fell on Catrina's bosom. It rose and fell rapidly with her agitation and his fingers ached to caress it. Suddenly he was amazed to realize that he was becoming aroused at the mere thought of possessing her. What a remarkable creature she was.

"Catrina?" he said huskily.

She turned her head slowly and looked at him for the first time sinced she'd entered the carriage. When he reached out and took her chin in his hand, she trembled but made no move to escape his hold. When he leaned toward her she held her breath but did nothing to stop him. His lips touched hers briefly and then he released her.

He has the right, she told herself, turning her face away so that he would not see the tears that welled into her eyes. He has the right to touch me, to kiss me, to take me even as Flint did. No! Not as Flint did! Treacherous as he was, Flint held my heart and took me with love. I belong to this dandified fop and he has every right to possess my body but he will never touch my heart!

Dressed in muted shades of blue, Flint Ashton, now transformed into Ashton St. James or Flint St. James as his intimates knew him, stepped out of a carriage in front of the hotel where an hour earlier he had left Catrina.

He was eager to see the look on her lovely face when he told her the truth and he took the stairs two at a time in his haste to reach her.

But when he threw back the door to her suite, he found nothing. A uniformed maid was straightening the doilies on the table beside the settee where Catrina had been sitting when last he saw her. She looked up, startled, when he burst into the room.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

The maid looked about her. "Sir?"

"Where is she! The young woman who occupied this suite!"

"She left, sir. I was sent to tidy the suite."

"Left! What the hell do you mean, she left!"

The maid shrank back in the face of his outrage. "I'm sorry, sir. That's all I know."

Incensed, Flint stormed back down to the desk where a bespectacled clerk eyed him curiously.

"The lady I brought here, Lady Catrina Carlysle, where is she?"

The man was nonplused. "She's gone, sir."

"Damn it, man! I know that! Where has she gone?"

"Her gentleman sent his driver to fetch her. Her fiancé, Mr. St. James."

Flint's mind reeled and he brought his fist down on the gleaming mahogany of the desk with thunderous force. "Damnation, you fool!" he roared. "I am Ashton St. James! I am her fiancé!"

A deathly silence filled the lobby and reigned for many moments until Olympia's throaty voice shattered it. Touching Flint's sleeve, she looked up at him innocently.

"Well, darling, are you going to introduce me to your fiancée as you promised?"

As though in slow motion, Flint's head swiveled toward her and she was stunned by the murderous glow in his emerald eyes.

"She's gone," he said dully. "This blasted idiot has let someone take her." "Take her?" Olympia repeated with convincing astonishment. "You don't mean . . . oh, darling, surely you don't mean she's been kidnapped?"

"I don't know what I mean, Olympia. But she's gone. I'll find her, though, if I have to tear New Orleans apart to do it!"

From the levee on the river where the riverboats docked came the whistle of a departing boat. Olympia bit back a smile as Flint strode out of the hotel to begin his search.

Let him tear New Orleans to the ground, Olympia thought maliciously. His precious Catrina is no longer in the city!

Chapter 10

By the time their carriage turned into the treeshaded lane that led to Belvoir, Catrina knew she could never be a proper wife to Radford St. James. His sly fondling and furtive kisses evoked no emotion in her save revulsion and the thought of lying naked in a bed with him and letting him possess her as Flint had done nauseated her.

She stiffened as she felt him edging closer to her on the seat. When he took her hand and pressed it between his own, she bit her lip and forced herself to refrain from snatching it out of his too-tight grasp.

"It won't be long now, my dear," he told her. "I'm so anxious for you to see my home. Our home."

In spite of her best efforts, Catrina shuddered. Compressing her lips to stifle the despairing cry that sprang to them, she closed her eyes and willed herself to regain control of her emotions.

Her reaction was not lost on Radford. "What is it, Catrina?" he asked anxiously. "Are you ill?"

"I . . . I . .," she stuttered, casting about for a reasonable explanation for her behavior.

"I hope you are not unwell," he went on, "for I did hope that we could be married without delay." He lifted her hand to his lips. ''I am so anxious for you to be my wife, dearest Catrina."

A scheme born of desperation blossomed in her brain. Pressing a hand to her cheek, she gazed at him beseechingly. "I did not want to tell you, Radford," she murmured demurely. "I had hoped . . . no . . . I had prayed that the situation would remedy itself by now. It has not."

"Situation? What do you mean?"

She looked away, eyes filled with sorrow, taking to her part with all the panache of a born actress. "The was a mutiny aboard the Golden Rose. Several men were killed; many others were wounded. I, myself, was among the latter."

"The lat . . . you were wounded?" Radford's shock was completely genuine.

Tugging at the ribbons of her bonnet, Catrina pulled it off and lifted her curls so that he could inspect the dark pink welt that was all that remained of the graze on her temple. Radford eyed it closely, touching it with gentle fingers, and the anger in his black eyes surprised Catrina.

"Does it pain you, my angel?" he asked. "Not particularly," she replied. "But my life was despaired of for many days and now I find that too much excitement seems to make me faint headed and I am fatigued very easily. Dr. Lewis, the ship's doctor, prescribed quiet and rest with no strenuous activity for some time."

"How long?" Radford didn't bother to hide his unhappiness.

Catrina shrugged. She wanted to give herself as much time as possible without arousing his susicions enough to cause him to call in another doctor to examine her.

"Several weeks, at least," she said at last. "Perhaps longer."

Radford considered the matter, his expression one of acute disappointment. "Well, I still see no reason to postpone the marriage. Although perhaps the . . . the honeymoon will have to wait."

She smiled up at him, carefully looking as weak and fragile as possible. "You're too kind to me, sir."

Charmed, Radford forgave her the matter of the delayed consummation. With rest and care, he told himself confidently, he would find himself in her bed in considerably less than the "several weeks" this Dr. Lewis had prescribed.

Belvoir appeared at the end of the lane sitting in the center of a sunlit clearing. Painted entirely in white, it was dazzling in the sunshine, nearly blinding Catrina as she sat forward in the carriage to see it better. Two stories high with a low-hipped roof, the building was completely encircled by tall, fluted pillars which supported both an upper and lower gallery onto which every room in the house opened. Lacy wrought-iron railings painted as white as the rest of the house connected the pillars decorating the mansion like lace on a bridal gown.

"How beautiful it is," she sighed honestly admiring the ornate, impressive mansion that was so different from the grand, somewhat forbidding ancestral manors of her homeland.

"You will make it more so by being its mistress," Radford murmured into her ear.

She smiled, willing to be gracious since she'd found how easily he could be duped. "We will make it the social center of Natchez."

Radford frowned. Better, he thought, to keep Catrina isolated from the gossips of Natchez until Olympia had successfully ensnared Flint,.

"Not until you are well, my sweet," he told her gently. "Perhaps we will host a ball in your honor after we are married."

There was something in his tone of voice that made Catrina turn her attention from the magnificent mansion and look at him. But his handsome, swarthy face was set in an expression of saccharine affection and she could read nothing in his ebony eyes.

"Take care," a voice inside her warned. "He's not the simpleton you thought at first."

"Of course, you're completely right," she said demurely. She looked away, troubled, inexplicably unable to meet his deceptively sweet gaze. The carriage drew up before the exquisite, imposing entrance of Belvoir and Radford swung Catrina to the ground and offered her his arm.

"You will forgive me if the servants aren't lined up to greet you, darling," he told her, "but it was not known precisely when we would arrive."

Catrina smiled, not in the least unhappy to be spared the long round of tedious introductions. She gazed up at the brass and crystal chandelier that hung from the entrance hall ceiling at the very top of the house. The hall seemed to soar for it rose to the ceiling of the second floor and the balustrade of the stairway echoed the iron railing of the upper gallery outside the house.

"Darling?" Radford said, drawing her attention to the comely, statuesque woman who stood before them. "This is Mrs. Brandt. She is Belvoir's housekeeper. If there are any changes to be made in the running of this house, you must feel free to tell her your wishes."

Catrina smiled. The woman, though of imposing appearance, had kind brown eyes that seemed to offer friendship.

"I'm quite certain that Mrs. Brandt knows better how to run this house that I ever could," she said, and was pleased by the salt-and-pepper haired housekeeper's broad smile.

"Mrs. Brandt's daughter, Norah, will be your maid, my sweet," Radford told her. "Where is the girl, Emily?"

"She's upstairs, sir, drawing madam's bath. Your carriage was sighted on the drive by one of the maids." "Well, then, I believe I'll see how the plantation has fared in my absence while you refresh yourself, my dear. I'm sure Mrs. Brandt will be happy to show you the way."

"Of course, sir," the housekeeper agreed. With a swish of her black silk skirts, she started up the stairs.

Catrina made as if to follow, but Radford caught her wrist as she would have left him.

"Darling," he said, "I've had your belongings put into the master suite. I, of course, will occupy another room until we are married."

"Thank you, sir," Catrina replied, relieved to hear that he apparently did not intend to press the matter of their physical intimacy until after the marriage had been performed.

"Really, Catrina, you mustn't call me'sir'. Please, let me hear you speak my name,."

All too aware of the housekeeper's eyes upon them, Catrina forced a small, shy smile to her lips. "Radford," she murmured obediently.

He kissed her hand and then, lightly, her lips, apparently never noticing that she did not respond in the slightest. Or perhaps, Catrina thought, he puts my lack of response down to maidenly inexperience.

Drawing her hand out of his grasp, she lifted her skirts and followed Mrs. Brandt up the black walnut staircase to the second floor.

At the head of the stairs, French windows opened onto the upper gallery as they did from every upstairs room. Catrina longed to explore the elegant home but told herself that there was time for thattoo much time in all likelihood!

At a point nearly opposite the head of the stairs, the housekeeper opened one of a pair of recessed doors and showed Catrina into a large, airy chamber painted a rich, tawny gold. An immense four-poster hung with crewel-work draperies in shades of cream and gold dominated the chamber. The mahogany furniture was upholstered in gold damask and sat on a fine cream and gold Aubusson carpet.

It was all very lovely and much more civilized than Catrina had imagined it would be. But she could take no great delight in it because it was Radford with whom she would be sharing it. She noticed a short stairway leading to a small door high up in the wall. Curious, she started toward it but a door opening on the other side of the room stopped her.

A girl stood there dressed in a cotton dress printed with little yellow flowers. Its skirt ended above her ankles as did the white cotton apron she wore over it. Her dull brown hair was caught back in a small bun at the nape of her neck and a white muslin cap sat atop her head.

She smiled nervously when Catrina's eyes met her dark ones and she bobbed a little, awkward curtsy.

"You must be Norah Brandt," Catrina said, smiling to try and put the girl at her ease. "I've met your mother. I'm told that you are to be my maid."

"Yes, madam," the girl chirped. "Your bath is ready." After the tension of the past days, the steaming water that filled the tub was sheer heaven to Catrina. Lying back in the tub, she sighed and closed her eyes feeling the heat of the water seep into her muscles and, so it seemed, into her very bones.

Norah arranged Catrina's toiletries on a handsome dressing table that stood beneath a gilt-framed mirror. One by one she lifted out the crystal stoppers and smelled the perfumes and oils within the flacons, rolling her eyes and sighing as their sweet, heady scents rose into her nostrils.

Catrina looked up as she exclaimed over one of the scents. Holding the flacon as though it were some rare and precious object d'art, she brought it to the tub.

"Oh, madam, they're all so lovely but this is the best. Please, may I pour some into your bath?"

Catrina smiled, about to humor the girl, but then she caught sight of the bottle in her hands. She sat up in the tub and caught the girl's wrist as she was about to pour the contents into the steaming water.

"No!" she shouted, her voice nearly deafening in the small bathchamber. "Not that one! Put it back!"

Startled and mortified to think that she had committed some hideous blunder so soon after the new mistress's arrival, Norah skittered away to replace the flacon on the dressing table. There followed several moments of silence broken only by the sound of Norah's sniffling. Catrina held out a hand to her.

"Here now, Norah, don't cry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout. You did nothing wrong. It's only that that particular scent is very special to me. I'd like to save it." Her eyes went to the bottle of hyacinth scent on the dressing table. It was bad enough that she had the ache of her inner thigh muscles and the soreness between her legs to remind her of her folly with Flint, she didn't need the scent of hyacinths as well. "Bring me another fragrance, whichever you like second best."

Reassured that she had not already bungled her duties, the maid brought a bottle filled with rose bath oil and poured some into the water. It didn't take long for her to regain her natural good humor and she was soon humming softly as she scrubbed Catrina's back and washed her hair.

It was an hour later that Catrina sat before the mirror of her dressing table. Wrapped in a negligee of sky-blue China silk, she sat with her elbows propped on the table, her chin cupped in her hands, daydreaming while Norah brushed her gleaming, freshly-washed hair.

"Oh, madam, I do envy you your hair. It twines about my wrist with a will of its own! I knew from your picture that you were pretty but you're far more lovely than it is."

"My picture?" Catrina asked.

"The painting. It's in the red drawing room downstairs."

"Oh, yes. The portrait Father sent." She smiled at the girl in the mirror. "Thank you, Norah, you're very kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it, madam. It's the truth. Won't be long and the St. James family will be able to boast the two most beautiful hostesses in Natchez."

"What do you mean?"

"The master's sister, Miss Olympia, is going to marry their cousin. He owns Oakwood, a fine plantation whose lands adjoin Belvoir's." She shook her head, rolling her eyes as she seemed wont to do whenever she found something particularly delightful. "Ah, there's a manMiss Olympia's beau. Mind you, the master is a fine figure of a man, but his cousin, Master"

"Norah!"

The voice, coming so loudly and unexpectedly startled the maid and the heavy, silver-backed brush she was holding went clattering to the floor. Catrina, herself taken by surprise, swiveled on her brocaded dressing stool. She found Radford standing in the doorway, his swarthy face flushed with anger.

"Get out of here, you twaddling little ninny!" he snarled. "If I catch you gossiping about my family again you and your mother will find yourselves without a home!"

Covering her face, the girl started to cry with such heartbreaking intensity that Catrina's heart went out to her. Leaving her dressing table, she held the girl's shoulders and spoke soft words of reassurance to her.

But Radford was adamant. Wrenching the girl out of Catrina's grasp, he shoved her toward the door with an untelligible growl. Still wailing uncontrollably, Norah fled from the suite and could be heard as she descended the stairs.

"That was uncalled for," Catrina chided. "She was merely telling me about your sister's forthcoming marriage."

"Olympia's marriage is none of her business."

"Is it mine? You never even troubled to tell me you had a sister, sir."

As she stood there, anger's fiery lights in her topaz eyes, her honey curls twining themselves about her throat and shoulders, Radford's annoyance faded. Smiling sheepishly, he went to her and lifted a curl that had strayed down her arm.

"Forgive me, my angel, but gossiping servants are a particular dislike of mine. Come, let me show you something that may take both our minds off Norah and her stories."

Taking her hand he led Catrina through the bedchamber and to the little staircase she had noticed earlier. Mounting it, he opened the door and let her into a perfectly appointed nursery that nestled beneath the eaves of Belvoir's manor house.

"Isn't it beautiful, my sweet?" he asked, setting a hooded cradle to rocking with a touch of his finger.

Looking around herself at the pale green, beautifully furnished room, Catrina thought of her child growing up here. Her child and Radford's child. Conceived in the big four-poster bed down the short flight of stairs. Unable to halt their flow, hot, salt tears welled into her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. In an instant, Radford was beside her.

''My love, does the thought of a child affect you so?" He was genuinely moved. "Yes, I can see that it does. Oh, my beautiful darling, how loving you are."

"Please," she whispered, wanting only to be out of the room and away from the thoughts it evoked.

She looked up at him beseechingly but Radford, intoxicated by the gentle, sensitive creature he had managed to steal away from his cousin, did not hear the pleading in her voice.

He saw only her beauty and his mind reeled with her nearness. His hand slipped about her waist and he reveled in the softness of her uncorsetted body beneath her silk dressing gown. Before Catrina knew what was happening, she was in his arms.

Though she struggled with him, Radford's mouth swooped down on her own and his tongue forced her lips apart, seeking entrance to the hot, ambrosial cavern of her mouth. Her little fists battered his shoulders to no avail while his hands tore at her robe, exposing her small, pink-tipped breasts to his rough fondling.

"No, please!" she moaned, feeling the sour bile of revulsion rising into her throat, "Let me go! Don't touch me!"

"You're mine, Catrina. You belong to me. I own you. You must let me"

"No!" she screamed again. "I am not your wife! I need not yield to you!"

But instead of releasing her, Radford pulled her close. He held her tightly against him, letting her feel his desire in hopes of rousing what he thought of as her virginal senses.

Catrina felt him against her and moaned, sickened. "Dear God, let me go," she begged. His rough, crude clutching and probing only brought back poignant memories of Flint's gentleness. The nausea he evoked in her only made her long for the desire Flint aroused in her. She felt her stomach churning and swallowed against the overwhelming urge to gag.

"Let me make love to you," Radford cooed into her ear. "Your fear is only natural but I can give you pleasures you've never even imagined. Give yourself to me, sweet "Trina."

Catrina retched helplessly in his arms. After everything else, it was his use of Flint's nickname for that pushed her beyond the edge of endurance.

Alarmed, Radford swept her into his arms and carried her down the stairs to the bedchamber. He laid her across the bed even though the spasms had passed, sent for Mrs. Brandt and ordered her to bring something to calm Catrina.

Obediently she drank the brew the housekeeper brought, anxious for both of them to leave her in peace. When at last they left and she was alone, she rolled onto her stomach and muffled her tears in her pillows.

"Flint, oh, Flint," she moaned into her pillows' comforting softness. "Why did you abandon me to this man? How he play me so falsely?"

Ensconced in a wing chair in the hotel suite where he had left Catrina, Flint tossed back a brandy and was grateful for the fiery burning in his throat that, however briefly, took his mind off Catrina. He had torn New Orleans apart in his search and his worry was driving him mad. There were men in the city, he knew, who would pay and pay well for a beautiful young woman like her. When they had had their pleasure, their victims were disposed of, often permanently. There was even rumored to be an exiled Turkish Prince in the city who kept a harem to which he added periodically if offered a particularly appetizing morsel. Flint's mind went back to his sedarch for Catrina in London. It was a nightmare revisited and his outrage was boundless.

A knock on the door sent him hurtling across the room. Throwing back both doors he found Olympia St. James standing in the corridor. In scarlet silk that made her dusky beauty incredibly vivid, she had turned heads on the street and in the lobby downstairs. But the dark, feline sensuality she seemed to exude from every pore was completely lost on Flint, the one man she was desperately trying to attract.

"Olympia," he said tonelessly, turning back to the room.

"Not the most flattering welcome I've ever received," she said sarcastically, entering the parlor. "I take it you still haven't found her?" Flint shook his head miserably. "I wish I could help, darling. I can imagaine how you feel"

"No, you can't!" Flint interrupted tersely. "You've no idea how I feel, Olympia, I love Catrina! I adore her! She's like no other woman that ever was." He ran a hand through his hair. "Without her there is nothing in this world that means a damn to me!''

Stunned, Olympia sank down onto the settee. It had never occurred to her that he could actually have fallen in love with the little chit of a girl. Why, the child was hardly out of the nursery! It was incomprehensible that Flint's senses, which had resisted her exotic charms all these years, could have been so easily enslaved by an empty-headed schoolgirl scarcely out from behind her nanny's skirts.

She frowned, pondering the matter, then quickly smoothed her brow. Frowning caused wrinkles, she reminded herself. Still, the matter deserved serious thought.

She glanced up to find Flint pacing the floor. He had obviously forgotten her presence completely. Her part of the scheme, it was easy to see, was going to be far more difficult than either she or Radford had ever imagined. She wondered if her brother were doing better with his high-nosed little heiress.

Chapter 11

The morning sun glowed behind the draperies of Catrina's room promising a day every bit as tauntingly cheerful as the one before. Lying in bed, loathe to leave its warm, satin-sheeted comfort, Catrina was busily torturing herself with images of Flint Ashton.

She had scarcely slept at all the previous night, her first at Belvoir. Her mind would not be stilled; it would not give her respite from the agonizing pictures it painted of Flint entwined in the snowy, silken limbs of his beautiful wife. With each round of imaginings, the woman grew more exquisite and Flint was more in love with her.

"He's forgotten about me already," she told herself. "Even now he's probably whispering the same words of love into her ear that he whispered into mine. If he thinks of me at all, it's likely only to smile with smug self-satisfaction at how well he duped me. How he must smirk when he remembers my coming to him, telling him of my feelings. Oh! Why did I ever admit that I loved him!"

Hearing the click of the doorknob, she quickly wiped away the tears that had started in the corners of her eyes and took a deep breath to calm herself. Expecting to see Norah, she was surprised when a startlingly beautiful woman entered and crossed the room to draw the draperies back at the French windows.

Coming to the foot of the bed, she smiled down at Catrina through the heavy lace baire. "Would you like your breakfast served here, madame?" she asked, her slightly husky voice tinged with a French accent.

Catrina stared at her nonplussed. Dressed in a gown of rustling black silk, the woman had skin the color of old ivory, hair of a dark, glossy red, and long, heavily-lashed eyes of clearest green that reminded Catrina all too much of Flint.

"Who are you?"

The woman's chin went up slightly. Her attitude was one of respect but it was clear that she had lost none of her pride when she'd entered service. "I am Angelique Vauchamps, madame. I am your new maid."

"My new But what happened to Norah?"

"I don't know, madame. You would have to speak to Monsieur about that."

"Yes. Yes, I shall." For a moment she was lost in thought but then, realizing that the woman was still standing at the foot of the bed awaiting an answer to her question, she shook her head. "I don't care for any breakfast, thank you. I should like to bathe and dress."

She climbed out of bed while Angelique brought her dressing gown. Standing beside Angelique, Catrina felt short and squat. The woman was tall and willowy with an elegant grace, an air of breeding, that completely belied her station.

She watched as the woman walked toward the bathchamber to begin preparations for Catrina's bath. How beautiful she is, Catrina thought, I wonder if Flint's wife is that lovely.

"Oh, damn!" she muttered aloud as her thoughts returned to the subject of her earlier, unwelcome musings.

In the doorway of the bathchamber, Angelique turned toward her, a questioning look on her finely-boned face. "Madame?" she asked.

Catrina shook her head and waved a dismissing hand. "It was nothing, Angelique," she assured her. Afraid that her eyes might give her away, she turned and gazed out the French windows while the maid went about her duties.

Dressed in a gown of creamy silk striped with orchid, her hair carefully plaited by Angelique and then wound into a large bun at the back of her head, Catrina left her room an hour later and walked slowly along the upper gallery that encircled the mansion. Her mind, thankfully diverted from the painful subject of Flint Ashton, was wholly occupied by thoughts of Angelique Vauchamps. Though the woman had shown her nothing but the respect due the mistress of the house, there was in her every word and gesture an air of culture that Catrina had never encountered in a servant. She would certainly have to question Radford about it at the first opportunity.

Rounding the mansion she caught her first glimpse of the rose gardens directly behind the house. Beyond them lay twin buildings housing the laundry and kitchen, a small, brick smokehouse, and storehouses. A road led away, disappearing behind a screen of trees, toward the slave quarters.

A movement in the garden below caught her eye. Radford, looking far less the fop in fawn trousers, a plain linen shirt, a simple black satin cravat, and a cream taffeta waistcoat, was speaking to a rough looking man who was obviously not a gentleman. When the man nodded and started off toward the slave quarters and the fields beyond, Catrina assumed that he must be an employee.

She was about to turn away when she heard a low female voice calling her fiance's name. Peering over the railing, she saw a tall, voluptuous woman in turquiose moire leave the mansion and hurry across the garden. Her raven hair had been trained into a mass of long ringlets that gleamed in the sunshine. Even before Radford called her name, Catrina knew that this must be Olympia, his sister, who was to marry their cousin.

"Olympia!" Radford cried in surprise as his sister appeared from the rear doors of the entrance hall that ran through the house from front to back. She reached his side and he seized her arm and jerked her close. "What the devil are you doing here!"

"Flint is here," she hissed back. She grimaced impatienty when Radford cast a worried look about them. "Not here, you fool; not at Belvoir. But here in Natchez!"

"Why! I thought he'd still be ransacking New Orleans!"

Olympia shrugged. "So did I. But he's got a miniature of Catrina in a locket. He's shown it to everyone he's seen and he came upon an old man who told him he'd seen a girl who looked very like her being taken aboard a riverboat bound for Natchez."

"Oh, Lord!" Radford groaned.

"He said she was with two men, you and your driver of course. But the old man didn't pay much attention to the men and so he couldn't describe them."

"Thank heaven for that!"

"Yes, thank God for small blessings," Olympia agreed dryly. "In any case, Flint has decided that Catrina was kidnapped and taken to Silver Street where she was sold to one of the brothel keepers."

"It has been known to happen," Radford allowed.

"Yes, but not this time. There's every chance that he'll come to Belvoir, brother. The question is, how do we keep them apart?" Radford chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "If Flint" He broke off and cast a warning look toward his sister that was gone almost before it appeared. Looking past Olympia, he broke into a wide smile. "Catrina, my sweet, you're looking quite lovely this morning. I take it you're feeling better?"

"I'm quite all right," she assured him as she joined them. "I saw you from the balcony. I assumed that this lady was your sister and so I came down to meet her."

Radford introduced them and the two women eyed one another with interest. While Catrina admired Olympia's dark, exotic beauty, Olympia felt a quiver of unease deep in the pit of her stomach. The girl was so young, so guilelessly beautiful, and obviously quite unaware of her own loveliness. It was depressingly easy to imagine Flint falling in love with her.

"I'm told that you are to marry soon as well," Catrina said. "A cousin of yours, I believe?"

Olympia studied the younger woman's eyes for some sign that she knew more than she was saying. There was none and she relaxed.

"Yes, I am. Our cousin, Ashton St. James of Oakwood plantation."

"Ashton?" Catrina repeated softly. She bit her lip and wondered why everything seemed to conspire to remind her of Flint.

"Perhaps you'll meet him someday soon."

"I'll look forward to it." Unable to resist, Catrina looked up at Radford. "I couldn't help overhearing, Radford. Did you mention Captain Ashton just now?"

Knowing that she wouldn't be fooled by a lie, he nodded. "Yes, I did. The captain may be visiting Belvoir soon."

To Radford and Olympia's surprise, the blood drained from Catrina's face leaving her pale and obviously shaken.

"I wonder," she murmured, more to herself than to either of them, "that he was able to leave his wife so soon after his return." Glancing up, she saw their startled looks and explained. ''When we arrived in New Orleans, a gentleman on the dock spoke to the captain and asked about his wife. I had the impression that they had not been married long."

"That's quite true," Olympia confirmed quickly, sensing that fate had handed them the wedge to drive between Catrina and Flint. "They were married only days before Flint sailed for England. He was quite distressed to be torn from her side." She studied Catrina for several moments. "In fact, my dear, she looks very like you. Doesn't she, Radford?"

In his turn, Radford looked Catrina up and down. "Why, now that you mention it, she does. My heavens! Poor Flint must have found it quite a torment to see you day after day, Catrina, when you must have reminded him most poignantly of his own beloved Suzanne."

"Suzanne?" Catrina repeated, unable to stop herself. Now the woman had a name as well as a faceher face! Seeing the chagrin Catrina couldn't begin to hide, Olympia pressed her point home. "Of course, not even Suzanne will be able to tame him."

"What do you mean?" Catrina asked.

"I'm not sure I should be speaking of such things in front of you, my dear, you're very young. But then, you are soon to be a wife, are you not?" Olympia smiled. "Flint Ashton, for all his delicious looks and exquisite charm, is a well-known womanizer. His exploits both in New Orleans and Natchez are notorious. When he's not at sea, he is pursuing women; any women he can find. Planters' wives, their daughters, common harlots. He makes no distinction. When in Natchez he frequents the brothels and saloons of Natchez-Under-the-Hill until all hours of the night."

Desperately holding her emotions in check, Catrina asked softly, "And yet he married this Suzanne? I shouldn't think such a man would be the marrying kind."

"Suzanne's family is well-to-do. She was quite a catch for a man of his station. And, so the gossip runs, Suzanne refused his advances. I imagine he married her because she was the first woman he could not have any other way."

Catrina felt her knees weaken. She fought frantically against the urge to flee from them and their hideous revelations. She felt Radford's hand at her elbow, steadying her.

"Catrina are you all right? Olympia, you should not have sullied Catrina's ears with such tawdry gossip!"

"If you knew the man was such a scoundrel," Catrina asked accusingly," why did you send him for me?"

Slipping an arm about her waist, Radford held her tightly. "He's the best of all my captains, darling. I knew that, despite his lustful nature, you would be safer sailing with him that anyone else. And, of course, I knew that your breeding and natural discretion would prevent you from falling prey to such a common, despicable man."

Catrina could do nothing to stop the crimson flush that stained her cheeks; she could only hope they would ascribe it to the shock done to her innocence at the thought of having spent more than a month unchaperoned in the company of such a man.

Shaken, she laid a hand on Radford's arm. "Would you think me churlish if I did not come down when Captain Ashton comes to visit?"

Radford and Olympia exchanged a look of pleased surprise and Radford leaned over and pressed a light kiss on her forehead.

"Not at all, my sweet. In fact, the less you have to do with that blackguard the better."

"Thank you, sir. Now, if you will both excuse me, the sun is so dreadfully bright. I believe I'll go inside."

She started away but then remembered what it was she'd come into the garden to ask him. "Sir," she began, and them amended as he was about to correct her, "I mean, Radford. Why have you replaced Norah as my maid? I thought she was a sweet girl."

"Are you dissatisfied with Angelique, my love?" he hedged.

"No, she's very nice. But I was curious."

"I've sent Norah to work in the laundry. Angelique is far more cultured and, I feel, eminently more suitable to be your maid."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Catrina lied. "But I find Angelique a very unusual maid. As you said, there is an air of culture about her that I find difficult to ascribe to a simple maidservant."

"Ah, but Angelique is no simple maidservant. She is a femme de couleur, a quadroon." Seeing that Catrina had no idea of what he was talking about, he explained. "She is one quarter Negro and the rest white. In New Orleans, such women are known as femmes de couleur. She is a free woman not a slave."

"I see. Well, she is certainly very beautiful."

"Such women very often are," Olympia put in. "In New Orleans, they are highly sought as mistresses to the wealthy men."

"I see. I'm certain we shall get along. Excuse me."

Catrina left them then and Olympia waited until she'd disappeared into the mansion before turning on her brother.

"She wouldn't by any chance be speaking of Angelique Vauchamps, would she?"

Radford lifted an eyebrow. "And why not?"

"Your mistress? As your wife's maid? Isn't one beautiful woman enough for you, brother?" "Catrina is not my wife yet, if you'll remember. And in any case, I fear she may be cold-natured."

Olympia's raven brows arched. "Frigid?"

"Early indications would make it seem so."

"Impossible. Flint is in love with her. Surely he'd never feel so strongly about a woman he couldn't arouse to some extent."

"I wonder. Do you think, dear sister, that our Flint may well fancy himself in love with the girl precisely because she was the first woman who ever refused him?"

"You may be right." Olympia laughed cruelly. "Perhaps we should not have interfered with their marriage. What exquisite revenge it would have been to see Flint madly in love for the first time in his life and with a woman who wanted nothing to do with him."

Two pairs of black eyes met and a peal of rippling laughter wafted out of the rose garden. Slipping an arm about his sister's tightly corsetted waist, Radford led Olympia into the mansion where they would begin planning the next phase of their scheme.

Chapter 12

As olympia had predicted, Flint arrived at Belvoir three days after his arrival in Natchez. Weary, frustrated, desperately worried, he had searched the sordid, sleazy dives that lined Silver Street in the notorious Natchez-Under-the-Hill section of town in vain. Either Catrina was not there, he told himself, or whoever had brought her from New Orleans were would not admit she was there. It was possible, he imagined, that she had been brought to Natchez by brokers with a particular client in mind. Such things were known to have happened. There were men of wealth and power with strange penchants and the money to indulge them. Then again, it was possible that the old man who had told him of seeing Catrina taken aboard a riverboat was mistaken and his trip to Natchez was nothing more than a wild goose chase. Tired and dispirited, he granted himself a few hours' respite from his search to visit Belvoir and his cousin Radford whom he had not seen since his departure for England nearly two months before. But even though the prospect of a leisurely visit with his family appealed to him, he could not rid his thoughts of Catrina. He wondered where she was and, more importantly, if she were being treated gently and had found some measure of contentment.

For her safety, he needn't have feared. Nor for her treatment. Sheltered within the elegant walls of Belvoir, Catrina was safe from the ruffians and cutthroats who frequented Silver Street. But she was far from content. In fact, she was restless and uneasy. Though Radford had not mentioned their wedding again, she knew it was foremost in his mind. That much was easy to see in the way he studied her over the rim of his glass at dinner and watched her as the firelight danced across her face when they sat together in the parlor in the evenings,. There was a hunger in his black eyes that frightened her. It was not the tender look of desire she had seen in Flint's eyes. Rather, it was a constant, gnawing needa passion barely reinedthat seemed always threatening to break free and engulf her with or without her acquiescence. Thus far, her pleading of terrible headaches and dizzinessaftereffects, she informed him frequently, of the wound she suffered aboard the Golden Rosehad kept him at bay. But that state of affairs could not last forever. The day would come all too soon when he would demand a wedding and his rights as her husband. It was that day that Catrina dreaded with every fiber of her being.

On the afternoon of Flint's visit, Catrina wandered aimlessly about the sprawling mansion in search of diversion. Radford was closeted in his study with his factor going over the plantation's books and Olympia was still in her room with a bevy of maids seeing to the daily regimen she was convinced would preserve her beauty forever,

Descending the stairs, she chose at random the long front parlor with its creamy walls and gold-flocked draperies. A massive gilded-bronze chandelier hung from the ornate plaster medallion in the high ceiling and the tall, goldleaf framed mirrors reflected the carved rosewood furniture that was kept richly polished and shining.

As she entered, Catrina heard the giggles of the housemaids who were supposed to be polishing the delicate porcelain and crystal ornaments that dercorated the room. Felice and Marie, the youngest of the houseslaves, were vivacious, charming girls who seemed inseparable and whose infectious laughter often echoed from room to room in the otherwise quiet mansion. Though carefully stifled whenever the master or either of the ladies of the house was nearby, it was not impossible to take them by surprise and see their open, delightful smiles.

"Mornin', Miss "Trina," they said in unison when they noticed her just within the room. "Good morning," Catrina replied. Though Mrs. Brandt was at them constantly to improve their diction, syllables fell by the wayside in droves including the first part of Catrina's name. It was a constant reminder of Flint and of her beloved governess, Jackson, but she didn't mind. When accompanied by the girls' shy smiles she felt none of the abhorrence she'd known when the nickname had found its way to Radford's lips. "Don't let me interrupt. Pretend I'm not here."

She wanted them to feel at ease in her presence. Fear of one's mistress, she had always felt, did not inspire loyalty in servants. Although Radford had taken pains to explain that slaves in America were not like servants in Englandowning a person, he pointed out again and again, eliminated the need to keep them happyshe wanted those slaves with whom she came into contact to do their work well because they wished to, not because they feared a beating or dismissal to the infinitely crueler life of a field slave.

Taking up a book of poetry that had been left on a table, Catrina sat down and begin to read. After a few moments, the maids relaxed and went back to their chores, chattering and giggling as if their mistress was not there.

It was only the shattering of the fine crystal that brought Catrina's nose out of her book with a start.

Both girls stared in horror at the sparkling shards that were all that remained of the etched crystal globe of a large hurricane lamp that formerly stood on a gilded table between two sets of French windows.

Felice, from whose usually nimble fingers the globe had fallen, began to cry. Marie looked as though she would join her at any moment.

"I'm goin' to the fields for sure now," Felice sobbed. "Miss 'Lympia's goin' to have me whipped for this!"

Laying aside her book, Catrina went to the stricken girl. "No one is going to have you whipped, Felice," she told her sternly.

"Miss 'Lympia will, Miss 'Trina. I know she will!"

"And I say she won't. She doesn't have the final say in this house, you know."

Sniffling, the girl stifled her sobs and a little of her buoyant good humor began to creep back into her face. But it quickly vanished again when the door swung open and Radford appeared.

"What the deuce is going on in here?" he demanded. "I could hear the glass breaking all the way in" His eyes fell to the long, lethal shards of crystal that littered the carpet. Rage flooded his swarthy face. His possessions were all of the highest quality, chosen with great care, and to see any of them destroyed infuriated him.

"Which one of you is responsible for this?" he bellowed. "So help me, I'll see the culprit whipped!"

The two maids retreated from him, cowering back until they were both behind Catrina. Neither spoke and it was their mutual refusal to lay the blame that drove Radford's fury to even greater heights. ''Tell me!" he roared. "By God, speak now or I'll see you both whipped! And then I'll put you both on the block!"

Catrina was horrified by his threats. Both girls had been born at Belvoir, she knew. Both had mothers and fathers and siblings among the field slaves who labored in the cotton fields far behind the mansion. To sell them away from their families and their home for the sake of a piece of glass appalled her.

"I broke it," she said quietly.

She heard the soft gasps of the girls behind her and saw the look of disbelief that sprang into Radford's eyes. But she held herself straight and faced him calmly.

"Don't protect them, Catrina," he told her. "They don't deserve it."

"I'm not protecting anyone," she replied coolly. "I was handling the globe and it slipped from my hands."

He sighed, perplexed by her everlasting concern for people who did not merit her attention. He wondered if he would ever get her to understand that slaves were possessions not hirelings and they were not to be coddled.

"Catrina," he said with exaggerated patience, "please, there's no need for you to"

"Are you about to call me a liar, Radford?" she interrupted.

"Damnation!" he swore beneath his breath. And then: "No, of course I'm not calling you a liar." With a wave of his hand, he sent the girls back to work. "Clean it up," he ordered. "And don't cut yourselves. I've no desire to see the future mistress of this house on her knees bandaging either of you."

Over their heads, Catrina sent Radford a smile that held more than a suggestion of triumph. If she was going to be mistress of Belvoirand fate seemed to have decreed that she mustRadford was soon going to have to change his ruthless attitude toward the human beings he seemed to regard as little more than two-legged workhorses.

He returned her look and they stood there, oblivious to their surroundings, locked in a battle of wills that lasted until Andre, a young stableboy, charged across the entrance hall in search of his master.

"Master Rad, sir," he panted. "Master Flint! Ridin' up the drive!"

Their eyes still engaged, Radford saw the look of near panic that filled Catrina's face. She looked like a skittish, trembling doe who has just sensed the hounds' approach. Not for the first time, Radford wondered what there had been between her and his cousin that had left her with such a fear of Flint.

Unable to help herself, Catrina went to the French windows that opened onto the lower gallery and drew the draperies aside. In the distance, shaded by the canopy of trees, Flint appeared. Astride a huge, prancing sorrel stallion, he looked so heartbreakingly handsome that Catrina felt an overwhelming wave of despair wash over her. Every detail of their last night together rushed back to her with agonizing clarity and close on their heels came a remembrance of the pain of learning that he had used her merely as a substitute for the woman he truly loved.

Unbidden, her hand lightly covered her heart that was pounding wildly beneath her rose moire gown. "Treacherous heart," she whispered, scarcely more than mouthing the words, "How could you have been so foolish as to be captured by such a wicked man!"

She felt Radford's nearness and then his hands slid about her waist as he stood behind her. Holding her close, he gently disengaged the drapery from her ice-cold hand and let it fall blocking out the sight of Flint's approach.

Radford held her and felt the uncontrollable quivering of her slight body against his. Her reaction bewildered him but he knew she would not confide the reason for it to him and he knew he could hardly ask Flint about her without betraying his knowledge of her whereabouts. He pressed his lips to the glossy curl that lay against her cheek.

"Darling," he said, "you'd better go upstairs. You said you didn't want to see him. Or have you changed your mind?"

She spun in his arms. "No!" The terror had returned to her topaz eyes. "Oh, Radford, no!"

"Then you'd better go to your room."

As if to underscore his warning, they heard Flint's low rumble of laughter as he spoke to the young groom who appeared to take the reins and lead the horse to the watering trough. His booted feet sounded on the stairs leading to the lower gallery. In a matter of moments he would enter the mansion.

With a little cry of sheer despair, Catrina lifted her skirts and fled, leaving the two maids to stare after her in amazement. From the drawing room doorway, Radford watched her mount the stairs in a flurry of rose silk skirts and white lace petticoats. Curls flying, she raced around the balcony from the head of the stairs and disappeared into her room with the slamming of her door.

Satisfied that she was hidden, Radford let a sly, self-satisfied smile creep across his handsome face. He drew the drawing room door closed and turned to face Flint who had just appeared in the entrance hall.

Upstairs, her back pressed to the door, her bosom heaving, Catrina's lungs burned as she fought to draw in air past the strangulating constriction in her throat. He was there; beneath the same roof. He was so close she could actually feel his presence. She knew she should damn his very memoryin her more reasonable moments she did exactly that. But knowing he was so near drove her to a kind of madness.

With a will of its own, her hand twisted the porcelain knob and drew the door open. Not daring to breathe, she slipped through the partially opened doorway and edged across the balcony.

Below, in the entrance hall, Flint stood with his broad back toward her. He seemed to dwarf Radford who stood before him and the low rumble of his voice touched a chord deep within Catrina and set it aquiver.

"Come into the study," Radford was saying. "I've some fine Madeira I want you to sample."

"I'd be glad to," Flint agreed, "but I can't stay long. I've an appointment with Madame Aivoges at two. Hers is the highest-class brothel under the hill and . . ."

Catrina was astonished. Did the man have no scruples whatsoever? Was his womanizing so much a part of his character that he had no compunctions about flaunting it even before his employer? How could he

Her thoughts trailed off as she noticed that his voice could no longer be heard. Looking down, she saw that he remained in the study doorway and his back was still toward her. But there was something different in his stance. His whole body had stiffened, his beautiful head was cocked at a peculiar angle as though he were listening to some softly played, wistfully remembered melody that only he could hear.

She realized with amazement that he had sensed her there, felt her eyes upon him, even as she herself had felt his presence like the silken caress of a phantom's hand. Now it touched him as well. She knew that he would turn toward her. She retreated to her room even as he swung about.

Below, Radford watched as his cousin whirled about and stared up at the balcony where only a moment before Catrina had been standing. Flint's usually tanned face was white and his quickened breathing was audible in the silent hall.

"What is it?" Radford asked. He himself had gotten a glimpse of Catrina's skirts as she'd fled but that had been before Flint had turned. His cousin's extreme reaction filled him with wonder.

Convinced that he had deluded himself, Flint turned back, shaking his head. "Nothing, Rad. For a moment I thoughtThat is to say I felt" He laughed but it had a hollow ring to it. "I must be losing my mind," he joked weakly. "That's the only answer. Come on. I could use that drink."

Upstairs in her roonm, Catrina wept. In her tears was all the passion she had steadfastly denied sinced Flint had abandoned her in New Orleans. She wept because the sight of him there, so spendidly handsome, so strong and straight, had forced her to admit to herself that in that moment she had wanted nothing more than to run headlong into his arms and make love to him until sheer exhaustion overtook her.

When at last the storm of her anguish had passed, she left her tear-stained bed and flung open the French windows to draw in a calming flow of the crisp, chilled winter air. Below, on the lower gallery, she heard the sound of a door opening and closing and then footsteps as Radford and Flint crossed to the steps where Andre waited holding the reins of Flint's horse.

Staying close to the house, never leaving the shade of the gallery, Catrina waited, hoping breathlessly for one more glimpse of him. She heard him bid farewell to Radford and saw the sunshine glint on his hair as he left the gallery and took his reins from the boy. When it seemed he was about to mount his horse, Catrina tensed ready to flee back to her room. But his motion was stayed as the door opened one more and Angelique's husky, alluring voice called out to him.

"You have forgotten your hat, mon cher," she murmured in that disquietingly seductive way that was uniquely her own.

He turned and from her vantage point above them Catrina could not see the surprise in his green eyes. He knew that Angelique was Radford's mistress. He knew that his cousin had long kept the girl in an apartment in New Orleans. That in itself was nothing unusual for the wealthy planters of Natchez. But for Radford to bring her into his home was highly irregular.

"Angelique, ma cherie," he greeted her. "What are you going at Belvoir? Did you tire of New Orleans?"

"Hardly. But Radford asked me to come and so, je suis ici." She handed him his hat. "You forgot this, mon cher."

"So I did. Merci."

He clapped the hat atop his gleaming sable hair and smiled down at Angelique as she let her long-fingered hand trail down his sleeve.

"It has been a long time since I have seen you," she said softly, knowing that Radford was out of ear reach inside the mansion,.

Flint laughed. They had been lovers once but that had been long before Catrina, and Angelique's vivid exotic beauty did not affect him beyond his natural admiration for any beautiful woman.

"Yes, a very long time," he agreed noncommittally.

"You have not even a kiss for your poor Angelique?" she pouted. She was Radford's mistress and he provided her with everything she could want in the way of creature comforts but she had never forgotten the sweet nights of desire she'd spent in Flint's arms.

To refuse would have been ungallant. Flint took her into his arms and lowered his head to kiss her. But before their lips parted all too soon for Angelique's taste Catrina had turned and fled back to her room, unable to witness this tangible proof of Flint's lechery.

"No woman is safe from him!" she raved to the empty room. "Not even a maidservant! What a vile man he is!"

But when her bedchamber door opened and Angelique appeared, Catrina's golden eyes narrowed with jealolusy. The woman's dark, full lips had just touched Flint's. His arms had enfolded her and drawn her close against his strong, warm body. If only for a brief moment, the sultry maidservant had known what it was to be possessed by the man Catrina loved.

Not noticing the glimmer of envy and resentment in Catrina's eyes, Angelique smiled and waved an airy hand.

"That Monsieur Flint," she said gaily, "such a man! Such charm! Such"

"Enough!" The single word was like the crack of a whip. "That is enough! I don't care to hear anymore! In fact, I forbid you to mention that man in my presence! Do you understand?"

Not waiting for a reply, Catrina stormed out of the room. She could not bear to see the woman for another moment knowing she had just stepped out of Flint's arms.

Angelique stared after her, bewildered. It was incomprehensible. What could have caused Radford's bride-to-be to conceive such a loathing for his cousin Flint? and Flint was such a marvelous man.

"Bien," she said with a little Gallic shrug, "who can understand the English? And I could have told her such interesting things about Flint St. James. Now, since she has forbidden me to speak his name, she will never know them. It is her loss."

Chapter 13

In the days following Flint's visit to Belvoir, Catrina was withdrawn, pensive, plagued by images of Angelique in Flint's arms and of other nameless, faceless women enjoying the same ecstacies he seemed so willing to share with so many. Of his wife, she could not bear to think at all. Of all the hurts she had suffered since learning the truth about the man she had had the cruel misfortune to fall in love with, that was surely the most excrutiating of all. The thought that he had used her as a proxy, a handy substitute, that the tender words and sweet caresses he had bestowed so convincingly on her were actually meant for one whose face she shared pained her beyond bearing.

And yet, beneath all the pain, a maddening truth lay coiled like a snake awaiting its chance to strike. It sank its fangs into her heart and forced her to acknowledge its presence. She loved Flint. More than that. She craved him like a drunkard craves his drink or an addict his drug. The senses he had so wantonly awakened burned for his touch; her body ached for that most ravishing of all caresses the possessing of a woman by the man she loves.

The thought of his lovemaking sent her senses reeling and she groaned softly. But even that sound, as forlorn and filled with despair as it was, could not come close to equalling the anguish that seemed to suffuse her entire being.

''Catrina?"

She started, coming to her feet from the day bed in her softly lit bedchamber. Her face was flushed as though she'd been caught in some shameful act. She looked up at Radford warily, wondering if he could read her thoughts in her wide eyes.

"I didn't hear you knock," she said quietly, a soft reproach in her voice.

"I didn't. Our relationship, I think, precludes"

"Courtesy?"

He ignored her sarcasm. "Formality." He lifted a hand to touch one of the golden curls that fell unheeded over the rustling lavender silk of her dressing gown. When Catrina moved to avoid his touch, he did not insist but went instead to the day bed she had just vacated and sat down. "I've been worried about you."

Catrina stood half turned away from him completely unaware of the fetching picture her profile made haloed by the shimmering light of the whale-oil lamp on the mahogany table behind her. "Have you?" she asked skeptically. "That is kind of you but, I do assure you, completely unnecessary."

Radford picked a piece of thread from his otherwise impeccable royal purple cashmere robe-de-chambre. Affecting a detachment he was far from feeling, he put into words the thought that had been plaguing him for nearly a week.

"This mood of yours began on the day of Flint's visit. Can the two, I wonder, have anything to do with one another?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Catrina snapped, too quickly. "Flint Ashton . . ." She paused, catching her breath. The mere act of speaking his name aloud had brought the painful constriction back into her chest. " . . . means nothing to me," she finished lamely.

He rose and Catrina automatically backed away. "I don't believe you," he said softly, threateningly. "What happened on that ship? Does your reluctance to see him stem from repugnance or, perhaps, from some other emotion?"

Catrina turned her face toward the shadows, desperate to conceal the pinkening of her cheeks.

"I don't know what you mean," she insisted.

"I think you do."

Hoping to distract him, Catrina lifted a languid hand to her forehead and feigned the lightheadedness she'd often used when he'd seemed about to suggest something distasteful.

Radford caught her wrist as she raised it. "Don't bother with your playacting," he sneered. "I've made inquiries. You 'wound' was little more than a scratch. Oh, granted, you had a concussion and a fever, but there wouldn't have been such severe and long-lasting effects. You've merely been using it as a ploy to hold me off."

"That's not true" she began defensively.

"I said I've had done with your pretending!" His voice echoed in her ears. "I want the truth, for once!"

Catrina lifted her chin and glared at him disdainfully. "How dare you speak to me in that fashion!"

But her arrogance only seemed to enrage him. Seizing her arm, he yanked her against him with a force that made her teeth chatter.

"How dare I?" he hissed. "You high-nosed little snob! I'm not some ragamuffin for you to sneer at! I am, for all intents and purposes, your husband! I own you body and soul! You forget, my highborn lady, that without my generous offer of marriage, your family would be no more than high bred beggars. Everything you or those greedy parents of yours have is due to my bounty!"

"If you expect me to thank you, you'll be disappointed," Catrina snapped back. "I was not consulted in the matter of this marriage. For my part, I would rather have married a chimney-sweep or a . . ."

"A ship's captain?" he suggested derisively. "Which brings us back to Flint Ashton. How clever you are. You had almost diverted me from the chief topic of this discussion."

"I have nothing to say on that subject, sir."

Radford cocked a raven brow. "No? Then perhaps milady will deign to answer a question. Was he your lover?"

Catrina's topaz eyes met the bottomless depths of Radford's which seemed hewn of blackest onyx. "Never!" she hissed.

Jerking her arm out of his grasp, she swept across the room toward the door. Her hand on the knob, she was about to order him out when his next words came to her slyly, couched in a honey-sweet tone of voice.

"Odd. He said he was."

Taken by surprise, Catrina's air of icy reserve melted away to be replaced by sheer disbelief which was, in its turn, followed by a look of anguished betrayal so intense that even Radford felt a pang of something as near to pity as he was capable of feeling.

"You're lying," Catrina whispered, but there was more in her tone of pleading than of accusal. In those two simple words she begged Radford to disavow his claim thereby acquitting Flint of this final betrayal of what she'd believed was their sacred love for one another.

But Radford had his answer in the pain clearly etched on her beautiful face. She had given herself to Flint; given him what no other man could ever claim as his own. She had granted Flint those very favors Radford yearned for, lain awake at night dreaming of, vainly begged her for. Flint had known the joys Radford had only dreamed of and those dreams were driving him to distraction.

His anger roiled inside him; his hatred for Flint grew to boundless proportions. He wanted to hurt someone and Catrina was the logical choice.

"Lying am I?" he taunted cruelly. "Oh, no. It's all the talk of Natchez. Why do you think I've not taken you out into society? Only time will heal your shattered reputation. We must needs wait until a greater scandal takes its place."

Her mind reeling, Catrina stumbled back. Radford made a move toward her, but she wheeled away from him and caught one of the tall bedposts to steady herself.

"How could he?" she whispered.

"How could he not?" Radford countered. "Do you think a man like Flint Ashton could possibly keep from boasting that he'd seduced the daughter of an earl? Come now, Catrina, he's far too proud of his reputation as a lover to maintain a gentlemanly silence about a coup like that."

Catrina sagged against the bedpost like a broken doll; her legs could not support her and her cheeks were pale and alarmingly cool, like finest porcelain. But Radford had gone too far to stop now. His jealousy had pushed him beyond the mere wish to alienate Catrina from Flint. He wanted to destroy his cousin in her eyes and break the proud willfulness that made her hold herself above him. Her look of abject misery gave him hope of having done exactly that. Leaning close, he painted an expression of sympathy and concern across his darkly lupine face.

"Tell me what I can do, my darling, to ease this suffering of yours?"

Summoning all the arrogance of centuries of breeding, Catrina lifted her chin and glared at him as though he were no better than the lowliest mongrel in the gutter.

"You can get out of my sight," she breathed.

Radford blinked once, then twice, and straightened slowly, his eyes never leaving her ashen, glowering face. He had fully expected her to weep, perhaps even to faint. Considering her breeding, he had imagined that the thought of a man boasting of having had her would send her into a maidenly swoon or, better yet, into his arms to beg his forgiveness and plead with him to challenge the braggart. But this reaction was something he had never foreseen.

"Catrina"

"I loathe you for telling me this!"

"But you should know"

"Why must I know! Yes, I gave myself to Flint Ashton and a greater folly I cannot imagine. But I did it because I believed myself in love with him and in my infinite ignorance I believed that he loved me. I was wrong, dreadfully wrong, I freely admit it. But no matter the consequences, that night was the single most beautiful experience of my lifetime. Regardless of what manner of blackguard Flint Ashton may be, he gave me the most precious of memories." She covered her eyes as though to block out some painful sight. "They were all I had, those memories. I lost my belief in him; I lost my belief in love; I lost every hope I may have cherished for the future. But I had those memories." Dropping her hand, she sent him a look filled with accusation and reproach. "But you could not even allow me those. You felt it your solemn duty to tell me that those beautiful hours I cherished were nothing more to Flint than fodder for his braggart's tales; that my glittering dreams have been turned into bawdy yarns to be sniggered at over brandy and cards."

Radford looked away feeling something akin to shame. Guilt was not an emotion he'd had a great deal of experience with and he didn't like it.

"What can I do?" he asked again, but his tone had changed to one of abashment.

Catrina sighed. "You could not leave me in my blissful ignorance but you can at least leave me alone in my pain."

Eyes averted, Radford walked to the door. He didn't want to see her sitting there on the edge of her bed looking fragile and wounded. He had hoped to bully her but that had been impossible, her pride and stubbornness had defeated him. He had hoped to lure her into his arms by destroying Flint in her eyes but he had only driven her into a shell forged of disillusionment and disgust. There was nothing for him to do now but retreat and wait for her pain to subside. Catrina did not look up until she heard the door close behind him. Then and only then, did she bury her face in the thick down pillows of her bed and gived vent to the choking, wrenching sobs that seemed to surge forth from a bottomless well of pain deep inside her very soul.

Pale and dejected, her eyes red-rimmed and puffed, Catrina did not turn her attention away from the breakfast she'd been served at the lace-draped dining room table as Olympia swept into the room and took her place halfway down one long side. Catrina and Radford faced one another from opposite ends of the table but they did not speak. The mood in the room was one of tension and mistrust with a free-flowing undercurrent of resentment; it seemed to defy the golden sunshine that streamed into the room sending shadows from the white, hand-carved punkah across the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper that was Olympia's pride and joy.

Spreading her napkin in her lap, Olympia delicately bit into a croissant as she eyed Catrina and Radford.

"My, we are quiet this morning, aren't we?" she drawled.

"Olympia" Radford warned.

"Very well, have your secrets if you must. A lovers' quarrel, I presume?"

"Olympia!"

The ebony-haired beauty bridled, annoyed. "All right, Radford; there is no need to be rude." The pink tip of her tongue flicked out and snatched a crumb from her full, red lower lip. "Did I tell you I visited Oakwood yesterday?"

Radford's black eyes met his sister's in a silent warning. "No," he replied tightly. "You didn't. How is cousin Ashton?"

"Near distraction, not surprisingly."

Catrina, whom neither had thought to be paying the slightest heed to their conversation, looked up. "What is the cause of his distress. Olympia?"

Again the cautioning look passed between brother and sister.

"One of his slaves ran away, dear," Olympia replied carefully. "A very valuable field hand. One in whom a great deal of time and training had been invested."

"One can hardly blame the slaves for wanting to flee," Catrina observed. "It is in the very nature of human beings to cherish their freedom."

Radford smiled indulgently. "I do believe we've a budding abolitionist on our hands."

"You mustn't say these things in public, dear," Olympia cautioned. "Slavery is the life's blood of the plantation system. Without it, our entire way of life would vanish."

Catrina toyed with her food. "What will happen to the slave when your cousin finds him?"

"If he were mine," Radford replied, "I'd have him flayed alive as a warning to others who might take the notion of following his example."

"Most planters would," Olympia agreed. "But Ashton is not most planters. He'll likely find some punishment for the wretchextra work or less food. Ashton is opposed to severe corporal punishment unless a slave makes a habit of causing trouble or becomes violent."

Radford made a noise of disgust but Catrina nodded approvingly.

"He sounds like a man with a great deal of compassion for others," she observed. "I'd like to meet him."

Neither Radford or Olympia offered to take her to Oakwood and Catrina didn't press the matter, but a notion took root in her mind and began to grow.

Chapter 14

It was in the early afternoon that Catrina sat alone in the red-walled drawing room that ran from the front to the back of the house at its easternmost end. Sliding doors that disappeared into the walls at a touch could be closed to divide the long room into two smaller chambers but Radford preferred them left open; he loved the spaciousness of the huge room with its twin ormulu and crystal chandeliers depending on long chains from gilded plaster medallions on the ceiling eighteen feet above the Aubusson-carpeted parquet floors. For Catrina's part, she found the chamber overwhelming and cold. To Radford's continual annoyance she persisted in closing the dividing doors and enjoying the coziness of the smaller rooms.

She sat at a Louis Quinze, roll-top secretaire, pen in hand, composing a letter to Perdita Jackson. In it, she had intended to pour out all her sorrows and disappointments but the unfairness of such an action stopped her.

''Darling Jackson," she mused aloud, twirling the quill in her fingers, "you love me and always have done since my earliest childhood. I could not be so cruel as to reveal the depth of my unhappiness to you when you are half a world away and in no position to help me." She sighed. "There is nothing you could do at any rate."

Leaning back in her chair, she gazed at the portrait over the mantel. It was the painting of herself her father had sent when she'd been betrothed to Radford. The frame was a new one. The original, Radford explained, had been damaged on the voyage from England and he'd had to have it replaced.

It had been painted the previous summer but already Catrina felt as though the guileless girl in the portrait was a stranger.

"I was so young," she told herself, "so innocent, so very foolish." Shaking those thoughts from her mind, she went back to her letter, trying to make it sound as cheerful as possible. "Enough of self-pity," she told herself sternly. "You must accept your lot as others have done before you." She paused, a wistful smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Had I not met Flint, I should have thought Radford very handsome. He is a gentleman, no better and no worse than others of his class. All in all, I should have been pleasantly surprised by him. Had I not met Flint."

But she had and it seemed he would eternally haunt her. It was only with the greatest of efforts that she ever managed to rid her thoughts of him completely. She made that effort now in order to return to and finish her letter.

It was imperative that she finish the missive as quickly as possible. Both Radford and Olympia had gone into town; Olympia to her dressmaker and Radford on business the nature of which he had not seen fit to discuss with Catrina. She wanted to have the letter sealed and addressed and be gone before they chanced to return.

Their talk that norning of Ashton St. James and his compassion had birthed a scheme in Catrina's mind. She had long wanted to write to Perdita but had feared that Radford would read any letters she asked him to post. Now, she thought, there might be a way.

She planned to take her letter to Oakwood, lay her case before this tenderhearted cousin, and beg him to post the letter for her. Surely any man who would not lay violent hands on a runaway slave would take pity on a romantically minded and pretty young woman who was soon to be related to him.

"Please, let him hear me with sympathy," she prayed softly as she blotted, sealed, and addressed her letter." Let him agree to post my letter and say nothing to Radford."

With the little prayer like a litany running through her mind, Catrina left the drawing room and mounted the stairs to change into her riding habit.

Without bothering to call Angelique whom she had not yet forgiven for her intimacy with Flint, Catrina discarded her morning dress and put on the same habit of dark blue velvet she'd worn for her portrait. The tall hat of black beaver had a long veil of snowy white voile that floated out behind her as she crossed to her bathchamber. There was one last accessory she needed before she set out.

Her bottles of scents were lined up atop her dressing table. After much deliberation, Catrina chose the hyacinth perfume that had remained stoppered since her arrival in America.

Drawing out the glass stopper, the heady fragrance filled her nostrils bringing with it the inevitable memories of Flint and their night together.

"Flint seemed to favor this scent," she reasoned as she applied it to her wrists and throat, "perhaps it will help persuade this unknown cousin to aid me in my scheme."

A movement in the mirror brought Catrina around with a start. Angelique, duskily beautiful as always in her habitual black silk, watched her from the doorway.

"Where are you going, madame?" she asked.

"I would tell you," Catrina snarled as she passed her, "if I thought it any of your affair."

"You must not go out riding alone."

"How dare you tell me what I must and must not do!" Catrina snapped. "It would behoove you to remember who you are, Angelique, and what your position is in this household."

"I am fully aware of my position in this household, madame," Angelique shot back, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder if you can say the same."

Snatching her riding crop from the table, Catrina fought against the urge to slash it across the woman's smug face.

"You may be sure that I shall tell your master of your insolence," she hissed instead.

"There is not a need for that," Angelique assured her. "I will tell him myself. Tonight. Whe he comes to my bed as he does every night."

The look of astonishment on Catrina's face brought the rich, throaty laughter bubbling out of the maid. "Oh, yes, Radford is my lover. He has been for many months. He kept me in New Orleans but he brought me here so that I could spy on you for him."

"And sleep with him," Catrina sneered. "Because I wouldn't. You needn't worry; you shan't have to share him with me if I have any say in the matter."

Angelique laughed at the smugness in Catrina's tone. "I would share him with you if need be," she replied. "After all, we have already shared a lover, you and I."

Catrina felt a sickening quivering in the pit of her stomach. "No," she whispered, but whether it was to call the flame-haired maid a liar or to plead with her not to go on, even she didn't know.

But Angelique's smile mocked her. "Oh, yes," she confirmed smugly, knowing the story of Radford's deception and Catrina's love for the man she thought of as Flint Ashton. "I used to be Flint's mistress; before I met Radford. That makes us sisters in a sense, does it not?" She laughed. "Ours is a large sisterhood, Catrina. Flint is an insatiable roué."

"Stop it!" Catrina ordered, refusing to give the woman the satisfaction of seeing her clap her hands over her ears to shut out the maddening taunts.

"You must have been a piquant change for him," Angelique persisted. "A virgin and a lady. It is no wonder you are the talk of Silver Street."

"Get out!" Catrina screeched, unable to listen to any more of the woman's foul gibes.

"Did he tell you that he loved you? He says it so convincingly, doesn't he? But then, he has had so much practice."

Pushed past the limit of her endurance, Catrina brought the riding crop up and then down with all the force her fury instilled in her. It caught Angelique across her left cheek and the woman crumbled, moaning, her shaking hands cupping her face, a trickle of blood already seeping between her long fingers.

Not waiting to see the result of her action, Catrina fled the room and the house. She crossed the garden looking neither to the right nor the left, passed between the brick kitchen and the laundry, and made for the stables where she'd never ventured before.

She passed the sprawling storehouses where slaves toiled and they paused in their endless labors to gaze at the new mistress of whom they had heard much but seen little. But though Catrina would ordinarily have found them of great interest, she paid them no heed as she ran on. Her boots, not made with running in mind, cramped her feet and sent knifing pains shooting into her legs but she refused to give in to them.

When as last she reached the stables, she found the overseer, whom she had seen from a distance discussing matters with Radford but whom she had never met, supervising the shoeing of a horse by the slave who was the plantation's blacksmith.

The overseer touched his forehead but the gesture of respect was belied by the way his cold, gray eyes slid insolently over her.

"Ma'am," he drawled, recognizing her not only from the portrait in the drawing room but also from the glimpses he'd managed to catch of her as she walked along the galleries of the mansion or in the garden with Radford. "I'm Lucas Slater. I don't believe I've had the pleasure"

Catrina ignored the outstretched hand. She despised the man's slimy smile and the naked lust in his gaze as it raked over her undressing her in his mind.

"I want a horse saddled immediately," she ordered coldly.

"Going riding?

"That's obvious, I should think. Will you see to the horse, Mr. Slater? I've no time to chat." "In a hurry," Slater commented. "I'm always willing to oblige a ladyin any way that I can." Smirking, he called to a slave who worked not far away. "Victor! Saddle Athena for the mistress."

Slater's eyes never left Catrina as he gaved the order. He broke into a grin when she lifted her chin and turned her back on him.

"Spirit, too," he murmured, speaking to himself but loudly enough for her to hear. "There's nothing I like better than a pretty woman with a lot of spunk."

Catrina ignored him but when the horse, a magnificent beast of snowy white, was led up to them she suffered him to boost her up. As she settled herself into the saddle, she felt Slater's hand stealthily creeping up toward her calf. In a flash she brought her crop down across his wrist and was rewarded by his yelp of pain.

But the flaring of anger in his gray eyes was quickly replaced by the return of his earlier, lascivious admiration.

"Anything else I can do for you, ma'am?" he drawled, still rubbing his wrist.

"You can tell me the easiest route to Oakwood plantation," Catrina snarled.

"Oakwood?" He was obviously surprised. "The quickest way is to follow the pathway through the forest. Oakwood's lands and Belvoir's connect. The path is more private than the public roads. There are a lot of places along the way where you could be completely hidden not more than ten feet off the path. A body could do anything there and no one would be the wiser." He let his gaze linger on Catrina's breasts. "I could show you"

"You could tell me," she snarled, brandishing the whip. "I want nothing from you, Mr. Slater, save the directions I asked you for."

Entirely unabashed, he shrugged. "Just as you say, ma'am." He raised his uninjured hand and pointed toward the forest. "You'll find the path there, just beyond the devecote. Follow it and it'll take you directly to Oakwood."

With no word of thanks, Catrina kicked her horse into a gallop. They passed the round brick dovecote without a glance and plunged into the forest headed for Oakwood and Ashton St. James.

The ride seemed endless and the path was every bit as secluded as Slater had said. More than once Catrina was tempted to turn back but each time she steeled her resolve and pushed onward. She tried not to think of the animals that might lurk in the forest; she did not want to consider the possibility that snakes, poisonous or otherwise, slithered along just out of sight. Occasionally she heard voices but these proved to be slaves in the fields where the path wound close to the forest's edge. Whether they were Belvoir or Oakwood slaves she had no way of knowing. She could not tell where Radford's lands ended and his cousin's began.

But just when it seemed she would never reach her destination, Catrina emerged from the forest and reined in her foaming mount as she caught her first climpse of Oakwood.

Gleaming in the afternoon sunshine, the white mansion lay still and languid, beckoning her. Like Belvoir, it was two stories high with a many-columned gallery that ran along its long facade. The upper story, however, was ringed not with pillars and a roof but merely a balustrade that left the upper gallery open to the sunshine and the moonlight. Only the center front of the upper veranda was roofed. An elegant, columned portico rose above the grand, double-doored entrance. It was at once imposing and airy, massive and fragile.

Flanking the mansion were two smaller houses a single story high whose facades echoed that of the mansion. From what she'd learned during her brief stay in Natchez, Catrina knew they were called garconnières and they were kept for use by male visitors during the balls that were so popular with Mississippi River society.

To the rear, between the mansion and the southern garconnière, was a small building similarly painted white and pillared, resembling a miniature Greek temple. Its purpose was unknown to Catrina. On the opposite side of the mansion lay a garden whose chief feature was a carefully tended box maze which stretched toward the plantation's outbuildings far to the rear of the mansion.

Riding past the northernmost garconnière, Catrina reached the mansion and dismounted. There didn't seem to be anyone about to see to her horse so she tied the reins to the iron hitching post near the lacy, wrought-iron carriage step.

Climbing the three shallow steps to the gallery, Catrina felt in her pocket for her letter. She had to convince Ashton St. James to post it for her, but her confidence was fast deserting her.

A knock at the door produced no result. Catrina hesitated, her hand on the carefully polished brass knob.

"Would he be offended if I barged in without being invited?" she wondered aloud. "Perhaps I should go around and see if I can find anyone."

But then, remembering that she was, after all, nearly a member of the family, she plucked up her courage and pushed the heavy doors open.

Inside she found an entrance hall of breathtaking beauty walled in hand-blocked, gold-flocked French paper. It was built in a great oval whose shape was echoed by the stairway which rose in lazy circles to the very top of the house where a gilded medallion supported the heavy golden chain from which depended a gleaming brass chandelier.

On impulse, Catrina chose a door to the left. It opened into a drawing room walled in sky-blue silk. The furniture was of rosewood, elaborately carved, upholstered in ivory silk, and the crystal chandelier caught the sunshine streaming through the windows and reflected it through its innumerable prisms into patterns of tiny rainbows around the room. It was a lovely chamber, restful, inviting, but somehow empty and forlorn. Her letter clutched in her hand, Catrina crossed the room. She was beginning to despair of ever finding anyone at all let alone the master of Oakwood. Perhaps, she told herself, I will have better luck in the next room.

Before she could reach the door that joined the blue parlor to its neighbor, however, the connecting door swung open to reveal a small, slightly-built Negro woman of indeterminate but apparently advanced age. She was wiping her hands on her immaculate apron. It wasn't until she had entered the blue parlor that she happened to glance up and find Catrina there, poised uncertainly between confrontation and flight.

Before Catrina could speak, the woman's dark eyes grew wide and her hand moved automatically in the sign of the cross. She glanced quickly back into the ivory-walled chamber behind her and once more at Catrina before throwing back her head and giving forth with a shriek that seemed to set the crystal prisms on the chandelier aquiver.

Still screaming, she turned and fled back into the chamber from which she'd emerged. Catrina heard her pounding footsteps across that chamber and then there was the slamming of the door as she fled into the room beyond. Her wails echoed from the depths of the house and, as they were joined by the excited shouts of others, Catrina's nerve failed her and she lifted her skirts and beat a panicky retreat.

Out the front door she ran. Her foot scarcely seeming to touch the carriage step, she bounded into the saddle and set her horse to flight back toward the forest and Belvoir.

The screams of the panicked slave reached Flint's ears as he sat with his factor, Sumner Paine, in the office that was located in the small, temple-like building behind the mansion.

''What the hell" he muttered. "Excuse me, Sumner. Sounds as if the Devil himself just popped out of the ground in the pigeonnier."

Leaving the office, he found a crowd of excited slaves, both from the fields and the house, clustered about the babbling old woman. They parted as Flint approached and listened eagerly to hear if the master could wrench any sense out of the hysterical woman.

"Sarah," he called loudly. "Sarah, calm yourself." He took her thin arms in his hands and shook her gently. The old woman, a great favorite of his late mother's and his own childhood nurse, was frail and he dared not handle her roughly. But her mutterings seemed senseless and frustrating. "Hush!" he exorted. "Sarah, hush. Tell me what's happened."

Gasping for air, the old woman shook her grizzled head. "A ghost, master! A ghost! That house is haunted! You won't get me in there no more, no sir!"

Hearing the frightened murmurs of the others, Flint could sense a dangerous situation in the making. Despite their conversion to Christianity, the slaves were notoriously superstitious and rumors of a ghost haunting Oakwood could rouse them to near rebellion.

"Sarah, there are no such things. Tell me what you saw."

Trembling, the wizened woman clutched at his sleeve. "I was in the front parlor, master, the one with the picture of your lady,."

"Yes, yes, go on," Flint urged.

"I opened the door to the blue room and there she was. That picture done come to life!"

Amid the superstitious mumblings of the slaves, Flint felt a cold chill run down his back. "In the blue parlor?" he asked, unable to keep the quaver from his voice.

The woman nodded but before she could speak Flint was off on a run towrd the mansion. He thundered through the house, his passage through the chambers marked by the slamming of doors against the walls as he thrust them open.

Behind him Sumner Paine followed at a more sedate pace. Passing through the rear hallway, he arrived in the entrance hall while Flint stood bewildered and disappointed in the blue parlor. A splash of cream against the gold-flowered runner caught Sumner's eye and he retrieved Catrina's letter from the carpet where she had dropped it in her hasty flight. Recognizing the address in London as one to which Flint occasionally wrote, he presumed it to be merely another piece of Flint's voluminous correspondence. He slipped it into his pocket to be posted along with the rest.

Flint opened the door and found him there. "Here you are, Sumner," he said dejectedly. "Come in here a moment." The factor joined him and Flint gestured to the air surrounding them. "Take a deep breath and tell me if you smell anything unusual."

The tall, slender factor drew in oxygen through his generous, aquiline nose and let it out again in a long, low 'whoosh'.

"There is something," he confirmed, brow furrowed. "Scarcely noticeable, but it is there. The faint odor of" He sniffed again. "Hyacinth, isn't it?"

"Yes." Flint nodded, his green eyes closing wearily. He didn't know whether to be glad that the scent was not merely in his imagination or miserable because the smell of her perfume proved that she had actually been there and had disappeared like the ghost Sarah thought she was.

"Her scent?" Sumner asked, knowing of Catrina's disappearance and of Flint's fruitless search for her.

"Yes." Giving vent to a sigh that had its beginnings in the despair that weighed on him like a millstone, Flint poured himself a brandy and slumped in a chair. "I remember it so well, Sumner! Why did she run away?"

"She doesn't know who you are," the factor reasoned. "She wouldn't know that Flint Ashton and Ashton St. James of Oakwood are one and the same. Likely when Sarah raised the alarm she was frightened of being branded an intruder and fled." "At least I know that she's in Natchez. But where?" Coming to his feet with a burst of restless energy, Flint sent the brandy snifter crashing into the empty fireplace. "Where! Who is keeping her? She has her clothing; she has access to a horse. She must be being kept by a man of some means. But I know them all! I've spoken with them all until I'm hoarse!"

"The real question," Sumner Paine suggested, "is, would any of them admit to having her?" He flinched before the glare Flint directed at him. "Reason it out, man. They know you are looking for her; they know you would deal with whoever kidnapped her in the harshest of terms. From what you say, she's a beautiful woman any man would give his right arm to have. How would they benefit from admitting to you that they have her?"

Flint's broad shoulders slumped. "Then how am I to find her? I'd have to tear Natchez to the ground."

"Yes," Sumner agreed. "I'd say that's exactly what you'd have to do."

Their eyes met and held for several, long, silent moments until Sarah's head appeared around the doorway.

"Did you find her, Master Flint?" she asked, her dark eyes flitting around the room.

"No, Sarah, she disappeared," he answered wearily.

"She's a ghost, master," the old woman told him, nodding her head sagely. "She's come to haunt you!" She pointed a gnarled finger toward him. "You're gonna need one of them priests to get her out of the house!"

A smile filled with melancholy curved Flint's full lips. "She's haunted me right from the start, Sarah. And all the priests in New Orleans couldn't exorcise her from my heart."

Chapter 15

Heedless of the branches that tore at her hair and habit, and of the crop and hat she'd lost somewhere on the overgrown path, Catrina rode on. She crouched over her plunging horse to avoid the trees that reached out to try and unseat her and felt the sweating mare's mane whipping against her cheeks and eyes. Flecks of foam from the laboring animal spotted her skirt and the danger that there might be a rock or a hole ahead that would send them cartwheeling into the mossy trees increased as the path wound ever deeper into the forest.

Oblivious to any obstacles in their way, Catrina did not see Lucas Slater standing in the path until it was nearly too late. She hauled on the reins but her horse, maddened by their panicked flight, reared, screaming, fighting the reins, and Catrina was thrown to the ground and struck the earth with a sickening thud.

Breathless and bruised, she struggled to her feet even as Athena charged onward toward Belvoir. Riderless, eyes rolling, she nearly trampled Slater who had to jump out of her way in peril of his life. While his attention was thus distracted. Catrina lifted her skirts and ran into the forest.

But he was upon her before she had gone fifty feet. Together they tumbled on the soft, alluvial soil and Slater's hold was momentarily broken as he reached out to catch himself. In that instant, Catrina seized a thick branch that had fallen to the ground and swung it on him but he wrenched it from her easily and flung it away with a snarled curse.

During his moment of inattention Catrina clutched a small, sharp rock in her fist and swung it with all her strength. It caught his forehead just above his eye and opened a cut that began to bleed profusely.

"Damn you, you little she-cat!" he howled.

Instinctively he leaned away from her and Catrina rolled from under him and scrambled to her feet intending to flee. But he caught at the trailing hem of her skirt and jerked her back, sending her sprawling against the thick, gnarled trunk of an ancient cottonwood.

The breath knocked out of her, Catrina leaned against the tree willing the forest to stop swirling about her. She felt Slater's hands upon her, pressing her against the tree trunk, and was powerless to stop him.

Crushed against her, his fetid breath sour in her nostrils, Slater smiled evilly. "Ah, but you're a beauty. Even more so like this with your cheeks all red and your hair tumbled around your shoulders. This is how your lovers see you, eh, my fine lady?"

He bent to kiss her but Catrina rolled her head from side to side, eluding his moist, foul mouth. With a growl of frustration, he grasped her chin painfully and held her head still while his lips ravaged hers and his tongue tried to force its way past her clenched teeth.

Catrina struggled and tried to kick him but her skirts hampered her movements and her writhing only seemed to further excite his already inflamed desires. With his free hand, he groped his way to the fastenings of her jacket and these he tore away. Nausea roiled in Catrina's stomach as he similarly disposed of the tiny pearl buttons of her cambric blouse. She moaned as she heard the ragged tearing of her thin chemise and then his hands found her breasts and pawed then painfully.

He laughed, a hideous laugh filled with wicked intent, but the awful sound died in his throat as he felt the cold steel of a gun muzzle against the back of his neck.

"Take your vile hands off that woman, you flyblown bastard."

Stiffly, not daring to make any sudden moves, Lucas Slater backed away from Catrina. He held his hands in plain sight as he turned to face the rage-whitened face of Radford St. James.

"It ain't what you think," Slater said as he backed further away from the yawning muzzle of Radford's pistol.

"Ain't it?" Radford mocked. "By damn! I knew you had a taste for rape, Slater. I'd heard of your forays into slave row often enough. But I never imagined you'd dare touch a white woman of breeding."

He held out an arm toward her and Catrina, grasping the ragged edges of her blouse and jacket together with trembling fingers, ran to him and buried her face in his shoulder.

"Before I kill you, Slater, I want you to get down on those bony knees of yours and beg my lady's forgiveness for ever having had the impertinence to even think of touching her."

"The hell I will!" Slater snarled. "Apologize? For giving her what she wanted? Hah! She ain't the fine lady you think she is, St. James. When you ain't around, she flaunts herself like some Silver Street whore"

His last word was cut short by the roar of Radford's gun. A crimson flower blossomed on his grimy shirt and he spun with eerie slowness before he fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

The deafening sound and the sight of Slater bloodied and still wrenched a cry from Catrina. Like a child she clung to Radford, trembling uncontrollably. Silently he held her until she regained some sense of herself then he pulled off his coat and helped her into it to cover the tattered remnants of her bodice. Catrina clutched it about her and followed Radford docilely to where his horse waited, pawing the ground nervously, alarmed by the blast of the gun and the scent of Slater's blood.

With infinite care, Radford lifted her into the saddle. He then swung himself up behind her with amazing ease considering that he almost exclusively eschewed the saddle for the comfort of a carriage and driver.

Sliding her arms about his lean waist, Catrina nestled against Radford. His nearness and the gentle loping of the animal beneath them lulled her, comforted her, soothed away the tremors of her fear. Radford felt her body relaxing against his own and pressed a kiss into her hair with a tenderness that surprised even him.

"Why did you go riding alone?" he asked softly.

Catrina bit her lip wondering how much he'd been told. "I wanted to go and no one was about. You and Olympia were gone into town . . ."

"You asked directions to Oakwood."

"I was curious," she lied carefully. "After all, Olympia is going to be Oakwood's mistress, is she not?"

Radford grimaced. In truth, Olympia was getting nowhere with her campaign to win Flint. His search for Catrina occupied most of his time and the rest was spent brooding over his lack of success in finding her.

"Yes," he replied at last. "She is. Did you see it?" ''No," she said quickly. "I turned back before I reached it. The forest seemed to stretch on forever; I was afraid I'd take the wrong turn somewhere and become lost."

Radford relaxed and a small smile touched his full mouth. "Well, after we're married I'll take you there as often as you wish. All right?"

Catrina nodded and closed her eyes. She knew that she had lost her letter and she feared now that she had also lost any opportunity she might have had to appeal to Radford's cousin Ashton. She had no doubt that she would be more closely watched in the future. The stablehands would likely be issued orders that she was not to be given a horse unless accompanied by Radford himself.

Reaching Belvoir, Radford dismissed Olympia's questions and took Catrina upstairs. A bath was drawn for her and afterward, wrapped in a soft cashmere robe, she ate her dinner alone in her room at her own request.

It was later, when the soft mauve of twilight had given way to the velvet blue of night that Catrina ventured out into the cool air of the gallery outside her room.

She did not hear Radford approaching along the night-shrouded gallery. When he touched her arm, she started with a gasp.

"You frightened me," she accused.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

She looked out toward the natural canopy of moss-hung oak trees that lined the long drive and Radford studied her pale profile in the shadows.

He was thoughtful. When he'd arrived back at Belvoir and had been told that Catrina had ridden off after asking directions to Oakwood, he hadn't felt the fury he might have expected. He had been frightened; not of losing the fortune her inheritance represented but of losing Catrina herself. He knew that if she were once reunited with Flint there would be no place in her life for him. Legalities aside, if it came to a choice between him and his cousin, Radford knew that the outcome was a foregone conclusion.

When he'd found her about to be raped by Slater, a rage unlike anything he'd ever known had possessed him. The sight of another man touching herthe thought of another taking herhad driven him momentarily past the brink of sanity. Slater's fate had been sealed from the moment the blacksmith at the stable had told him that the overseer had taken a horse and ridden out in pursuit of the future mistress of Belvoir.

These emotions were new to him. He did not tolerate infidelity in his mistresses but that was not jealousy, it was only his fastidious nature. He did not relish the thought of sharing a woman with another man. It was different with Catrina and the difference bewildered him. Could it possibly be that he had fallen in love with the woman he'd so cold-bloodedly taken from her rightful mate? The thought intrigued him and he gazed out into the night considering the matter. Yes! he realized with a sharp intake of breath. By heaven and all the saints, he actually loved the girl!

Catrina watched the play of emotions crossing his swarthy face. This was a side of Radford St. James she hadn't seen. He had not been the arrogant, strutting master of Belvoir today nor the demanding, lustful, would-be lover. Today he had been a companion, a friend, a protector.

When he turned his head to look at her, she forced herself to meet his gaze. To her surprise, he lifted a hand and trailed a knuckle gently along the edge of her jaw.

"I love you," he said softly. Then, when she flushed and looked away, murmured: "Hush, don't be upset. I know that you do not return my love, but I have my hopes. As yet Flint Ashton fills your heart to the exclusion of all others but I am willing to bide my time and pray that you will one day return my love in some small measure."

Catrina frowned; her emotions were muddled. She knew that she owed Radford her loyalty and the first place in her affections. She knew that she had already given away that which rightfully should have been hisher virginityand she realized that he had been forgiving where many men might have made her life miserable for her transgression. Flint was not worthy of her love; that was the simple truth of it. She must accept her lot and try to be the wife a man like Radford deserved.

"I shall," she promised, sending his spirits soaring. "I'm sure I shall."

She did not turn away when he bent and brushed his lips against hers. Encouraged, he slid his arms about her waist and drew her close as his lips returned to claim hers in a carefully restrained kiss.

She slid her hands over the back of his brocade dressing gown and heard his soft groan of delight. He showed her his desire in his kiss and his touch and whispered of it into her ear and she nodded her acquiescence.

Not believing that she understood what it was she was agreeing to, he leaned away and asked her once more, looking into her golden eyes as he did. Again she nodded, eyes downcast, and he slipped a hand behind her knees and carried her into her softly lit bedchamber.

It is time, Catrina thought as Radford laid her gently on her bed and drew down the lace baires. It is time to move forward with my life. Flint is lost to me, if he was ever mine at all, and Radford is the man in whose hands my fate lies. It is to him I must turn and I must learn to love him.

She accepted his caresses passively, lying quietly beneath the moist, hot probings of his mouth on hers and the warm, circular rovings of his hands on her skin. She did not protest as he drew her robe open and let his lips trace a searing path to her breasts. A soft gasp escaped when his mouth found one of their pale, roseate peaks but that was the only sound she made.

When he loosed the sash of her robe and opened it, she felt the crimson flush that rose into her cheeks. But when his caresses grew ever more intimate and his breathing began to quicken and coarsen she felt nothing save a mild embarrassment that she should be lying so exposed before a man she barely knew. There was none of the wild excitement she had felt with Flint, none of the astonishing rush of desire his touches had awakened in her.

Passion, she thought clinically, her mind separating itself from her physical self, must stem from the excitement of the forbidden. It was because I knew I was doing wrong that Flint so aroused me. Radford will soon be my husband and therefore I could not expect to feel the same sense of wicked pleasure I knew with Flint.

The theory deserved more thought, she decided, but her mind was dragged back to itself as Radford parted her thighs and poised himself between them. Untying the knot of his robe, he discarded it and in his excitement did not notice that Catrina had shut her eyes tightly, refusing to look at his nakedness.

He lowered his body toward hers and Catrina tensed but the expected contact never came. A pounding at the bedroom door startled them both and separated them.

While Radford muttered a string of curses that would have done justice to the roughest flatboat man under the hill, Catrina drew her robe closed and moved off the bed. Donning his own robe, Radford stormed to the door and flung it wide.

Angelique stood there and her slanted emerald eyes assessed the situation with astonishing accuracy. Trying hard to suppress the smug smile that sprang to her sensual lips, she explained her intrusion to Radford in whispers.

From the opposite side of the room, Catrina saw Radford's usually swarthy complexion blanch until he was chalky white. With a backward glance at Catrina, he questioned Angelique in hushed tones and then left the room with her leaving Catrina to wonder what might be afoot.

A jumble of voices both familiar and unfamiliar filtered up from downstairs and there was the sound of several pairs of booted feet on the stairs. Her curiosity getting the better of her as last, Catrina opened the door a crack and peered out.

The door to a guest room halfway down the side of the balcony stood open and in the lamplight that glowed within the room, Catrina could see Radford, Mrs. Brandt, Angelique, and Olympia as well as half a dozen well-dressed men Catrina did not recognize. Their attention seemed to be focused on someone inside the room but from the snatches of conversation that were audible to her, she could not tell who it might be.

After some time had passed, the unfamiliar men left the room and were ushered downstairs by Olympia who looked gorgeous with her raven hair undone and hanging in loose waves down her back and her dusky beauty enhanced by the rich, sumptuous periwinkle brocade of her dressing gown. It was obvious that none of the men had eyes for anyone but the ravishing sister of the master of Belvoir. And so, sure that her appearance would go unnoticed, Catrina waited until the men were near the door in the entrance hall below before she slipped from her room and hurried towad the guest room where Radford and Angelique still lingered.

It was just as she reached the door that Radford noticed her and came quickly to intercept her. He held her shoulders firmly, refusing to allow her entrance to the room, but he could not keep her from peering inside. What she saw shocked her, sending her senses reeling.

The room was furnished in the fanciful, intricately-fashioned style known as Chinese Chippendale and the Oriental flavor of the room was carried through from the richly carved furniture to the delicately shaded print of the hangings on the great testor bed and at the windows. Catrina had never seen this room before but it was not the furnishings that interested her nor the beautiful, muted shades of its decoration. Rather it was the occupant of the big bed that made her limbs tremble and her face take on a haunted, eerie look.

Flint Ashton lay in the bed. His bloodied clothing had been removed and discarded. It lay in a gory heap on the soft-shaded beiges of the carpet. The bedclothes were pulled up over his hips but the lithe, muscular torso lay exposed to the air and the lamplight starkly illuminated the ragged oozing wound in his side.

"Flint," Catrina whispered, her face taking on the same ghastly, deathlike pallor as his. "Radford, is he"

"No, love," Radford assured her. "He's alive."

"What happened?"

"There was a brawl; it erupted into violence and Flint was shot."

"A brawl? Where?"

"Catrina . . ."

"Please, Radford, you must tell me what you know."

Feigning hesitation, Radford sighed. "Very well, if you must know. It was at Madame Aivoges's. It's a brothel on Silver Street. Flint and another man were arguing over one of the . . . the . . ."

"I see." Catrina looked away. Fighting over a whore. The man's depravity knew no bounds. She took a deep breath. "Shouldn't Suzanne be notified."

"Suz?" For a moment, Radford was nonplussed but then he remembered. "I don't think she would care to know, darling."

"Not care? About her own husband?"

"Suzanne has left him. She couldn't bear his debauchery any longer. You're so young, my love, you can't possibly understand the depths to which a man can sink."

"No I don't understand at all," she agreed slowly. Her mind told her that Radford was right but her heart ached as her eyes returned to the still, pale, beloved face of the man on the bed. "Will he live?" she asked at last.

"Mrs. Brandt is cleansing his wound. It's not a particularly life-threatening one but there is the danger of fever as there always is. I've sent for a doctor. Until he comes there is nothing any of us can do."

Again Catrina's eyes moved toward the man on the bed and again she felt the undeniable urge to go to him, to be near him even if there was nothing she could do to ease his suffering.

Reading her thoughts on her face, Radford drew her away from the doorway. "Let me take you back to your room, darling. There is nothing for you here."

"I suppose you're right," Catrina agreed softly.

He kissed her cheek. "Let me stay with you tonight; let me show you know much I love you."

Catrina shook her head. Flint's presence in the house changed everything. She could no more bear Radford's touch knowing that Flint lay but a few doors away that she could have willingly lain with Lucas Slater in the forest.

"I can't, Radford," she whispered, tears stinging her eyes. "I'm sorry but I simply can't. Not now."

Breaking free of him, she retreated to her room. As the door closed behind her, Radford felt Angelique's hand sliding up his arm.

"Come to me tonight, Radford," she murmured, her breath hot and sweet in his ear. "I can give you pleasures that little fool will never even dream of." Pushing her away roughly, Radford eyed her with contempt. He could not forget or forgive Angelique's intruding just as he was about to possess Catrina at long last. Though he'd brought her to Belvoir as a spy to report to him on Catrina's moods and atitudes, the girl had lost her usefulness because of her own arrogance and her jealousy of Catrina's position as future mistress of Belvoir.

"Pack your bags, Angelique," he growled. "I want you on the next boat for New Orleans in the morning."

The woman's huge green eyes widened. "Radford! What are you saying! You do not mean this! It is only your lust for the stupid little Anglaise that blinds you"

She stumbled backward, grasping frantically for the balustrade, as his hand slashed out and caught her cheek with a resounding crack.

"Don't ever speak of her that way again." Radford snarled, "or by God I'll take you and Catrina to New Orleans and have you flogged!"

"Radford!" she entreated from the place where she crouched on the carpet.

"Pack your bags," he repeated. "And do not attempt to betray me to Catrina. If you did, I should have to see to it that you are not fit for any man to look at again!"

Clambering to her feet, Angelique skittered away. She knew that by law in New Orleans a white woman could have a femme de couleur flogged almost at whim. It would be just like Radford to repay any treachery on her part by having Catrina or some other white woman order his errant mistress whipped. He would see to it that her looks were ruined and without them she would have no chance of finding another wealthy lover. Penniless, shunned, she would sink to the lowest depths of society and likely end by dying either slowly of drink or quickly by her own hand. It was too high a price to pay for the momentary satisfaction of the expression on Catrina's face when she learned of how Radford had duped her.

Chapter 16

Pale and edgy after a sleepless night, Catrina bathed and dressed herself, grateful to be left to herself and not have to suffer the attentions of the smug, smirking Angelique. As had become her habit upon rising, she opened her French windows and stepped out onto the gallery where the warm, fresh air of the early spring morning invigorated her, taking away some of the fatigue that clung stubbornly to her eyelids and ached in the back of her neck.

A carriage appeared from around the back of the house and Catrina watched curiously as trunks were loaded into it. After a few moments Radford appeared and with him, being fairly dragged along by one wrist, Angelique.

Dressed in an exquisite, many-flounced dress of orchid patterned silk with a basquin bodice that molded itself to her lithe body, Angelique struggled with Radford but only succeeded in loosing one of her fiery curls that tumbled over her shoulder from beneath her beplumed hat. As if sensing Catrina's eyes upon her, the beautiful quadroon glared up toward the upper gallery, her almond-shaped eyes flashing emerald fire.

''You!" she shrieked. "This is your fault! Radford was happy with me until he caught the foul scent of your money! You spoiled Anglaise bitch! I'll make you pay for this! By all that's holy, I'll make you pay if I have to wait a lifetime!"

Shocked, Catrina retreated into her room and heart Angelique's scream of pain and outrage as Radford boxed her ears and bustled her into the carriage. Not trusting her to board the riverboat bound for New Orleans, he climbed into the carriage and ordered it away.

Leaving her room, Catrina walked along the balcony overlooking the entrance hall. As she passed the guest room in which Flint lay, the door opened. Mrs. Brandt appeared followed by Phoebe, one of the younger house-slaves, who carried a bucket of pinkened water in which stained bandages floated,.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the housekeeper told Catrina, "what with Mister Flint and all, I'm afraid your breakfast isn't ready yet. I've set Cook and her girls to it but they take their own sweet time if I'm not there to hurry them along."

"That's quite all right," Catrina assured her. "I'm not hungry anyway." She peered into the room as Mrs. Brandt drew the door closed. Flint's dark hair was a sooty smudge on the snowy pillows and his sable stubble showed darkly against the unusual pallor of his skin. "How is he?" she asked, her anxiety evident in her voice and eyes.

"He'll live if the fever doesn't set in too badly." the housekeeper assured her. "He's lost a lot of blood but he's a big, strong man; he can afford it."

"May I go in and see him?"

"Certainly not!" The woman's strong-boned face reddened as she remembered that she was speaking not to any young girl but to her master's ladyher future mistress. "Your pardon, ma'am," she amended. "But Mister Flint is in no fit condition to be seen by an innocent young lady. He isthat is to sayhe hasn't got anyhe is unclothed, ma'am.''

Catrina blushed but it was not the flush of shocked innocence as Mrs. Brandt supposed. Rather, it was the remembrance of having seen Flint unclothed in far more intimate circumstances that a sickroom.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brandt," She murmured, the color still flooding her cheeks. "Of course you're quite right."

Turning, she walked slowly back toward her own room keeping an ear tuned to the sound of the housekeeper's footsteps as they began descending the stairs closely followed by the young slave. Catrina paused, hand on her doorknob, ready to slip into her room should the housekeeper or anyone else appear on the balcony.

But no one did. With no one in sight, she retraced her steps to Flint's door and let herself into the room.

Her footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting, Catrina approached the bed. The hangings with their exquisite Oriental-flavored print of flowers and birds of paradise, had been drawn up to the thick bedposts. A pitcher of water and a glass stood on the bedside table along with a silver basket containing a number of the powders left by Doctor Zeeman after his visit the night before.

Flint lay quietly, having been given one of the powders by Mrs. Brandt. His eyes were closed and his black lashes lay in silky crescents on his pale cheeks. His breathing was slow, laborious, with the hint of a catch at the apex of each inhalation. The strong thud-thud of his heartbeat could be seen at the shadowed joining of his neck and shoulder.

Catrina approached the bed warily. She had not been so close to him since that day in New Orleans when he had left her to await Radford's arrival. A single movement, a word or the flicker of an eyelid on his part, would have put her to flight like a frightened fawn.

But Flint did not stir. Not a muscle twitched as Catrina sat gingerly on the bed's edge and took one of his big, cool hands between her two small, warm ones. She held his hand, gazing down at it, feeling the changing textures of his skin from the smooth softness of his long, thick fingers to the rough calluses of the palm and fingertips. She stared at it not daring to plumb the depths of the emotions the contact of his flesh against hers aroused in her.

When she had learned of his deceptionhis betrayalof her, she had taken all the hurt inside her and let it crystallize into a hatred so hard and pure that it had seemed to take on a life of its own. But now, when he was so near and so helpless and so devastatingly, masculinely, virilely beautiful, she felt that block of hatred melting like a cube of ice liquefying in the summer sunshine.

A tear splashed on Flint's fingers and Catrina lifted a hand to her face and was surprisd to find the tracks of tears she had not realized she was shedding.

"Oh, Flint," she breathed, lifting his hand to her lips, "why can't I hate you? You used me heartlessly and abandoned me to my fate with nary a word of regret but still my heart cries out for you. What kind of man are you to wield such power over me?" Clasping the hand to her breasts, she reached up to touch his face, to trace the sharp, stubbled edge of his jaw, to brush the full, sensual lips that had given her such sweet joy. "You're a sorcerer, Flint Ashton," she murmured ruefully, "you're a wizard, a warlock casting spells of enchantment over foolish young girls who have neither the power nor the desire to resist your witchery. You use them as you wish and cast them aside at your whim but they remain spellbound, caught fast in the silken tendrils of your web of fascination, becharmed by you until no other man can ever supplant you in their minds or their hearts."

Caught up in her musings, Catrina did not hear the door open nor see Norah, Mrs. Brandt's daughter, standing in the doorway gaping in amazement. It was only when the bundle of clothing she had just brought in from the laundry slipped from her arms and fell to the floor that the movement caught Catrina's eye.

Dropping Flint's hand, Catrina retreated to the far side of the room while Norah retrieved the freshly laundered clothing. She closed the door behind her and the two young women stood in uneasy silence until at last Norah dredged up the courage to speak.

"I just brought Mister Flint's things in from the laundry, ma'am. I couldn't get all the bloodstains out of his shirt but I suppose it's clean enough for him to wear when he goes home."

"Thank you, Norah," Catrina managed. She smiled wanly. "I was just visiting Mister Flint. He's all alone, you know, with no family to speak of. I thought it was the least I could do."

No family? Norah was puzzled. Of course Mister Flint had family; the master and Miss Olympia were his family not even counting various aunts, uncles, and cousins scattered all over the southern states. She opened her mouth to correct Catrina but remembered Radford's warning about gossiping. Primly she nodded. "Yes, ma'am," she agreed. She remembered the locket she'd found among Flint's effects. "I think I have something of yours, ma'am. I think perhaps Mister Flint meant to return it to you first chance he had."

"Something of mine?"

Norah dug into her pocket and brought out the small golden locket Flint had gotten at Lynleigh House when he'd been about to embark on his search for Catrina in London.

Catrina took it from her recognizing it as one she'd given Perdita Jackson on the occasion of Catrina's sixteenth birthday. Opening it, she gazed at the miniature of herself inside. As when she'd looked at the portrait in the parlor downstairs, she reflected upon how young she looked, how unknowing and unsuspecting.

"Where was this?" she asked the young laundress.

"Mister Flint had it attached to his watch-chain," Norah replied. "He was keeping it safe for you, I'm sure."

"Yes, I'm sure he was," Catrina agreed. But privately she was confused. Flint had had the locket aboard the Golden Rose. He told her he used it to help him find her in London. Why, then, hadn't he returned it to Perdita either before they sailed or upon their arrival in New Orleans? And why would he keep it in so public a place as his watch chain? Did he use it to illustrate his tawdry boasts or was there another reason? Didn't his wife object to his sporting so ornate a piece of jewelry containing a miniature of another woman? It was certainly not the gesture of a devoted husband. Catrina clasped the locket in her hand unable to sort out the conflicting and confusing possibilities. There were so many questions and so few answers.

"Catrina?" The word was no more than a whisper, a breeze that soughed on the air currents of the chamber. But both Catrina and Norah heard it and their eyes went to the wounded man in the big Chinese bed.

Flint's legs thrashed beneath the covers and his hands clutched at the quilts that had been drawn up beneath his arms. He was caught up in the same nightmare that had haunted him since Catrina's disappearance. She was there, a shadowy figure, always just out of his reach, waiting for him, beckoning to him, tantalizing him, then vanishing like a desert mirage when he came too near.

Heedless of Norah's presence, Catrina went to him. A cloth lay on the table near the water pitcher and Catrina wet it and began bathing Flint's feverish brow all the while murmuring softly to him.

"Hush, hush, I'm here," she cooed as Norah watched, eyes wide, bewildered. "I'm here, my darling, rest now."

"Don't leave me," he entreated, quieting under her tender ministrations. "Don't leave me!"

"I won't leave you," she promised, catching and kissing the hand that groped out blindly toward her. "Sleep now, my love."

His big fingers tightened around hers hurting her even though they had in them but a fraction of his usual strength. He held her hand tightly as though afraid to let go lest he lose her again before the numbing effects of the doctor's powders freed him from their sophorific embrace. Soon the lines in his forehead smoothed and he lay still once again under the quilts. His breathing slowed and the pulsing in his throat returned to its steady, regular rhythm. Again asleep, his grip loosened and Catrina was free. She laid his hand atop the quilt and looked up to find Norah staring at her completely perplexed by what she had just witnessed.

Leaving the bedside, Catrina went to her. "Norah," she said softly, "I will not order you to say nothing of this to Radford but I will beg you not to. There is much you do not understand and for all our sakes it is better that no one know of this. Please believe me and promise that you will keep my secret" she looked at Flint and back again, "our secret."

Norah hesitated, confused, but before she could speak the door opened and Radford appeared. His black eyes narrowed in suspicion and ire at finding Catrina in Flint's room. Then his gaze shifted to Norah and he remembered another occasion when he had arrived just in time to prevent Norah from telling Catrina who Flint really was.

"What the deuce are you doing in here, Norah?" he snarled. "If I find you've been filling Lady Catrina's head full of your tales . . ."

"Oh, no, sir," the laundress assured him. "I was only bringing Mister Flint's clothes back from the laundry."

"That had better be all you're up to. Leave us, now; go back to your duties."

Eyes submissively lowered, Norah started out of the room. But as she passed Catrina and their full skirts merged, she managed to find and press Catrina's hand, hidden by the concealing folds. The promise was made. Though she bore no real affection for Catrina and scarcely knew Flint, having only seen him on the occasions when he visited Belvoir, she actively disliked the arrogant, ruthless master of Belvoir. To spite Radford St. James, she would have held her tongue had she found Catrina and Flint in the act of love itself.

Relieved, Catrina faced Radford more bravely when he took her wrist and led her from Flint's room.

"I'm surprised at you," he hissed when they were alone on the balcony outside the door.

"Are you? Why?"

"You know why!" His stygian eyes glittered dangerously. "How could you go to his room! You know of his reputation! Have you no concern for yours? Or mine?"

"He called to me," she countered. "He called my name."

"He is not even conscious."

"But he called to me!"

"And of course you must answer!"

They fell silent as the two maids, Felice and Marie, left Olympia's bedchamber with armloads of bedlinen and disappeared down the stairs. When they were out of sight and earshot, Catrina answered.

"Yes, I must! He is gravely injured. If he is allowed to rant and thrash in his delirium, he could well reopen his wound. Christian charity dictates"

"Christian charity!" Radford scoffed. "Your tendresse for Flint Ashton has nothing whatsoever to do with Christian charity." He saw Catrina's chin go up and her eyes narrow at his implication, and pressed his threat home. "If you are so enamoured of that bedridden roué that you make a habit of your 'charitable' visits, I will have no choice but to turn him out of my home."

"Turn him out!" Catrina was horrified. "Where will he go?"

"I don't give a particular damn, my angel. To an hotel, perhaps, or a brothel." Radford laughed maliciously. "That should make him feel at home!"

"Radford, you can't! The strain of moving him now could have dreadful, even fatal, effects!"

Radford arched a raven brow. "How touching is your concern, my love. If you are really so worried about his health, you will promise me that you will stay away from him. After all, I cannot be expected to put my name and reputation and those of my wife in jeopardy by countenancing these visits of yours. I would be thought a fool if I did, and you would be thought worse than a fool." He cupped Catrina's proud little chin in his hand. "Will you promise to stay away from him, Catrina?"

Fury and frustration gleaming in her bright, topaz eyes, Catrina jerked her chin out of his hand and clenched her fists to still their trembling. "Yes!" she hissed, seething with the desire to rake her nails across his lean, lupine face. "I'll stay away if you'll allow Flint to remain at Belvoir and be cared for."

Condescendingly gracious in victory, Radford inclined his head. "Agreed. Now, if you will be so kind as to come with me, there is someone I should like you to meet."

Refusing to take the arm he offered, Catrina followed Radford downstairs to a little used salon at the rear of the house.

A silver tea service had been placed on a century-old pie-crust mahogany table and a woman whose profusion of auburn curls would have been far more suited to a girl half her age and whose beribboned, flounced gown of violent pink silk molded itself to her amazingly youthful figure, sat on the blue brocade sofa munching on a biscuit.

She rose as Radford and Catrina entered the room and her small, dark eyes darted over Catrina appraisingly.

"Catrina," Radford said, "allow me to present Madame Gautier. She arrived this morning from New Orleans."

"Madame," Catrina acknowledged, confused.

"Lady Catrina, you are as lovely as your portrait in the grand drawing room. I shall deem it an honor to create something absolutely exquisite for you.''

Catrina turned questioning eyes toward Radford but he said not a word as Madame Gautier bustled around the sofa and brought out a large leather portfolio which she unclasped and laid open on another table. Inside were several drawings and swatches of fabric samples of lace, and trimmings, all of white. She smiled at Catrina, inviting her to look at them, and Catrina went forward out of curiosity.

Radford, moving with her, slid an arm about her waist and leaned close to whisper in her ear tauntingly.

"Aren't they lovely, my darling? Madame Gautier is here to design and fashion your wedding gown."

Stunned, Catrina stared up at him, the horror in her eyes all too clear for Radford's taste. He scowled and stepped away.

"Make your choices, Catrina, and make haste about it! I intend that our wedding day will arrive soonvery soon!"

Chapter 17

True to her promise, Catrina did not return to Flint's room in the days that followed. She did not dare make many inquiries after his health and what information she did manage to obtain was gleaned from conversations she overheard and from whispered exchanges with Norah who, though still exiled to the laundry, was in and out of the mansion several times a day with clean linen bandages.

Most of Catrina's days were spent in the blue-silk hung drawing room being fitted for the wedding gown she despised more with each passing day.

Of purest white gros de Naples, the gown's billowing skirt was gathered to a pointed bodice. Flounces of Honiton lace cascaded to the floor and a veil of the same lace fell from the chaplet of silk flowers and pearls. On the day the gown was finished, Catrina stood in the blue parlor as Madame Gautier and her bevy of assistants encircled her cooing their admiration. She was lovely, they said, a vision, an angel. For Catrina's part, she would as soon have seen the magnificent and costly gown torn into scrub rags. Wearily, she reached up and pulled the chaplet from her head.

"Get me out of this, please," she asked.

The dressmaker's eyes were instantly filled with concern. "Madame, perhaps, does not like the gown?"

"It's very beautiful, madame," Catrina assured her.

"Very beautiful, indeed," Radford agreed from the doorway. Entering the room, he approached her. His ebony eyes, moving slowly, deliberately, roved over her. "And you, my love, make it exquisite."

Madame Gautier sighed. Her assistants, young girls of impoverished families, hoping to better their lots by entering the lucrative profession of catering to ladies of wealth and changeable tastes, tittered and tried to catch his eye. Their reactions surprised Catrina until she remembered that Radford was, after all, a rich, handsome man with a knack for charming women. That she did not find him charming or particularly appealing physically said more for her biased tastes than for any failing on his part.

Rather than provoke his ire before them all, Catrina smiled sweetly as he took her hand and raised it to his lips. His dark eyes bored into hers, daring her to demur, as he leaned toward her and kissed her softly, lingeringly.

There was an audible sigh from the young, romantically minded modistes and Catrina had to bite her lip to hold back a bitter smile at the irony of it all. They envied her, these girls who saw only the trappings of her station and knew only that she was betrothed to, and obviously desired by, a man like Radford St. James. What would they think, she wondered, if they knew that she felt nothing for Radford save an ever growing, seething resentment against him for keeping her from the man she truly loved.

With an impatient gesture, Radford dismissed Madame Gautier and she quickly obeyed, herding her girls out of the room like a duck with her ducklings. When they were alone, he ignored Catrina's protests, took her into his arms, and showered her throat, shoulders, and bosom with the moist, hot kisses the gown's off-shoulder decolletage seemed to invite.

"When will you marry me?" he demanded breathlessly.

"Soon, Radford," she promised. "But not yet."

"Not yet! Damnation, Catrina! You've been here for almost three months!"

"I know," she acknowledged, struggling within his too-tight embrace, "but with Flint here"

"Flint!" Radford thrust her roughly away. "Is he going to stand between us forever? The man is not fit to touch the hem of your skirt, Catrina! When will you believe me? How many more of his filthy secrets will I have to parade before you to make you realize that I'm right?"

Catrina turned her back to hide the tears that stung her eyes. If anyone had ever told her that she would one day weep for her married lover in the presence of the man to whom she was legally bound, she would have called him a liar. And yet it was happening and she wept not out of shame for her betrayal of her marriage contract but out of self-pity that the man she loved would never be hers.

"I know that you are right, Radford," she admitted miserably. "But I cannot help myself."

"I should never have allowed them to bring him here! I should have left him to die in the gutter like the cur he is!" He eyed Catrina with a dark, unfathomable gaze. "Perhaps it is not yet too late to rid ourselves of him and the shadow he casts between us."

"What do you mean?" Catrina demanded warily.

Radford shrugged one powerful shoulder. "Doctor Zeeman left quite a few of those powders upstairs. Taken in small doses they are a harmless sleeping potion. Taken in too large a quantity, however . . ."

"You wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't I?"

Ashen, Catrina rushed to him and took his hand. "Please, Radford, don't say such things, even in jest!"

The trembling of her hands and the fear in her eyes fanned Radford's fury. To see her humbling herself, begging for Flint's life, infuriated him.

"I do assure you," he replied tightly, "that I am not jesting. How long could you love a dead man, Catrina?"

She saw the determination in his onyx eyes and knew she was beaten. Hanging her head, she accepted defeat.

"What must I do to ensure Flint's recovery?" she asked softly.

"Only marry me. Soon."

"The day after Flint leaves this house," she proposed hopefully. Her head came up and she stared hard into his eyes. "The day after he leaves this house alive!"

Radford was indignant. "Did you have to add that? Do you trust me so little?"

"I do not trust you at all where Flint is concerned," she told him, her cold honesty wounding the delicate, newly born flower of his love for her. "You hate him so; and yet you tolerate him in your home. You welcome him when he visits. I don't understand."

"No, you don't," he agreed cryptically.

There was a rapping at the door and a slave announced the arrival of Doctor Zeeman who had examined Flint and now waited to report on his condition to Radford. Excusing himself, Radford started out of the room but paused in the doorway to look back at Catrina. She looked so beautiful standing there in her bride's white that the determination to possess her seemed to redouble inside him. "You don't understand," he repeated, "but you will. Someday I'll explain it to you; but not today."

With that he left and Catrina summoned Madame Gautier back and the hateful gown was taken away. Dressed in her own clothing once more, she left the blue parlor and made her way to the library which adjoined Radford's study where he and Doctor Zeeman were discussing Flint's case over brandy and cigars.

"So our Flint is on the mend, is he?" Radford asked sarcastically.

"Oh, yes. There's no question of his survival. The wound was not inconsequential and there is a fever which is always a danger, but with rest and proper care he'll be as good as new." There was a pause as the doctor sipped his brandy. "I've spoken to the men who brought him here. They tell me they would have taken him home to begin with but Belvoir is closer."

"Of course. We're glad to have him here."

"Hypocrite!" Catrina screamed silently. "Liar!"

She brought her mental tirade to an end when she heard Radford calling for the doctor's hat and coat. She heard the doctor asking Radford about a certain volume of poetry he wished to borrow. Fearing discovery, she left the library for the relative privacy of her own room.

"Are you sure nothing is amiss?" Radford asked as he followed Catrina out of the parlor where she, Radford, and Olympia had spent the evening playing connexion, a card game Radford seemed to find highly entertaining. He had insisted upon Catrina's learning the rules and she generally did very well. Tonight, however, her mind was elsewhere and she lost the stake of gold he had allotted her quickly. He had been obliged to replenish her supply in order to finish the game with the required three players.

She turned toward him impatiently as they reached the foot of the stairs. "I'm perfectly all right, Radford. Honestly." She bit her lower lip, a gesture he found enchanting. "To be quite frank, I am uneasy about our wedding now that the day is so near. But you will certainly allow that that is no unusual state of affairs for a young woman."

"Granted, most brides are fearful," he agreed. "But I would have your wordyour word of honor, Catrinathat that is the only cause of your condition."

"You mean Flint." She lifted her eyes to him and faced him calmly. "I have not gone to his room againI promised I would not. You have said that he is safe so long as I honor my promise to marry you. I have agreed. I don't think any more need be said on that subject."

Pleased with her acceptance of the situation, Radford smiled and, leaning close, whispered a question into her ear.

Catrina flushed and moved slightly away from him. "Please, Radford. In a matter of days I will be your wife. I will honor my vows and perform my wifely duties without complaint. But for now, grant me these last nights alone." Radford's swarthy face darkened with displeasure. He was pleased that Catrina was not insensible to what would be expected of her once they were legally joined, but he would have preferred that she not look upon their lovemaking as a "wifely duty" to be performed like any other distasteful household chore.

Not for the first time, he wondered what it had been like for Flint when he loved her. He hated his cousin and envied him in equal measure.

"Good night, then," he said grudgingly. "Go to your maidenly bed if you must. But few nights from tonight, that chamber will ring with the sounds of our passion."

Repugnance curled Catrina's dainty, pink, upper lip as she turned to climb the stairs. But Radford, unable to restrain himself, reached out and caught her when she was two steps above him. His surprisingly powerful hands spanned her waist and he turned her toward him, almost toppling her off the carpeted tread. Taking her by surprise, he buried his face in the scented valley between her snowy breasts and kissed her longingly, lingeringly.

"Radford," Catrina entreated, desperately afraid that one of the servants would appear and find them thusly. "Radford, please."

His lips still resting against her silken flesh, gauging the muffled beating of her heart, Radford willed his pulses to slow and forced his rampant desires back into the bonds his will had imposed upon them. Regaining possession of himself, he stepped back and allowed his hands to fall at his sides.

"An apéritif, my love," he breathed, only the slighest trace of huskiness betraying his momentary loss of control, "nothing more. To whet the appetite for the coming feast."

Frightened by the depth and intensity of his lust, Catrina lifted her skirts and fled up the stairs to her room. The big testor bed with its hangings of cream and gold crewel-work lay like a trap in the shadows of the rooma trap in which she was both the bait and the victim.

She crossed her arms over her breasts and trembled thinking of herself there in that bed with Radfordat his mercysubject to his will. The notion both repulsed and terrified her.

Not bothering to call one of the housemaids who had been pressed into her service until a lady's maid could be engaged to replace Angelique, Catrina undressed, bathed, and pulled on a voluminous nightdress of sheer, baby pink silk. In the lamp's flickering light, she sat at her dressing table drawing her silver-backed brush through the thick, honey-gold curls that twined themselves about her wrists like golden serpents. The soft, satin-sheeted bed held no appeal for her. She knew that to sleep would mean to dream and she was all too certain that those dreams would center around the consummation of her coming marriage.

Not so very far away, Mrs. Brandt was settling her patient in for the night. Mixing the sleeping draught, she pursed her lips in disapproval. Flint was much improved though he still had a slight fever that was worrisome. She could not understand why Radford had overridden the doctor's orders and commanded that his cousin be kept weak as a kitten by repeated doses of the sleeping mixture. It had only been prescribed in the first place to ease the pain and give him respite from the thrashing that might reopen his wound. Surely now that the wound was healing so well and the pain had diminished it was time for Flint to begin rebuilding his strength.

She looked at Flint as he lay in the big bed. He was a handsome man with a rakish air that would have charmed her to the point of foolishness twenty years earlier. She wanted to see her nursing skills proven with his rapid and complete recovery and yet she did not dare disobey her master.

Racked by indecision, she was startled when Flint spoke to her.

''Good evening, Mrs. Brandt. Have I you to thank for my clean-shaven face?"

"Lord no, sir," the housekeeper replied, flustered as a schoolgirl as she always was in his presence.

"Waverley, the master's valet, shaved you this afternoon. You had quite a crop of whiskers; you looked a regular pirate."

Flint passed a hand over his jaw. "He did a good job." He noticed the packet of powder she held poised over the water glass. "My evening potion?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I do have orders"

"I quite understand. Mix away, Mrs. Brandt." With sudden resolve, she poured only half of the packet's contents into the glass and slipped the remaining powder into her apron pocket to be disposed of later. Carrying the glass to the bedside, she gave it to him and watched like a beaming parent as he drank it obediently with only the hint of a grimace.

Settling back on the pillows, he suffered her to tuck the quilts about him. "Judging by previous experience, I should be dead to the world in a matter of moments."

"Perhaps not, sir," the housekeeper contradicted. "I've given you only half a dose tonight. Your sleep may not be quite as sound as it has been of late."

"In other words," Flint smiled, "I might sleep tonight instead of merely passing out."

"Exactly, sir."

"So be it. Sweet dreams to you, Mrs. Brandt."

"And to you, sir."

Smiling, the housekeeper left him, leaving a single small lamp burning so that he could find the bell-pull if he happened to wake in the night. In the past weeks she had bathed him and fed him and tended him and his welfare had become very dear to her. It would not do, she told herself sagely, to leave him half-drugged in a pitch-black, unfamiliar room.

Flint's eyes closed and he was drawn downward into the realm of dreams. As they had from the first night he had spent without her, his dreams centered on Catrina. Her beautiful face danced before him smiling, weeping, innocent, seductive, suffused with virginal blushes, alight with womanly passion. The musical sound of her laughter taunted him, seeming to have its orgins everywhere and nowhere. She appeared before him, clad in diaphanous silk, beckoning him to join her and love her, but when his fingers were but hair's breadth from hers, she vanished only to reappear in the shadowy recesses of his awareness always out of reach.

"Catrina!" The cry broke free of his lips as it had so many times before. "Catrina! Come to me! Come back to me!"

Having left her room for the cool, black shadows of the gallery, Catrina stiffened as Flint's cries reached her, borne on the soughing breezes. His torment tore at her hearthis need reached out to her, begirding her, drawing her to him as irresistibly as a moth is drawn to a flame.

Through the lace curtains that draped the French windows, Catrina could see him, moving restlessly in the great Chinese bed, in the throes of a nightmare. Unable to ignore his harrowed entreaties, she laid a trembling hand on the latch and pushed the window open.

Battling the soporific effects of the draught, Flint fought his way toward consciousness. But even in his state of half-wakefulness, his visions pursued him. It seemed his eyes were open; he recognized the shadowy room as the guest room at Belvoir where he was recovering. But there was Catrina, moving slowly toward him, her silken nightdress swirling about her deliciously curving legs, molding itself to the soft swell of her belly, clinging tantalizingly to her breasts. Her hair, brushed and shining, gleaming golden in the lamplight, tumbled over her shoulders giving her the air of a wanton angel.

Desire of a painful acuteness filled him; every part of him came to life, aroused by her nearness. His senses screamed for the sight and the sound and the scent and the touch and the taste of her.

"Merciful God," he rasped as she came even nearer, "if this is a dream, don't let me wake!"

He held out a hand to her and she reached toward him. Their fingers brushed and a shock quivered up their arms and back again. Flint's fingers closed painfully about Catrina's fragile wrist and he jerked her to him, gasping as her body sprawled across his.

"Flint," she whispered, her lips grazing his.

A moan welled up from the depths of Flint's soul and his arms slid around her, crushing her to him, as he buried his mouth in the tender, pulsing hollow of her throat.

Catrina melted against him. His caresses, now sweet and lingering, now hard and filled with fevered need, robbed her of her strength and threatened her very sanity.

With a single, fluid movement he turned, taking her with him, kicking away the quilts, and trapping her beneath him. She was at his mercy; he was her lusty gaoler, she his ardent captive.

She kneaded the tight, flexing muscles of his shoulders with trembling fingers all the while making soft, mewing sounds of desire and impatience. She was aflame with desire, driven by it. She wanted none of the leisurely, languid loveplay that usually precedes lovers' joinings. She craved only the sweet fulfillment of their oneness. She ached to be taken by himpossessed by himto become a part of him and he of her.

She scarcely noticed when he drew her nightdress off her shoulders and down past her feet, trailing moist butterfly-soft kisses along the saniny length of her. She didn't hear its silken whisper as it slithered to the carpeted floor. Her entire consciousness was centered on that searing, honeyed part of her that was even then being filled to overflowing by the taut, heated hardness of him as their bodies were linked,

"Yes! Oh, Flint, yes!" she moaned as her arms and legs encircled him, banding his body with satin and steel.

His face appeared above hers and she found all the white-hot passion inside her reflected in the fiery emerald furnace of his eyes. He took her mouth in a savage, bruising kiss while his hand slid down her back and beneath her buttocks to pull her closer as he buried himself even deeper in the welcoming softness of her.

The flower of their passion came alive and burgeoned; carefully nurtured in the burning depths of their driving bodies, it flourished; thriving on the sweet ambrosia of their love, it grew until it burst into a glorious blossom that awed and silenced them both. "'Trina, 'Trina love," Flint murmured softly as he drew her into the gentle curve of his long body. He felt the soporific tentacles of Mrs. Brandt's draught twining themselves about him, dragging his eyelids, pulling them into odylic embrace. His fingers closed about Catrina's wrist in a desperate attempt to keep her beside him. But the room was spinning, darkening, and his grip on her loosened as he slid softly into the waiting arms of unconsciousness.

Tears filled Catrina's eyes as she left his arms. She dared not remain with him any longer. For Radford to learn of her presence in Flint's room let alone in his bed could mean death for himthe man she loved.

She drew the quilts over him but he did not stir. Smiling tearfully, she pulled her nightdress over her head and let it fall to the floor in a silken swirl. chastely veiling her tired, sated body. It was time to leave him; she could not risk his life by prolonging her stay even to kiss his moist cheek or fondle a shining lock of his sable hair.

Beguiled into carelessness, she didn't notice Olympia standing in the shadows of the gallery as she left Flint's room via the French windows and hurried soundlessly toward her own room. Had she looked back before entering the safety of her bedchamber, she might have seen Radford's sister watching her, her ebony eyes wide, her voluptuous body poised in an attitude of surprise. But she didn't look back and she didn't suspect she'd been seen.

Curious, Olympia entered Flint's room through the same windows by which Catrina had just left it. The light was dim, the lamp was burning low, but in its dwindling glow she saw Flint lying in his bed. A sheen of perspiration glazed his brow and the broad, finely-muscled expanse of his shoulders. The heady, musky, unmistakeable scent of their love still hung in the air and, as if final proof were needed, several curling, honey-gold hairs lay intertwined with Flint's own darkly burnished locks.

Olympia's slitted eyes glittered dangerously. "That high-nosed little slut!" she muttered. "How dare she take what is mine! Flint belongs to me and always has. I'll teach her to slip through the night like a back-alley trollop!"

Intent on rousing her brother from his blissful ignorance and presenting him with the proof of his sweet Catrina's treachery, Olympia started from the room. But at the door, she paused. A thoughtful expression replaced her grimace of hatred. She would not tell Radford. Rather, she would hug her secret to herself and scheme. She wanted to hurt Catrina beyond all recovery. Men! What did they know of inflicting pain! Brute strength and physical violence, that was their way. But women knew better. Women knew where to place the needle-sharp stiletto and how to turn it slowly, carefully, in order to prolong their victim's agony.

Noshe would definitely not tell Radford. There was a better way.

Chapter 18

"I can't get over it," Radford murmured, not for the first time that afternoon. "The change in you is quite miraculous."

Catrina laughed, letting her curls swing loose in the warm spring breezes. The day was lovely, the world was beautiful, and even Radford seemed eminently likeable. The roses that bloomed in her cheeks and the golden lights that danced in her eyes were only outward evidence of her passion of the night before. The precious memories of Flint's love filled her with a happy contentment that even Radford St. James could not quell.

"I am happy today, Radford," she told him merrily, tickling him beneath the chin with the fringed end of the sea-green sash of her champagne silk gown. "I should think that would make you happy as well." Radford captured her hand and brought it to his lips. "It does, my darling. Rest assured that it does."

Catrina lowered her eyes and regarded him through her lashes coquettishly. His black eyes gleamedhe was clearly enchanted by this new, flirtatious Catrina he'd never seen beforebut in Catrina's heart there was no tenderness for him. Her only malicious thought was of how much less captivated he would be if only he knew the reason for her mood.

But Olympia knew. Sitting opposite them in the shade of the octagonal gazebo at the end of the rose garden, she watched, disgusted. Had she not already concocted a delicious scheme of revenge, she would have told Radford what she'd seen the night before; exposed the little bitch for exactly what she was. To think of all the times she had tried to seduce Flintat Oakwood, at Belvoir, in Natchez, in New Orleansnothing had worked. Now to see this hoity-toity little trollop slipping in and out of his bed all the while keeping Radford at arm's length in a frenzy for her.

The sound of a carriage caught all their attentions.

"That will be Doctor Zeeman," Radford told them, standing. "I'd like a word with him before he leaves."

Kissing Catrina's cheek, he started from the gazebo but his progress was halted when a roar shattered the idyllic atmosphere of the garden. The bellow, like the deafening war cry of some primeval warrior, echoed through the chambers and along the galleries of Belvoir. It seemed to make the leaves on the trees tremble with its power.

"CATRINA!"

Catrina's face lost all color and she rose slowly to her feet, stunned by the raw agony of the hideous cry. "Flint," she whispered. Lifting her skirts, she started past Radford but he seized her round the waist and shoved her toward Olympia.

"Keep her here," he ordered, already running toward the house.

While Catrina struggled, Radford sped through the garden, past Roman, the hulking black blacksmith and Victor the head groom. Both stood still in the rear drive of the plantation gazing toward the house as if it had suddenly been possessed by demons.

Without a word to them, Radford entered the house and took the backstairs two at a time. In Flint's room, he found Doctor Zeeman and Mrs. Brandt struggling with their patient.

"He's gone mad!" the housekeeper told her master. "Utterly mad!"

At the sight of Radford, Flint ceased his struggles. A frightening, almost maniacal light gleamed in his emerald eyes. Heedless of his nudity, he shook free of the doctor and the housekeeper and approached his cousin. "You have her," he snarled. "You've had her all the time! Give her to me!"

"What are you talking about?" Radford asked innocently. He looked at the doctor. "Has his fever returned? He must be delirious.''

"How did you get her to go with you?" Flint continued, stalking Radford who swallowed hard and forced himself to keep from bolting for the door. "What lies have you told her? By God! If you've touched her . . ."

His hands shot out and wrapped themselves about Radford's neck. Seeking to escape the crushing pressure that threatened to steal the life from him, Radford sank to his knees. Nearly hysterical, Mrs. Bandt ran from the room. Her only thought was to bring help for her master before his cousin murdered him. She didn't see Doctor Zeeman calmly opening his bag and removing a vial and a wad of gauze.

In the garden Catrina and Olympia fought. Though nearly of a height, Olympia was far more voluptuous. Her weight advantage made her a formidable rival. But when Mrs. Brandt stumbled onto the gallery at the back of the house and shouted for Victor and Roman to come because Mister Flint was murdering the master, Catrina wasted no more time. Sinking her teeth into Olympia's soft, white hand, she was immediately free and away before her future sister-in-law could recapture her.

Sweeping up the stairs, she found Radford crumpled against the wall, hand to his throat, gasping for air. Livid fingermarks ringed his neck above the remnants of his once-immaculate collar. With scarcely a look, Catrina passed him to reach Flint's door. A cry escaped her as she saw Roman and Victor carrying Flint toward the One had his arms, the other his legs, his head hung back limply, lifelessly.

Before anyone in the room became aware of her presence, Radford seized her and shoved her roughly against the wall.

"not a word," he hissed. "Go to your room and stay there or I'll see to it he never wakes up!"

Catrina knew that he meant every word of this threat. If she wanted Flint to live there was nothing for her to do but obey. Turning on her heel, she went to her room and slipped inside.

Ear to the door, she listened impatiently for some sign that Radford and the doctor had gone. When she heard their voices fading away as they descended the stairs, she left her hiding place and rushed back to Flint's room.

Roman and Victor had been dismissed and only Mrs. Brandt remained. Still obviously shaken, she tucked the quilts about Flint's body. When Catrina entered, she started but did not question her presence.

Catrina went to the bed and laid her hand on the moist, cool flesh of Flint's broad chest. The black curls that furred it twined about her little white fingers but his chest did not seem to move at all.

"He's not breathing!" she cried. "Mrs. Brandt"

"He's alive, ma'am," the housekeeper told her coolly. She had always been puzzled by Catrina's excessive interest in Mister Flint but now, to see him try to kill his own flesh and blood over herwell, it all seemed to suggest some irregular and highly improper relationship between the handsome master of Oakwood and Master Radford's fianceé.

"What have you done to him?" Catrina accused. She sniffed the air. "What is that smell?"

Mrs. Brandt drew herself up indignantly. "The smell is ether. Doctor Zeeman soaked a pad in it and held it to Master Flint's face to keep him from killing the master. He's left me more of it. If Mister Flint wakes and becomes violent, I'm to give him thirty drops of ether and thirty of laudanum."

"That's barbarous! You can't keep him drugged like this! It's inhuman!"

"So is murder," the housekeeper shot back. "But that is exactly what he was about to do. And if I may say so, I should think you'd have a bit more feeling for his victim. Your fiancé!"

Knowing there was nothing she could do for Flint, Catrina rose from the bedside. She glared at the housekeeper. "My feelings, Mrs. Brandt, are none of your affair."

The two women stared at one another, their gazes filled with mutual hostility. The standoff ended when Radford appeared at the door.

"Catrina, come away from Flint. He's dangerous."

"Don't be ridiculous!" she spat. "Just because he attacked you doesn't mean he'd ever harm"

She broke off when Radford came to her and whispered into her ear. Paling, she turned and followed him meekly from the room leaving Mrs. Brandt to wonder what he could have said to so deflate the girl's imperious air.

On the balcony, Catrina clutched at Radford's sleeve.

"You didn't mean what you just said?"

Radford arched an ebony brow. "Indeed I did. I'll not have your shameful lust for that man paraded before my servants. If you persist, I will see to it that someone clumsily administers too much of that malodorous ether the doctor left. Flint will sleep quietlyfor all eternity."

"I said that I would marry youwhat more do you want?"

"I want you to stay away from your lover. If you cannot restrain yourself, I will separate the two of youpermanently."

"If you kill him," she threatened, her voice quavering at the prospect, "you will never toch me."

To her surprise, Radford laughed. Pressing her back against the wall, he leaned against her until their bodies were crushed together. His jet-black eyes were glittering and his voice was deadly serious as he whispered in her ear.

"I want you, Catrina. I want you so badly that it pains my every waking moment and haunts my dreams each night. You will be my wifein every waywhether you will it or not. My desire for you is such that I am not above using force to have you."

Catrina trembled. Over his shoulder she saw the maids, Felice and Marie, leaving the upstairs drawing room. Their black eyes flickered over Radford and Catrina. Believing they had caught their master and future mistress in a tender moment, they covered their giggles with their hands and fled down the stairs.

"Force?" Catrina whispered when they were again alone.

Bending toward her, he lightly teased her pearl-drop earring with the tip of his tongue. "Does the notion appeal to you?" he murmured.

"It disgusts me!" she hissed.

Radford leaned away slightly, easing the pressure on her. "The choice is yours. Make it carefully."

He released her then and Catrina fled to her room where she remained until Phoebe arrived with a demand from Radford that she join him and Olympia for dinner.

The evening was a warm one and a small slave boy stood in the corner tugging the cord that was attached by pulleys to the white-painted punkah that hung over the dining room table. The large, ornately carved fan swayed back and forth but seemed to do nothing to stir the air.

Catrina picked disinterestedly at her meal, leaving her oyster-stuffed roast turkey to grow cold as she had the mock turtle soup that had preceded it. Offhandedly, she listened to Radford and Olympia discussing Natchez society but the conversation meant nothing to her as she had not yet been allowed to meet any people whose peccadilloes they discussed with such relish.

It was only when the conversation skirted dangerously near the subject of Flint that her attention perked up. "I'm going to send him packing in a few days," Radford muttered.

Olympia opened her mouth to speak but Catrina cut in:

"But where will he go?" she demanded.

Sparing her a single, disgusted look, Olympia went back to her meal. She ate awkwardly for her right hand was bandaged. The delicate, carefully whitened, pampered skin still bore the livid, ugly impressions of Catrina's teeth. Olympia would never forgive Catrina for marring, even temporarily, any part of her beauty.

"The man has a home of his own," Radford snapped, heartily weary and jealous of Catrina's never ending worry over Flint.

"But who will care for him during convalescence if his wife has left him?"

Radford speared an oyster and bit it viciously. "A nurse can be easily engaged if he needs one, but I am of the opinion that an occasional visit from Doctor Zeeman will suffice." he touched his throat and winced at the memory of Flint's merciless fingers choking the life out of him.

"Flint has never lacked for feminine attention," Olympia snapped. "I don't doubt that his mistress of the moment," she threw Catrina a knowing glance, "whoever she may be, will see to his needsmedical and otherwise."

Flushing, Catrina let the subject drop and retreated to the silence she suddenly wished she had never broken.

As they often did, the three of them retired to the music room after dinner. As she usually did, Olympia took her place at her great, gilded harp. She fancied herself a virtuoso and while Catrina would not have gone so far in her praise of Olympia's skill, she could not deny that the woman's playing was pleasant enough. Certainly Olympia's indignation at anyone's having the temerity to speak during one of her renditions afforded Catrina the opportunity to ponder her problems.

She sat in one of the twin, swiveling chairs of a courting set. The set, of rosewood and creamy brocade, consisted of two arm chairs and a low, cushioned stool between them. The stool, so it was said, was placed there for use by a chaperone who sat firmly ensconced between the lovers who occupied the chairs. But tonight there was no chaperone. Radford, who sat in the second of the chairs, reached across the empty stool and took her hand.

Glad for Olympia's music which precluded any attempt at conversation on Radford's part, Catrina allowed her hand to lay limply in his and let her thoughts go back to their wanderings.

Radford had said that Flint must leave within a few days. That would mean that her wedding day could not be more than four days away. Four days. In four days' time she could be Catrina St. James and wholly subject to Radford's will. In four nights' time she would find herself at his mercy; he would waste no time in taking his rightful place in her bed.

The thought sent a shudder coursing through her. Seeing it, Radford gestured toward the servant who stood silently in the shadows and whispered an order that the French windows be closed against the evening breeze.

Thankful that he should mistake her shiver for a chill, Catrina wanly smiled her thanks. She was rewarded by Radford's dark smile and a gentle squeeze of her hand.

Catrina St. James, she thought dully. Radford's wifein every way. The prospect repelled her. If only she could leave with Flint. If only she never had to see Radford or Olympia, or Belvoir again!

Olympia's word came back to her: "His mistress of the moment, whoever she may be, will see to his needs . . ."

His mistress! Wasn't she that already? Hadn't she already shared his bedhis love? What matter if she was shunned by society? What did society matter if it meant she would be with Flint! Radford had told her that Flint's wife had left him to return to her family . . .

I'll do it! She resolved suddenly. Flint will take me with him, I know he will! He loves me and wants me; I heard it in his voice this afternoon when he called for me!

The notion of riding away from Belvoir and all it held delighted herthe thought of living with Flint regardless of the scandal their liaison caused sent a rush of pure, unadulterated bliss shooting through her.

She pressed a hand to her lips to hold back the ripple of joyful laughter that bubbled inside her. Instantly, Radford leaned toward her.

"What is it?" he demanded. "Your're suddenly pale and you're trembling."

Catrina stared at him mutely for several seconds wondering that he had the nerve to intrude on her happiness. Recovering herself, she drew her hand from his and stood.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, both to Radford and to Olympia who had broken off her playing and glared at her angrily. "I'm sorry. Suddenly I'm quite giddy. I fear I shall have to lie down. Yes, I'll call for a nice warm bath to calm me and then I shall go to bed."

"I'll take you up to your room," Radford offered at once, stepping forward.

Catrina touched his sleeved. "No, don't trouble yourself, Radford. Stay here and enjoy Olympia's beautiful music." She threw the raven-haired woman a dazzling smile. "Simply exquisite, Olympia. I don't believe I've ever heard you play quite so brilliantly. Good night." She leaned on her tip-toes and pecked at Radford's cheek, then stepped quickly away before he could return the kiss. "Good night, mon cher."

Nonplussed, Radford went to the door of the music room and watched as Catrina mounted the stairs. She went straight to her room sparing Flint's door nary a glance and disappeared from his view.

"She's been in exceptionally good spirits tonight," Radford commented, pouring himself a brandy. "I do believe she's coming to accept our marriageperhaps even to look forward to it."

Olympia rolled her eyes. Male vanity! A clever woman could lead them around by the nose with a few simpering smiles and honeyed words. But Olympia was not fooled. Catrina was up to something and Olympia knew what it was and intended to beat her at her own game.

Radford sat down again. "Play something else, sister. Catrina's quite right. Your music is surpassingly lovely tonight."

Olympia waved her bandaged hand before his eyes. "My music sounds like the pluckings of a drunken sailor with four fingers missing!" she snapped. "If you don't mind, I think I'll follow our paragon's example and retire early!"

Some time later, still moist from her bath and smelling of hyacinth, Catrina stood before her dressing table mirror. Her silver-backed brush gleaming in the soft lamplight, she brushed her hair slowly, sensuously, letting the long, burnished-gold curls swirl about her shoulders and cascade over her back to twine themselves about her waist.

Laying her brush aside, she gazed at herself. Droplets of moisture still clung to herto the curves of her breasts, to the dark oval of her navel and the soft swell of her belly, to the honey-colored curls at the joining of her thighs. Radford would want to see her this waydoubtless would demand to see her this way.

She crossed her arms over her breasts and hugged herself. She couldn't! Never! It was as if she were two women inhabiting one body. One of those women could go to a man's room and offer herself freely to him, as she had with Flint, and the other could not bear the thought of a man's touchof Radford's touch.

"No," she told her reflection. "It is not I who am different; they are the ones. Radford and Flint. Flint desires; Radford lusts. Therein lies the reason for my feelings. I would rather be the mistress of a man who loves than the wife of a man who simply mates like the meanest beast of the fields.''

Firmly resolved, she went into her bedchamber and rummaged in her armoire until she found what she sought. The little wooden chest containing the gown and negligee that had been Perdita's wedding gift to her and that she had worn on her first night with Flint. It was heavy in her trembling hands as she carried it to the bed and opened it. Inside, swathed in layers of protective silk tissue, the gown lay as it had when she'd replaced it the morning they'd docked in New Orleans. No one had seen it since; she'd forbidden both Norah and Angelique to open the chest. She had vowed never to wear the gown for Radford. It was part of her memories of Flint and she would wear it for him or no one.

With careful fingers, she lifted the diaphanous garments from the chest and laid them over the satin coverlet of her bed. The heavy gold satin of the spread tinged the snowy silk of the gown; the pattern of the spread's quilting was clearly visible through the gossamer silk. Catrina touched it reverently, sliding a finger along the pink satin ribbons trimming it and slipping her hand beneath it to marvel at its delicacy. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the gown and drew it over her head.

It floated to the floor about her feet, seeming to defy gravity in its lighteness. Similarly, when she carefully pulled the negilgee about her, it rippled on the barely perceptible air currents that could not even stir the crewel-work draperies at the windows.

Catrina whirled in a circle and her hair and the gown swirled about her, twining themselves tightly about her body and then reversing themselves and unwinding slowly until they settled again into place. Smiling, she repeated the motion but a sound brought her back to herself with a start.

The doorknob had turned and the door swung open. Catrina's heart froze. Should Radford see her thus attired, she doubted if she would escape his amorous attentions even if it meant using the force he had threatened her with earlier.

But it was not Radford. Olympia's maidservant, Jewel, stood in the doorway. She stared at Catrina, her dark eyes wide in her mahogany-colored face. She had seen beautiful clothes in her timeMiss Olympia's wardrobe bore comparison with any fashionable lady'sbut she had never seen a garment such as Catrina wore. Though it covered her from her neck to the floor and from wrist to wrist, she seemed unclothedindecently exposed. It was not a garment meant to be worn for the wearer's enjoyment. Even Jewel, young, naive of the ways of men and women, could see that its prime purpose would be to give pleasure to a man.

Catrina turned away from the girl's astonished scrutiny. Flushing, she demanded: "What is it, Jewel?"

The girl looked away, aware that Miss Olympia would have beaten her for staring at her as she had just stared at Catrina. "Miss 'Lympia," she began falteringly, "she knows you ain't got a maid of your own. She sent me to ask if you need anything, Miss "Trina."

"No, Jewel. Thank Miss Olympia for me but there is nothing I need. I'm just going to bed."

"Yes'm."

Leaving Catrina's room, Jewel went back to Olympia's chamber where her mistress waited. The maid's eyes skimmed over Olympia's attire. Though it was beautifully fashioned of mauve moire and skillfully cut to cling to every curve of Olympia's voluptuous figure, Jewel could not help but think that she paled in comparison with Catrina.

"Well?" Olympia demanded impatiently, giving her raven curls a final pat.

"She's dressed in a gown and robe like nothin' I ever saw before, Miss 'Lympia. So thin she shows right through it. She says she's goin' to bed but she sure don't seem tired to me!"

"I knew it! I was right!" Biting her lip, she took one last appraising look in the mirror. "I haven't much time!"

Letting herself out onto the gallery, Olympia hurried to Flint's room. Through the French windows, she saw Mrs. Brandt bending low over him, one hand on his chest as though feeling for a heartbeat. With a shrug, the housekeeper extinguished all but the single lamp she habitually left burning, and left the room.

"He's still unconscious!" Olympia told herself excitedly. "It's perfect!" Entering the room, she drew off her robe and dropped it to the carpet beside the bed as if it had been hurriedly discarded. Her gown followed but as she approached the bed, Flint's voice shattered the silence.

"You flatter me, Olympia. Quite frankly, I feel as though I'd been clubbed over the head with one of Roman's hammers or perhaps the anvil itself! I can't say I'd meet your doubtless high standards tonight."

"I thought you were unconscious!" Olympia sputtered.

Flint arched an eyebrow. "Did you? Do your tastes run toward necrophilia, cousin?"

"Don't be vile!" Snatching up her robe, Olympia covered herself. "Let me get you some water. You sound parched."

"I am. What the hell did Zeeman use on me this time?"

"Ether and laudanum. You were raving; quite out of your head. You tried to kill Radford. You said he was hiding"

"Catrina," Flint finished for her. His eyes grew distant. "She came to me last night."

During his momentary innattention, Olympia poured the contents of two packets of Doctor Zeeman's sleeping draught into the water. "You were overwrought." She sighed. "You've been delirious. Every night you've called out to her. It's quite heartbreaking. This last . . . delusion . . . must have been extraordinarily real."

He reached for the glass, but she kept it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she held his head and poured the liquid down his throat. "There, now, you'll feel better soon," she soothed.

"You can't imagine how real it was. I could have sworn" Flint's eyes widened as he felt the effects of the double draught begin. "What the hell have you done to me!" he demanded. "You bitch!"

Olympia's eyes gleamed as she watched him struggle against the effects of the drug. How dare he call her a bitch! The way he disported himself with that precious little whore of his from down the hall! She was the bitch! That was another insult Catrina Carlysle would pay for!

Flint's struggles ceased and he lay quietly, rendered unconscious by the drugged water. Discarding her robe again, Olympia drew the coverlet back. Her eyes feasted hungrily on the superb body she'd coveted for so long. Her jealousy redoubled as she thought of him giving that magnificent body to Catrina so willingly. There was much that little harlot had to answer for!

Lying on the bed beside Flint, Olympia curled against him. She draped his arm about her, slid one smooth, dusky thigh over his, and drew his head down so that it rested on the soft fullness of her breasts. Closing her eyes she feigned sleep and waited for Catrina's imagination to do the rest.

Warily, jumping at the slightest noise, Catrina made her way along the gallery taking care to avoid the spots of bluish moonlight that lit the balustrade on that side of the mansion. As she approached Flint's French windows, she hesitated and listened for sounds that might indicate that someone was in the room. There were none and the dim light spilling through the lace draperies told her that Mrs. Brandt had already extinguished all but the nightlamp.

Taking her place on the bed, Olympia heard both the harsh gasp and the strangled cry that Catrina could not suppress. With her back toward the French windows, Olympia allowed her lips to curve into a self-satisfied smile. The smile turned to a grin and the grin to a low chuckle as Catrina turned and stumbled from the room. Her running footsteps could be heard as they faded off into the distance heading toward the master bedroom.

Though reluctant to leave the warmth of Flint's however unintentional embrace, Olympia did not wish to risk being found there by anyone else. Sliding out of the bed, she drew the coverlet back over him, re-donned her gown and robe, and left Flint to the dubious dreams of his drugged slumber.

Chapter 19

Pulse pounding, knees wobbling, Catrina grasped weakly at the bedpost for support. Her stomach quivered, nausea threatened to overcome her. Hot salt tears welled into her eyes and for a moment Catrina hovered on the brink of hysteria. But she gained control of herself and willed the tears to remain unshed.

"I'll never cry for him again," she vowed. "He's everything Radford said he was and more. I hate him!"

She sat heavily on the foot of her bed. "I hate him," she murmured sadly. "I despise him. I despise them all. Flint, Radford, my father . . ." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "My father. His greed drove him to mad speculations. It was his greed that made my trip to this God-forsaken sink of corruption necessary."

Rising, she went to her French windows and gazed out at the arching oaks that lined the drive. Bathed in silver moonlight, the Spanish moss that festooned them swayed gently like tattered lace on an ancient ballgown that had lain too long in an attic chest.

"It wasn't my fault that my lord father lost his fortune to some greedy, gold-hungry Yankee. Why should I have to pay for it? Why should my freedommy happinesspay the price for his foolishness?" Turning, she leaned on the door frame. "What does it matter? If it hadn't been Radford-if Papa hadn't bartered me to pay his debtshe likely would have given me to some old roué who would parade me in London during the season then bury me in the country while he played the town bull." She went to her bath chamber and shed the gown and negligee she had loved and now loathed. Sitting before her dressing table, she gazed at her own reflection.

"It doesn't matter," she mused. But in the mirror she saw a girl, not really yet a woman, with the bloom of girlhood still in her cheeks, with her blossoming body not yet even fully matured. To be so young, she thought, and already have one's life so ordered. To be so young and already know how one's life would be spentat the beck and call of others.

She frowned. How hopeless she sounded! Had she really given her life so willingly into the care of others? Could she actually content herself to a lifetime as her husband's chattel looking in the other direction when he took a new mistress or spent her inheritance to support a succession of follies?

The golden light of stubbornness that Lord and Lady Lynleigh would have recognized in their daughter's eyes flickered and caught fire.

"I won't do it!" she vowed, drawing herself out of the dejected slouch she had assumed. "I won't! Let them haggle and argue! Let them drown in their gold and silver! I'll live my life as I please and the devil take them all!"

With sudden resolve, she marched into her bed chamber and pulled a large leather valise out of the storage closet under the nursery stairs. Into it she stuffed a nighdress and robe, two day dresses, shawls, stockings, chemises, her brushes, soap, and what jewelry Radford had already presented to her from the large collection that was passed from mistress to mistress of Belvoir.

After some deliberation, she drew clothing from her armoire and chests and began to dress. She would wear black, she decided, both to help her slip away from Belvoir under cover of darkness and to help her maintain her anonymity once she was away. Dressed in mourning, veiled, and affecting an air of sadness, she could pass as a recently bereaved widow. For the most part others would respect her grief and leave her alone.

Winding her long golden curls into a bun at the nape of her neck, she drew on a black-frilled bonnet with a black lace veil that would hide her identity from the curious.

"If I could get to New Orleans," she mused, fastening the valise and lifting it, gauging its weight, "I could book passage back to England. I'll go to grandmama." She set her little jaw stubbornly. "If all else fails, I'll find a wealthy protector. If Radford found me desirable and Flint as well, someone else might. Father was willing to sell me for his profit; perhaps I'll sell myself for my own!"

Tossing her veil back over the brim of her bonnet, she took her valise in hand and slipped out of her room. There was no soundthe house was silent. Belvoir had gone to sleep unaware that its mistress was taking flight.

Once downstairs, Catrina made for Radford's study. She knew he kept a strongbox in his deskshe had heard him boasting of the gold he kept there more than once. It would not be lockedRadford was feared by his servants, none would dare steal from him.

Finding the box, she emptied it. It was little enough to pay her for the weeks and months of heartbreak she had suffered in the name of familial duty. She tied the money into a silk scarf and pushed it deep into her valise. The bag was heavy, she could barely lift it with one hand, but she was determined. Mere aching arms were not going to keep her from pursuing a life free of Radford's tyranny or Flint's treachery or the sensual bondage in which they both seemed to wish to keep her.

It was not until she heard the startled gasp that she realized she was not alone. Whirling, she found Norah standing in the doorway. A stack of freshly-laundered antimacassars lay scattered at her feet.

''Ma'am!" she breathed, one hand to her breast. "You gave me such a fright!"

"Shhh," Catrina cautioned. "Come in and close the door. Is anyone else about?"

"No, ma'am," the laundress whispered. "I was only going to lay these out tonight to save me a little work tomorrow." Her brown eyes skimmed over Catrina's attire. "Has somebody died?"

"No." Catrina studied the girl for a long moment. "Norah. Can you keep a secret?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am!" Her dark eyes gleamed. She was proud and excited to have her mistress confide in her.

"I'm running away. I'm unhappy here, Norah, so desperately unhappy. I didn't want to come in the first place. I want to go away and try to find happiness. Can you understand that?"

Norah seemed puzzled. "I suppose," she allowed. "But I always thought we were handed our lots in life and we abided by them."

"Well, you seeI don't want to abide by mine. I want to decide for myself what my lot in life is to be."

"Can you do that, ma'am?" She sounded skeptical.

Catrina smiled. "I don't know. But I'm going to try. Will you keep my secret, Norah?"

She smiled slyly. "I couldn't very well tell anyone if you were to take me with you, ma'am."

"Take you with me?"

Her head bobbed. "It would mean company for you and anyway, no lady, even a widowif that's what you're plannin' to pretend and I take it by your dress it iswould travel without her maid at least. People would be suspiciious if you traveled all alone. They might think you werepardon, ma'amthey might think you was a hussy or something."

"You're quite right," Catrina agreed. Her face clouded. "It would mean leaving your mother."

Norah plucked at her flowered cotton dress. "My mother loves working for the rich, ma'am, runnin' their houses better than they could themselves. But I hate it." Her grin was impish. "I want to find happiness too!"

Catrina beamed. "Then come along! Go get your things. Pack lightly, mind you, we're going to have to walk into Natchez. We can't risk taking a wagon or even a horse. And for heaven's sake, be quiet about it!"

It seemed only a moment later that Norah appeared with her own small, battered valise. She had drawn a voluminous, shawl-sleeved mantle over her dress and brought Catrina a swirling black cloak with a capuchin hood that could be drawn up to further conceal her identity.

"I have money," Catrina told her. "Enough to take us both to New Orleans. From there, I will book passage to England. If you care to come with me, you may. If not, I will give you whatever I can to keep you. All right?"

"Oh yes, thank you, ma'am!" Norah's eyes were alight with excitement and the mousy dullness that a childhood of drudgery and bleak prospects had pulled over her like a pall was already beginning to disappear, replaced by the sparkle of adventure and the glimmer of hope.

Together Norah and Catrina left Belvoir. Slipping from shadow to shadow, their shoes making no solund on the velvety, manicured grass, the whisper of Catrina's black silk skirts melding with the soft soughing of the night breezes that caressed their glowing cheeks, they began their trek toward Natchez.

Nose firmly planted in the air, dignity draped about her like a silver cloak, making use of every ounce of hauteur and arrogance she'd acquired while growing up in the lofty marble halls of her father's estates, Catrina had no trouble passing herself as the bereaved widow of a rich, though unnamed, planter.

As she sallied along the seamless Brussels carpet that covered the floor in the 300 foot salon of the steamboat Atalanta followed by Norah, her bearing and her grace drew attention to her. Whispers followed her, rumors based entirely on speculation began. She was a rich widow, they said, or a pampered mistress veiled for secrecy's sake, or royalty incognito. Nothing seemed too preposterous and each round of gossip grew more outrageous.

Though Catrina could not be seen to spare it a glance, she was awed by the opulence of the steamboat. Lit by eight immense, gilded chandeliers by night the cavernous salon's lofty ceiling sported skylights of jewel-toned stained glass and gothic arches that might have found a home in a medieval cathdral. The long side walls of the salon were lined with doors leading to suites and cabins and on each was a painting of breathtaking quality rendered in the hues predominating in that particular suite's decor. On the doors of the bridal suitesof which the Atalanta boasted fortycupids disported themselves among fluffy white clouds and golden stars against a background of heavenly blue.

On Catrina's door the painting was of a sunset in shades of mauve and cream. The suite was a choice one, sought after by ladies familiar with the boat. More rumors began as the white-coated steward stopped before it and fitted the silver key into the lock beneath its pink-flowered porcelain knob.

"Here you are, madame," he said, opening the door with a flourish and standing back to allow her to enter.

Catrina paused. She had felt the massed stares of the other passengers boring into her back as she had walked along the length of the salon. But this was something else; something indefinably different. It was as if a hand had reached out to her, touched her, caressed her, but not a hand of flesh and blood. She couldn't explain it. She was drawn toward something, someone. A low, velvety voice called to her in her mind.

She turned her head, the fine lace veil of her bonnet soft against her cheeks, and her eyes met those of a man who stood near the gold and white paneled wall on the far side of the sprawling salon. He was tall and elegant with a finely-planed face whose high cheekbones shadowed the smooth golden skin of his firm, sharply defined jaw. His hair was thick and looked like spun gold. It caught the varied light of the sunfilled skylights above and reflected it from amongst its glowing strands. His eyes were long, almond-shaped, with heavy golden lashes that veiled irises of a startling cerulean blue that would have put a brilliant summer sky to shame. His mouth was full and sensually curved. His clothing was immaculately tailored, hugging his broad shoulders then clinging to his narrow waist, lean hips, and long, muscular thighs. His coat and waistcoat were bottle green, his trousers slightly lighter, and the sparkle of his gold watch chain was complemented by the two or three golden curls that strayed boyishly over the glistening snowy whiteness of his collar.

His eyes never leaving Catrina's veiled face, he lifted a hand and two stewards scampered to his side. His movements were slow with a lordly air of leisure, as if he were confident that he was master of all he surveyed. If one judged simply by the way those about him seemed to fall over one another in their eagerness to do his bidding, the world was in complete agreement.

Composing herself, Catrina dragged her eyes from him and entered her suite. The colors of the painting outside the door were carried over into the sitting room and its adjoining bedroom whose velvety soft carpets were patterned in pink and white flowers and whose upholstery was silk striped in mauve and cream. The doorknobs and other porcelain fixtures matched those on both the salon door and the door in the sitting room which led to the promenade with its white iron filagree railing and comfortable armchairs.

While Norah went to see that their meager belongings had preceded them, Catrina took the gold-tasseled menu from the steward and ordered luncheon for Norah and herself.

"My maid will be joining me in the dining room," she told him, as if daring him to object.

"Of course, madame." He bowed, gently lifting the menu from her gloved fingers. "Very good, madame."

When the door closed behind him, both Catrina and Norah heaved sighs of relief. Wasting no time, they were soon stripped down to their chemises, their shoes at last were eased from aching, blistered feet, and their backs were resting comfortably on the soft, satin quilts of the twin bunks.

"Will they wake us for lunch, do you think?" Catrina asked Norah who was partially hidden behind a huge porcelain lamp on the table between the beds.

"I dunno, ma'am," Norah answered, one foot hanging over the edge of her bunk, toes flexing. "I should think so."

"I hope so. I'm starving!" She lay quietly for some time, her mind returning to the handsome blond man who had stared at her so rudely. "Norah, did you see that man who was watching us? A very handsome man, blond, in green?"

But there was no reply and Catrina shrugged. She soon followed Norah's example and slept soundly, dreamlessly, until one of the steamboat's bevy of maids arrived with warm water for her pre-luncheon ablutions.

In one of the half-dozen dining rooms aboard the Atalanta, Catrina and Norah were seated in a corner shielded by palms to allow Catrina to dine without the encumbrance of her veil. As each dish arrived, Norah rolled her eyes. She ate with the servants wherever she had worked and seldom, if ever, managed to steal a taste of the master's food.

"What is this again?" she asked, gesturing toward her dish with her fork.

Catrina giggled. "Petites pâtés aux huitres," she replied. "Patties filled with oysters. Do you like them?"

"Oh, yes! I love it all!"

"Pardon, madame." A steward stood beside them. In a silver stand, the top of which was shaped like a morning glory in full bloom and filled with ice, lay a bottle of champagne, perfectly chilled.

"I did not order champagne," Catrina informed him.

"No, madame. It is with the compliments of the gentleman."

"Gentleman?" Catrina knew a moment's fear. "What gentleman?"

"There, madame. At the table near the window. Monsieur de Valcour."

Catrina knew what she'd see before she looked. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she once more found herself gazing into the smiling azure eyes of the elegant blond man in green. As their eyes met, he lifted his glass of champagne and silently toasted her.

Flushing, Catrina looked away. "Thank the gentleman," she told the steward," but tell him I cannot accept a gift from a man to whom I have not been introduced."

The steward left them and went to the other table where he explained Catrina's refusal to the gentleman. Norah, who faced him, watched his face for signs of annoyance but he only smiled, a beautiful smile that seemed somehow admiring and even approving.

"I have heard of him," she whispered to Catrina who sat uneasily picking at a dish of sugared almonds. "Sometimes I went with my mother when she accompanied Master Radford to his home in New Orleans. It was there that I heard of him."

"Did you hear that he was rude?" Catrina asked pettishly. She pulled on her bonnet and lowered the veil into place. "If you are finished, Norah, I should like to go back to our stateroom where I can be free of ogling men."

Reluctantly, Norah followed her out of the dining room. Like her mistress, she kept her eyes demurely lowered. But that did not prevent her from looking askance at the tall, handsome man whose cerulean eyes followed Catrina's black silk skirts the length of the room, never leaving her until she disappeared from sight.

"Laurent de Valcour," Norah told Catrina as she helped her into a daydress of grey silk, "is legendary in New Orleans."

Catrina sighed as she slid pendant earrings of sparkling jet into her ears. "Legendary for his impudence, I'm sure," she muttered. "Brush out that black carefully, Norah. I don't know how long it will be before I can get another dress. I'll have to keep it for public wear."

Norah did as she was told but refused to let the subject of the fascinating Laurent de Valcour die.

"No," she insisted, "legendary for his wealth. He is the last of an ancient family. They have owned land in and around New Orleans for generations. Laurent de Valcour inherited it all upon the deaths of his father and uncles. He has several homes in New Orlean, and plantations that grow sugar, rice, cotton, indigo . . ." She shrugged. "He is unmarried."

Catrina sniffed. "Who could live with his ill manners?"

"Most of the ladies of New Orleans have set their caps for him." Her eyes sparkled devilishly. "Married ladies as well as those looking to catch a husband."

"It's only his money they're after, you may depend upon it," Catrina decided.

Norah pouted. She loved gossiping about society scandals and hoped that Catrina would know some juicy secrets she herself was not privy to. But Catrina was proving difficult.

"We're stopping," she said as she heard the melodious bells ring out and felt the great boat change speeds and directions. "These boats stop wherever someone stands on the riverbank and hails them. It is a wonder they ever reach their destinations." Catrina sighed disgustedly.

There was a tapping at the door and Norah answered it. A white-coated steward stood there holding a fluted crystal vase filled with roses. Each flower, some budded, some partially blossomed, some in full, magnificent bloom, was perfect. Their scent filled the room.

"For the madame," the steward said, looking at Catrina. "From Monsieur de Valcour."

Norah stepped back to allow him to enter, but Catrina shook her head.

"Take them back to Monsieur de Valcour with my regrets," she ordered.

Bowing, the man disappeared and Catrina sank back into her reverie. The afternoon was passing at a snail's pace and the journey took on a monotonous rhythm of landings and departures all puncutuated by the changing cadence of the bells and whistles of the Atalanta and the ships she passed on the river.

The deadly silence into which Norah and Catrina had fallen was broken by another rap upon the door. Again Norah answered. A different steward, similarly white-coated, stood there. In his white-gloved hands he held a box of silver filagree filled with sugared almonds of the kind Catrina had eaten at luncheon.

"From . . ." the steward began.

"Monsieur de Valcour," Catrina finished. "Take them back, if you please. Tell Monsieur de Valcour that I cannot possibly accept his gifts and persistence will gain him nothing.''

The steward blinked, surprised. It was not often that Laurent de Valcour pursued a woman and it was unheard of that the woman should so utterly reject him. Rumors about the mysterious lady in mourning had already reached the staff. This latest tidbit would only lend fuel to gossip's already roaring flame.

Bowing, he disappeared. Catrina massaged the tight muscles of her neck and chafed under Norah's disapproving eyes.

"You said you wanted happiness, ma'am," Norah reasoned. "A man like M'sieur de Valcour could make you happy. Couldn't he? He is very handsome and very rich. Couldn't that make you happy?"

"Handsome is as handsome does," Catrina quoted, fondly remembering Perdita Jackson. She smiled as she noticed Norah's bewilderment. "Norah," she said quietly, "if all I wanted was wealth I could have stayed with Radford. If all I needed was a handsome man, I could have remained at Belvoir or . . ." Frowning, she squelched all thoughts of Flint as they crept slyly into her mind. "I want more than that. I want to love someone and know that he loves me and is true to me. I don't particularly care if he is rich or even if he is overly handsome. If we love one another everything else will seem trivial and unimportant."

"Perhaps you could fall in love with M'sieur de Valcour if you gave him a chance."

"Please, Norah, do let's discuss something . . ." Yet again a knock came on the door and yet again Norah opened it to find a steward standing outside.

He held a shell-shaped silver salver and on it lay a folded note that Norah took and brought to Catrina.

Engraved with ornate and complex crest of the Valcours, the heavy, creamy paper bore a message in a bold, masculine hand.

Madame,

If my modest offerings have offended you, I beg you to forgive me. I realize that you are in mourning and my intrusion on your grief must seem insensitive and boorish.

I ask only that you allow me to make my humble apologies. Over dinner, perhaps?

Your Servant,
Laurent de Valcour

Until she came to his latest suggestion, Catrina had begun to revise her opinion of the man. But now! His persistance was nothing short of infuriating!

She carefully tore the note into tiny pieces and deposited them on the steward's salver.

"Tell Monsieur de Valcour that I am dining in my suite tonight!" she snapped.

She fumed as the steward disappeared and Norah closed the door. "The man's boldness knows no bounds! What must I do to convince him that I want neither his gifts nor his company?"

"Still," Norah mused dreamily, "he is so very handsome and so"

"Rich, I know!" Catrina snapped,. "I wasn't going to say that," Norah pouted. "I was going to say eager. He must have fallen in love with you!"

"Love! Pooh!" Catrina scoffed. "Perhaps he has a nasty penchant for widows." A tiny smile crept into the corners of her mouth. "Still," she allowed grudgingly, ''it is rather flattering. I noticed quite a few lovely young women he could easily have taken a fancy to . . ."

"But he seems to have his heart set on your company."

"He does, doesn't he?" Gazing at herself in the dressing table mirror, Catrina suddenly felt young. Gone were the plaguing worries about her impending marriage to Radford and even the pain of Flint's treachery was momentarily overshadowed by an unfamiliar but not unpleasant feeling that here was the flirtation she had missed when she was taken practically from the schoolroom to the marriage bed. By bartering her to settle his debts, Lord Lynleigh had cheated his daughter out of the stolen kisses and shy courtships of girlhood. She had never sat at a ball surrounded by beaux all dancing attendance on her, competing for her smiles, luring her into the gardens to steal a kiss. She had never received love letters she could tie with a pink satin ribbon and lay away to be taken out and gingerly unfolded in years to come. She had never been wooed and won or broken the hearts that were gallantly laid at her feet. She sighed. "It is rather romantic, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! Very romantic!" Norah agreed. They shared a smile then and the time, that had seemed to pass so slowly, quickened. As the afternoon gave way to the evening and the evening to the night, they spoke but little. Their eyes went again and again to the door as if expecting another knock and another intriguing, if not wholly proper, offering from Catrina's admirer.

Though neither would have admitted as much, they had both begun to worry when several hours passed without another arrival.

Perhaps I've discouraged him, Catrina thought, surprisingly downhearted at the prospect. Perhaps he's turned his attentions to another, more receptive, lady.

The knock on the door took them both unaware. Thought Catrina felt her own heart give a little leap, she dismissed Norah's wide-eyed, hopeful look with a shake of her head.

"It's only dinner," she told her. "I'll answer it,."

Walking to the door, she swung it wide. A table was wheeled in, its delicate lace cloth sweeping the carpet, its china and silver gleaming, its crystal catching and reflecting the light of the tapers in a crystal candelabrum. Another table followed bearing serving dishes warmed over spirit lamps. The aromas that wafted from them were delicious but definitely not what Catrina had ordered earlier.

"Are you certain you have the correct suite?" she asked the head steward as two gilded armchairs were carried into the room and placed at the table.

"Very sure," a low, caressing voice tinged with a French accent said from behind her.

Catrina whirled. There, in the doorway, outrageously handsome in black and white evening dress, stood Laurent de Valcour.

Chapter 20

"Monsieur de valcour," Catrina surmised.

Smiling roguishly, he bowed gracefully. "At your service, madame."

"I declined your invitation for dinner, monsieur."

He feigned innocence. "But no, madame, you did not. I asked you to dine with me, you replied that you were dining in your suite. Naturally I assumed . . ." He finished the sentence with a profoundly Gallic shrug.

"Naturally," Catrina agreed, her voice dripping sarcasm. "Monsieur, you can hardly imagine that I would agree to dine with you at all, a gentleman to whom I have never been introduced, let alone behind closed doors."

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Madame, permit me to introduce myself. I am Laurent de Valcour. And you are?" In spite of herself, Catrina smiled. "Catrina . . ." She hesitated. If he knew anything of Radford, he might have heard of her when the arrangements were being made for their marriage. She remembered having given Perdita's name when she'd gone to live with the Dodds in London.

"Jackson," she finished.

"Madame Jackson. There, we are introduced. As for our being alone, your maid is with you, no?" He gestured for a steward and murmured a few words into the man's ear. The steward left only to return a few moments later with another, smaller, table and a chair which he took into the adjoining bedchamber. "Your maid can dine there. We will leave the connecting door open. What could be more proper?"

Outflanked, Catrina accepted defeat. "Very well, then. Tell me, Monsiuer de Valcour, do you always get what you want so easily?"

"Easily?" He pretended horror. "Madame, you returned my champagne, you refused my roses, you spurned my almonds and silver box . . . Mon Dieu! I have not been so humiliated since my childhood! Had you not so graciously accepted my dinner invitation, I swear to you I should have cast myself into the river in my despair!"

Catrina giggled and even the stewards who worked over the table and were supposed to be blind and deaf to the words and actions of the passengers smiled.

"You are an infuriating man," she chided.

His azure eyes looked deeply into her topaz ones. "And you are very, very beautiful," he replied softly.

A flush staining her cheeks, Catrina looked away. A warning sounded inside her. His was a dangerous charm. Like Flint, Laurent de Valcour was a man who could work magic on a woman's senses. Men such as they had the power to enslave a womanto bring her to her kneesto make her give herself completely into their control. A woman enthralled by them was at their mercy, to be used or abused, or cast aside when the novelty wore thin.

Such men were to be avoided at best, treated charily if avoidance proved impossible. Catrina steeled herself against the powerful weapon of Laurent's charm.

In the light of the five tapers burning in the crystal candelabrum, they dined on rice and tomato soup, lobster salad, Westphalian ham cooked in champagne, sweetbreads with spinach, lady fingers and champagne jelly. As they ate, Catrina neatly sidestepped most of Laurent's questions concerning her apparent widowhood and her reason for traveling with so little luggage.

"Who told you about my luggage?" she asked, annoyed that even her baggage was apparently fodder for the gossip mill.

"The head steward," he replied, refilling their glasses with champagne.

Catrina toyed with a lady finger. "The staff don't seem to mind gossiping about the passengers. Perhaps I should complain to the owner of the Atalanta." "Very well," Laurent agreed good-naturedly. "I am listening."

Catrina's eyes widened and Laurent chuckled at her surprise.

"You really are maddening," she said, smiling in spite of herself.

Laurent sat back in his chair. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "you are not the first person to tell me this."

"No, I don't suppose I am!" Catrina laughed.

His face grew serious as he watched her in the candlelight. "Why did your family allow you to travel protected only by your maid?"

Catrina raised an eyebrow. "Why, Monsieur de Valcour, are you suggesting that your boat is not safe for a woman traveling nearly alone?"

"Please answer my question."

She lowered her lashes. "My family, monsieur, live in England."

He brushed aside her evasion with a wave of one tapering hand. "Your husband's family, then."

"They didn't know I was leaving." She took a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a long, cleansing whoosh. "They know I'm gone by now, I daresay, but I left without telling them."

"Why?" His tone was gentle. "Were you unhappy with them?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly. "Very unhappy."

"And your marriage? Was it also unhappy?"

"Really, monsieur," she objected. But when she looked up at him, he was gazing at her with such compassion that she had to answer. "My marriage was arranged."

"It was not a love match?"

Catrina's smile was weak and filled with irony. "I had never met the gentleman. It was a business arrangement between my father and my fiancé."

He laughed without humor. "It is not uncommonly so."

"For you?" she couldn't resist asking.

"No, not for me. I was left an orphan at an early age. As soon as I came of age, I took control of my estates from my guardians. Now I do as I please."

"That must be a wonderful feeling."

"You tell me, madame. Is that not precisely what you are doing at this moment?"

"Yes, I suppose it is." She was thoughtful. "Once I had resolved to leave, I felt . . . liberated. But it is a little frightening, still."

"Why are you going to New Orleans?"

She did not hesitate. "To book passage on a ship bound for England."

"You have already made a reservation? There may not be so many places available. You may have to wait some time."

"Nonetheless, I am going. If I must wait, I shall."

He grinned, admiring the determined tilt of her little chin. "And have you friends you can live with until your departure? New Orleans is not always the best place for a lovely young woman of breeding to be alone."

"You seem determined to discourage me, monsieur," Catrina complained. "I am sure I will be able to secure accommodations."

He studied her over the rim of his glass. "I have several homes in the city. Let me offer you one of them. Make it your own for as long as you need it."

Catrina laughed skeptically. So that was his game! She remembered all too well her fate at the hands of those other good samaritansLizzie and Phineas Dodd.

"Thank you, monsieur," she replied caustically, "but no thank you."

His golden brows drew together. "Why do you find it so difficult to accept help?" he demanded. "You returned my gifts, I had to resort to trickery to dine with you. Now you spurn my offer of a residence out of hand as though it were an insult."

"Too often, monsieur, I have found that gifts come only as preludes to other, less honorable offers."

"You fear, perhaps, that I will attempt to make you my mistress?"

The hot blood rushed to Catrina's cheeks and she lowered her lashes to veil her discomfiture. "You speak very plainly, monsieur."

"Yes," he agreed, "I do. But you need not fear for your virtue, madame. I already have a mistressa very beautiful femme de couleur named Monique." He softened his tone as her embarrassment grew. "Catrina." He waited until she looked up at him shyly through her lashes. "You, too, are a very beautiful woman. I do not deny that I find you fascinating, alluring . . . desirable. It is not my habit to pursue the lady passengers on my boat but I longed to know you from the moment I saw you stepping onto the deck. This offer I make to you, of a house, is made purely as a gentleman wishing to extend protection to a lady."

"Protection from gallant gentlemen such as yourself, perhaps?" she asked archly.

Blue fires flashed in his eyes and his hand tighened around the delicate stem of his glass, snapping it in two. He cast the broken pieces away and stood. His voice was low and tight when he spoke.

"I do not know how you came to be so cynical at such a young age, madame, but it is highly unbecoming. Good night."

Turning, he strode toward the door and Catrina's hand rose involuntarily as if to stay his leaving. It was only when his hand fell on the doorknob that she found her voice.

"Laurent."

He turned back to her, his anger unabated. "Well?"

She bit her lip looking very young and alone. "Please, forgive me," she whispered.

His heart softened but he refused to let her see it. "I do forgive you," he replied coolly, "for you obviously know no better. I also pity you. I cannot imagine what sort of men you have known in the past."

He turned the knob and she rose. "Please don't go." Embarrassed by her own boldness, she turned away and waited, expecting to hear the door closing behind him. Instead, she felt him near, felt his hand at the curve of her waist, felt the softness of his black silk waistcoat against the back of her neck.

''I'm sorry," she murmured, not daring to look up at him. "I didn't mean to offend you. I am grateful for your offer; you are most generous. But I cannot accept your offer and I cannot explain why. Events have made me overly suspicious of the motives of others and"

She was interrupted by a knock at the promenade door. Laurent opened it and found a steward standing there.

"Excuse me, Monsieur de Valcour, a gentleman begs that the lady meet him astern on the hurricane deck. He says its most urgent."

"Is he mad?" Laurent demanded angrily. "Madame is a lady and whoever this man is, he insults her if he believes she will meet him such a manner."

Catrina touched his sleeve. "Perhaps it is someone sent after me to take me back." She shuddered at the thought.

"If that be the case, he would come to you openly. No. I forbid you to go."

Catrina bristled. "You forbid"

"Ma'am," Norah interrupted, anxious that no more harsh words pass between Catrina and her handsome admirer. "I'll go and find out who he is and what he wants. I'll come back and tell you."

"I don't know," Catrina hedged dubiously. If it were Radford, she feared for Norah's safety. He was certain to blame Catrina's disappearance on the girl and could easily take his anger out on Norah.

"Let her go," Laurent advised. "She can ask the man his business and tell you what it is he wants."

"I'll get my mantle," Norah said, turning.

"Take my cloak," Catrina told her. "The night is cool and it's lying right there on the sofa."

Enveloped in the swirling black cloak, the capuchin hood drawn up against the biting river breeze, Norah left the cabin and followed the steward to the hurricane deck above and to the stern of the boat.

Below, in her suite, Catrina waited. She was worried that Radford might have discovered her missing and followed her to the Atalanta. It would be exactly like him to wait until they were midway to New Orleans before revealing his presence. He would force her to finish her trip to the city and then turn around and be led back to Belvoir like a trophy of war.

More than once she plucked Laurent's watch from his watch pocket and opened it to peer at the face.

"She's been gone too long," she worried aloud. "Where can she be?"

As if in answer to her question, there was a knock at the promenade door. Laurent opened it and found a hulking, chestnut-haired man standing there.

"Captain Fitzgerald," Laurent said, "you have come to speak with me?"

If the captain was surprised to find Laurent there, his round face gave no indication of it. His shaggy, russet brows were drawn together as he shook his head.

"No, sir, I came to see the lady." He looked toward Catrina. "Ma'am, you sent a maid out a while back to see a man asking after you?"

Catrina looked at Laurent and then at the captain. "I did, captain, is something wrong? Has something happened?"

He scowled. "Perhaps you'd best come with me, ma'am."

Accompanied by Laurent, Catrina followed the captain along the promenade to the stairs that led up to the hurricane deck above. There were a few suites there, including Laurent's own magnificent private penthouse just below the glass-enclosed pilot house. Entering one of the few unoccupied suites, the captain led Catrina and Laurent inside.

Catrina gasped as she noticed the still figure on the sofa. Swathed in her own black cloak, it was ummistakeably Norah.

The captain drew back the hood and Catrina moaned. Norah's face was fixed in a grimace of horror and livid fingermarks encircled her slender throat.

Laurent caught Catrina against him, cradling her head against his shoulder, shielding her eyes from the terrible sight.

"This is your maid, is it not, ma'am?" the captain asked gently.

Biting her knuckle to hold back her cries, Catrina nodded. "It is Norah," she whispered.

"Norah?" The captain seemed puzzled. "I thought her name was Catrina."

Eyes wide, Catrina looked at him. "I am Catrina."

Frowning, the captain looked from her pale face to Laurent's and back again. "You are, ma'am? That does put a whole new face on things."

"What do you mean, captain?" Laurent demanded.

"Only, sir, that while the murder was being committed, one of the crew happened on it. He clouted the man with a steel rod he held but it was too late to save the girl. He said he heard the man accusing the woman of all manner of vile things. He called her 'Catrina'."

Catrina began to tremble violently. "She was wearing my cloak," she breathed. "In the darkness . . ."

The captain nodded. "He thought she was you, ma'am."

Catrina felt her knees liquefy. Only Laurent's strong arm about her waist kept her from sliding to the shaded crimson carpet.

"This man," Laurent said, "You said your man struck him. Did he escape?"

"Well, no, sir, he didn't. My man hit him a bit too hard, it seems. He . . . that is . . . well, he's dead, sir."

"Where is his body?"

The captain nodded toward another door. "There. In the bedroom."

"Come," Laurent said, taking Catrina toward the door.

She struggled against him. "I don't want to go, Laurent! I don't want to see!"

He held her a little away from him and gazed into her eyes. "You must. The man is dead. He cannot harm you. Only you can tell us who he is."

Against her will, Catrina allowed him to lead her into the adjoining room. A single lamp burned and the room was filled with wavering shadows. The body, which lay on the bed, was covered by the quilted satin spread and lent an eerie, dreamlike air to the room. It seemed to Catrina as if she had stepped into the midst of a nightmare.

She pressed close to Laurent as the captain reached out to turn back the coverlet. Whose face would she see? Radford's? Flint's? She prayed, against all reason, that it not be Flint's. Even now, when her mind swore eternal hatred for him, her treacherous heart could not bear the thought of those beautiful emerald eyes being closed forever.

She held her breath as the captain lifted the spread away but the truth, when she saw it, was far more horrifying than her darkest imaginings. Shrieks born in the very depths of her soul tore their way out of her throat and echoed in the room as she beheld the cruel face of Lucas Slater, smirking evilly even in death.

Catrina came back to reality slowly. She opened her eyes once, then again, squinting as the world into focus about her.

She was lying in a bed, a beautiful wide bed with a ciel far above whose silver satin lining had been gathered to form a sunburst. The rest of the room, which was lit by a single bronze and crystal lamp placed far from the bed, was blurry as she tried to examine it through the lace of the mosquito baire drawn down around the bed.

She gasped as the lace was drawn aside. A pretty, black-haired girl in black silk smiled down at her.

"Madame has awakened," she said softly. "Monsieur will be pleased."

"Where am I?" Catrina asked.

"Monsieur de Valcour's penthouse, madame."

Catrina looked down at herself. She had been undressed. In place of her gray silk gown, she now wore a nightdress of ivory satin with long bell sleeves. Cut very low, her breasts swelled above the neckline which seemed to cling precariously to their roseate tips. A narrow ribbon of palest apricot had been threaded through a lace panel just below her bosom. Her hair had been taken down and brushed until the long, gleaming curls rolled into great natural spirals falling over the blue satin pillows.

"Did you . . .?" she asked, blushing furiously at the thought of Laurent's underdressing and dressing while she was unconscious.

The maid smiled, dimpling prettily. "Yes, madame. Monsieur de Valcour left you in my care. I am Jeanne. Monsieur is in the drawing room. I am to tell him when you have awakened. Pardon me."

She turned to leave and Catrina called after her. "Jeanne! Wait! Help me dress before you tell Monsieur de Val . . ."

It was too late. The girl was gone. Catrina looked around frantically for her clothes but they were nowhere to be seen. She thought about searching the armoires that stood against the wall but in the end merely clutched the satin sheets to her throat when she heard Laurent's footsteps outside the door.

He lifted back the baire and sat on the edge of the bed. In a cerulean blue velvet robe-de-chambre he looked fair as an angel and his eyes caught and enhanced the velvet's hue making them seem to glow.

He gazed at Catrina who watched him warily. Her topaz eyes were wide and glittering, her hair shimmered in the lamplight, her skin gleamed like the ivory of her nightdress and looked softer than the satin of the powder blue sheet held so modestly over her breasts.

Laurent closed his eyes to block out the sight of her. He seemed almost pained, as though her beauty were a hurtful thing, which it was, to him.

Recovering his composure, he smiled gently. "I am pleased that you look so well after your ordeal. I want you to tell me who that man was."

Catrina shook her head slowly. "Laurent . . ." she pleaded, not wanting to see that vile, sneering, dead face in her mind again.

"Tell me, Catrina," he insisted. "Only by speaking about it will you rid your mind of it."

She chewed her lip. "His name is . . . was . . . Lucas Slater. He was an overseer of my . . . my husband's plantation." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I thought he was dead. My husband shot him."

"Shot him? But why?"

She closed her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. "I went riding one afternoon. Alone. He followed me and tried to . . . to . . ." She pressed a fist to her mouth to stifle a sob and Laurent was instantly beside her.

Crushed against the soft velvet of his robe and the rock-hardness of his chest, she wept. She cried for Norah who had come with her to find happiness and who had found only death and she cried for herself, for the guilt of having sent Norah out into the night to die in her place.

Laurent buried his face in the fragrant silk of her hair. Her body was small and fragile in his arms yet her breasts were womanly and full against him. All his senses were intoxicated with her nearness and he fought against the overpowering urge to press her back against the pillows and make love to her until his voracious hunger for her was sated.

With a superhuman effort, he put her from him. He slid a finger beneath her chin to tip her tearstained face toward his.

"Catrina," he asked gently, "is there anyone else who might wish you harm? Think carefully."

Catrina cast her mind back through time. Angelique's beautiful face danced in her mind's eye. She shrugged.

"There was a womanmy husband's mistress. He abandoned her and she blamed me. She vowed revenge but I don't know how she could . ."

Laurent covered her lips with a finger. "Do not discount any threat, chérie. Particularly those made by a spurned woman. Do you know where she is now?"

Catrina frowned. "She is a femme de couleur. She lived in New Orleans. My husband maintained her there. Her name is Angelique Vauchamps."

Laurent repeated the name, setting it in his memory.

"I will remember it," he promised. "But if she is a femme de couleur, she will probably not try to take revenge. Legally, you could order her whipped. I doubt if this Angelique Vauchamps will risk the lash."

With infinite tenderness, he brushed a glistening teardrop from her satiny cheek. "Catrina. You have seen too clearly tonight the danger of a woman alone. Let me protect you at least until it is time for you to go to England. Accept my offer of a house. You needn't see me if you don't wish to. The house will be yours for as long as you wantyou need not admit anyone you do not wish to see, even me. Say you will accept."

Touched by his concern, Catrina lifted a hand to touch his cheek. But he caught it in his own and pressed her fingers to his lips.

"I will accept, Laurent," she murmured.

He closed his almond-shaped eyes and breathed a sign of relief. "You will not regret it, I promise you."

Standing, he lowered the lace into place and smiled down at her. "Good night, ma chére. I have had your belongings moved here. Where you will be safe. I will be near if you need me. Dormez bien, ma petite chérie."

"Dormez bien, Laurent."

Lifting the lace once again, Laurent bent to kiss her. Catrina tilted her face, offering him her lips, but he took her hand and carried it to his mouth. A roguish light danced in his azure eyes as he decorously tucked the satin coverlet up beneath her chin as if she were a very small child instead of a beautiful woman he desired.

"I am a gentleman, madame," he told her sternly, "and I have vowed that my intentions toward you are entirely honorable." He sighed dramatically. "Ah, to be a cad if only for one day."

Catrina smiled, her tear-bedewed cheeks flushing. Her eyes were filled with admiration as he crossed the chamber toward the door. When he was about to leave, she called to him.

"Laurent?" He looked back toward her. "Thank you, for everything."

He nodded but his smile had lost its scampish air and his eyes were distant and wistful as he left the bedchamber to go to his own rest in a smaller guest chamber just across the drawing room.

Chapter 21

Dressed in the second of the two day dresses she had smuggled out of Belvoir, a lavender silk trimmed with jet, Catrina sat in a Windsor chair on the hurricane deck. She was lost in thought. Where was Radford? Was he even then scouring Natchez to find her? Had he already discovered that she'd left the city bound for New Orleans?

Her thoughts turned to Olympia and, unbidden, to Flint. Once again she saw them as she had found themtogether, their naked bodies intertwined. She had desperately wanted to believe Flint innocent of the hideous tales Radford and Olympia had told her of him. That he had made love to her without telling her of his wife she could, perhaps, forgive. She had wanted him so badly. She might have given herself to him even knowing he was married; after all, she was betrothed to Radford at the time. She had known all along that there could be nothing of permanence between them. But for him to take Olympia into his bed knowing she was there, so nearby. It was obviously not her love he wanted; it was merely the presence of a lovely and passionate woman in his bed.

She flushed, then started as Laurent reached out to touch her hand.

''What is it, Chérie?" he asked, a very real concern glowing in his eyes.

She smiled weakly, not daring or wanting to tell him that she was daydreaming of her treacherous lover.

"It was nothing of import." She changed the subject. "Tell me, Laurent. That beautiful gown I wore last nightwhose was it? Or do you carry a wardrobe of assorted sized nightclothes in case you meet a woman you fancy on your travels?"

Laurent laughed, charmed by the flirtatious gleam in her eyes. "I am no roué, madame," he chided teasingly. "The gown was part of a collection of lingerie I had made for Monique, my mistress. I ordered her an entire wardrobe the last time I was in St. Louis. I collected it on this trip."

"Will she not resent your allowing me to use one of her new gowns?"

He shrugged. "They are mine to give to whom I please. It is not for her to question my decisions."

"Were I your mistress, I would resent your giving gifts to other woman."

Laurent studied her, an unfathomable glow in his eyes. "Were you my mistress, mignonne," he said softly, "I would give nothing to any other womannothing!"

Startled by his vehemence and the air of complete seriousness in his voice and face, Catrina looked away. She cast about desperately for another, safer, topic of conversation.

Gazing toward the shore, she noticed a white pillared, brick mansion standing on a hill over looking the river. The mansion itself was like many others built as the crown jewels of the plantations that dotted the landscape north of New Orleans. But its surroundings made it different, exotic, unusual. Palm trees lined the shore and fan-leaved banana trees grew near giant camellias. Roses of every imaginable color had been planted along with tulip trees and moss draped cedars. In the shade of all these plantings, familiar and unfamiliar, strutted magnificent and haughty peacocks whose huge, iridescently-hued tails glowed in the morning sunshine.

Catrina rose and went to the railing. "Laurent! Look! How beautiful it is!"

He came to stand beside her. "I've always thought so," he murmured.

She looked up at him skeptically. "Laurent! It's not true!"

He grinned sheepishly. "But yes, ma chére, it is. That is Summerwind. In back of the house there are camphor trees from the Orient and rose trellises that reach to the roof. They are at their most beautiful in the summer. You can pluck an armful of roses from the balcony of the master bedroom. When the summer comes, I will take you there."

Catrina turned her back on the mansion and refused to look up at him. "When the summer comes," she reminded him gently," I will be in England."

He slipped a finger beneath her chin and turned her face toward his. "Perhaps I can convince you to change your mind."

Touched, she reached up and caressed his lean, golden cheek. But her eyes were filled with sadness and regret.

"I must go," she insisted. "You do not understand. I cannot stay here, in America. I cannot stay where I can be found."

"But who is looking for you, Catrina? From whom do you flee?"

Catrina hesitated. He deserved the truth. His kindness to her did not merit lies in return. But she couldn't tell him. She couldn't.

"Please, Laurent. You must not ask me. There are secrets I must keepeven from you." Her eyes met his and the compassion, the adoration she saw there shamed her. "Please, don't look at me that way. I don't deserve your regard. If you knew what I've done . . ."

"Shhh," he quieted her. "We will say no more of it. Your past does not interest me. Your future does." He held up a hand as she would have protested. "Very well. Let us merely enjoy ourselves for now." A steward beckoned to him from the red-brocade walled, crystal chandeliered private dining room in Laurent's suite. "Come, chérie, we will enjoy our dejeuner. My chef makes a marvelous gumbo of shrimp and crab served on a bed of rice. And after, we will make ready for our arrival in New Orleans."

To Catrina's surprise, the house to which Laurent took her in the closed carriage that met them at the landing was not in the Vieux Carré where the elegant Creole society reigned. Rather, it was in the rapidly growing community of Americans who were coming to the city and building lovely homes of their own that rivaled even the grand mansions of the plantations outside the city.

Behind an iron fence the mansion stood, white and gleaming, its thick, fluted pillars and iron-lace railings works of art in themselves. Set back from the street on a lawn planted with oak, palmetto, and giant magnolia, the house seemed to sprawl on forever.

"It's immense," Catrina breathed.

"Thirty rooms," Laurent replied deprecatingly. "It only looks larger because you do not see it in the center of a clearing as plantation houses are."

"But if you own this beautiful home, why do you need others in New Orleans?"

"I did not build this house, nor the others for that matter. This house came to me as an inheritance as did another I own in the Vieux Carré. The house in which I live is the one in which I was born and raised. It is my home. These others are merely family property. I do not use them often, but they form a part of my capital."

The carriage drew up before the ornate, fanlighted entrance and Laurent jumped down, waved away the footman who hurried out to meet them, took Catrina by the waist and swung her to the ground. Offering her his arm, he led her into an entrance hall walled in dusty rose silk and lit by an elaborate crystal chandelier that hung from a white, sunburst medallion centered in the high ceiling.

At a word from Laurent, the staff was gathered in the entrance hall and respectfully awaited their master's instructions.

"For as long as she chooses to remain here," he told them, "the Madame will be mistress of this house. Her word will be law; you will obey her as you would me."

Taking Catrina by the waist, he steered her down the long line of servants from the lowliest scullery maid to the butler, Chrétien, to the grand and forbidding Creole lady, Madame Duron, the housekeeper. One look into that lady's icy gray eyes was enough to tell Catrina that not all of Laurent's servants welcomed her into their midst.

"This is Celeste," Laurent told her, smiling benignly at a small, dark girl with tousled chestnut hair who made a tardy and noisy entrance from the curving mahogany staircase. "She will be your maid."

The pretty girl smiled, her round face dimpling, and bobbed a curtsy. "You will take care of the Madame, won't you, Celeste?" Laurent asked, the twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes belying the sternness of his tone.

"Oh, yes, M'sieur," she assured him. "We have been waiting so long for you to bring us a"

"Celeste!" Madame Duron snapped.

The maid pressed a hand over her lips, her dark eyes wide and glistening with sudden tears. But Laurent only laughed softly and, bending, pressed a light kiss to the crown of her head.

"Never mind, petite," he soothed. "I know that I have neglected my duties by not providing you with a mistress. You do but echo Tante Thérèse."

Dismissing the servants, Laurent drew Catrina to the seclusion of the stairwell. "I must leave you now, Catrina. I have business to attend to. I have been away from the city too long. There is a carriage and horses at your disposal. The driver will take you wherever you wish to go. Take Celeste with you. If you need me, send someone for me or tell the coachman to bring you to me. D'accord?"

She nodded. "D'accord, Laurent." She lifted her face to receive his kiss and caught his hand as he would have left her. "Laurent? Thank you."

Smiling, he nodded and left. As she stood in the entrance hall, Catrina heard the carriage being driven away down the circular drive. She felt lost and alone until she realized that the maid, Celeste, was watching expectantly from the first landing of the stairs.

"I'd like a bath, Celeste," she told the girl and then laughed as the maid scurried away, curls tossing, all eagerness to serve her new mistress.

Lying languid and relaxed in a porcelain tub filled with warm, lilac-scented water, Catrina sighed contentedly as Celeste worked at her wet, tangled hair with a silver comb.

"Why doesn't Madame Duron like me?" she asked, remembering the cold, accusing light in the housekeeper's eyes.

"Madame Duron doesn't like anyone," Celeste replied gaily. "She was weaned on a lemon and she's been sour ever since!"

Catrina giggled. "I am serious, Celeste," she chided gently.

"But so am I, madame. Truly, though, Madame Duron was maid to Madame de Valcour, the M'sieur's maman. It was Madame de Valcour's greatest wish that the M'sieur marry a daughter of one of the old Creole families. I think Madame Duron fears the M'sieur will shame his maman's memory by marrying outside Creole society."

"And this Tante Thérèse Laurent mentioned. She shares this fear?"

Celeste rolled her eyes. "Tante Thérèse! She is M'sieur's maman's tante. She is very old and very grand! Formidable! As a young girl, she escaped from France at the height of the Terror. Had she remained there, I think she could have defeated Napoleon single-handedly!"

Catrina laughed as she stepped from the tub and allowed Celeste to wrap her in a towel. "I shall take care to keep out of her path! But what do they think of Monique?"

"Ah, well." Celeste led the way into the dressing room that adjoined Catrina's gold and white bedchamber. "Monique is the M'sieur's mistress and a femme de couleur. A gentleman may keep such a woman as his mistress. He may even keep a second family, supporting his mistress and their children in grand fashionbut he will never marry her. There is no question of it."

"I see. It is all very difficult for the mistress, is it not?" She stopped in the doorway and gaped at the three maids who worked busily folding away chemises and stockings, garters and corsets, satin corset covers and frothy petticoats, silk and lace nightdresses and high-heeled satin mules.

"Madame!" Celeste gasped, coming abreast of her mistress. "How beautiful it all is!"

"But whose is it?" Catrina asked.

"It is yours, madame," one of the maids replied as she hung a flounced, sea green day dress in a tall armoire.

"No, it is not," Catrina contradicted.

"But yes, they are," another of the maids piped up. "They were just delivered from the Atalanta. The driver said that M'sieur de Valcour himself told him to bring them here."

Going to the half-unpacked trunks, Catrina saw a receipt lying inside of one. The total price of the wardrobe astonished her and the dressmaker's address, on a fashionable street in St. Louis, reminded her of the collection Laurent had mentioned ordering for his mistressthe source of the nightdress she had worn the night before.

"Monique," she murmured, running her hand over a robe of pale pink tissue silk whose bodice was embroidered with pink seed pearls.

"Pardon, madame?" Celeste asked.

Dismissing the maids, Catrina sat at the dressing table whose top was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and whose stool was shaped like a golden shell. She eyed Celeste in the fan-shaped mirror as the maid began combing her hair.

"Monsier de Valcour's mistress," she said, "what is she like? Is she jealous? Vindictive?"

Celeste shrugged. "Perhaps a little jealousshe knows that one day the M'sieur will fall in love and marrybut vindictive? Non."

"Those clothes were meant for her. Laurent ordered them made for her."

"Oui. I thought as much. But she has so many, she will never miss them. You and she are nearly of a size. M'sieur obviously thought they were better given to you. And after all, they are his to give."

Catrina laughed. "That is exactly what he told me last night."

"Naturellement. The M'sieur's word is law, madame. I accept that, Monique accepts that, even Madame Duron accepts that. We would rather bow to the M'sieur's wishes than be dismissed from his service and his life."

Catrina and Celeste shared an understanding smile in the mirror. "What is this spell Laurent casts over the women in his life?" Catrina asked.

The maid sighed as she positioned a pearl comb in Catrina's hair. "I don't know, madame. But I know that there are many women in New Orleans who would give much to have him look at them as he looked at you in the foyer." She smiled roguishly. "Peut-être Madame Duron is not so far from correct in her fears, no?"

Abruptly, Catrina left the dressing table and drew on a robe of lilac silk shot with silver threads. "No!" she told Celeste, her tone far more forceful than she had intended. "I am leaving New Orleans soon," she went on, more softly, "I will not be staying any longer than I must. There is nothing between your M'sieur and myselfnothing at all."

Rummaging in the armoires, Catrina searched for some sign of her own black silk gown or the grey silk she had worn the night before. They were nowhere to be seen and neither was the lavender silk she'd worn that morning.

"Celeste? Where are my clothes? Where are my own clothes?"

"I do not know, madame. I will ask."

The maid disappeared, leaving Catrina to tap her toes impatiently. When she return, Celeste seemed uneasy, unsure of how her mistress would react to her news.

"I spoke to Madame Duron," she said softly. "Madame Duron said that the M'sieur ordered the gowns you mentioned disposed of."

"Disposed" Catrina began.

"He said they were far too somber for you to wear, madame."

"They were not his!" Catrina cried. "They were mine! Damn! Damn! Why do men feel they have the right to control a woman's life!"

"Madame"

"No! It is not fair! Why did God give a woman a brain if she is not to be allowed to make any of her own decisions!''

"But, madame!"

Tearing open drawers and armoires, Catrina chose underthings and petticoats at random and a gown of shellpink silk. Throwing off her robe, she began to dress, pulling on the delicate and costly creations with little regard for the fragile lace with which they were, without exception, frothed.

"Go down and order the carriage," she snapped at Celeste. "I want to go out as soon as I'm dressed."

As the maid scurried out of the room, Catrina yanked a mantle from the armoire and a bonnet whose satin ribbons matched her dress, and stormed down the stairs to the foyer.

With Celeste seated quietly in the far corner of the carriage, Catrina directed the coachman to drive to the levee where she had left the Golden Rose. It was there, swarming with activity, but Catrina ordered her coachman to drive on. She could not be sure that Flint Ashton had not recovered from his wound and returned to New Orleans to take command of his ship. She did not want to face him; she could not trust her treacherous heart to keep from betraying her feelings to him.

Further along, another ship lay moored. It was not dissimilar to the Golden Rose, they had the same sleek lines, the same look of pride and arrogance about them. It was called the Camellia. "Stop here!" Catrina called. "Go and ask for the captain. Ask if he is sailing anytime soon for England and if he will take any passengers."

The coachman, an elderly octoroon, climbed down off his perch and boarded the ship. Their wait was not long before he returned and reported to Catrina.

"The captain says they will sail for England in two months, maybe later. He will take a passenger or two if the price is right."

"Two months!" Catrina was bitterly disappointed. "That's far too long. We'll have to try another ship."

The old man shook his grizzled head. "The captain says no other ship will sail for England before this one. Leastaways, none taking passengers."

"I shall speak to the man myself," she decided.

Followed by Celeste, Catrina boarded the ship and followed a sailor's directions to the captain's cabin.

"Mr. Merriman!" she cried, entering the cluttered, cozy cabin.

Oliver Merriman, former first mate of the Golden Rose stood. His flame-red hair nearly brushed the cabin's beamed ceiling.

"Lady Catrina!" He smiled. "Or should I say Mrs. St. James?"

"No, sir, you should not," Catrina corrected, hoping that Celeste, who was busily examining the cabin's furnishings, had not heard him. "Celeste, leave us for a moment."

The maid seemed startled. "But, madame, the M'sieur said" "The M'sieur said you were to obey me in all things," Catrina reminded her sharply. "I know this gentleman. Leave us."

Unsure, Celeste looked from Catrina to the hulking man who loomed above her. Bobbing a curtsy, she retreated reluctantly to await Catrina outside the door.

"As I was saying, Mr. Merriman, it is not Mrs. St. James. Mr. St. James and I have parted company."

"I see. Then he will not be accompanying you?"

"No. Does that make a difference?"

He sat down after drawing up a chair for her. "Not at all. If you like, I can send someone to notify "Not at all. If you like, I can send someone to notify you of our sailing date. It should be fixed within a fortnight."

Catrina hesitated. She feared that Radford might come to New Orleans looking for her and she didn't want anyone to know where she was staying.

"I will send someone to inquire in two or three weeks," she told him.

"As you wish, milady."

He rose and conducted Catrina to the door. But as she walked away followed by Celeste, his eyes were filled with concern.

"A lady friend, cap'n?" Penner, the first mate of the Camellia, asked.

"Neither you not I will ever be that fortunate, my friend," Merriman murmured. He shook his head. "It's strangedamned strange."

"What's that, cap'n?"

Merriman went back to his cabin and the mate followed. Pouring them both a tankard of rum, the captain sat behind his untidy desk.

"That lady, Penner, is an earl's daughter. She was to marry Ashton St. James and he captained the last voyage of the Golden Rose to make sure she got here safe. Three months ago he was ready to slit the throat of any man who looked at her. Now here she is, alone, trying to book pasage back to England, saying they've parted company." Leaning back in his chair, he propped his feet on his desk. "Before he left for Natchez, St. James told me who he was and gave me command of this shipthe newest and fastest of the St. James fleet. I'll not lose the Camellia for taking that lady to England if she's only left him after a lovers' tiff. I think I'll just send a message to him at his plantation in Natchez. We'll see how he feels about his pretty little bird flying off home to her nest."

Taking up a pen and paper, he gestured toward the door. "Get me that cabin boy, what's his name, Tully. Tell him I want him to take a letter to Natchez. He's a bright boy. He'll do the job."

Chapter 22

Peter Tully, cabin boy of the good ship Camellia of the St. James fleet, rode an ancient, swaybacked, dapple-grey gelding along the Spanish moss draped lane toward Belvoir. He had gone straight to Oakwood plantation upon arriving in Natchez, eager to complete the mission his captain had assigned to him, but had met with initial disappointment. Mr. Ashton St. James, he had been told, was not at Oakwood and had not been there for some time. He had been injured and had stayed at his cousin's plantation, Belvoir, during his convalescence. There he remained and there Peter had been sent. The haughty, aged Negro woman at Oakwood had not deigned to confide in him that the master was recovered and was expected back home before nightfall.

Weary but determined, Peter had mounted his slow gaited horse and ridden away from that gleaming mansion after asking directions to Belvoir.

Now, with the sun sinking toward the western horizon, Peter dismounted before the pillared entrance of Belvoir. He hoped that Ashton St. James could still be found here and he hoped against hope that he would be invited to find his way to the kitchen and take some nourishment after his travels. Though Captain Merriman had given him money to pay for food and lodgings on his journey, Peter had heard stories of the fancy women who could be gotten cheap on Natchez's notorious Silver Street and he had a mind to save his meal money for something far sweeter than gumbo.

Ignoring the gleaming brass knocker, Peter rapped on the door with his sun-browned, calloused knuckles. Almost as an afterthought, Peter ran his fingers through his tousled thatch of brown hair and knocked the road dust from his brown, coarsely-woven, cloth pants. He didn't care to impress whoever might live in the fancy housebut he thought he might find a pretty maidservant about and smiled at the notion of pocketing the money he'd earmarked for a Natchez-Under-the-Hill fancy woman and spending the night with a Belvoir maid free of charge.

The door swung open and revealed Félice, the giggling maidservant whose inseparable companion Marie was on the opposite side of the entrance hall receiving instructions from Radford concerning the care involved in the cleaning of the fragile crystal.

Used to the gentry, Félice cast a disgusted gaze over the crumpled, dusty boy and his sorry excuse for a horse.

"Servants 'round the back," she snipped as she began to swing the door closed.

With the strength born of hard life aboard ship, Peter wrenched the door open. "I ain't no servant," he growled. "I come from New Orleans and I got a message for Mr. Ashton St. James."

Feisty and spirited, Félice refused to quail before his anger. Planting her fists on her hips, she glared at him. "Master Ashton is in his bath an I ain't disturbin' him for you nor anybody else! An' git your hands off that white door! Some folks got to clean them doors, you know!"

Hearing Ashton's name, Radford left Marie and came to the door. "What is it, Félice?" he asked, his eyes skimming over Peter.

"This boy says he's got a message for Master Flint, sir. He says he's come from New Orleans."

"I'll take care of it," Radford told her. Félice cast another scathing look toward Peter and flounced away to give Marie her own, highly colored, version of the encounter. With the maid's giggles as background, Radford went on. "You say you've a message for my cousin?"

Peter nodded. "That's right. From Captain Merriman of the Camellia."

"As my maid told you, Mr. St. James is having a bath. He will doubtless be occupied for some time. If you will give me the message, I will see that my cousin receives it."

Peter was doubtful. "I don't know. The cap'n said to deliver it to him personal."

Radford glared down at him. "Are you questioning my honor, boy?" he ground out between gritted teeth.

Peter shuffled his feet. "No, sir. It ain't that"

"Is this the kind of insolence my cousin tolerates among the crews of his ships? What is your name, boy? I'm sure my cousin would like to know."

Peter swallowed hard. He'd run away from his father's miserable excuse for a farm when he was twelve and after three years of the freedom of the sea, he could not bear to go back. If he were dismissed from the St. James's fleet for insolence, no other ship owner in New Orleans would sign him on. He'd have little choice but to return to the misery of his birthplace.

Tugging the letter out of his pocket, Peter handed it to Radford.

"As I said," Radford told him, tucking it inside his pocket. "I will see that my cousin receives this when he is finished with his bath."

Turning, he let the door swing shut in Peter's face and the boy returned to his sway-backed horse mumbling about the rudeness of the rich.

Locked in his study, Radford slit the envelope with his chased gold opener. He wondered eagerly if the message might have anything to do with Catrina.

He'd been furious when he'd discovered her missing but there was little he could do to find her. If he were to make overt inquiries, word might get back to Flint and the missing pieces of the puzzle would fall into place for him. Radford had to bide his time and hope for some inkling of her whereabouts to come to him. His waiting had not been made easier by the sudden, mysterious return of Norah Brandt's body. Two men had arrived with hertwo Creoles who said little, gave away nothing. They told him only that the girl had been murdered, that her murderer had, in his turn, met his death. They claimed to know nothing of another young woman who might have been traveling with the dead girl in spite of the fact that Norah's body had been wrapped in Catrina's black, hooded cloak. They refused to say for whom they worked and they refused to remain at Belvoir for the funeral service saying they had to get back for their master was expecting them to return immediately.

Unfolding the paper he struggled for some minutes to decipher Merriman's sprawling scrawl. But when he at last translated the brief, respectful missive, his hands shook with excitement.

"Félice!" he bellowed from his study door.

The maid appeared on a run with Marie not far behind. "Yes, sir?" they said in unison, as though they were one being equally at home responding to either name.

"Fetch Miss Olympia! Tell her it's urgent!"

The girls scampered away and Radford poured himself a brandy in celebration. By the time Olympia arrived, annoyed at having been disturbed when in the middle of her harp lesson with her "divine" young teacher, an emigré French comte, or so he said, Radford was in higher spirits that she'd seen him since Catrina's disappearance.

"What is it, Rad?" she asked. "News about Catrina?"

He didn't reply but only held Captain Merriman's letter out to her. Olympia's black eyes scanned it.

"She's in New Orleans and attempting to book passage back to England!"

Radford laughed. "She claims to have had a falling out with Mr. St. James. The little chit! I wouldn't have given her credit for this much pluck!"

Olympia's black brows drew together. "It doesn't say where she's staying. Do you think Merriman knows?"

Radford shrugged. "Probably not. She's managed to cover her trail thus far. I doubt she'd tell him where she's lodging. She's too clever for that."

Not clever enough to take Flint away from me! Olympia thought spitefully. She gave her brother a questioning look. "And now, I presume, you are for New Orleans?

"And Flint? He's going home this evening, you know. What shall I tell him to explain your absence?"

Standing, Radford patted her hollow cheek as he passed. "You'll think of something, dear sister." He paused. "I almost forgot"

"Never mind, I think I know what you were about to do.''

Walking to the fireplace, Olympia struck a match and wrinkled her nose at its foul stench. Touching the flame to the edge of the letter, she waited until it was well engulfed before throwing it into the grate. The envelope followed and soon Captain Merriman's well-meant missive was only a small pile of unrecognizable, charred ashes.

Watching the last of the glowing sparks die, Radford and Olympia shared a conspiratorial look.

"We'll have her yet," Olympia vowed. "And I'll have Flint and Oakwood."

"Yes, we'll both have what we want," Radford agreed. "I'm off, my dear, the game's afoot!"

In the days that followed her visit to the docks of New Orleans, Catrina wandered through the sprawling mansion that Laurent had given her for the duration of her stay in New Orleans. Gifts arrived in a continuous streamflowers from the hothouses and gardens of Laurent's plantations, wines, delicacies to delight the palate and the eye, jewelry (though this last she returned, politely but firmly refusing to accept such costly gifts from a man she had no intention of becoming involved with). With each present came a note, charmingly worded, always hinting that an invitation to visit her would be welcome. True to his word, Laurent seemed to regard the mansion as Catrina's domain and did not come to her uninvited. But as the days passed, Catrina felt a growing sense of guilt that she was behaving so churlishly to the man to whom she owed much, even to the roof over her head, the food in her mouth, and the clothes on her back.

What would he think if I invited him to dine with me? she wondered one morning as she descended the curving mahogany staircase and entered the dining room with its ormulu chandelier and French trompe l'oeil wallpaper, hand-painted to look amazingly like expensive draped silk. Would he imagine that I was being seduced by his pampering? Would he think that I was now willing to become his mistress? She shook her head stubbornly. I will not allow another man to take my life and make of it what he wills! I will not become another of Laurent's expensive possessions and I will not allow him access to my heart. I gave that too easily once and felt it wantonly crushed inside me.

The thought of her heartbreak brought Flint's face into focus in her mind. The sudden quickening of her pulse and the deep rooted ache in her body was maddening. If only love could be torn out of one's heart like a noxious weed out of a flower garden. But love's roots burrowed far deeper and even false love, like false hope, seemed to spring eternal.

Catrina looked up with a start as a plate was placed on the table before her. The black-silk gowned maid smiled.

"Cook says this will be good for you, madame. She says you are too pale."

"I'm sure she's correct," Catrina murmured. Without even glancing at the plate, she picked up her fork, stabbed at the plate, and carried the food to her mouth.

Her stomach roiled as she tasted the mixture of veal, tomatoes, green peppers, garlic, and onions she'd unthinkingly popped into her mouth. With the maid watching in astonishment, she gagged and began to retch. Thrusting herself out of her chair, she bolted for the stairs and pounded up them, barely making it to her bath chamber before her nausea overcame her.

When she'd finished being sick, she sat back wearily and accepted the cool, damp cloth Celeste held out to her. As she held it over her face, she felt the maid loosening the fastenings of her gown and of her corset beneath it.

"You should lie down madame," the maid told her. "You're not well."

"I'm fine," Catrina contradicted. "It's only that I never expected grillades." She shuddered. ''Onions!"

"You were ill yesterday as well," Celeste stubbornly reminded her.

"I was not ill."

"You were queasy after déjeuner."

"It was the gumbo. The shrimp did not agree with me."

"You were dizzy in the afternoon."

"Good lord! Do you make it a habit of watching my every movement?" Angrily, Catrina stood, then weaved as a wave of giddiness overtook her. Reluctantly she allowed Celeste to lead her to the bed and lay down while Celeste lowered the mosquito baire.

"Shall I send for someone, madame?" the maid asked. Catrina waved a dismissing hand. "No, no, it is nothing. I haven't been sleeping well. I'm sure a nap will put everything to rights. Just let me alone for a few hours, Celeste."

Bobbing a curtsy, the maid left. But she was concerned. The M'sieur was obviously enamored of the woman. If she were to take ill and he discovered that she, Celeste, had known of the illness and done nothing, might she not find herself in the street, homeless? Better, she decided, to disobey Catrina and have her master see how concerned she was for his lady's well-being than obey Catrina and leave herself open to a charge of neglect.

Summoning the housekeeper, she explained the situation. Madame Duron saw the sense in Celeste's argument and a message was dispatched to the M'sieur at his home in the Vieux Carré.

In amazingly short order, Laurent arrived bringing with him Doctor Etienne Beaucaire. Ushered upstairs by Madame Duron they burst into Catrina's bedchamber as though expecting to find her ready to receive the last rites. Behind the fine white muslin baire and the white silk hangings, both with their golden floral embroidery, Catrina sat up and regarded them with a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

"Cherie," Laurent murmured, thrusting away the muslin and silk that separated him from her, "you are ill. I have brought the doctor."

Catrina shot an angry glare toward Celeste who flushed and edged her way out of the room. "I am not ill, Laurent. I was giddya few of my meals have not agreed with me. It is nothing."

"Still, I want you to allow the doctor to examine you, cherie. Celeste will remain in the room with you."

"Laurent" she objected.

Reaching out, he stroked her cheek. "For me, minou." Leaning toward her, he brushed her cheek with his lips. "I have missed you so," he whispered.

Catrina felt a pang of guilt at the unconcealed adoration in his eyes as he gazed at her. She owed him this much, she supposed, if it meant so much to him.

She nodded. "Very well, Laurent. The doctor may examine me."

He beamed his approval. Helping her off the bed, he summoned Celeste to fetch a dressing gown and help her mistress undress. Then he and Madame Duron retired to the hallway to await the outcome of the examination.

Etienne Beaucaire was a gentle, middle-aged man who had made a practice in New Orleans doctoring the sick among Creole society. He was one of a very few doctors approved of by protective mamans and fiercely jealous husbands to examine daughters and wives, always, of course, in the presence of a trusted maidservant. He delivered many of the babies born to the old, important families of the Vieux Carré, though many still clung to the tradition of midwives.

He questioned Catrina at length, asking her of matters that brought a crimson flush not only to hercheeks but to Celeste's as well. By the time he was finished, it took only a cursory physical examination to tell him what he needed to know for a diagnosis.

Leaving Catrina, he went to report his findings to Laurent.

Catrina turned as she heard Laurent enter the room. His cerulean gaze dropped to her midsection and lingered before returning to her face. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed Celeste and sat on the white brocade lit de repos to wait for him to speak.

"Doctor Beaucaire told me that you are enceinte, Catrina," he said softly. "Nearly four months."

Noting his use of her name rather than one of the endearments with which he peppered his notes to her, Catrina wondered if he were angry and planning to turn her out into the street. She nodded.

"Yes, he told me as well."

"He told you? You did not know?"

Rising, Catrina wrapped her arms about herself to ward off the chill that seemed to have invaded the room despite the late spring warmth.

"I suspected," she admitted. "I feared it was so."

Laurent frowned, puzzled. "You feared? But why should you fear? A child is a wonderful thinga miracle."

Catrina shook her head miserably and turned her back toward him to hide her misery. "You do not understand, Laurent."

"You are upset because this means you cannot return to England?" She whirled on him. "I will return! This means nothing!"

"You cannot leave now. You must return to your husband's people, cherie. The child within you is his heir."

Catrina's mouth twisted bitterly. "I have no husband, Laurent."

"You're late husband, then, it is the same"

"No! I have no husband! I have never had a husband!"

"Never? But you told me . . ."

"I lied." She pressed a hand to her lips. "I lied to you, Laurent. When I met you I was running away but not from my husband's family. From my fiancé. From the man my father gave me to."

Laurent sank onto a settee, overwhelmed by the sudden revelations. "Nevertheless, the child belongs to you both"

"The child is not my fiance's. I never wanted him in my bed; I would never willingly give myself to him."

"A lover?" The words were torn from Laurent's throat. A deluge of jealous fury swept over him. A man had dared to touch her! Had left a part of himself within her to join with a part of her and create a child. Another man had taken her, loved her, as he desperately yearned to do.

"Who was he?"

There was such hatred in the words that Catrina felt a frisson of fear. Laurent had never been other than gentle and kind. This was a side of him she had never imagined existed. She was afraid to refuse him an answer.

"The captain of the ship that brought me from England," she replied carefully.

"Did you love him?"

She shrugged and a smile filled with irony curved her lips. "I thought so. I believed myself in love with him and he with me. I was so desperately afraid that I would never know love that I gave myself to him in order to have one night of passion to look back on when I spent my life trapped in a loveless marriage." She laughed humorlessly. "And now I see that that single night has borne fruit. Some women pray for children and live without them. I thoughtlessly give myself up to a single night of desire and am rewarded with a libertine's bastard!"

Laurent winced at the bitterness in her tone. "Was he a libertine, Catrina?" he asked gently.

Catrina scowled. "He left me in New Orleans to await my fiancé alone while he returned to his beautiful young wife. He came to my fiancé's house and boasted of the harlots he'd had while visiting Natchez-Under-the Hill. He got himself shot in a brothel brawl, was brought to my fiance's plantation, and . . ." She stopped, wishing that she could take back her last words.

"And?" Laurent prompted.

"And I gave myself to him again, Laurent. I could not seem to help myself. And like a harlot, I went back to him the next night fully intending to give myself to him again."

"But you didn't?"

"No." She laughed her awful laugh filled with anger and self-mockery again. "And do you know why? Because he was already in bed with my fiancé's sister!" Filled with another kind of rage, Laurent came to her and seized her wrist, snapping her back to reality.

"Tell me his name!" he demanded.

"His name?" Catrina asked dully.

"Tell me his name! I want to know it!"

"But why?"

Blue fire flashed in Laurent's eyes and his entire body seemed suffused with a white-hot fury that frightened Catrina and made her want to run from him.

"I'm going to kill him!"

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Catrina began to laugh. Her high, soaring laughter seemed to echo in the cavernous room filling it with ugly sound that danced off the white and gold walls.

Taking her by the shoulders, Laurent shook her, gently at first, then more forcefully, trying to force her out of the hysteria that gripped her. At last, in desperation he brought his hand down across her cheek, snapping her head to the side and leaving a red welt on the pale, cool skin.

Catrina gasped, her topaz eyes wide with surprise. Then the tears came and she collapsed in Laurent's arms making no protest when he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the wide bed whose white silk hangings were affixed to a golden crown fastened to the molded, frescoed ceiling eighteen feet above.

"It's funny," she told him, hiccoughing slightly as she lay in his arms. "I flee my fiancé and now my would-be lover is offering to kill the father of my illegitimate child." She smiled up at him through tear bedewed lashes. "Are you my would-be lover, Laurent?"

"No," he corrected tenderly. "I am your lover in truth for I have loved you in my mind many, many times since I first saw you."

Sighing, she gazed at the golden crown so far above them. "That is the best kind of loving, Laurent." Taking his hand, she placed it on her gently rounded belly. "It does not bear such long lasting results."

His eyes caressed her, tender, filled with love. "Je t'aime," he whispered, holding her close, his hand gently stroking the curve of her abdomen where her pregnancy was beginning to show. "Je t'aime, Catrina."

Catrina closed her eyes, wishing she could say those words to him, knowing that they would fill him with joy. But she could not. She did love Laurent; she loved the gentle, generous man he was. But she was not in love with him and she knew that that was the connotation he would put on those words if she said them.

She lay still in his arms, feeling cherished, loved, but she knew no peace of mind. Even as she lay in the comforting shelter of Laurent's embrace, she remembered the emerald fire of passion in Flint's eyes that night aboard the Golden Rosethe night their child had been conceivedthe night that had stolen from her all hope of ever finding contentment in another man's arms.

Chapter 23

Catrina looked up from her novel as Laurent strode into the room. As always she was struck by the man's sheer physical perfection. The fashions of the day, with their broad shoulders and narrow waists, the closely fitted trousers and the tall, elegant silk hats seemed created with him in mind. The rich, dark colors in vogue accentuated the angelic fairness that turned feminine heads wherever he went.

Seeing the servants carrying boxes behind him, Catrina sighed and set aside her book and glass of anisette. "Laurent," she chided, "You're spoiling me dreadfully."

It was true. In the days since she'd confessed the truth to him about Radford and Flint and her child, Laurent had begun to shower her with attention and gifts. He took her to the Théâtre d'Orléans where they had a loge grille, a box with a latticed front that hid the occupants from the other patrons. Their entry and exit, however, had been closely watched by the elegant, bejeweled audience and Laurent was amused by the number of young, wealthy men of his acquaintance who cornered him during the intermission and asked to be presented to Catrina who remained secluded in the box. He refused them all, politely but firmly, which only made the gentlemanand their sisters and worried mamans, most of whom had been angling for Laurent for yearsall the more curious.

The fact that Laurent insisted on dressing Catrina in the height of fashion for their outings and draping her with jewels from the fabulous collection the Valcour women had built up over generations, did not help matters. Rumors were raging throughout the Vieux CarréLaurent de Valcour had taken a new mistress, had been betrothed to an Anglaise, had secretly marriedcuriosity was rampant. On more than one occasion, invitations to social functions addressed to "Madame de Valcour" had arrived at Laurent's house in the Vieux Carré. Vastly amused, Laurent always brought them to Catrina and told her he suspected the senders of having had them delivered merely in order to see what manner of response they received.

Now, as he gestured for the packages to be set on a hastily brought table before Catrina, he brushed away her objections with an airy wave of his hand. ''I could never spoil you enough, chérie."

She refused to be deterred. "You do not have to make up for every sorrow I've ever had."

He sobered and sat on the settee opposite her. His azure eyes went to her belly where her pregnancy was as yet unnoticeable beneath her voluminous skirts. "I wish I could do just that," he murmured.

"You treat me as a wife should be treated," she contradicted gently.

She regreted the words as soon as they'd left her mouth for the look in his eyes told her he thought of her in just that way. She knew he would marry her, perhaps even claim her child as his own, and ignore the scandal such a union would inevitably cause.

She looked away, discomfitted by the undisguised ardor in his eyes. He was the kind of man who would place the woman he loved on an ivory pedestal and lay the world at her feet. For her he would create a paradise where no whim of hers would be too insignificant, too outrageous, to merit instant gratification. She would be a queen and Laurent would gladly spend his life as her worshipful courtier. It would be a magnificent life and she knew it was hers for the asking. But she would never ask for she knew that she would never fall in love with Laurent and he deserved to be loved in return. She felt nothing for him save the natural attraction of a healthy young woman for a handsome, charming man. To her, the world Laurent would create for his wife would never be more than a gilded prison in which to live out an empty life.

"What have you brought me this time that you shouldn't have?" she asked lightly.

Smiling delightedly as he always did when presenting her with some gift he thought particularly beautiful. Laurent lifted off the cover of the largest box to reveal a ball gown of golden faille. Cut simply with a low, off-shoulder decolletage, it seemed so plain, lacking the elaborate ornamentation so much the style, that Catrina couldn't help wondering if it was finished.

"It's very lovely, Laurent, but"

He held up a hand. "Wait, chérie." He set aside another, smaller box that contained the accessories, kid gloves and silk stockings and satin slippers, and chose instead a flat, square box of ruby velvet.

"This goes with the gown," he told her, opening the box.

Catrina gasped. There, on a bed of blood-red velvet, lay the most magnificent diamond necklace she had ever seen. It didn't look like a necklace at all as much as it looked like a glittering collar of some exquisite, heaven-made lace fashioned of stars. She could see at once the advantage of the gown's being cut so simply. With an ornament such as the necklace, all other decoration was superfluous.

Looking from the necklace to Laurent's beaming face, Catrina couldn't help but wonder what he had in mind. She knew he was not offering her the necklaceshe had already made it clear to him that she would not accept such lavish gifts from him. It was obvious that he had brought the necklace from the vault in which the Valcour jewels were kept with some special occasion in mind.

"What are you up to, Laurent?" she asked.

He grinned. "I only want you to be at your most beautiful, ma belle. My Tante Thérèse is not an easy woman to impress."

"Your Tante Thérèse! Is she coming here?"

He laughed. "No, chérie. She seldom ventures into the city. I am speaking of her birthday ball tomorrow night at her plantation, Bellefontaine."

"Who will be there?" Catrina asked warily.

"Everyone who is anyone in the Vieux Carré."

Catrina rose and paced nervously to the fireplace and back. "I cannot go, Laurent. We have been reckless as it is. You convinced me to go to the opera saying we would be hidden in the loge grille. We succeeded only in attracting more attention to ourselves. You take me to dinner and tell me we will have a private dining room but our arrival and departure seems the prime spectacle of the evening for everyone in the vicinity. And now you want me to go to a ball where half of New Orleans will ogle me? What if someone is there who knows my fiancé? He will find me"

She swayed slightly, overcome with the thought of being returned to Radford and Belvoir. Instantly Laurent came to her, held her, comforted her, lead her to a loveseat where he cradled her like a frightened child on his lap. "Hush, hush, minou," he cooed against her temple. "Don't you know by now that you are safe with me? This fiance of yours could ride up to the door this very moment and I would not let him take you. The only person who will ever take you from me is you yourself."

He kissed her softly and his slim fingers traced tantalizing circles on the delicate, silken flesh of her inner arm. "Say you will come to Bellefontaine with me."

Catrina shivered. Though she was not in love with Laurent she was not insensitive to him. He seemed to know exactly the tone of voice to use and precisely the place and the way to caress her to rouse her senses without making overt advances toward her. If she chided him, he could honestly plead innocence.

She moved restlessly in his arms as he innocently adjusted a ribbon decorating her gown and his knuckles brushed the creamy swell of her breasts. "I'm not sure," she murmured.

"Please come. I wish you to wear my arriére-grand-mére's necklace."

Catrina's eyes went to the blood-red box where the diamond collar glittered with a savage fire all its own.

"It belonged to your great-grandmother?"

He nuzzed her neck and reveled in the soft gasp she could not repress and the shudder that tore through her.

"It was given her by her lover," he murmured, his lips moving slowly, stealthily, toward her breast. With her advancing pregnancy, her slender body was taking on a new lushness that enthralled him. Her breasts, growing fuller, swelled above the necklines of her gowns and the sight of them, so ripe and lushly tempting, drove the ever-seething desires inside him to the boiling point.

Her head resting on Laurent's shoulder, Catrina's senses swam. Though she'd know physical love only twice, she was a passionate woman and her body cried out for Laurent's caresses. The stirrings inside her confused her, disturbed her, awakened questions of her own morality. She remembered Flint's telling her that love and lust were two separate emotions though each was richer with a touch of the other. What she felt, and did feel, for Flint was love, painful as that was for her to admit even to herself. What she felt for Laurent, then, must be lust. Though the realization made her feel a bit guilty, she thought that perhaps lust might have much to recommend it.

"Catrina," he whispered, "let me stay with you tonight. Please, you know I love you. You must know I would never hurt you. Never!"

Catrina lay weakly in his arms. She was temptedsorely tempted. Flint had awakened all her senses, given her pleasure the like of which she'd never known. But along with her senses he had enslaved her heart and his subsequent cruelty had nearly torn her apart. Radford had touched neither her heart nor her senses; making love with him would have been no more than a distastefu; duty for her. It would have been different with Laurent. Her body responded to him almost as eagerly as it had to Flint and yet her heart remained her own. She could make love to him without caring that there would be nothing for them in the future. She could have found pleasure with him in it simplest, purest form. It was an alluring prospect.

She left his embrace and stood before him, uncertain. That he wanted her was evidenthis desire was a foregone conclusion. That she wanted him with almost equal intensity surprised her. A tiny pang of guilt clung stubbornly inside her; it was not guilt over the betrayal of her fiancé but guilt at the thought of giving herself to any man but Flint.

How ridiculous, she thought angrily. I owe him nothing but contempt!

She held out her hand to Laurent. "Mon cher," she began, but her words trailed off into a gasp and she held her breath. She had feltyes!there it was againa fluttering within her, a movement.

"What is it?" Laurent demanded, seeing the stunned look on her face and the hand that she pressed to her abdomen.

"The baby," she whispered, awed. "He moved, Laurent. I felt him move!" She reached out, caught his hand, and pressed it to her.

Laurent paled as he felt the child moving within her. Snatching his hand away he rose and moved backwards. Until now, the thought of his beautiful, fragile Catrina being enceinte had merely been a delightful diversion. He could smile as he noted the blossoming of her body, the roses in her cheeks, the childlike, shamefaced smile, when she told him of some ungodly craving. But now the baby was a tangible thing, living, growing within herthe product of another man's ecstacy with the woman Laurent loved.

Catrina frowned, puzzled. "Laurent? What is it? What is the matter?"

He regained his composure, but his complexion did not return to its normal, tawny shade. Shaking his head, he took up his hat.

"Nothing, chérie," he assured her. "I was merely startled. You have not answered my question."

"Your question?" She hesitated. The temptation to keep Laurent with her had fled leaving her only the wonder of the movement within her. She did not want to hurt him but for tonight at least, Flint's child was of paramount importance blinding her to all thoughts of either love or lust.

"Will you come to Bellefontaine with me?"

She smiled, relieved. "That is not the question I thought you were referring to."

He flushed. "Isn't it?"

She noticed his cerulean eyes going again and again to the place where her hand still rested. "It is the baby, isn't it, Laurent? You are angry because of the baby." She lowered her eyes. "If you want, I will begin looking for other lodgings in the morning. It should not be long before Captain Merriman readies the Camellia to sail and I"

"No, no, chérie," Laurent interrupted. "I am not angry and I do not want you to leave. I love you no matter what. It is only that the baby reminded me . . ."

She nodded, understanding that which he had tactfully left unsaid. "Reminded you that I had a a lover?" He nodded.

"Flint Ashton was a cruel, ruthless man, Laurent. Even now I do not understand how he can have so enthralled me. I wish nothing more than to never see him again. But I will not punish an innocent babe for the sins of his father. This child is the result of" she hesitated, not wishing to hurt him further, then plunged on, "of the most exquisite night of my life. Flint loved me that night, if only for that one night. He made me a woman. He taught me what love can be. A child born of such a night cannot be other than beautiful and I love him already." She smiled wistfully. "Even after the callous way Flint used me, I cannot hate him completely for he gave me two precious gifts: my womanhood and a child to love."

Laurent, his Creole sentimentality fully aroused, swept her into his arms. "Chérie! Ma chérie! There is no other woman like you! Say you will come to Bellefontaine with meI could not be parted from you even for a day."

She smiled up at him, touched by the unshed tears that shimmered in his eyes. "I will come, Laurent," she promised. "I will come to Bellefontaine and society be damned!"

As they drove toward the levee where they would board the Atalanta which would take them to Bellefontaine, Catrina leaned against Laurent and felt his arms slide around her. Though she knew she could not spend her life with him, she was grateful to Laurent for he had given her the security and protection she needed to achieve the first bit of contentment she had known since she had learned of her betrothal. She was at peace with herself and the peace of mind she felt was disturbed only by the haunting image of Flint Ashton's face. Unsettlingly, it seemed that the child growing within her grew more active when she thought of Flint. But that was ridiculous, she told herself firmly. An unborn infant could have no knowledge of its sire. By the time the babe was born she would be in England and far away from Flint Ashton and his treachery.

She had already decided to resume her masquerade as a widow. She would tell the child that his father died before he was born. The baby would never know of the wicked, heartless man who fathered him.

She felt Laurent's lips teasing the pearl drop that dangled from her right ear and giggled. But her humor died as she caught sight of a man leaving a bank on the opposite side of the street. The color drained from her face and her body stiffened in Laurent's embrace.

"Chérie, what is it?"

"Dear God!" she whispered.

"What is it!"

"My fiancé!" She shuddered. "Laurent! He's come for me! He'll take me back! Oh, God, he'll take me back!" Laurent was stunned by her terror. "Catrina," he soothed. "Hush, ma petite. There is nothing to fear."

"He'll kill my baby." She hovered on the edge of a swoon, her voice dropping to a quavering whisper. "He'll find someone, a doctor, a midwife, someone, to kill my baby!"

"No," Laurent contradicted, shocked. "Catrina, no man in his right mind is capable . . ."

"He is capable!" she insisted. "He is capable of anything!"

"Surely not!"

"Yes! He threatened to kill Flint if I did not stay away from him. And he would have done it had he known that I had gone to Flint in the night. He would have, Laurent, I know he would." She shivered. "Perhaps he means to kill me. Yes, that's it. He will force me to marry him in order to get control of my inheritance and then he will kill me."

Alarmed by her mounting fear, Laurent captured her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. "Catrina," he said sharply, "listen to me! He will not touch you so long as you are with me. I will kill him first. No man will touch you while you remain under my protection. Do you understand?"

Catrina's eyes, wide and haunted, were captured by his and held. Slowly she relaxed, her fears draining from her, and she nestled into Laurent's embrace once again. She believed him when he said that he would protect her. But still, she was glad to be leaving New Orleans if only for a few days.

The trip upriver to Bellefontaine was uneventful but the sight of the Atalanta brought back the inevitible memories of Norah and her death at the hands of Lucas Slater. Catrina was not sorry when the boat reached Bellefontaine's landing and they disembarked.

It was after dark and the docks were illuminated by the flambeaux carried by slaves who conducted guests up the path with its double border of magnolia. Though their manner to all the guests was one of servitude and humility, toward Laurent the slaves seemed positively worshipful. Catrina, watching, could understand why. Though he was not friendly toward the slaves of Bellefontaine, Laurent at least spoke to them kindly, inquiring after the health of babies and grandmothers, offering his congratulations upon hearing of a birth, and his sympathies at the news of a death. After Radford's callousness toward his slaves, she found Laurent's attitude refreshing.

The mansion that was the centerpiece of Bellefontaine dated from the waning years of the eighteenth century. Built in the Creole style, it had a raised basement with a gallery above. Its hipped roof was supported on graceful cypress colonnettes which became square brick pillars at the basement level. In the flickering light of lanterns guests strolled in the gardens that surrounded the house and along the gallery. As Laurent and Catrina approached the mansion, all eyes seemed to turn toward them and the guests began drifting into the mansion as if eager to witness the confrontation between Laurent's grand, proud, Creole great-aunt and the mysterious honey-haired beauty who had been his companion of the past month.

With all the princely air of assurance that he seemed to exude so effortlessly, Laurent led Catrina into a long drawing room furnished in shades of yellow and white with twin fireplaces of white Carrara marble carved with cupids and flowers. Two immense gilded bronze chandeliers lit the room and porcelain vases filled with flowers from Bellefontaine's gardens filled the air with a potpourri of springtime perfume.

In a gilded armchair that looked more like a throne Thérèse de Chaffardé sat swathed in black silk glittering with jet. A black lace mantilla covered her silver-gray chignon and a fan of black lace sewn with spangles swayed slowly in one black lace gloved hand.

As Laurent entered the room and approached his great-aunt a hush fell and the guests parted and watched expectantly. Catrina fought to keep her hand from trembling on Laurent's arm and held her head erect, forcing her eyes to meet those of the old woman directed toward her.

Though slightly inclined to embonpoint, Thérèse de Chaffardé showed every indication that she had once been the beauty whose portrait hung over the mantel of the empty fireplace near which she sat. Her face was unlined, her complexion flawless and as creamy as a girl's, and her eyes were the same startling cerulean blue as her grand-nephew's. She lifted her face and returned Laurent's kiss on either cheek but those eyes, those searching eyes, never left Catrina's face.

Catrina felt as if she were being tested, as if the imperious old lady was trying to frighten her. She seemed to be waiting, watching, expecting Catrina to crumble before the force of her personality. But Perdita Jackson had taught her charge better than that. Lifting her chin, Catrina returned the woman's haughty look with one equally as proud.

''Tanta Thérèse," Laurent said, "I should like to present Mademoiselle Catrina Jackson, a dear friend of mine. Catrina, Madame Thérèse de Chaffardé.

Catrina took the hand the woman offered and found herself drawn down to receive the same salute as Laurent. Obediently she kissed the soft cheeks of her hostess but her eyes were wary as she regarded the older woman.

"You are from New Orleans, mademoiselle?"

"No, madame. I am from London and am shortly to return."

Laurent's fleeting look of distress was not lost on his great-aunt but she did not comment. "You are an Anglaise, then? You are very far from home."

"Indeed, madam," Catrina agreed, giving nothing away. "Very far."

Something flickered in Thérèse's blue eyes but whether it was annoyance or admiration that one so young should have the courage to stand up to her, Catrina could not tell.

"Laurent," Thérèse said, ending the battle of wills that locked her eyes with Catrina's, "take your lady upstairs so that she may refresh herself and change for the evening."

Laurent extended his arm to Catrina and they started from the room. The assembled guests glanced from Catrina to Thérèse and back again and it was apparent that they were wondering what the grand old dame was thinking.

They did not have to wonder for long. Laurent and Catrina had not gone ten feet when Thérèse called out to them.

"Mademoiselle?"

Catrina looked back at her. "Madame?"

Thérèse smiled, something she did rarely. "Welcome to Bellefontaine, mademoiselle."

Catrina did not reply but only smiled and inclined her head. But as Laurent led her from the room, she felt as if she had won a battle in which there were only two participants. It was not until they had mounted the mahogany-railed stairs that she began to tremble anew.

Laurent led her to a large, airy guest room and left her in Celeste's hands to be prepared for the ball marking Thérèse de Chaffardé's seventy-fifth birthday.

"I will be glad when we return to New Orleans," Celeste commented as she curled Catrina's upswept hair into a mass of ringlets.

"Why? Don't you like Bellefontaine?"

With exquisite care, the maid lowered the diamond collar into place. The teardrop diamond that was the collar's centerpiece fell to the valley of Catrina's breasts while the rest covered her collarbones and half her shoulders.

"It is haunted," she replied simply, adjusting the short, puffed sleeve of Catrina's gold faille gown.

"Haunted? There are no such things as ghosts, Celeste."

"Pardon, madame, but there are. And Bellefontaine has one. Jean Laffite!" Catrina laughed aloud. "Gracious! The pirate?"

Celeste's pretty face was gravely somber. "It is true, madame," she maintained stubbornly. "He searches for his treasure."

"His treasure? Why should he search at Bellefontaine? Barataria was his lair, was it not?"

"He searches for it here, madame, because he buried it here. Gold from the Britisha bribe to buy his help in the war in 1814."

Catrina stood and drew on her kid gloves. A fan of gold lace lay waiting on the dressing table and she took it up and toyed with its mother-of-pearl sticks as she pondered Celeste's statements. "But why should a pirate bury his gold on someone else's land?"

Celeste's black eyes sparkled. "He brought it to Bellefontaine so that Madame Thérèse could keep it safe for him."

"Madame Thérèse? In league with pirates?"

Celeste smiled at Catrina's amazement. "Forty years ago, Madame Thérèse was Jean Laffite's mistress. It is he for whom she wears mourning."

Catrina was nearly speechless with surprise. "But her husband"

"She had no husband. She is the younger sister of M'sieur de Valcour's maternal grandmother who was Giselle de Chaffardé before her marriage. M'sieur de Valcour owns Bellefontaine; he inherited it through his mother who was an only child. It is only Madame Thérèse's during her lifetime."

Catrina bit her lip thoughtfully. So that imperious old woman had once been a pirate's mistress. Strangely, she did not find it so difficult to believe. The young Thérèse de Chaffardé had been a ravishingly beautiful woman and there was more than a hint of defiance in those azure eyes. She was the kind of woman who would fly in the face of tradition and accepted morality to have what, or whom, she wanted.

There was a knock at the door and Celeste hurried to admit Laurent who looked devastatingly handsome in his black and white diamond-studded evening attire.

He looked at Catrina and his eyes spoke eloquently of his admiration, his desire, and his love for her. Taking her hand, he turned her slowly and watched as the diamonds at her throat caught the lamplight and held it, a glittering prisoner in their burning depths.

"Ravissante," he whispered. "Come, everyone will be waiting. What has kept you so long?"

"Celeste and I were gossiping," Catrina smiled.

"About Jean Laffite?"

She was startled. "How did you know?"

"It is Celeste's favorite romance, I think."

"Then it's not true?"

Laurent laughed, amused by the disappointment in her voice. "Oh, yes, it is true. Everyone knows but no one says a word to Thérèse's face."

Catrina sighed. "It is so romantic. And she never loved any other man?"

"Never. There was never any question of her taking another man to her bed. She lived here in seclusion. Her sister, my grandmother, came to live here after her husband died. My mother brought me here frequently to visit them."

"And she has only her memories to sustain her now," Catrina breathed.

"Yes," Laurent agreed. "Only her memories."

There was something in the tone of his voice that made Catrina look up. He was smiling, a sardonic, secretive smile, that told her there was more to the tale than she knew.

"What is it, Laurent?" she demanded. "There is more, isn't there?"

He nodded. "Yes, chérie, there is more, but only a few people know the rest."

"Tell me, please, Laurent. Is it romantic?"

He laughed. "I think it is." He smiled down into her pleading face. "I will tell you, chérie, but you must promise me you will tell no one. It would cause a scandal and Thérèse is not as strong as she looks."

"I promise," she assured him eagerly.

He drew her into a small alcove off the hundred-foot long upstairs corridor and they sat on a blue brocade sofa. Leaning close, Laurent spoke softly, checking often to be sure they were not being overheard.

"My grandmother, Giselle de Chaffardé, married a man who loved the sea. He owned many ships and could have spent his life at home and let others sail for him but he would not have it so. Often his voyages lasted six months to a year and more. During these times, my grandmother would come here, to Bellefontaine, to be with Théresè. It was during the height of Thérèse's grand passion for Laffite. One year, my grandfather returned from the sea after eight months and my grandmother placed in his arms their only child, a newborn baby girl, my mother."

Catrina sat patiently, awaiting the rest of the story. When he did not continue, she frowned then her face cleared and her eyes widened.

"Thérèse!" she hissed. "The baby belonged to Thérèse! Secluded here with no one to see them but the slaves there was no one to say which woman had borne the child!"

Laurent laughed and nodded but Catrina drew a sharp breath.

"But, Laurent! That means that Thérèse is your grandmother and not your great-aunt!"

He shrugged. "But no one can ever know that."

"But that is why she dotes on you and why you let her rule here at Bellefontaine."

"We are very close."

"You have her eyes."

"So did my mother."

"And Jean Laffite was your grandfather!"

He waggled a blond brow. "Does that strike terror into your heart, ma petite?"

Catrina giggled and they left the alcove to descend the stairs and join the other guests.

As they entered the cavernous dining room where supper would be served, all eyes turned to them and there were muffled gasps as many recognized the fabulous diamond collar that had been passed down in the Valcour family for three generations. It was traditionally the exclusive property of the ranking Madame de Valcour and its presence around Catrina's throat seemed a public announcement that Laurent intended her to be his wife.

But though many husband-hungry mesdemoiselles were brokenhearted and their fortunehunting mamans and papas infuriated, none was more astonished than the tall, slender, sandy-haired man in black who stood near Thérèse de Chaffardé.

Sumner Paine, Ashton St. James's factor, served the same function for Thérèse de Chaffardé and several of the other planters who were present at Bellefontaine. He had been in the gardens when Catrina had arrived and had been presented to her hostess. But now, as Laurent proudly led her into the room, he felt as Sarah, Ashton's elderly housekeeper, must have felt when she'd come upon Catrina at Oakwood. It was if a ghost had glided into the room. Holding his breath he watched as she approached.

Chapter 24

From his vantage point near the foot of the long table, Sumner Paine watched Catrina. She sat on Madame de Chaffardé's right while Laurent sat on his great-aunt's left. The three of them spoke mainly to one another and it was plain to one and all that the proud old woman very much approved of her grand-nephew's choice of partners.

"I never thought I'd see the day," a lady not far from Sumner said to her neighbor, "when Thérèse de Chaffardé welcomed an Anglaise to her table."

"She seems to like her," a young belle whispered, "surely she wouldn't approve of Laurent's marrying her!"

"She's a beauty," a gentleman murmured. "She has breeding. What more could Laurent desire in a wife?" "She is not one of us!" his wife hissed. "It was always understood that Laurent would marry into another of the old families. That is the way his maman would have wanted it!"

"Perhaps," a pearl-bedecked matron sneered, "it is not as a wife that he wants her." She smiled cattily when all conversation around her ceased. "After all, Thérèse understands about a man and his maitresse."

Many nodded, remembering the legends of Thérèse and her pirate lover.

"Do you think she is his maitresse?" a plump woman in sea green satin asked hopefully. She thought of her daughter, a plain, mousy girl who had yet to find a husband although she was twenty years old. "Laurent may not want to marry this girl after all."

The woman in pearls smiled slyly. "My maid has a sister who is a kitchen maid at Laurent's home on Prytania Street."

"And?" the woman in green prompted eagerly.

"Laurent brought the girl home from his last trip to St. Louis. Apparently he found her aboard the Atalanta."

"But is she his mistress?" a mustachioed man demanded.

She shrugged. "They have been known to close themselves in her suite together." She was pleased with the shocked gasps around her. "And" she paused for dramatic effect,"and Laurent brought Doctor Beaucaire to the house a week or so ago. The girl is enceinte."

Even Sumner Paine, who had been trying to appear as if he weren't listening, had to gape, his fork, dripping court bouillon, poised halfway to his mouth.

His eyes went to the beautiful girl at the opposite end of the table. She was smiling across the table at Laurent who gazed at her with such ardor that he felt almost as if he were spying through a keyhole, invading the privacy of a young newlywed couple.

Pregnant! Dear God, what would Flint St. James have to say about this! As he finished his meal, Sumner debated telling Flint or keeping the information to himself. Either way he stood to lose a client. If he did not tell Flint and Flint somehow learned that he had said nothing, he would certainly be replaced as Oakwood's factor. On the other hand, he could tell Flint and let him reclaim the woman who was rightfully his, but then he would almost certainly lose the incredibly lucrative position of factor of the far-flung de Valcour empire.

By the time he had finished his meal, there was no question in Sumner Paine's mind. Honor left him with no alternatives. Lady Catrina Carlysle, or Catrina Jackson as she was now calling herself, was the legal property of Ashton St. James. He would have no choice but to go to Natchez and apprise Ashton of her whereabouts.

In the eighty-foot salon that had been created by throwing open the doors that separated the largest drawing room in the house and the adjoining library, the guests danced, drank champagne, and gossiped. Although many matchmaking mothers had dragged unmarried daughters to modistes and bought exquisite new gowns for them in hopes of catching Laurent's eye, he danced with Catrina or not at all.

For Catrina, the night was exciting. She knew she was the chief topic of conversation but she didn't care. The guests seemed drawn exclusively from the aristocracy of the Vieux Carré and she has not heard a word of any of the Natchez planters. In addition, Laurent protected her from prying partners by sweeping her into his arms as the first notes of each dance were struck up and taking her off into a secluded corner in between.

It was not until late in the evening that Sumner Paine saw his opportunity and seized it.

Laurent had been called off into a corner to discuss some new process for refining sugar. He had left Catrina in Thérèse's care but she had wandered off to the refreshment table to sample some of the marvelous confections piled there.

''Madame?" Sumner said softly. Catrina started and whirled toward him. "I am sorry, madame, I did not mean to frighten you. I would merely like to request the honor of this dance. I am Sumner Paine." Catrina glanced uncertainly toward Laurent but he was engrossed in his conversation. Sumner went on: "I am Madame de Chaffardé's factor. That is, I am Bellefontaine's factor. I also am factor for Monsieur de Valcour's other business interests."

Catrina considered him. If Laurent trusted the man with his fortune, he could certainly be no cad. After several moments of thought, she smiled and extended her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Paine. I should like to dance with you."

The musicians struck up a waltz and Catrina and Sumner circled the room oblivious to the eyes that followed them; envious eyes belonging to gentlemen who had not been so watchful for an opportunity to dance with her; glaring eyes of the women who resented the beautiful interloper who threatened to snatch away the prize so many of them had schemed so long for.

"Those diamonds are quite breathtaking," Sumner commented, as though he had never seen them when in fact he possessed a complete inventory of the de Valcour collection of jewels.

"They are not mine," Catrina admitted. "They belong to Monsieur de Valcour. He has only lent them to me for this occasion."

"Rumor has you betrothed to Monsieur de Valcour, madame," he said, wondering what her reply would be.

She only smiled. "Rumor makes strange bedfellows, Mr. Paine."

He tried another tack. "Have you known Monsieur de Valcour long?"

"Long enough," she replied.

"You're very beautiful; I wonder at your family allowing you to travel from England unprotected."

She smiled, amused by his clumsy prying. "My family," she told him, "are no longer concerned. After some initial difficulties, I now find myself free to enjoy my life as I choose and with whom I choose."

"And you choose Laurent de Valcour?"

"Monsieur de Valcour is a friend."

"Nothing more?"

Catrina's topaz eyes blazed but she forced herself to remain calm. Wrenching herself out of his arms, she shot him a scathing look. "That, Mr. Paine, is most certainly none of your business!"

Laurent, seeing Catrina's look, hurried to her side. He looked from his factor to Catrina and back but neither of them explained the antagonism between them.

"Laurent," Catrina said at last, her expression and voice becoming softer, almost flirtatious, "may we go now? I'm most dreadfully tired."

"But of course, chérie. Good night, monsieur."

Without waiting for Sumner's reply, Laurent led Catrina out of the room.

"What did he do, chérie?" Laurent demanded as they mounted the stairs. "If the man insulted you . . ."

"No, no," she assured him. "He was only inquisitive. He was curious about me; I suppose most of your aunt's guests are. He asked if we were more than friends."

Laurent's blond brows drew together. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him it was none of his business."

Laurent laughed as they reached the top of the stairs and started down the seemingly endless upstairs hall whose broad, floral-carpeted length was lit by etched crystal lamps standing on elliptical tables placed along it on alternating sides. Catrina's room was near the far end, not far from the broad French doors that marked the entrance to Thérèse's suite.

Stopping before Catrina's door, Laurent kissed her cheek heedless of any of the other guests who chanced to see. "Dormez bien, ma chere," he murmured.

Drawing his golden head down, Catrina kissed him lightly on the lips. "Dormez bie, mon cher Laurent."

With another brief kiss they parted and Catrina entered her room and woke Celeste to help her undress.

She was dressed in a lace-trimmed nightgown of lilac batiste threaded with purple ribbon, sitting at her dressing table stroking her silver-backed brush through her hair when the knock came at the door. Drawing on the wrapper that matched her gown, she opened the door just enough to look out into the corridor.

Laurent stood there, wrapped in a robe-de-chambre of forest green brocade.

"Laurent!" she said, standing back as he entered the room. "Is something wrong?"

"No, chérie. It is only that I missed you."

Catrina giggled. "You missed me? Laurent, we said good night only twenty minutes ago."

His azure eyes ravished her and Catrina turned away, flushing.

"You should not be here," she whispered.

In the cheval glass across the room she saw them reflected. Herself, small and wary, and Laurent, tall and outrageously handsome, moving up behind her. His splendid head came down and he lifted aside the golden mass of her hair to press his mouth to the fragrant joining of her shoulder and throat.

The kiss sent tremors of pleasure shooting through her. She felt her knees weakening, her will draining away. Her body seemed to melt, burned by the heat of his desire.

"No, Laurent," she breathed, trembling, as he drew her robe from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. "Please, no."

But he did not listen. His hands spanned her waist then moved slowly upward. Catrina gasped as they molded themselves to her breasts. In the mirror she watched him caress her. She tried to will herself to pull away from him but she had no will of her own; she had only desire and her very blood seemed aflame with it.

His hands rose to her shoulders and tugged away her gown but Catrina caught it before it could fall. She yanked away from him and fled to the opposite side of the room.

"You must go, Laurent" she insisted, voice quavering. "You must. You know this is not right."

"You are frightened, chérie," he said softly, stalking her like a lithe, tawny beast of prey. "You have known only one lover and he hurt you badly. I will never hurt you I swear it!"

She held out a hand to ward him off but he seized her and carried her to the bed. She struggled furiously but he held her with infuriating ease. There was the sound of tearing cloth as one lacy shoulder strap gave way while he wrested her gown from her squirming body. Casting it aside he turned his attention to the sash of his robe and Catrina, taking advantage of his momentary lapse, thrust him away and started off the bed. With lightning speed, one whipcord arm snaked about her waist and he dragged her back.

He trapped her face fown on the soft, feather mattress and she groaned as she felt his naked body against her back. His moist, hot mouth ravished the tender nape of her neck and he burrowed a hand beneath her to caress her more intimately than he'd ever dared before.

"Damn you! Damn you!" Catrina moaned, feeling the bold, hot caress of his manhood against her bottom.

He meant to take her, there could be no doubting it, and he didn't give a particular damn if she were willing or not. The realization enraged her. In his way, he was no better than Lucas Slater himself. As he lifted her in his arms and turned her over, she glared up into pools of glittering blue desire.

"Catrina," he breathed, lowering his head to capture the tight, roseate crest of her breast between his lips.

Burying her fingers in the thick, silken gold of his hair, she pulled his head up so that his eyes met hers. His gaze was hazy, dark, and smoky, alight with the fire of his need. Hers was icy-cold and filled with fury. She spread her legs wide them wrapped them around him, drawing him hard against her.

"Take me, Laurent," she hissed. "Take me now and then never come near me again!"

His eyes widened. "Catrina"

The unshed tears that shimmered in her topaz eyes now spilled down her cheeks leaving dewy tracks on the flushed skin of her face. "I hate you for this!"

Laurent's desire waned in the face of her anger and he pushed away from her. "But I love you," he reasoned. "I need you."

"And you take what you need? What you want? Without a thought for what anyone else wants?" She saw the flicker of shame in his angel's face and pressed her point home. "You promised me that I need not fear you. You promised that you would not try to exact payment for your protection!"

"This is not payment!" he insisted. "I am a man! I have spent weeks in your company, needing you, wanting you!" He glanced scornfully at her founded belly. Without the voluminous skirts and perticoats of her gowns, her pregnancy was apparent. "Would your lover have done less?"

Catrina drew the counterpane over her nakedness, shielding her body from his scathing gaze. "I spent weeks aboard the ship with Flint. He wanted me as you say you do but he did not touch me. He held his desires in check."

"obviously without success."

She lifted her chin. "On the last night of our voyage, I went to him. I seduced him, Laurent."

A jealous rage boiled inside him. "No!" he snarled. "I don't believe it!"

"It's true. I went to him willingly as I would have gone to youhad I wished to."

His heart torn and filled with jealousy, Laurent wearily pulled on his robe. He left her on the bed and walked to the door. Before he opened it, he looked back to where she sat. Her beauty was painfully vivid with her honey hair spilling about her and her skin of alabastrine silk glowing in the lamplight.

"Why?" he asked simply, pitifully. "Why him and not me?"

Catrina shook her head. "You told me of your Tante Thérèse earlier. You said that she loved Laffite to the exclusion of all others, that there was never any question of her taking another man into her bed. I fear, Laurent, I greatly fear, that Flint Ashton is my Jean Laffite."

In that instant, Laurent saw the futility of his pursuit of Catrina. She could never be his. He could possess her body be means of his superior strength but he could never have her love. And by using force, he would gain only her everlasting hatred.

With a last, mournful sigh, he opened the door and disappeared from the room.

Leaving her bed, Catrina retrieved her nightdress from the floor where Laurent had thrown it. One strap was beyond repair but the other would suffice for the night. As she pulled it on, there was a soft tapping at the door. "God, no," she moaned. She went to the door but would not open it. "Laurent, please, go away. There is no help for it."

"I am not Laurent," a masculine voice replied.

Curious, Catrina opened the door a crack. The tall, inquisitive man she'd danced with stood there.

"Mr. Paine?" she asked.

His quick, all-encompassing glance swept over her noting the torn strap of her gown, the red-rims encircling her eyes, her puffed, kiss-bruised lips, her hair tumbling in a glorious tangle over her shoulders.

"I thought I heard someone cry out," he explained. "I thought you might need some help."

Catrina blushed, she hadn't realized their exchange had been so loud. "Thank you, Mr. Paine, but as you can see, I'm quite all right."

"Perhaps I should fetch Monsieur de Valcour and"

"No!" Catrina looked away, embarrassed by her outburst. "No," she repeated, more softly. "Your concern is appreciated but I do assure you I am perfectly fine."

"Very well," he relented, having no other choice. "Good night."

Catrina returned his "good night" and closed the door. He heard the sound of her key turning in ther lock as he walked away thoughtfully. All was obviously not well between the runaway future mistress of Oakwood and her Creole lover. If she were unhappy with Laurent, she might well be grateful to Sumner for his intervention. Yes, he would definitely have to inform Ashton St. James of his fiancée's whereaboutsand the sooner the better.

Calling for a servant, he ordered his trunks packed. It was only a few hours until dawn and he intended to hail the first passing steamboat when the sun rose over Bellefontaine.

It was late afternoon of the following day when Sumner Paine was ushered into the cream-walled drawing room of Oakwood. He found Ashton St. James seated on one of the twin red damask settees and beside him, her long-fingered hand lying possessively on his thigh, Olympia St. James in all her dusky beauty.

Shaking her off, Flint stood and offered his hand to his factor. He gestured toward the matching settee and offered Sumner refreshment, which the factor declined.

"I thought you expected to be in New Orleans for some weeks," Flint commented, shrugging off the pressure of Olympia's body against his own. When she persisted, he glared at her, rose, and moved to the opposite settee, the one Sumner already occupied.

"I did. But I came up to bring you some news I think you may find of interest."

"Catrina?" Flint asked eagerly, sitting forward. "My God, man, have you heard something about her? She seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth."

Sumner looked at Olympia uncertainly. When he hesitated, Flint prompted him anxiously.

''You know my cousin, Olympia St. James of Belvoir? You may speak in front of her. She knows I've been searching for her."

"Very well," Sumner acquiesced. "I saw Lady Catrina last nightdanced with herspoke with her."

"Where!"

Sumner started. The single word had been voiced in unison by both the weary, careworn man and the radiant, raven-haired woman. His reply was directed to Flint.

"At Bellefontaine. She was a guest at Thérèse de Chaffardé's birthday ball."

"Thérèse de Chaffardé? Bellefontaine?" Flint repeated, puzzled. "What the hell is an English lord's daughter doing in the bosom of Creole society?"

"She was there with Laurent de Valcour."

"De Valcour. I've heard of him. He owns a string of plantations."

Sumner nodded. "And two riverboats, and three houses in New Orleans, and a sugar refinery, and I could go on and on. He is Thérèse de Chaffardé's grand-nephew. He owns Bellefontaine."

"What does he have to do with Catrina?" Olympia demanded.

Sumner frowned. Flint wasn't going to like what he had to tell him. Still, he had to know.

"I didn't know anything definitely," he hedged, not daring to meet Flint's emerald eyes with his own. "My only information comes from rumors circulating in the Vieux Carré. When I spoke with Lady Catrina, she refused either to confirm or deny the rumors."

"Dammit, man! Tell me what you've heard!"

Sumner quailed at the irritated anxiety in Flint's tone. Clearing his throat nervously, he cursed himself for having come to Oakwood at all. The look on Flint's face reminded him uncomfortably of the fate of messengers bearing bad tidings in ancient days.

"She . . . that is, rumor has it that she . . . is Laurent de Valcour's mistress."

"No!" Flint's fist crashed down on the richly polished table between the settees. The shining tabletop was split cleanly in half. The decanter of Madeira sitting there tumbled to the carpet and a stain began to spread. "You're lying!"

"Flint, darling," Olympia soothed, plucking at his sleeve. "Mr. Paine said it was only a rumor. Surely he can explain further."

Flint sat down, muscles quivering with rage, emerald eyes glinting with fiery golden sparks. "Well?" he snarled at his shrinking informant. "Can you exlain further?"

A trickle of perspiration slid down Sumner's cheek and stained his stiff, white collar. "I was told," he continued, voice quivering, "that she was living in one of de Valcour's homes in New Orleans. A house on Prytania Street."

"Prytania Street!" Flint growled, already striding from the room, "we'll see about this!"

Sumner looked from Olympia to the door out which Flint had just stormed. He derived little comfort from the sweet smile she gave him.

"You must forgive Flint," she said huskily. "He has been nearly out of his head with worry. We all have been." She stood and extended her hand for the factor to kiss. "Good day, Mr. Paine. I do believe I shall take advantage of my cousin's absence to make a quiet departure."

Calmly, gracefully, she left the room. It wasn't until she reached the empty entrance hall that she lifted her skirts and ran out the door to the carriage that waited to take her back to Belvoir.

"Get me home in a hurry, Marcel," she told the coachman. "I've a message to send to my brother in New Orleans that cannot wait!"

The coach rolled away from Oakwood but Flint noticed neither Olympia's departure nor Sumner Paine's nervous shifting as Flint shouted orders for a horse to be brought from the stables.

It was only when Flint was about to stride out the door to the great snowy stallion that pranced in the graveled drive that Sumner summoned the courage to tell him the rest of what he'd heard.

"Flint," he said, "there is something else you should know."

Flint wheeled on him. "More gossip?"

"Well, yes," he admitted. "But it has the ring of truth about it." The beads of nervous sweat began to break out once more. "One of the women at Bellefontaine had a maid whose sister is a servant at de Valcour's Prytania Street house. She said that Laurent de Valcour brought a doctor to the house not long after Catrina arrived there. He was a Doctor Beaucaire; he has a large lucrative practice in the Vieux Carré."

"Catrina's sick?" Flint's voice was filled with worry.

"No, not sick, precisely . . ."

"Then what, precisely! Dammit, man, speak out!"

"She's pregnant."

Flint gasped and looked as if he'd been struck hard with a mallet. His face lost the color it had only recently regained and his eyes glinted with a look that Sumner could only describe as demented.

"Pregnant!" Flint growled. "Is it de Valcour's child? Has he had her all this time?"

"No, no!" Sumner assured him. "Supposedly he found her on the Atalanta while returning from St. Louis. He was there barely a month ago. I know because I made the arrangements for his trip."

"A month! Who had her before him? Dear God! How many men have kept her!" He ran a frustrated hand through his thick sable hair. "I've got to go! I've got to get her back before she can disappear again."

Leaving Sumner Paine to stare after him, Flint vaulted into the saddle and galloped off in the direction of Natchez.

Chapter 25

The sleek black carriage turned into the curving drive that led to Laurent de Valcour's beautiful Prytania Street hime. Inside, an uneasy silence reigned between the pale, strained woman in heliotrope silk and the haggard, penitent man dressed in fawn and brown.

"I will leave in the morning," Catrina murmured, breaking the silence that had lasted almost without exception during the whole of their journey from Bellefontaine. "It should be no more than a week before the Camellia sails. I'm sure I can find accommodations until then."

Closing his eyes, Laurent drew a painful breath. "Please, Catrina," he pleaded, "do not go. Forgive me. I swear that nothing of the kind will happen again."

"I do forgive you, Laurent," she assured him. "And I do understand. But I cannot be so sure that it will not happen again and I cannot say that I would realistically expect it not to."

She found his gloved hand and clasped it in her own. "Believe me when I say that it was not that I did not desire youI did. But only in the physical sense. Do you understand? Had I taken you into my bed, it would not have been out of love but only out of lust. You're an extraordinary man, Laurent. You deserve to be loved, not simply used."

"You love Flint Ashton," he sighed. "But how can you after what he has done?"

Catrina shook her head miserably. "That I cannot tell you; I don't know myself. It seems like a cruel joke somehow. But I will soon return to England and leave it all behind me."

Laurent said nothing. He knew there was no dissuading her. As the carriage drew up to the elegant entrance, he waved away the footman and swung Catrina down himself. As they entered the mansion, both weary from two days of socializing at Bellefontaine, neither noticed the plain closed carriage that stood just across the way.

In the foyer, Laurent doffed his silk hat and handed it and Catrina's purple silk shawl to Chrétien, the butler. Together they entered a small salon hung in deep rose moire. Grateful to be home, Catrina sank onto a white damask settee while Laurent poured a claret for her and brandy for himself.

As he drank, Laurent studied her. He knew she fully intended to leave for England with the Camellia. There was nothing he could do to stop her but he desperately wanted to spend the last days of her stay in New Orleans with her. Somehow he had to convince her that she should remain his guest until her departure.

"Catrina," he began softly, "you say you have forgiven me my folly at Bellefontaine. Won't you prove that you have forgiven me by staying here until the Camellia sails?"

Catrina swirled the wine in her glass. In truth, she wanted to stay. She liked the elegant mansion with its quiet gardens and she liked Celeste's company although she knew the girl would never leave Laurent's employ to follow her to England. But though she had indeed forgiven Laurent his attack on her at Bellefontaine, she couldn't believe that he would let her go without trying at least once more to seduce her.

She cast about for a way to refuse his request without hurting his feelings. She was saved the effort when a commotion began in the foyer outside the salon.

"What the" Laurent set aside his brandy and strode toward the door to investigate. Before he could reach them, however, the French doors flew open to reveal the cause of the commotion.

"I tried to keep him out, M'sieur," Chrétien insisted. "I tried but it was of no use!"

Ignoring the man, Flint Ashton strode into the room. Oblivious to Laurent and his outraged stutterings, Flint's emerald eyes bore into Catrina who had risen on shaky legs and now stared at him, pale and trembling. "Flint," she whispered.

Laurent gasped. This was Catrina's lover, he realized, the father of her child. The man she loved. A tidal wave of jealousy and hatred so intense it seemed to blind him tore through his tall, lithe body. Had there been a weapon within reach, he could easily have struck down the dark, dashingly handsome man in stark black.

"You have no right to intrude in my home, Monsieur," he ground out, his every word filled with indescribable loathing. "I must insist that you leave at once."

Not bothering to turn his searching stare from Catrina's fear-filled face, Flint snarled:

"This is between the lady and myself, de Valcour. I suggest you keep out of it."

A tremor of fury shook Laurent's body. "You've hurt her enough! I will not allow"

"I don't give a damn for your opinion, de Valcour," Flint growled, at last casting a withering look toward Laurent, "and I don't care what you think you will or will not allow. Not I told you to stay out of it and I meant it!"

"Catrina belongs to me now and I will keep her!" Laurent shouted.

An ugly, strangled sound wrenched its way out of Flint's throat. His swarthy face filled with white-hot rage, he advanced on Laurent with murderous intent.

"Flint, no!" Catrina screamed. Though the men were nearly of a height, Flint was by far the stronger of the two. With the added strength of his fury, he was likely to kill Laurent without a second thought.

Lifting her skirts, Catrina ran to place herself between the men. Bracing her little feet, she pushed at Flint. The contact of her palms against his black brocade waistcoat sent a current coursing through them both.

Forgetting Laurent, Flint looked down at her. She was gazing up at him, lips parted, eyes wide and glittering. The sight of her, her nearness, the sweetness of her scent, aroused all his desires and brought them surging to the surface with breathtaking intensity.

Burying his fingers in the shimmering golden mass of her hair, he pulled her head back and crushed her lips beneath his own. As his mouth ravished hers, plundering its depths and tasting its sweetness, brusing her tender lips, Catrina moaned and pressed herself against him, molding her small body to his far larger one, feeling the desire that he could not begin to control. Her arms slipped beneath his and wound about his back and her hand clutched at the soft blackcloth of his coat.

Closing his eyes, Laurent turned away. A painful constriction seemed to burn inside his chest and his heart pounded in his throat. In that single moment he had seen her passion, her uncontrollable, unquenchable love of the man who had ruined her. He knew she was finally, irretrievably lost to him.

Stunned by their own reactions, Catrina and Flint stepped apart. Flint fought against the driving urge to sweep her into his arms and carry her out to the carriage that waited in the drive. Catrina, flushed, breasts heaving, turned and trying desperatley to hide her ravaged emotions, damning herself for the ravening hunger his kiss had so effortlessly reawakened in her.

Determined to tell her the truth once and for all, Flint reached out to her. "Catrina," he breathed, his voice still low and husky, "I need to talk to you now, at once."

More of his lies, she thought miserably. More avowals of love to be followed by more heartbreak and betrayal.

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to talk to you. We've nothing to say to one another."

"Catrina"

"No!" she shrieked. "I don't want to talk to you! I don't want anything to do with you!" Lifting her chin, she turned back toward him. "I am Laurent's mistress and I intend to remain with him. Now, go away and leave me in peace!"

Whirling away from both men, she fled the room. Her footfalls thudded on the carpeted stairs and neither man spoke until they heard the slamming of her bedchamber door.

Flint's eyes glittered with a mixture of pain, anger, and disbelief. "Is that the truth, de Valcour?" he demanded, his voice cold and deadly calm.

Dejectedly, Laurent shook his head. "No," he answered dully, "it's not true. I've never made love to hershe's never allowed it." Filled with resentment, he turned on Flint. "Damn you! Why must you haunt her! Why must you pursue her! Wasn't it enough that you ruined her and betrayed her? Why don't you just go home to your wife and leave Catrina alone!''

"What the hell are you talking about?" Flint demanded, genuinely bewildered.

"You know what I'm talking about. Your wife! The woman you went to when you abandoned Catrina to her fiancé!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, de Valcour. I don't have a wife. How the hell could I? I'm Catrina's fiancé!"

Laurent's face turned stark white and the hand holding the crystal brandy snifter began to tremble. "You! No! C'est impossible! You are Flint Ashton, captain of the ship that brought Catrina to New Orleans!"

"I am also Ashton St. James, the man she was to marry when she arrived!"

"She has lied to me all along?"

Flint pitied the broken man who stood before him. Had the woman in question been any but Catrina, he would have sympathized with his loss.

"She has not lied, monsieur," he assured him. "She merely told you the truth as she knew it. Sit down and let me tell you the rest. Then, perhaps, you will go up and try to convince Catrina to hear me out."

An hour later Laurent de Valcour, bowed under the weight of his despondency, mounted the stairs and went to Catrina's gold and white bedchamber. Rapping on the door, he called out asking her to unlock the door and let him in.

The door opened a crack and she peered out to make sure he was alone. When she saw that he was, she threw herself into his arms.

"You have sent him away?" she asked, her voice hopeful and fearful at the same time.

Laurent gently disengaged her arms from about his neck and set her away from him. Knowing what he now knew, he could not bear to feel her soft body against his own.

"No," he answered sadly, "he has not gone. He waits downstairs. I told him I would come up and get you."

"Get me? What do you mean? You . . . you want me to go with him, Laurent?"

"No, of course I don't. But it is he you belong with."

"Never!" She backed away, eyes wild. "What lies has he told you, Laurent? What treachery is he planning now?"

"I cannot tell you, chérie. I have promised him I will say nothing of what he has told me. He needs to tell you himself. Go down. Talk to him."

"No! The two of you may sit and gossip like spinsters! You may become the closest of friends! I don't care! But I will not be drawn into his web again!"

"Catrina! You will listen to him! I have given my promise that I would convince you!"

"Your promise!" She laughed disdainfully. "Your promises, Laurent de Valcour, are as worthless as his!"

Laurent winced. "Catrina," he began again. "Only listen to him. If you wish to remain here, you will. Speaking to the man does not mean you have to leave with him."

"Why are you doing this to me, Laurent? Is this to punish me for rejecting you at Bellefontaine? Is this some perverse revenge of yours?"

"No, Catrina, you must not believe that."

She pressed a hand to her head. "I don't know what to believe anymore. All I hear are lies. Is there no one in this heathen land who can tell the truth?"

She saw the pleading in his cerulean eyes and knew he would beg and cajole until she was worn down to accquiescence. "Oh, very well," she hissed at last. "I will come down and listen to more of his lies if that is the only way I will ever be rid of the two of you. All I ask is a few moments to calm myself. Tell him I will be there in a few minutes."

"If you are not, he will come for you himself," Laurent warned.

Sinking onto the edge of her bed, Catrina rested her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. "Yes, I have no doubt that he will. But please, Laurent, allow me my last moments of peace."

"Five minutes," Laurent agreed. "He won't wait any longer than that."

Catrina nodded and he left her there, the picture of misery. But as soon as the door closed and his footsteps faded down the corridor, she rose and rushed across the room.

Peering out, she watched as he reached the stairs and descended disappearing into the depths of the stairwell. The moment his blond head was lost to her sight, Catrina left her room and fled up the corridor in the opposite direction.

At the far end of the hallway, a small, plain door led to the servants' stairs and these, in turn, led directly to the kitchens below. Not pausing to reconsider her actions, Catrina plunged down the dark stairwell.

She emerged from the stairs on a run, sweeping past the startled kitchen maids and the rotund French cook who prepared all of her meals. Without a glance at their astonished faces, she tore open the fan-lit back door and disappeared into the sprawling gardens that surrounded the mansion.

She knew she had but a few minutes to make good her escape and precious time would be wasted if she set off in an unfamiliar direction and lost her way. So she rounded the massive building and started up Prytania Street determined to run to the Camellia and seek refuge with Captain Merriman until he sailed for England.

A block from the mansion, she paused in the shade of an ancient live oak. Her lungs burned; the burden of her pregnancy was more taxing than she would have imagined. Leaning against the gnarled trunk of the enormous tree, with its draping of gray Spanish moss that waved on the night winds casting eerie shadows all around, she neither saw nor heard the hulking man who crept toward her in the darkness. She had no time to cry out as a pad of gauze was clamped over her nose and mouth. A steely arm closed with excruciating pressure about her waist. As the huge black coachman lifted her off her feet, Catrina breathed in the sickening ether and the world about her faded into blackness.

Inside Laurent's Prytania Street mansion, Flint waited impatiently. His eyes never left the gilt-bronze and black marble astronomical clock on the mantelpiece of the salon's fireplace. When at last the five minutes had passed, he rose and strode to the foot of the stairs.

"Catrina!" he roared, his deep, rich voice echoing through the vast mansion. "Catrina!"

There was no reply, no sound of a door being opened, no footfalls on the carpet of the hallway runner upstairs, nothing. Laurent came to the foot of the stairs to plead with Flint for patience but before he could speak Flint was away, taking the stairs two at a time, already dreadfully sure of what he would find and cursing himself for a fool.

"Which room is hers?" he bellowed down the stairwell.

"Surely you don't think . . ."

"Which room, de Valcour!"

Coming up the stairs, Laurent raised his arm and pointed. "Down there. Third door on the right."

As he pounded down the hallway, Flint was already certain of what he would find. He damned himself for having trusted herfor having allowed her to leave his sight once he'd found her.

Reaching the door, he didn't bother to knock but thrust it open with a force that sent it crashing against the gilded paneling of the wall. The room, not surprisingly, was empty as was the dressing room and bath chamber.

Emerging from his search of the suite, Flint pounded the wall in his frustration. "She's done it to me again!" he thundered to an incredulous Laurent. "Damn it all, man, she's done it again!"

Chapter 26

For catrina, the trip from New Orleans to Belvoir was like a scene from a nightmare viewed in a hazy looking glass. Repeated small doses of laudanum kept her docile while aboard the riverboat and Radford kept her isolated from the other passengers by spreading rumors that she was ill with a contagious disease. Since there had already been outbreaks of the dreaded yellow fever in New Orleans, no one cared to inquire too closely as to the lady's condition.

At the Natchez landing a closed carriage waited, the curtains lowered. Catrina, still groggy, was bundled inside and driven directly to Belvoir.

She woke at last in her room at Belvoir. The sunshine glowed behind the draperies which were drawn over the French windows. It was the room's only illumination. With a soft moan, Catrina stirred and sat up. The mosquito baire that draped the bed further obscured her vision but not so much that she could not see Radford seated in a wing chair near the fireplace. He was watching her.

Their eyes met and Radford stood. A carafe of water and a glass sat on the silver tray on one of the bedside tables and he poured her a drink and lifted back the lacy baire to hand it to her.

Catrina eyed the glass, and Radford, skeptically. When she made no move to take it from him, he scowled in exasperation.

"Take it, you little twit! It isn't drugged. Now that you're back there's no longer a need."

His assurance did little to convince her but she was dreadfully thirsty and the carafe was temptingly beaded with moisture from the cool, refreshing liquid inside. Taking the glass from him, she sipped the sweet water and signed as it slid down her throat.

"How did you find me?" she asked, handing him back the glass.

He sat on the edge of the bed. "Don't you remember anything of it?"

"I remember running but after that there are only fleeting, senseless scenes."

Radford nodded. "You were runningrunning away from Laurent de Valcour's mansion. And you were running away from Flint Ashton."

Catrina paled. "What has this to do with Flint? How did you know he was there?"

"Flint left here not long after you did. A few weeks later, he came to me and said he had happened into a man named Sumner Paine who told him he had seen you and knew where you were living."

"Flint told you I was living in Laurent's home in New Orleans?"

Radford heard the pain in her voice and drove the knife a little deeper. "Not exactlyour Flint is a bit more mercenary than that. He sold me the information. Got a good price, too, you should be flattered to know."

"He sold it to you?" Catrina whispered. Flint had sold her back to Radford; had sold her back into the loveless marriage he knew she loathed after she had gone so far to escape it.

"I sent him to de Valcour's to fetch you. I wouldn't pay him, you see, until you were safely back in my possesion."

Catrina felt a wave of giddiness sweep over her. There was little surprise at this revelation, only a deep-rooted ache that came with the knowledge that Flint had once again betrayed her. Were all men so treacherous? Perhaps even Laurent had been a part of their scheme. After all, he had allowed Sumner Paine to dance with her at Bellefontaine and had urged her to go with Flint after the two of them had been closeted together for an hour discussing her.

Pushing all those troubling thoughts to the back of her mind, she glared up at Radford. "You drugged me," she accused spitefully.

He shrugged. "Of course I did. I feared you might struggle and do some harm to yourself or your baby."

Catrina spread her hands over the living roundness of her belly which distended her ecru bastiste nightdress. "How did you know?" she whispered.

He snickered derisively. "Don't be ridiculous. You're how far along? Four months? Five? It must be five since the baby is obviously the result of your sordid little affair with Flint aboard the Golden Rose. In case you haven't looked lately, my love, you've a very pretty little stomach growing there."

Her face starkly white, Catrina edged away from him in the bed, her arms folded over herself protectively. He reached for her but she cringed away from his touch.

Radford muttered an oath under his breath. "Surely, Catrina, you don't think me so much of a monster that I would harm an unborn child?"

"You are a monster!" she shot back. "And nothing is too cruel for you to consider!"

"Catrina!" Radford was the picture of wounded innocence. "No harm whatsoever is going to befall you or your child. I will endeavor to see that the remainder of your pregnancy is as serene and pleasant as it can be. There will be a little excitement, of course, but we'll keep it to a minimum."

"What do you mean?" Catrina demanded suspiciously.

"Why, sweet, I'm speaking of our wedding, of course."

"Wedding!" Catrina was appalled. "Surely you can't still wish to marry me!''

"Oh, but I do. The ceremony is tomorrow afternoon."

"NO!" Catrina panicked as he rose and strode toward the door. "Radford! No!"

"Yes. By tomorrow evening, you will be Catrina St. James."

"It's too soon," she argued. "I need more time."

Hand on the doorknob, Radford shook his head. "I can't wait any longer, Catrina. That luscious little belly of yours is growing every dayI intend to be married to you while I can still get close enough to consummate our union." He grinned wickedly. "Now get some rest. You'll have a busy day tomorrow and an even busier night!"

Throughout the rest of that day and the morning of the next, Catrina moved in a dream. She was bathed, her hair swirled into an elaborate mass of ringlets that would support her chaplet of flowers and pearls. The laundress, who was also talented with a needle and thread, was pressed into service letting out the waist and bodice of Catrina's wedding gown.

In the cream and gold front parlor, great masses of roses had been arranged at one end of the long room and banks of roses flanked it and the tall, elaborate candelabra that would light the ceremony.

Radford surveyed it all with great satisfaction. At last he would be married to Catrina; she would be irrevocably bound to him. One day, when Lord Lynleigh died, Catrina would inherit her father's huge estates and Radford would become one of the wealthiest men in the country. But surprisingly, that pleasant prospect took second to the notion of Catrina's being his in every sense.

"At last," Olympia signed from behind her brother.

"Yes," he agreed, "at last. I have succeeded. When will you be able to say the same?"

Olympia's black eyes narrowed. "Don't taunt me, Rad. I've tried my best but he's simply obsessed with the girl. God help us if he finds out she's carrying his child!" She shuddered. "I dread to think what will happen when he learns she's married you. It's likely to drive him mad. You know that."

Radford shrugged. "Let it. If he's incompetent to handle his own business affairs he'll have to let someone else run them. You, perhaps."

"Sumner Paine, more likely."

"Even better." He saw the startled look on her face. "Think of it, Olympia. You wrap Flint's factor about your little finger and there's no end to the lengths he'll go to see that Oakwood and the St. James fleet profits."

"Damn it all, Radford, is that all you think of? Money? It's not Oakwood I want, nor the St. James fleet. It's Flint! It has always been Flint!"

"Good God, Olympia! I do believe you're actually in love!"

Flushing, Olympia dropped her lashes with uncharacteristic demureness. "And what if I am?"

"With Flint! You love him; Catrina loves him!" Radford made a noise of disgust. "Tell me the truth, Olympia. Is the man really good in bed?"

"I wouldn't know," Olympia snapped sullenly. "I've never been to bed with him!" She sneered. "You'll have to ask Catrina."

Radford's black eyes blazed but he held his anger in check. "Yes," he hissed back, "perhaps we will have to ask my little bride her opinion. She obviously has been to bed with him." His mouth twisted bitterly. "The proof of it is becoming more apparent by the day!"

Olympia's laugh was cruel. "Now, brother, who is the one who is actually in love?"

Two pairs of glittering black eyes met and flashed in anger and defiance.

"Ah, but there is a difference, dear Olympia," Radford answered spitefully. "I am marrying the woman I love. Can you say the same about the man you want?"

Olympia's hand curved into sharp-nailed talons and she longed to rake his handsome, smugly-smiling face into bloody shreds. But before she could do anything, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. Brandt announced that the minister who was to perform the marriage ceremony had arrived.

Radford greeted him and sent him into the parlor where Olympia offered him refreshments while her brother went upstairs to fetch his bride.

Radford opened Catrina's bedroom door and found her in the center of a bevy of maids who were busying themselves seeing that she was perfect in every detail.

Her gown, of gros de Naples and Honiton lace, was worn over a wide, steel-cage crinoline that swayed and rocked with her every movement. Even with her waist thickened by her pregnancy, the enormity of her skirt's fifteen-foot circumference made her seem delicate and fragile.

Her eyes were wide and her face as pale as the snowy lace of her veil when Radford entered the room.

With a gesture he sent the maids out and the doors were closed behind him.

His onyx eyes swept over Catrina. He felt almost giddy at the thought that within an hour she would belong to him and only him. Tonight he would possess her. Tonight he would know the delights to be found within her silken body. Unbidden, his eyes went to the massive four poster and he pictured them there, making love. It was as if he could already taste her lips and hear the soft, urgent murmurings breathed hotly into his ear. A tremor swept through him and his darkly smoldering gaze returned to the trembling woman standing in a shaft of sunshine that formed a glowing aura about her.

It had not been difficult to follow Radford's thoughts. Catrina knew what he was thinking as he looked to the bed and then at her with such passion in his eyes. She bit her lip and looked away when he approached her.

"Radford," she murmured, as he came as close as her crinoline would allow, "before we go downstairs, promise me something?"

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

She gazed at him appealingly. "My baby" An angry flush rose in his swarthy cheeks and she continued hurriedly. "My baby, Radford. Say that you will not harm him after he is born."

"You seem very sure, my dear, that it is Flint's son you carry."

Seeing the very real fear in her wide, golden eyes, the love he felt for her softened his angry, jealous heart. "Very well. I promise you that no harm will come to your child. If the baby is a girl, I will raise her as if she were my own. She need never know that I am not her father. If the baby proves to be a boy" He frowned. "You understand, Catrina, that I cannot make another man's son my heir. If you bear a boy child, I will give him one of your father's lesser English estates when he comes of age. But that is all."

Catrina knew that for Radford, the offer was extremely generous. She nodded. "Thank you. It's more than I'd hoped for."

Radford took her face in his hands and his looks was so forlorn and wistful that he seemed another person entirely.

"Can't you love me, Catrina?" he pleaded. "Even a little?"

Catrina knew that this was an impossible request but she feared his anger if she scorned him. He held her baby's life in his hands. For her baby's sake, she must stay in her husband's good graces.

"I will try, Radford," she promised solemnly. "I honestly will try."

Pushing the swaying crinoline backward, he took her into his arms and kissed her. His lips were bruising, searing, and Catrina forced herself to respond in kind.

When at last he released her, Radford was the one to tremble. "God, Catrina," he breathed huskily. "If I don't take you downstairs now"

Shaking his head in amazement, he offered her his arm. Catrina blinked back her tears, took up the bouquet of rosebuds, and followed him downstairs. She had at last given up hope of escaping the weddingthere was nowhere else to run.

Not many miles away, Flint handed the reins of his stallion to a groom. He looked up at the mansion that was the jewel of Oakwood plantation but found little to cheer him. Usually his homecomings were joyous things; he loved his home and was proud of the accomplishments it represented. But not today. Today it lay empty and lonely in the afternoon sunshine. Today its long corridors and lofty rooms seemed cold and dead.

Entering the mansion, he tore off his coat and flung it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Climbing the spiraling staircase, he went to his oak paneled study and sat down behind the massive, heavily carved desk that had been made for him from timbers of the Magnolia, the first of his fleet of ships.

Leaning back in his chair, he stared at the opposite wall where a painting of ships tossed on gray, stormy seas hung in a heavy, gilded frame. He was weary, disillusioned. He had finally lost hope of Catrina's ever being his.

His mind returned to the night of Catrina's disappearance from the house on Prytania Street. All the night and the next day he and Laurent de Valvour had searched for her. Once again she seemed to have vanished with the skill of a master magician.

Finally exhausted, the two men had gone to Laurent's home in the Vieux Carré. There, over brandy, Laurent had told him of Catrina's plans to sail back to England. He had told him of Catrina's trip to the wharves and of her arrangements to sail on the Camellia with Captain Merriman.

After much thought, Flint had summoned one of Laurent's servants and dispatched him to the Camellia with a message to Captain Merriman instructing him to take Catrina to England as she wished and see her safely to whatever destination she chose. He was freeing her to find happiness she obviously believed she could not find with him.

Now, taking up paper and pen, Flint wrote out two documents. The first absolved Lord Lynleigh of any and all debts owed to Ashton St. James. The second freed Catrina from the marriage contract that she found so loathsome. She could choose for herselffind the man who could make her happy. Later, when she'd returned to her homeland, he would write to her and ask her to keep him informed about their child. He would tell her that he considered the child his heir and would make all the necessary legal arrangements to insure that all would be in order if anything happened to him. Signing the two documents, he folded them and addressed them to Sumner Paine at his office in New Orleans.

He was about to reach for the bell-pull when there was a knock on the door.

"Come!" he called.

Sarah, the ancient slave in whose experienced hands Flint left the running of his house, entered the study.

"I heard you was back, master," she said. She frowned and the wrinkles in her small face turned into deep furrows. "You look fit to bury! I'd best get you some food and a bath."

"No, Sarah," Flint contradicted as the old woman turned to leave. "I'm not hungry and I bathed on the boat from New Orleans." He picked up the two documents. "Have someone take these into town and post them for me. I'm going to stay in here for a while. See that I'm not disturbed."

Nodding, Sarah left the room. She'd known Flint since his birth, had, in fact, been present at it. She'd seen him grow from an infant to a child, from a child to a boy, and from a boy to a man. But she had never seem him look so defeated in his life.

Descending the spiraling stairs, she sent the letters off with a messenger. Entering the ivory and crimson parlor to check on two young maids cleaning there, she looked up at Catrina's portrait.

"That woman's gonna kill him," she muttered, ignoring the curious looks of the maids. "Lovin' her'll have him in his grave afore his time by the looks of things."

Still grumbling to herself, she left the parlor and went about her duties but the worried frown never left her wizened face.

Leaving his study, Flint went to his room and changed out of the slate-colored suit he'd put on at his apartment in the Pontalba before leaving New Orleans. Disinterestedly he pulled on a suit of a dove gray and tied a gray silk cravat around his snowy white collar. He wound his watch and looped it across his silver-gray brocade vest. A small, sad smile touched his mouth as he remembered the locket with Catrina's picture that used to hang on the heavy gold watch chain. He'd lost it somewhereduring the brawl in the saloon on Silver Street when he'd been wounded, he supposed.

He remembered little of the night. After discovering that Catrina had come to Oakwood and then disappeared before he could reach her, he had wanted only to get away from the house and the lingering scent of hyacinths that reminded him of her. He'd gone to the saloon on Silver Street intending to get gloriously drunk. He had ended up being carted to Belvoir. He couldn't even remember now what the brawl was about. He must have lost the locket there and he was just as glad he had. Having it now would only have reminded him of her. He would have to remember to have the portrait removed from the downstairs parlor.

Leaving his room, he returned to his study. The portraithe would have to send word to Radford to remove the copy at Belvoir as well. It had been a gracious gesture on his cousin's part. He'd been pleased when Radford had suggested having an artist copy it. Had he indeed married Catrina, she would have been flattered to find her likeness so prominently displayed in the home of her new family.

But that would never be now and he couldn't bear the thought of seeing her every time he visited Radford and Olympia.

Running his long fingers through his sable hair, Flint leaned his elbows on his desk. Life had to go onhe had a plantation to run. He was responsible for the lives and well-being of hundreds of slaves, he had a fleet of ships to see to, he had myriad other interests reports of which Sumner Paine dispatched to him regularly. He could not shut himself away, a recluse at twenty-nine, and mourn for a woman who did not, and never would, love him.

But for the present, that's precisely what he wished to do.

He scowled when the knock came at the study door.

"Come!" he barked, ready to jump down the throat of whoever had had the gall to disobey his order that he not be disturbed.

Sarah stuck her head around the door. "There's somebody to see you, Mister Flint."

"I told you I wasn't to be disturbed, Sarah," Flint replied, gentling his tone out of affection and respect for the old woman who had always been a second mother to him. "Tell them to go away."

Obediently Sarah left and Flint heard her tiny feet thumping slowly down the stairs. But it was only moments later that another pair of feet could be heard ascending the stairs and from the quickness of the step, he knew it wasn't Sarah.

He rose from behind his desk ready and willing to eject his rude caller bodily. But when the door opened and his unwelcome visitor appeared, his emerald eyes widened in surprise and his mouth dropped open.

Stately in lavender foulard trimmed with jet, Perdita Jackson sailed into the room. Her expression was grim and her cornflower-blue eyes bore accusingly into Flint as she stormed up to his desk.

Pulling off her glove, she delved into her skirt pocket and pulled out the worn, much-read letter Catrina brought to Oakwood only to lose in her flight. Sumner Paine had found it, posted it, and Perdita had embarked for America immediately upon receiving it.

She threw the letter down onto Flint's desk and shot him a scathing glare.

''Very well, then. Mr. Ashton St. James," she snapped, "what is the meaning of this!"

Chapter 27

While perdita pulled off her bonnet and sat down on the opposite side of the wide desk, Flint drew the bedraggled letter from its envelope and read it. What he saw there, a detailed, if whitewashed, account of Catrina's arrival in New Orleans, Flint's leaving her at the hotel, and Radford's taking her to Natchez and Belvior, stunned him.

He looked at Perdita. "There is no doubt in your mind that this is Catrina's hand?"

She shook her head. "None."

"Dear God." The letter shook in his hands and veins stood out on his forehead as his rage boiled up inside him. Suddenly, like black stormclouds parting to reveal a shimmering sun, all the pieces fell into place. The portrait for Belvoir, Catrina's sudden appearance at Oakwood, the night at Belvoir when he thought he'd seen and made love to her. He trembled with the force of his fury. It had been Catrina that night! She had come to himloved him! All the while he lay convalescing at Belvoir she had been there, under the same roof! Heaven only knew what lies Radford had told her about him to keep her fromto make her hate him so.

He remembered Laurent de Valcour's telling him that Catrina believed him married to some woman named Suzanne. Another of Radford's lies!

A sudden realization struck him. Olympia had been at Oakwood when Sumner Paine had told him of Laurent de Valcour! Radford must have gone to New Orleans to fetch her back to Belvoir! That was how she disappeared so quickly! He must have been waiting outside and when she fled the house . . .

He rose from behind the desk. "Belvoir!" he muttered. "She's at Belvoir!"

Perdita understood nothing of his outrage and none of his mutterings. She was left to stare after him in bewilderment as he pounded out of the office and down the stairs shouting for a horse to be saddled and brought to him.

Riding the Arabian stallion that was the pride of Oakwood's stables, Flint thundered through the forest that lay between his plantation and his counsin's. His heart and mind were filled with only one thoughtthe pleasure he would derive from killing Radford St. James. As he emerged from the forest and closed on the gleaming white mansion, the slaves toiling near the stables stopped to watch and wondered. Mister Flint was a favorite among themmany of them had said more than once if they had to be owned by any St. James, they'd rather it was Flint than Radford.

Now, however, there was no trace of his usual easy-going good humor. His face was livid with his fury. As he hauled on the reins and leapt from the prancing, panting animal, they wondered aloud what could have possessed him to barge into Belvoir in such a state on the master's wedding day.

Thrusting aside any who tried to stop him, Flint flung open the door and stormed through the mansion heading for the room where the murmuring of voices could be heard.

In the rose-decked parlor, Catrina held out a trembling hand to receive Radford's ring. She felt the cold bit of the gold against her finger but the diamond-studded band fell clattering to the floor as the French doors crashed against the walls with deafening force.

Whirling about, both Radford and Catrina turned deathly pale. Olympia gave a frightened little scream and backed toward the door that joined the parlor with the next room and Mrs. Brandt, the only other guest, cowered in her wing chair.

The sight of Catrina there in her wedding gown, so pale and frightened, stunned Flint for a moment. But when his eyes went to his cousin standing next to her all his rage came swirling back over him in a white-hot flood that sent him striding down the aisle with murder glinting in his emerald eyes.

As she had the night at Laurent's, Catrina placed herself between Flint and his intended victim.

"Flint, no," she begged. "This is the way it must be! I must marry Radford. Legally, I belong to him, just as you belong to your wife." Tears stung her eyes. "Go back to her, Flint. Forget me."

Beneath her hands which lay against Flint's waistcoat, she could feel the quivering of his body, the violence that he could barely suppress, that lay seething just beneath the surface. For a moment it seemed as if she might have convinced him, but she was mistaken.

His arm shot out and his big hand closed with vicelike force around Radford's throat. Radford's eyes bulged and he gasped for air but not even Catrina's frantic clawing at Flint's sleeve could loosen his merciless grip.

"Tell her, you bastard," Flint ground out between gritted teeth. "Tell her who I am or by God I'll kill you now!"

Catrina looked from Flint to Radford and back. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "I know who you are!"

Ignoring her, Flint sent Radford sprawling across the floor. "Tell her!"

Radford lay on the carpet, hand massaging his bruised throat. One look at his cousin's face told him that he dared not disobey. His black eyes met Catrina's topaz ones.

"He's Ashton St. James. My cousin. Your fiancé."

"No." Catrina thought she must have heard him incorrectly. "What are you saying, Radford? He's Flint Ashton! Have you both taken leave of your senses?"

Radford shook his head. "It's true. He only posed as Flint Ashton to see you safely from England. He feared mutiny if his identity were known."

Catrina turned a wild gaze toward Olympia. "Is this true?" she demanded.

"It's true," Olympia confirmed. "Radford was going to marry you for your inheritance."

"But what of your wife and all your women?" she flung at Flint.

"Lies," he said simply. He held out a hand to her. "Come, Catrina, I'm taking you home to Oakwood."

She recoiled from his hand as though it were a serpent, coiled and ready to strike. Backing away from them all, she shook her head slowly side to side.

"Liesall lies," she whispered. "I don't know what's real and what's not. I don't know what's true and what's not." She reached the door and paused in it staring at them all grouped near the altar. "Liars!" she screamed. ''Liars!"

Lifting her swaying skirt, she whirled and fled out the front door and across the broad, manicured lawn of Belvoir. She ran aimlessly, her vision blurred by the hot, salt tears of her anger and disbelief. Before she heard his footsteps, Flint had overtaken her. Seizing her arm, he swung her toward him and held her fast.

"Catrina!" he shouted. "Listen to me!"

She struggled to free herself from his loathsome hold. "Let me go, damn you!" she shrieked. "I hate you! I hate you all!"

"Stop it!" He shook her but she was hysterical, crying and laughing at the same time. The wild, keening sound seemed to pierce Flint's heart and though it pained him to do it, he lifted a hand and struck her sharply across the face.

Catrina gasped and stared at him, wild-eyed, poised between fleeing and fainting. But when Flint started to pull her toward the back of the mansion where his horse waited she braced her feet and refused to go.

"I'm taking you to Oakwood, Catrina," he snarled. "You belong with me."

"Never! I'll never belong with you! I despise you and all your vicious, lying family!"

Jerking her to him, he spread a big hand over her belly where even the seamstress's skillful work on the deep, pointed bodice could not disguise Catrina's pregnancy.

"This is a member of my vicious, lying family, madam, and by God I'll take him to Oakwood. You, of necessity, must come along and you will if I have to truss you like a Christmas goose!"

"You wouldn't!"

"Are you daring me, Catrina?"

She said nothing and he pulled her closer intending to carry her to his waiting horse. For a moment her crinoline defeated him but then, with a low snarl of frustration, he seized the skirt of her gown and tore it away from the bodice leaving a rent of several inches. Thrusting a hand inside, he ripped open the tapes that fastened the steel cage. It dropped to the ground around her feet, collapsing in concentric circles with a loud metallic clang.

Her skirt deflated, he swept her easily into his arms. Though she struggled and writhed, cursing him and trying to scratch and bite him, he carried her across the lawn and through the garden and mounted his horse as though she were no more than a feather in his arms.

With her on the saddle before him, braced by the iron muscles of his long thighs, Flint headed his horse back into the forest galloping swiftly and smoothly toward Oakwood.

Inside the tight circle of his arms. Catrina fumed. Once more she was being given no say in her future. Once more a man had decided the course her life was to take.

She loved Flintshe should have been deliriously happy that he had claimed her before she'd been married to Radford. But she couldn't forgive him all the lies he had told her no matter how noble his reasons had been.

"I won't stay with you," she grumbled. "I'll run away again! See if I don't!"

Flint scowled. Legally, she was free to do as she wished. The paper he'd posted to Sumner Paine that afternoon had given her the right to leave him whenever she chose. But he had another, stronger claim on her now and though he had previously thought it unimportant he realized now that it mattered very much.

"You won't leave Oakwood with my child inside you," he promised ominously.

Catrina turned in the saddle and gave him a slow, superior smile. "And what makes you so sure it's your child, Flint? After all, Radford claimed me the day after you and I made love. The day after, Flint. Within forty-eight hours of my leaving your bed. I was at Belvoir with the man I thought was my fiance."

A crimson flush suffused Flint's swarthy face and a vein began to throb in his forehead. Reining in his horse, he lowered Catrina to the ground then dismounted and tied the reins to a tree.

"Did you sleep with Radford?" he demanded.

"Really, Flint," Catrina chided teasingly, "a lady does not speak of such things and a gentleman does not ask."

He seized her upper arms and shook her. "Damn you! Did you sleep with him!" She only smiled and his fury blazed. "Damn you for this, Catrina!" he hissed.

"How does it feel?" she taunted. "How do you like having images of lovers in your mind? Are you picturing it, Flint? Are you picturing Radford and me in that damned four poster at Belvoir?" She could see by the look on his face that he was. "Good. Now you know how I've felt all these months picturing you with other women. First your wife, then the doxies on Silver Street, then Olympia."

"I have no wife!" he shot back. "You cannot blame me for Radford's lies. And as for Silver Street and Olympia, I've never"

"Liar!" Catrina screamed. "Liar! I saw you with Olympia! I saw the two of you naked in your bed at Belvoir!"

"Impossible!"

"God, how can you lie so easily? How can you deny what I saw with my own eyes!"

"I don't know what you thought you saw, Catrina, but your arguments and accusations are not going to dissuade me from my original question. Could your child belong to my cousin?"

Lifting her chin haughtily, Catrina turned her back and started to walk away into the forest. With an angry oath, Flint brought his booted foot down on the trailing skirt of her gown. Like a ship anchored at sea, Catrina stopped then Flint grabbed the lace-frothed skirt and yanked her back to him.

Tripping on the bedraggled skirt, Catrina fell to the soft, leaf-strewn ground with a thud. Flint dropped to his knees beside her and stayed her efforts to rise.

Catrina recognized the gold-and-green glitter in his eyes.

"No!" she cried, "You can't!"

He arched a sable brow. "Can't I? You continually challenge me, my love."

She cried out as he yanked open her bodice and buried his face in the soft, scented valley between her breasts. Her little fists flailed at his shoulders and back but he only chuckled wickedly and trailed moist, teasing kisses to the creast of one breast which tightened beneath his tongue to his satisfaction and Catrina's dismay.

"No, no," she moaned, more to her treacherous senses than to him. How was it he was able to master her so easily? How could he call forth all the passion sleeping within her with the mere touch of his mouth on her skin?

She wanted to fight against the liquid fire that was burning inside her but she was helpless against the fiery onslaught of her own desires. Succumbing to the inevitable, she arched her back, offering herself to him shamelessly. His face appeared above hers, his eyes glowing with emerald lights.

"Admit it, Catrina," he breathed. "Admit the child is mine!"

So that was his game! She writhed furiously beneath him, outragerd by his latest treachery. That he would use his power over her senses against her!

"I admit nothing!" she spat. "I'll tell you nothing!"

"You'll tell me the truth!"

"Never! You'll always wonder! You'll go to your grave wondering!"

Catrina gasped as she felt his hands thrusting up her skirt and moving roughly over her thighs. She stiffened as he tore away her delicate lace pantalettes and threw them aside like the rags they now were. "You'll tell me the truth, damn you, before I'm through with you!"

Knowing that her already ravaged senses were no match for him, she twisted and squirmed but Flint held her fast. He pinioned her flailing hands beneath her, holding both her wrists with one of his hands. With the other, he worked at the fastenings of his clothes while he watched her, gauging the desire that smoldered in her golden eyes.

There merest brush of his hand on her satiny inner thigh brought a soft, unrestrainable groan from her parted lips. The touch of his mouth on her breasts made her whimper and writhe. She felt his hardness against her as he rubbed it along the hot, honeyed cleft between her legs and against her will her entire body arched pleading for his possession. But he refused to end her torment.

She freed one hand and burrowed it between their bodies intent on capturing him, guiding him, forcing him to take her. But his iron grasp closed on her wrist once and more and returned it to its place of imprisonment behind her back.

"Flint, please," she moaned. "Please, now!"

At last he poised himself against her and entered her slowly, teasingly, letting the exquisite sensation of his entry sweep through her. A shudder of pure delight tore through Catrina and she ground her hips against him.

But he snatched himself from her and resumed his torturous caress. "Tell me!" he hissed into her ear. "Whose child do you carry!" Catrina rocked her head from side to side nearly weeping in her frustration. A glistening drop of blood appeared on the tender flesh of her lower lip where one pearly tooth had pierced it.

Once more Flint entered her and she wept with the glory of his possession. But just as quickly he was gone and the ache inside her grew to unbearable proportions.

"Whose it is, Catrina! Tell me now!"

"No" she panted. "I won't tell you!"

For a third time he took her and thrust savagely into her once, twice, thrice while she sobbed helplessly and sank her teeth into the shoulder of his jacket.

When he withdrew from her, an agonized scream wrenched itself from her throat. She was maddened, her breath came in short, painful gasps.

"Tell me, you little bitch! Whose child is inside you!"

"Yours!" she cried, unable to bear any more of the throbbing pain inside her. "There was only youonly you!"

With a low snarl of triumph, Flint's hard hands closed on her silken hips and he thrust himself into her and ravished her there in the dappled sunshine on the forest floor.

Chapter 28

Sitting beneath a moss-hung cedar, forearms resting on his drawn-up knees, Flint listened to Catrina's muffled sobs. She lay curled on her side not far away and though her heart-wrenching weeping stirred his sympathies, he felt no remorse over what he'd done to her. He'd had to know the truth about the child she carried and he knew of no other way that was so certain to force the truth from her.

Mopping the salty perspiration from his brow with one linen sleeve, he looked toward the west where the sun hung low in the trees. Rising, he went to Catrina.

"It's time we were going," he said softly.

She recoiled from his touch. "I don't want to go with you! I hate you!"

"So you've said before. Nonetheless, I am taking my son home, madam; you will perforce have to accompany him."

He took her arm but she shook him off and scrambled to her feet. Lifting the skirts that trailed ridiculously without the support of the crinoline, she started off in the direction of Oakwood.

After untying his horse, Flint caught up with her.

"Catrina, don't be childish. It's nearly three miles to Oakwood. You can't walk that far."

"Yes, I can!" she snapped. "I don't want you or your horse! Just leave me alone!"

Shrugging, Flint swung into the saddle and walked his horse behind her. With her skirts dragging behind her, her tousled curls bedecked with leaves and hanging down her back, and her proud little dirt-smudged nose haughtily in the air, she made an adorable picture. Were it not for the fact that she was obviously pregnant, she would have seemed a a michievous urchin dressed in her mother's clothes.

"I won't marry you!" she flung over her shoulder.

"I didn't say you had to," Flint replied easily. I'm not adverse to keeping you as my mistress."

Catrina whirled toward him, eyes blazing, but her mind went back to the ease with which he had reduced her to a state of quivering desire and she flushed and resumed her trek.

"I don't love you!" she spat after they had gone another quarter mile.

"Yes, you do," he laughed. Catrina gnashed her teeth. It was true and they both knew it.

She trudged onward with the tall, handsome man and the magnificent white horse walking sedately behind her. After some minutes' silence, she glared at him over her shoulder.

''I despise you! When you touch me it sickens me!"

Flint lifted an eyebrow. "Does it, indeed? Odd, no more than a half hour ago, I had the distinct impression that you like it very much!"

Indignation blazed in Catrina's eyes. "You're no gentleman, Flint Ashton!"

Flint's deep, rich laughter filled the forest around them. Blushing furiously, Catrina stormed on but in her anger she didn't see the thick tree root in her path.

Barely reacting in time, she put out her hands to break her fall. In an instant, Flint was at her side, kneeling beside her, cradling her in his arms.

"Are you hurt, darling?" he asked anxiously.

"Do you mean is your son hurt?" she snapped sarcastically.

His green eyes narrowed. "I've had enough of your childishness, Catrina. Come on, I'd like to be home before nightfall."

Oblivious to her protests, he lifted her onto the horse and swung up behind her. Kicking the Arabian into a gallop, they loped through the forest toward Oakwood.

"I don't want to live with you, Flint," Catrina said softly, enjoying, in spite of herself, the lean strength of his body behind her in the saddle. "I won't sleep with you. Please don't . . ." She flushed, thinking of what had just passed between them in the forest. "Please don't force me to want you."

Flint compressed his lips to squelch the smile he knew would infuriate her. "If you'd rather, 'Trina, I'll have your things taken to one of the garconniéres. They are self-contained; you may ive there until you're ready to come to terms with your future."

Her future! Catrina bridled. He meant the future he had planned for her! She bit back the sharp retort that sprang to her lips. At least he was willing to allow her to live separately from him. If she put up too much of a fight, he might even deny her that privilege.

"Thank you," she snapped.

"Not at all. I brought your belongings with me from Laurent de Valcour's. I'll send someone to Belvoir tomorrow for the rest."

The rode up to Oakwood whose gleaming white walls were painted mauve by the light of the setting sun. Lowering Catrina to the ground, Flint swung himself down and tossed the reins to a groom.

"The garconniére?" she demanded.

"In the morning, sweet." He saw her skeptical look and laughed. 'I've nothing untoward planned tonight, Lady Cat, so sheathe your claws. I won't try to seduce you, I promise. But there's someone you may wish to spend the evening talking with." Catrina looked up at him curiously but he did nothing to enlighten her. Leading her into the mansion, he beckoned to a passing maid.

"Where is our guest?"

"Blue parlor, sir," came the reply, but the girl's large, sepia-colored eyes were busily perusing Catrina.

Ingoring the maid's curiosity, Flint opened one of the double doors of the blue parlor and gestured for Catrina to enter.

At first she saw nothing but an empty room. Then there was a movement in a wing chair facing the other direction. A gray head appeared then the rest of the woman. She turned about and Catrina's mouth fell open in amazement.

"Jackson!" she shrieked. Tears stung her eyes and she hauled up her tattered skirt and tore across the room to fling herself into her beloved governess's embrace. "Oh, Jackson, Jackson!" she wept, her head cradled on the woman's bosom as it had so often been during her childhood.

Enfolding Catrina in her arms, Perdita rocked her gently. "Ah, 'Trina," she cooed. "'Trina, my little sweet. How I've missed you." She held her at arms' length and her eyes were inevitably drawn to the roundness that betrayed Catrina's condition. "You're going to have a baby!'' she whispered.

Catrina nodded. "In four months."

"Four months! Why, you must have conceived the moment you arrived in New Orleans!"

Catrina's cheeks pinkened. "Before I arrived, Jackson."

"Before you . . .?" Perdita's eyebrows shot up and she glanced toward Flint. He gave her such a sheepish, crooked grin that she was forced to laugh.

Her eyes swept fondly over Catrina noting her dirty face, the leaves still clinging to her tangled curls, and tears in the once-magnificent gown she wore.

"But what happened to you, sweet? You look as if you'd lost a fight."

Catrina's crimson flush became even deeper when she heard Flint's choked chuckle. "I fell in the forest," she replied evasively.

"Well, never mind, we'll get you a bath and supper and then it's into bed with you. You've got to take care, lovey, it's not only your own health that you're guarding now." She looked up at Flint. "Sir, where is the master bedroom in this house?"

Catrina started to protest but Flint's strong voice drowned her out as he gave Perdita directions to the master suite upstairs and bellowed for Sarah to have someone begin heating water for Catrina's bath.

Tucked into the immense four poster in Flint's bedchamber, Catrina felt lost and alone. Perdita had supervised her bath and supper and then brushed out her hair and tucked her into bed as though she were a child again instead of a grown woman carrying a baby of her own.

Of Flint, she had seen little. He seemed to have given her completely into the care of her governess. He hadn't even come to say good night. But his presence surrounded her in his room. The furnishings were heavy and dark, the room seemed to exude the same brooding masculinity as the man who usually occupied it. And the thick feather pillows still retained his scent so strongly that Catrina could hardly bear to turn her face to them. The memories that the aroma conjured in her mind and body were too strong to allow her sleep.

Pushing back the sheet, she slid her foot over the edge of the massive bed and felt about in the darkness for the mahogany bedsteps that stood beside it. Finding them, she gingerly descended until her toes sank into the deep pile of the carpet which, like the draperies and upholstery of the chairs and window seats in the dark, wood-paneled room, was woven in deep shades of red.

Lighting a lamp, she pulled on a silk and lace robe and left the room.

The hallway was dimly lit by the low-burning glow of the crystal sconces on the powder-blue moiré walls. Catrina made no sound as she padded barefoot along its shaded blue runner. She descended the spiraling stairs to the foyer where a noise coming from the depths of the sprawling house startled her. She stood perfectly still, one foot on the bottommost step, poised for flight.

But the sound was not repeated and she went on. A light shone beneath a set of doors and Catrina opened one just enough to peer inside.

She found a long parlor in cream and crimson. The room was beatiful but what caught her attention most of all was the portrait that hung over the Egyptian marble fireplace.

"What in the world . . ." she murmured aloud.

Entering the room, she crossed the soft Brussels carpet to the fireplace and gazed up at the portrait of herself beside her beloved mare, Tansy.

"It's impossible," she whispered, standing on tiptoe to touch the heavy, gilded frame.

"Catrina?"

Gasping, she whirled. Flint stood in the doorway, the light of the single lamp gleaming off the rich, heavy brocade of his emerald green robe and the thick waves of his dark hair. Entering the room, he closed the door behind him and glanced up at the portrait.

"Is something wrong?"

Catrina frowned, puzzled. "This portrait. I don't understand. Father sent it in this frame and yet I saw it at Belvoir in another. Radford told me the frame had been damaged in shipment and he'd had to have it replaced."

"Another of his lies," Flint shrugged, disgusted. "Before I left for England, Rad suggested he have the portrait copied. He said it would be a pretty compliment the first time I brought my new bride visiting."

"Then he planned my abduction all along." She shivered.

"Apparently so." Flint's eyes, their color enhanced by the deep green of his robe, surveyed her appreciatively. Her gown was one of those Laurent had given her and both it and the robe that covered it were of the finest pure silk of snowy white threaded just beneath the bosom with thin yellow satin ribbon. With her honey-gold curls tumbling over her shoulders and her bare toes peeking out from beneath the flowing hem, she was at once a child and a woman; endearingly innocent and incredibly alluring.

"Did de Valcour see you in that?" Flint asked sternly.

Catrina looked down at herself. "I can't remember."

"Try."

A teasing smile curved her lips. "Are you jealous, Flint?"

"I don't want another man in love with my" He stopped. She wasn't his wife, not yet anyway. "With you," he finished lamely.

Catrina giggled. "Should I call you Flint or Ashton now?" she asked playfully.

"Flint will do. It's my middle namean old family name."

She nodded then looked wistfully toward the fireplace. "I wish it were cool enough to have a fire," she sighed. "I do so love a fire."

Enchanted with her teasing mood, Flint lit the candles in a six-branched candelabrum whose dozens of long, hanging lustres caught and reflected the flames in a thousand dancing rainbows. Taking it to the fireplace, he set aside the ornate brass screen and placed the candelabrum in the empty grate. Catrina laughed and came to sit on the carpet before the hearth. The candlelight glowed in the silken depths of her hair and danced in her eyes. Flint lowered himself to the carpet beside her and gazed at her. She was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen; more beautiful than he had ever seen her before.

A tiny frown flickered across her face and she pressed a hand to her belly. Flint was filled with concern.

"Are you in pain?' he asked.

She smiled and shook her head. "The baby is moving."

Flint's big hand slid beneath her own and his eyes met Catrina's as he felt the movement of his child within her. His expression touched her for it was neither the heartbroken jealousy of Laurent de Valcour nor the vengeful loathing of Radford St. James. In Flint's handsome face there was a wonderment at the life growing inside her, astonishment at the thought of a new human being coming out of their night of passion, and adoration for the exquisite woman in whose warm, lushly blossoming body his child was stirring.

"God, Catrina, it's incredible." Leaning down, he pressed his lips to the taut roundness of her belly. Catrina blushed and he smiled gently. "When you do that, you scarcely look old enough to be mothering a child."

"Nevertheless, that is precisely what I'm doing. Your child, Flint."

"Our child," he corrected huskily. Catrina gazed into the emerald depths of his eyes and felt the heat of desire rising her blood as it seemed to go singing through her veins. She wanted him. Flushing, she looked away. She had told him in the forest that she loathed is touch but even then she had known it for the lie it was and she knew he did too. Her pride told her to resisther passion cried out for surrender.

Their heated gazes met again and held as she slid her arms about his neck and drew his dark head down. Her mouth possessed his hungrily and he shuddered and moaned softly as her sharp little tongue parted his lips and darted within as his had so often done to her.

Together they sank to the carpeted floor and Flint ran his hand up her leg to the back of her knee. He pulled her toward him until her thigh rested over his hip as they lay facing one another. His hand slid higher along the satiny back of her thigh to her buttocks and as he caressed her, his fingers moving slowlytoo slowlytoward the moist, searing center of her desire, Catrina's head fell back exposing the long, pulsing column of her throat to his burning kisses.

"Oh, Flint, Flint," she sighed. "Now, please, now."

Wordlessly they turned until Flint was above her. His glittering green eyes stared down into hers which were a rich, smoky topaz, hazy with her need for him. As he entered her gently, he saw her pleasure mirrored in her eyes and his passion soared. He began to move, leisurely at first, then faster and harder until they shuddered together, their cries and whispers intermingling in the hot, sultry air of the darkened room.

In the sweet, langorous aftermath of their passion, Flint held Catrina close, unable to bear the thought of parting from her.

"I meant to ask you about the garconniére," she whispered.

"Don't you like my room?" he replied, his deep voice still hushed and breathy.

She gave him a little girl pout. "It's lonely there. The bed is too big."

"Too big for one," he agreed, "but not for two."

"Maybe even too big for two," she teased with a pretty little moue.

"No, it's just right for two." He grinned. "Shall I show you?"

She nodded, suddenly shy. Gathering her into his arms, Flint carried her from the parlor and up the twisting staircase to the second floor. Catrina lay cradled in his arms and Flint laughed as she lifted her head from his shoulder and nibbled playfully at his ear.

Neither noticed Perdita Jackson who peeked out at them through her barely opened door. What she saw shocked her. By the standards of behavior accepted for women of Catrina's breeding, a lady did not so openly proclaim her enjoyment of matters sensual. Still, she was happy that Catrina loved Flint and he so clearly adored her.

When Flint carried Catrina into the master bedroom and did not reappear, Perdita felt a fleeting sense of alarm. She had raised Catrina from the cradle and thought of her as a daughter. To merely go back to bed knowing that the girl was in bed with a man to whom she was not married seemed distressing in the extreme. Still, the choice between turning a blind eye to the situation or barging into the bedroom knowing full well what she was likely to find when she got there was not a dificult one to make.

In the master bedroom, Flint laid Catrina on the bed. With a few, swift movements he divested her of the diaphanous robe and gown and let his own robe slide to the floor. Climbing the mahogany steps, he joined her in the big bed and pulled her into his arms.

"You see, Lady Cat," he murmured, his warm hands tenderly exploring her quivering body, "the bed is just right for two."

"Yes," Catrina sighed, "just right." She stiffened with surprise as his hard hand caressed her breasts, teasing their tight, pink crests, then moved in slow, lazy circles to her belly and lower. "Flint, you can't. Not nownot so soon."

But he pulled her closer and she gasped as she felt the searing proof of his readiness hard against her thigh. Sliding her arms about his neck, she clung to him, all too willing to be taken to the soul-stirring heights of ecstacy she knew she could only reach in his arms.

Chapter 29

Catrina stretched languidly beneath the scented silk sheet that draped the huge four poster in the bedroom she'd shared with Flint for the month and a half since she'd come to Oakwood.

The last six weeks had passed with unbelievable swiftness hazed in the passion neither she nor Flint could, or wanted to, deny. Restrained only by Flint's fear of harming her or their child, they had spent their days longing for the sweet cloak of darkness that allowed them to dispense with the duties that came with the running of a great planation and retire to the haven of their bedroom.

She blushed, remembering how she'd clung to him, cried out his name at the height of her passion, pleaded for him to release her into that glorious heaven to which only he could take her. With him she was completely uninhibited, insatiable, as though his merest touch turned her from a lady of breeding and culture to a wanton woman with no thought but pleasure.

Her baby stirred and she slipped her hands beneath the sheet and spread them over the taut mound wherein he lay. She was midway through her seventh month and Sarah, who had helped bring Flint into the world three decades before, had warned her with a twinkle in her lively brown eyes that she and the master must take care to curtail their more strenuous activities.

The old woman had laughed at Catrina's flushed cheeks and said that it was good that a man found his woman desirable even when she was so far gone with child. That, Sarah said sagely, was when many men strayed. That Flint had not boded well for the future.

Struggling out of the bed, Catrina called for her bath. Then, bathed and dressed in one of the loose-fitting gowns Perdita and Sarah had made for her, she went downstairs where her breakfast was waiting.

''Where is Flint?" she asked Sarah as the stooped old woman placed her ham and eggs before her.

"The master rode over to Master Radford's this mornin' early."

"To Belvoir? Did he say why?"

"No, Missy, but then he don't tell Sarah everythin' he does." Catrina stuck her thumbnail between her teeth and bit hard on it. "Why would he go to Belvoir?"

Sarah shrugged. "Master Rad and Miss 'Lympia is family."

"Yes," Catrina muttered. "Kissing cousins, you might call it!"

Sarah smiled and smoothed back one of Catrina's curls. "Now, Missy, there ain't nothin' at Belvoir to compare with what that man's got right here at home. He knows it too. He's likely only goin' there to see if the sickness is there."

"The sickness?"

Sarah nodded solemnly. "The fever. Bronze John they calls it in New Orleans."

Catrina remembered having heard someone mention the dreaded cholera epidemics that swept periodically through New Orleans and the cities and plantations along the rivers and bayous surrounding it.

"Has the fever reached Natchez?"

"I 'spect so. Nobody's been out this way for a long time. Folks don't go visitin' when they think they might get the fever if they step out of their own house."

"But surely it won't spread this far out."

"Never has before, leastaways not since Master Flint took over Oakwood. He keeps the swampy land drained best he can to keep back them bloodsuckin' skeeters and don't allow folks to go doin' their natural business wherever the urge takes 'em. He says that helps and it appears he's right so far."

Catrina poked at her food, deep in thought. It was not until Perdita touched her arm that she realized she was no longer alone at the table.

"Penny for your thoughts, 'Trina," she smiled.

"I was thinking about Flint." She smiled wanly as Perdita's musical laughter rang out. "He's gone to Belvoir."

Perdita sobered. "Do you know why?"

"No." She shrugged. "Sarah says he's probably gone to see if the yellow fever has reached there. There's a cholera epidemic in New Orleans apparently, and it may have spread to Natchez and the surrounding plantations."

"That's probably exactly the reason he's gone." She frowned at Catrina's worried scowl. "You don't seem to believe that."

"I'm not sure." Olympia's beautiful face swam tauntingly before Catrina's eyes. "I'm just not sure."

Leaving the breakfast table, she and Perdita retired to a small parlor Flint had had made into a sunny, pleasant sewing room. There they had spent long hours together stitching exquisite little garments for the babytiny bonnets and coats, lace-frothed gowns and embroidered nightshirts.

"When are you and Flint going to be married?" Perdita asked casually.

Catrina gasped as she accidentally drove the needle deeply into her finger. Drawing it out, she popped the injured digit into her mouth and sucked away the hurt. Perdita's question had come as a surprise but she herself had been wondering precisely the same thing. "He hasn't said anything about it." she admitted, blushing. "But I'm sure he'll decide on a date soon."

"I'm sure he will," Perdita agreed, embroidering a miniscule, multicolored butterfly on an impossibly small coat. "No man wants his son to be born a . ."

She broke off, flushing at her own lack of tact, and looked toward Catrina with a mixture of chagrin and compassion.

"A bastard," Catrina finished for her. She shook her head. "No, you're quite right. No man would want that and I'm certain Flint feels the same way. With the fever and all, it's likely only slipped his mind."

But the nagging thought remained. Leaving Perdita to the endless sewing that had occupied her since she'd arrived and discovered Catrina's pregnancy, Catrina wandered aimlessly through the sprawling mansion.

It never ceased to amaze her how the beautiful home seemed so lifeless and empty without Flint. Catrina herself felt lonely and insecure without him. On such occasions she sought out a room in which his presence was particularly strong. Today she chose his upstairs study.

Dwarfed by the tall leather chair behind his massive desk, Catrina kicked off her shoes and twirled her toes in the deep pile of the carpet. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the lingering aroma of the fine cigars he smoked while he worked at the never ending business of running his plantation and shipping fleet. A letter lay open on the desktop and although Catrina seldom even glanced at any of the papers she found there, this one caught her eye for her own name appeared at several points.

Picking it up, she read:

. . . in the matter of Lady Catrina Carlysle, the document nullifying the contract of marriage between yourself and Lady Catrina has been forwarded to Lord Lynleigh's solicitors in London. Moverover, the captains of all St. James fleet ships have been notified that they are to have available suitable accommodations for Lady Catrina and her child and should be prepared to escort her to whatever destination is chosen upon her request . . .

The room seemed to twirl lazily about and Catrina let the heavy paper fall from her fingers. "Nullifying the contract of marriage" it had said! He'd broken off their engagement! Even worse, he'd ordered his captains to make ready to take her and her childher bastard childsomewhere far away!

"He can't," she whispered, stunned. "He can't simply cast me aside like a doxy of whom he's grown tired."

She remembered the day in the forest when he'd turned her own body against her and forced her to tell him that he was the father of her child.

"I won't marry you!" she had called, taunting him.

"I didn't say you had to," he had replied. "I'm not adverse to keeping you as my mistress."

His mistress! That was precisely what she had been for the past month and a half. His mistresshis lusty, wanton, hot-blooded paramour! Her face flamed as she remembered all the nights she'd lain above him and beside him and beneath him, making love in the big bed upstairs and in the night-shrouded drawing rooms, and on the hottest of summer nights in the moonlight on the veranda that encircled the second story of the mansion. He'd seemed to delight in her awakening sensuality. He had encouraged her, exhorted her to vent her passion in an ever increasing variety of ways.

But now, obviously, he had tired of her. Sated, perhaps repulsed by her encumbered body, he had set into motion the process of ridding himself of her and the child she would soon bear.

A maddening picture, nearly forgotten for these past six glorious weeks, returned to her. A picture of Flint and Olympia St. James, her round white limbs interwined with his strong, bronzed ones, lying naked in the Chinese bed in the dimly-lit bedroom at Belvoir.

"Olympia," she whispered. Of all the denials Flint had made to her concerning the lies Radford had told her, that was the one he refused to discuss. He flatly denied what she had seen with her own eyesthat he was Olympia's lover. "Olympia claimed to be engaged to Flint," Catrina mused aloud. "Perhaps she was, before Father went so deeply in debt to Flint. Perhaps now he's decided that she means more to him than my inheritance. It's not as if the breaking of our contract will free Papa from his debts. Perhaps Olympia was always the one he truly wanted."

Leaving the study, Catrina fled the mansion and took refuge in the comparative privacy of the tall box maze. There, amidst its twists and turns she could hide until she regained control of her ravaged emotions.

Within her green refuge, Catrina remembered every time she had awakened late to find Flint gone. He'd ridden into town, he'd gone to a neighboring plantation, he was out riding the fields, he was helping a neighbor track down a runaway slave . . . How many of those times had he actually gone to Belvoir? How many mornings had he risen from his mistress's bed and gone calling on his fiancée?

From across the garden at the side of the mansion, Perdita Jackson's voice reached Catrina. She sounded upset and Catrina hoisted herself off the lacy iron bench and went to investigate.

What she found, stunned her. A stream of slaves moved between the mansion and one of the columned garconniéres that flanked the big house. In their arms and on their backs they carried both Catrina's and Perdita's possessions.

" 'Trina!" Perdita called as Catrina slowly approached. "Do you know anything of this?"

"Nothing." Catrina spied old Sarah supervising the move. She went to her. "Sarah, what is happening? Why are Perdita's and my things being moved in the garconniére?" The old woman's look seemed a mixture of embarrassment and pity. "I don't know, Miss 'Trina. All I know is that the master sent back word from Belvior that you and Miss Perdita's belongin's were to be put out there afore he gits back."

Catrina paled sickeningly and Sarah and Perdita each took an arm and led her to a cushioned wicker chair. Sarah sent one of the maids into the house for a vinaigrette.

"I knew it," Catrina whispered. "I'm no longer of use to him as a mistress so now he wishes to be rid of me."

"No. Miss 'Trina," Sarah disagreed. "the master loves you and that baby in you too!"

"No, Sarah, he doesn't. He's going to send us away."

"Catrina, what are you saying?" Perdita demanded.

"I saw a letter in his study from his factor. He's canceled our marriage contract and told the captains of his ships to be ready to take us away after the baby's born." She shook her head miserably. "He wants to marry Olympia."

Sarah's black eyes grew round. "Miss 'lympia? Child, you can't be right. The master don't love that woman. She's got ice-water for blood and he knows it."

Catrina squeezed the gnarled hand that held hers. "It is true, Sarah." She drew a long, shuddering breath. "They're lovers." She saw the old slave begin to protest. "Yes, they are. When I was at Belvoir and Flint was there recuperating I accidentally saw them one nightnakedin Flint's bed."

"I ain't callin' you a liar, child, but I don't believe it."

"It's true," Catrina insisted.

As the last of Catrina and Perdita's possessions were carried to the garconniére, they heard the crunching of gravel in the drive before the house. All three women turned to stare while Flint leapt down from his big Arabian and helped Olympia descend from the carriage that was loaded with her trunks.

"You see," Catrina whispered. "He has brought her to Oakwood." Hot tears stung her eyes. "God, he couldn't even wait until I was gone!"

Struggling up from the chair, she shook off the hands that would have restrained her and fled to the garconniére that was now her home.

For the better part of an hour she wept, luxuriating in the tears that flowed so liberally down her alabastrine cheeks. Then slowly, her temper began to take over. How dare he shunt her aside! How dare he use her so cruelly and then cast her off like a worn out boot! She was not one of his slaves whom he could buy and sell at his merest whim! She was Lady Catrina Carlysle, daughter of the sixth Earl of Lynleigh, and her ancestors had helped forge the history of the British Empire. They had been confidants to kings, had lived in castles, while the St. Jameses were still off doing whatever lowly work they had done before they had discovered that the exploitation of human labor in the fields could make them rich and powerful. While it was true that her father's fortunes now lay, through his own folly, in the hands of Flint St. James, that did not make her blood any less blue nor her heritage any less proud!

Wiping her dampened cheeks on the back of her hand, Catrina lifted her skirts and stormed toward the mansion. Her topaz eyes were ablaze with anger. She might not be able to prevent Flint's discarding her, but by God she would not accept it meekly!

Thrusting open the front door, she stalked into the foyer and looked around. The door of the blue parlor stood open. Inside, Olympia sat on the rosewood and ivory silk settee, a glass in her hand and a crystal pitcher of cool, freshly-made lemonade beside her.

Feeling Catrina's eyes upon her, she looked up. Her ebon gaze slide over Catrina's protruding belly and a malicious sneer curved her full, red lips.

"If my brother saw you now," she purred snidely, "he wouldn't find you so desirable." She ran a hand over her own flat, tightly corsetted waist. "I never intend to ruin my figure for the sake of some bawling brat."

"I shouldn't think you would have to worry about that," Catrina shot back, entering the room. "Nothing so sweet as a baby could possibly live in your foul confines."

Olympia's black eyes glinted dangerously. "My, my," she taunted, "you have turned into the perfect little wife, haven't you? A big belly and a shrew's tongue. What a pity you haven't got a wedding ring to make the change complete.''

"Bitch!" Catrina snarled as she advanced on Flint's cousin.

"Tsk, tsk, and a temper too! No wonder poor, dear Flint packed you off to the garconniere."

With a shrill cry of rage, Catrina seized the tall pitcher of lemonade and upended it over Olympia's elaborately arranged curls. Olympia's answering scream echoed in the room even as she scrambled off the settee while the cold, sticky liquid cascaded down her cheeks and over her shoulders to stain her turquoise moire gown.

For a moment the black-haired woman stood her ground poised for retaliation. But when Catrina brandished the heavy crystal pitcher, she snatched up her skirts and fled.

The pitcher followed and crashed against the white painted jamb of the double doors. As the sparkling shards rained down on the carpet, Catrina grabbed a porcelain shepherdess and flung it too against the wall.

Hearing the commotion from upstairs, Flint came down the curving staircase just in time to see Olympia flee the parlor. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks and shoulders and her down bore the streaked evidence of Catrina's attack. As the pitcher and then the figurine were smashed against the jamb. Flint thundered down the stairs passing Olympia who was stumbling away toward the rear of the house.

He found Catrina in the parlor, another figurine poised for destruction.

"Catrina!" he shouted. "Wait!"

But she didn't. He ducked as the flowered Meissen hound whooshed past his right ear and shattered against the newel post of the staircase.

"Damn you!" Catrina screamed, falling on the collection of glass paperweights an eccentric aunt of Flint's had left him in her will. Seizing one in each hand, she began hurling them at him. "Damn you! I'm not some Silver Street whore you can cast off when the notion takes you!"

"Catrina!" He warded off a fist-sized paperweight with one forearm and moved quickly to avoid another. "Listen to me!"

"No!" She let fly with two more. "If you expect me to say nothing while you shunt me off to the garçonniére to breed so you can sport with that black alley cat you call a cousin, you've another thought coming!"

"Dammit, 'Trina, lis" Flint broke off with a groan as a small Baccarat weight with a chrysanthemum embedded in it struck his cheek.

Across the room, Catrina stayed the motion of her arm as she was about to fling another at him. She took a step toward him, concerned that she'd done him some real harm. But then, seeing Olympia peeking through the doors that joined the blue parlor with the crimson and cream one next door, her anger filled her anew.

With a last little shriek of pure temper, she threw the weight at Olympia and noted with satisfaction that the raven-haired woman retreated quickly.

Snatching up her skirts, Catrina shoved open the French windows and left the mansion, pleased with the havoc she'd wreaked. If nothing else, she'd shown Flint that she wasn't some meek little milksop who could be betrayed without a word of protest. And, if one could judge by the thud of the paperweight against his cheek, she'd left him with a remembrance of her fury.

Chapter 30

Sitting on one of the lower steps of the spiral staircase Flint muttered an oath as he gingerly probed his injured right cheek. Nothing appeared to be broken but a dark, mottled bruise was already forming along his cheekbone.

"I do believe you're getting a black eye as well," Olympia told him.

Flint groaned. "I could have done without that information very nicely, thank you." He gave his cousin a suspicious look. "What did you say to her? I've seen Catrina angry before but nothing like that."

Olympia shrugged. She had washed and changed into a fresh, peach satin gown but her hair hung limply and still felt uncomfortably sticky. "I didn't say a word, honestly. She simply appeared out of nowhere and attacked me."

As Sarah appeared with a cold compress for her master's cheek, she exchanged a mutually hostile glance with Olympia but she didn't dare contradict her. Instead, she slapped the compress against Flint's face with unnecessary force and took a great deal of satisfaction in his yelp of pain.

"I don't understand it," he muttered, giving Sarah a puzzled look. "I've simply never seen her like that before."

"Master Flint, sir," Sarah said quickly. "I was wonderin'. You got Becky and the others to take care of you and Miss 'Lympia in here, I want to go out to the little house and take care of Miss 'Trina. There's only her and Miss Perdita out there and with her breedin' and all . . ."

Flint gazed at the wrinkled, weathered face before him. There was a coldness in Sarah's eyes he'd never seen there before and a strange harshness in her tone that baffled him. From his earliest days Sarah had cared for him as if he were her own. She had put up with childish pranks for which his own parents would have punished him severely, she had dried his tears and bandaged his scrapes. Now it seemed as if she had suddenly and without reason withdrawn her love; as if he were guilty in her eyes of some hideous crime.

"What's wrong, Sarah?" he asked, a bit of the little boy slipping back into his voice. "What have I done to make you so cold toward me?"

The aged woman merely shook her head sadly. "If you don't know, master, then it ain't Sarah's place to be tellin' you." His aching cheek and bewilderment set his nerves on edge. Sarah's obvious, though confusing, disapproval pushed him over the brink of tolerance.

"Oh, go out there, then, and coddle that spoiled little hellion." He scowled as the old woman turned without another word and made for the door. "And see that she doesn't run away again!" he shouted. "God knows she's done it often enough before!"

With Sarah gone, Olympia sat down beside Flint. Taking the compress, she turned it and daubed at the blackening bruise that marred his handsome face. "Poor love," she cooed, leaning against him, pressing her full, swelling breasts along his arm. "I'll make it better."

With a snarl, Flint pushed her away with a force that sent her sprawling across the carpeted steps. "Let it go, Olympia," he snarled, storming away. "if you're of amind to play nursemaid, I'll send you back to Belvoir. You can nurse your brother's slaves!"

For the rest of the day, Flint brooded. He was angry at Catrina for refusing to listen to his explanations, angry at himself for having been foolish enough to bring Olympia to Oakwood even if it had been for the noblest of reasons, and angry at the world for seeming to conspire against the love he longed to find with the woman he adored.

As the sun set, he picked disinterestedly at the fricassee of terrapin placed before him by Becky, Sarah's assistant. At the opposite end of the table, Olympia ate with relish all the while casting flirtatious glances toward her cousin through the glow of the two candelabra she had ordered lit and placed on the long mahogany table.

"I don't see why we couldn't have had champagne," she pouted. "I do so love champagne and I know you have a cellarful."

Flint looked up. "Did you say something, Olympia?"

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Really, Flint! I don't see why you sit there as if the world has crashed around you. What does it matter if that nasty little . . ."

"Take care," he warned darkly. "You are speaking of the mother of my son, cousin. She is mistress of this plantation. You are living beneath her roof and sitting at her table. I suggest you govern your tongue."

Olympia bridled. "She can hardly be the mistress of Oakwood, Flint, when she is not your wife!"

"I intend to make her just that as soon as I can!" he snapped.

"Considering what she did to you today, I doubt not she'll be a widow before she's a mother!"

"Olympia . . ." he cautioned.

"Well, it's true! And as for her being the mother of your son, let's not forget that she lived at Belvoir for over three months. I don't know what she told you, but there were times when she and Radford were alone in her bedroom. And she was reputed to be Laurent de Valcour's mistress. knowing his reputation, he's hardly a man to keep a woman if she's not willing to spread her"

"Enough!" The single word seemed to reverberate about the room setting the crystal lustres on the tripletiered chandelier aquiver. "Damnation, woman! If you haven't the manners God gave a mule, then you can pack your bags and go back to Belvoir! If the fever takes you, so be it!"

He stormed from the room and Olympia ran after him. Scurrying around in front of him, she flung herself against his unyielding body and burst into tears.

"Please, Flint," she wept. "Don't send me back to Belvoir! I'm so frightened of the fever!"

"Then mind your manners, madam!"

"I can't help it! I love you, Flint, can't you see that? I've loved you since we were children! I've never wanted any man but you! And now I see you giving yourself to Catrinagiving her your love and your child. How can I do other than hate her?" She molded her body to his. "I've wanted you so long, Flint. So much. Please make love to me. Catrina need never know!"

Pulling his head down, Olympia ground her mouth against his and forced her tongue between his still, unresponding lips.

There was the sudden, unexpected sound of footsteps in the hall outside the dining room. Catrina appeared in the archway.

"Sarah told me that I'd hurt you this morning, Flint, and I came to say that I'm . ."

She broke off as her topaz eyes focused on the scene before her. Olympia moved her voluptuous body provocatively against Flint's, trying desperately to arouse him, and her long, dusky arms were wound about his neck holding his head down so that her mouth could reach his.

Flint shoved her away and took a step toward the arch even as Catrina turned to flee.

"Catrina!" he called, shaking off Olympia's clinging arms. "Catrina wait!"

But by the time he had freed himself from his cousin, Catrina was well across the stretch of lawn that separated the mansion from the garconniere.

He turned on Olympia and she cringed from the murderous glitter in his green eyes.

"I've never beaten a woman," he growled, "but if you don't get out of my sight, by God, you'll be the first!"

Behind him as he strode down the corridor and out the front door, Olympia's full, moist lips curved in a self-satisfied smile. If Catrina already believed that she and Flint were lovers what she'd just seen would only reinforce her beliefsand seal the doom of their love.

Flint pounded on the door of the garconniere and demanded at the top of his voice to speak to Catrina. His only reply came when Perdita opened the door enough to step out onto the veranda. Behind her Sarah closed it again and twisted the key in the lock to shut Flint out.

"I want to see Catrina," he told her. Perdita glared at him, her eyes like two spheres of blue ice. "Mr. St. James, you astonish me. Can you really imagine that she would want to see you after what she's just witnessed? Both Sarah and I advised her not to go to you tonight but she was worried about you and insisted she had to apologize for injuring you. And what did she find for her trouble?"

"It wasn't what she thought," Flint countered. "I wasn't"

Perdita silenced him with a wave of her hand. "Please, I don't care to hear your excuses. It would be best if you simply went back to your own house and left Catrina in peace."

"I'm not leaving until I speak to her."

"Have you no scruples whatsoever?" Perdita snapped. "Isn't it enough that you cast Catrina out in favor of that black-haired she-wolf? I can't for the life of me understand why a man, any man, would break the heart of a woman who loves him simply because he's found a body that pleases him better in bed!"

"That's not the case!" Flint shouted. "There is fever at Belvoir. I brought Olympia to Oakwood to escape it. We were both exposed. I simply wanted Catrina spared of any risk of contagion should either of us fall sick."

"Well, that's your tale and you're stuck with it!"

"Dammit, Jackson! Will you listen to me! Olympia is not, never has been, and never will be my mistress!"

"Catrina maintains that she saw you and that woman in bed together at Belvoir, Mr. St. James, and Catrina, for all her faults and I admit she has a few, is not a liar.''

Flint clenched his fists, rage and frustration flowing through him until he trembled with it. "She is mistaken, then," he ground out, "because it never happened!"

Perdita rolled her eyes. "As you like; it will get us nowhere to argue about it. But the fact remains that you nullified your marriage contract and abandoned Catrina to bear her child without so much as a name to call its own!"

"How did you know" Flint shook his head. "It's true, I invalidated the contract. But I had a good reason!"

From the veranda of the mansion, Olympia's husky voice reached them. "Flint, darling, is anything wrong?"

"Yes," Perdita agreed, her voice dripping sarcasm. "I can see your reason. Good night, sir, I've no doubt you'll find a way to while away your time while you await the birth of your bastard!"

Flint smashed his fist against the door as Perdita closed it in his face. "Stay out here, then, the lot of you! If you want to be stubborn, go ahead! I can be stubborn as well!"

Turning on his heel, he stalked off toward the mansion.

The test of wills had been going on for six weeks with no sign of a weakening on either side. Though both Flint and Catrina longed to see one another and were tortured by the occasional glimpses they managed to catch when the other was unaware, their mutual pride and pig-headedness would not allow either to be the first to cross the lawn between the mansion and the garconniere.

The yellow fever that had raged along the banks of the Mississippi and the bayous was dying out. In New Orleans alone the confirmed deaths were reported to be fifteen thousand with the unconfirmed and unreported deaths sending estimates of the total as high as twenty-seven thousand. In New Orleans, Natchez, and elsewhere, whole families had perished together behind the sealed doors and windows that could not keep death from them. On the plantations, it was the slaves who suffered the most; some planters numbered their losses in the hundreds.

From Belvoir came word that the toll stood at twenty-two and Radford counted himself a fortunate man. At Oakwood, only one had been lost and that a young field hand who had slipped away to a neighboring plantation where the woman he loved lay dying in her drafty, bare cabin on slave row. They had been found together, dead, clasped in one another's arms.

"There's no reason why you can't go back to Belvoir tomorrow," Flint told Olympia as they sat eating supper. "There hasn't been any fever there in a week and no deaths in two. There is no reason for you to stay here."

"But, Flint," Olympia began.

Wiping his mouth, Flint tossed his napkin onto the table and stood. "Tell your maid to pack, Olympia. I'll check with her later to see that you have." For the rest of the evening, Olympia schemed. She was firmly convinced that if she could once seduce Flint, he would be hers. She was highly experienced with men having begun early to escape her chaperon when in New Orleans or St. Louis and go off with some handsome man who caught her fancy. To these men she invariably gave a false name and concocted a story about her origins that would never have led them to Natchez and Belvoir. Surely Catrina was no match for her in bed. Any woman who could resist both Radford and the gloriously handsome Laurent de Valcour had ice water flowing in her veins.

Retiring early, she bathed and perfumed her luscious body with the greatest of care. Flint had not left Oakwood for nearly two months; he had not had a woman in all that time. If even half of the stories that circulated about him before his betrothal were true, he must be nearly maddened with the want of a woman.

As she moved down the corridor, her gown of black silk swirling about her, Olympia shook out her raven curls and bit her lips to color them. A sliver of light showed beneath Flint's door. Without knocking, she let herself into the room.

Flint lay in bed reading a volume of French poetry. He glanced up then stared as Olympia came to stand at the foot of the bed.

"What is it this time, cousin?" he asked wearily.

Without a word, she shrugged out of the gown and let it slither to the floor leaving her naked in the dim lamplight. Lifting her ribs, she tightened her chest muscles so that her breasts stood out in all their heavy coral crested beauty. Her black eyes slitted, she ran a longnailed hand across her taut, flat belly and down to the blue-black curls at the joining of her thighs.

Flint's half-closed, emerald eyes followed the voluptuous curves of Olympia's body from the wantonly tousled black curls that fell about her flawlessly skinned shoulders down to the softly rounded thighs that disappeared behind the foot of the high bed. The corners of his mouth curved slightly and then, to Olympia's chagrin, he threw back his beautiful head and his deep, rumbling laughter filled the room. "Damnation, cousin. you belong on Silver Street! Madame Aivoges could make a fortune off that trick alone!"

Olympia stood her ground. "What about you, Flint?"

"As for me, dear Olympia, I'd have to be drugged to let you into my . . ."

He stopped and caught his breath. An image flashed through his mind of the Chinese bedroom at Belvoir. He was there, lying in the bed, and Olympia had shed her clothes exactly this way. She'd offered him a glass of water and he'd been thirsty, so thirsty. But the water had been drugged and he'd soon succumbed to the numbing effects of Doctor Zeeman's powders. That had been the night after . . . the night after Catrina had come to him in the dream and he'd made love to her. But had it been a dream? Had it been real? Could she have come back the next night and found . . . found . . .

"My God," he breathed. His eyes rose to Olympia's pale face and he read the truth in her ebony eyes. "She did see us, didn't she?" he whispered tightly. "Catrina did find us in bed together, didn't she, cousin?"

Frightened, Olympia clutched her gown in front of her and backed toward the door. She'd seen Flint in a towering rage on more than one occasion but she'd never seen anything as terrifying as the cold, savage fury she saw in his eyes as he slid out of the bed.

She cried out as he came toward her but he merely shoved her aside and left the room.

Flint's footfalls thundered down the circular stairs. The heavy front door crashed against the mansion's facade as he flung it open and pounded along the veranda toward the garconniere.

In answer to his furious pounding, Perdita Jackson pulled open the door.

"Where is she?" Flint demanded. "Where's Catrina!"

The urgent, almost desperate look in his eyes warned Perdita not to refuse him the information he sought.

"In the box maze," she replied. "She walks there at night when she can't sleep."

Catrina was just leaving the maze when Flint appeared out of the night, his black robe whirling about his long, striding legs. She gave a little cry and fell back a few steps but he caught her and held her fast ignoring the small lantern that fell from her hand and went out in the dewy grass.

Flint's eyes swept over her. Her honey curls tumbled over her shoulders and her breasts rode heavily above her great, swollen belly. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes that betrayed her recent sleeplessness but even so she was so breathtakingly beautiful to him that he wondered how he had survived the past six weeks without her.

The thought of the pain he had caused her pierced him to the quick. Before Catrina's astonished eyes, he knelt before her in the grass, wrapped his arms about her and laid his cheek against the living roundness that sheathed his child.

"Forgive me, Catrina," he whispered. "Please, forgive me."

Instinctively she buried her fingers in his silky, sable hair and held him against her. "Forgive you? Flint, I don't understand."

He looked up at her and she caught her breath as she noticed that his emerald eyes were shining with unshed tears.

"You were right. You were right all along and I doubted you."

"Right about what? What are you talking about?"

"Right about Olympia." He felt her stiffen and held her even more tightly. "She was there in my room at Belvoir. I was half drugged. I told her to go. She gave me a glass of water but she'd put some of Zeeman's sleeping powders in it. I remember feeling as though I were drowning; everything faded away. And then . . ."

"And then she crawled into your bed knowing that I would find you." Catrina took a deep breath. "My God, she must have seen me the night before when I went to you. She must have known that I would come back."

"Can you forgive me for doubting you?" he asked softly, with endearing anxiety.

She stroked his beloved face, delighting in the simple pleasure of touching him after so long. "Oh, my love, I truly think I could forgive you anything."

He rose to his feet and their arms reached out toward one another. Their lips met in a gentle kiss filled with longing and love. Sighing, Catrina leaned her cheek against the soft dark curls that peeked between the parted lapels of his robe. This was where she belonged, in his arms forever.

She knew at that moment that whatever his reason for voiding the contract of marriage that had bound her to him, she would accept it and remain at his side for as long as he would allow. She knew in that instant that she would rather be Flint St. James's mistress than any other man's wife.

Then, without warning, a spasm of pain crossd her face as the pain seemed to well up inside her. Clutching her middle, she moaned and sagged against Flint.

"Catrina!" he cried. "What is it? What's wrong?" "It's the baby!" she hissed through gritted teeth. "The baby's coming!"

As gently as he could, Flint lifted her and carried her through the darkness to the garconniere. Both Sarah and Perdita met him at the door and had him take Catrina to the bedroom and hold her while they undressed her.

"It's too soon!" Catrina wailed, clutching at Sarah's hand. "He's not due for another month!"

"Hush now, don't you fret, child," Sarah soothed. "Babies come when they've a mind to. 'Sides, any baby the two of you make is bound to have a stubborn streak as wide as that ole Mississippi!"

"What can I do?" Flint asked, grimacing as another contraction overtook Catrina.

"The best thing you can do," Perdita told him, steering him out of the room, "is get out of the way. Go get drunk or whatever it is that men do at times like this."

Flint stared at her stupidly as she returned to the bedroom and closed the door. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain of the birth, but there was something he could do to ease the pain in Catrina's heart.

Leaving the garconniere, he ordered a wagon brought to the front of the mansion. Storming up to Olympia's room, he dragged her out of bed and shook her awake.

"Get dressed," he snarled. "You're leaving."

"What?" She glanced toward the blackness at the window. "It's the middle of the night." From the garconniere came a scream that rent the night air. Seeing Flint blanch, Olympia suddenly realized what was happening. She's in labor, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is. And I want you gone before she's finished."

"But, Flint"

Yanking the bell-pull, Flint summoned footmen to take Olympia's baggage down to the wagon. As they were being carried out, he seized Olympia's arm and jerked her toward him. "You have ten minutes to get dressed and get out. If you're not gone by then, I'll throw you out into the night mother naked and let you walk to Belvoir!"

"You wouldn't!" she hissed.

"Try me!"

"You'll pay for this!" she screamed. "I won't rest until I have revenge on you and that precious slut of yours!"

Laughing humorlessly, Flint left his cousin to dress. He ordered a slave to let him know when she was gone and then returned to the garconniere to pace the veranda and await his child's birth.

It was after dawn when the first lusty cries of Flint and Catrina's son rent the air. Before Perdita could summon him, Flint was in the bedroom smoothing back Catrina's sweat-soaked hair and supervising the infant's first bath.

"Isn't he beautiful?" Catrina sighed as Sarah laid the sleeping child in her arms. "Oh, Flint! I knew he'd be a boy! I always knew it! I want to name him after you. Ashton Flint St. Ja" She let the word die and looked away in embarrassment.

"'Trina." Flint touched her cheek to turn her face toward him once more. "I want to explain about the marriage contract."

She shook her head. "It's not necessary. If you feel you'd be happier with Olympia . . ."

"Olympia be damned! Dammit, 'Trina, I never wanted her! If I had never met you I still wouldn't have married that cold-blooded bitch! She was only here because of the yellow fever at Belvoir." He sighed. "Listen to me. I did nullify our marriage contract. Because I knew you hated what it representedthe forcing of your life to meet someone else's wishes. I also absolved your father's debts. You're free now. Your inheritance is unencumbered. As it stands, you'll be an immensely wealthy woman someday. You'll be able to live your life as you choose, marry whomever you choose, do as you please. I wanted you to be free to make up your own mind and not be forced to do anything you don't want to do. I ordered that the ships be available to you so that you would know that you were free to leave if you wished and go anywhere in the world without having to get anyone's permission." His green eyes caressed her face and he smiled at her astonishment. "You're free now, darling, just as you always wanted to be. If you feel you'd be happier away from me, I won't stand in your way. Even if you leave me, I will regard our son as my heir." ''Do you want me to go?" she asked softly.

Flint laughed. "God, no! I can't bear the thought of living without you! These past six weeks have been sheer hell for me!"

"And for me," she admitted, reaching out to touch him as she'd so often ached to do.

"Then you'll stay?"

She smiled, touched and reassured by the eagerness in his voice. "Well," she teased, "you know. Considering the size of my inheritance, I could probably find some impoverished European prince to marry. Think of it, Flint, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Cat"

"Catrina!"

She giggled. "Oh, well, I suppose I could sacrifice the glitter and excitement of European royalty for the drudgery and boredom of plantation life." She nodded. "I'll stay."

"And you'll marry me?"

All levity gone, Catrina raised his hand to her lips and kissed his long, tanned fingers. "Oh, yes, Ashton Flint St. James. I will marry you!"

Epilogue

In the early morning hours of a cool, late October morning nearly six weeks after the birth of her son, Catrina St. James, mistress of Oakwood plantation, was awakened as a silken gag was stuffed into her mouth and a blindfold tied over her eyes. Her muffled cries for her husband went unheeded as she thrashed on the bed to escape the hard, merciless hands that quickly tied her ankles and bound her wrists behind her back.

Without a sound, her assailant slung his trussed victim over his shoulder and carried her through the dark, silent house past her husband's study where a sliver of light shone beneath the door.

Emerging into the starry morning darkness, her abductor laid Catrina across the broad back of a massive, prancing horse. Swinging himself into the saddle, he walked the animal to the edge of the forest then kicked it into a smooth, loping gallop.

By the time they stopped, Catrina's stomach and back seemed afire with the strain of her position. She made muffled noises of protest and struggled but her kidnapper ignored them both as he pulled her from the horse and carried her into a small, dilapidated cabin hidden deep in the mist-shrouded, moss-hung forest.

The old, tarnished brass bed creaked asd he dropped his squirming burden across it. Trussed, gagged, and blindfolded, Catrina could neither move, see, nor speak. But she shook her head violently and made strangled cries deep in her throat as she heard the unmistakable sounds of a man divesting himself of his clothing.

Still her abductor maintained his maddening silence. Kneeling nude on the rickety bed, he used his knife to cut away his victim's tissue-thin, silken gown while she writhed and screamed behind her gag. Then, casting aside the knife he used both hands to caress the ivory body that childbearing had only made more beautiful.

Catrina felt his hands slipping over her skin and stiffened with shock and outrage. His hands and mouth explored her slowly, so slowly, and gently, oh, so gently! To her shame, her body began to respond. It grew taut, and moist, and quivered beneath his exquisite assault.

Without warning, the scarf that bound her ankles was loosed, but before she could move, her legs were lifted, spread, and drawn over the man's broad, powerfully muscled shoulders. She felt his lips against the agonizingly sensitive flesh of her inner thigh as he trailed searing kisses upward. Then, suddenly, his mouth found her, possessed her, loved her, and Catrina's shocked scream quickly gave way to hoarse, shuddering moans as he gave her a kind of pleasure she'd never dreamed existed.

Her body arched and trembled, quivered and writhed, but his strong hands held her hips still enough for his ravishing mouth to drive her to madness.

She scarcely noticed when a hand stole beneath her and loosed the silken scarf that bound her wrists. When the gag was pulled free, it was only her breathless sighs of passion that filled the air.

While her body still shuddered in the throes of her ecstacy, he lowered her hips and knelt over her, moving his powerful body against her, letting her feel the unfulfilled desire he still intended to vent on her.

"No," Catrina breathed weakly, "Please, please, no more."

He made no reply and she realized that her hands were free and clutching at the rough cotton sheets. Pushing up her blindfold, she warily raised her eyes to her assailant's face and found herself gazing up into the glowing emerald eyes of her husband.

"Flint," she whispered, astonished.

He grinned wickedly down at her. "You said plantation life would be boring, my love," he explained. "I merely endeavor to prove you wrong."

With a shrill scream of exasperation, Catrina pummeled his wide shoulders with her little fists. She writhed, seeking to escape him. But her blows soon became caresses as his mouth and hands worked their unique magic on her yet again. There was no chance of her winning their duel of desires. He was master of her sensesshe was but a slave to her passion for him. It was only a matter of moments before she sighed softly, surrendering, and arched upward to receive his first, exquisite thrust.