THE SEDUCTION OF DE ANNA
by
Maura Seger

THE SEDUCTION OF DE ANNA Maura Seger
MILLS & BOON
Prologue

Late April 1781 City of New York The jail door creaked open.  A gust of
chill, dank air emerged from behind it.  Edward Nash recoiled slightly.  The
air smelled of dirty straw, unwashed bodies and despair.  A big man, tall and
lithely built with broad shoulders, he had to bend his head to enter.  Even
then he only just fit through the narrow doorway.

Pausing, he let his pewter eyes adjust to the dim interior.  His dark hair
was pulled back neatly in a queue.  A midnight blue cloak swirled around him.
Beneath it, visible through the opening, he wore snugly fitted buff hued
breeches, a high-collared silk shirt, a black velvet waistcoat and high black
boots polished to a formidable sheen.  A heavy gold insignia ring gleamed on
his left hand.  He was cleanly shaven, his skin burnished by the sun.
Powerfully muscled, graceful in his every movement, he was clearly a man of
wealth and power.

A young, rawboned man stood near the door.  He was smaller than Edward and
narrower through the shoulders.  His skin was pockmarked, his teeth either
crooked or missing.  He wore the uniform of a British regular but only in
parts, having left his stock undone and his jacket missing.  His breeches
were dirty, his boots unpolished, and he needed to shave.  With bold
insolence, he looked Nash up and down, spit in the straw and said,

"Yer late."

Edward's eyebrows rose.  After almost five years of war, he was well aware
that the endurance of the British forces had been tried to the utmost.  It
was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain normal discipline.  Insolence
that would once have been punishable by the lash was now more the rule than
the exception.  Soldiers, weary of a war that could not be won, dared their
superiors to punish them for what were ultimately the failures of the leaders
themselves.  He understood the situation well enough and even had a certain
sympathy for it, but that didn't mean he had to tolerate this lout.  Coldly,
he said,

"Am I?  And who might you be?"

"Regis Fuller, that's who.  The warden's gone for his supper.  He said you
were coming."  His lips split in a leer.

"For the woman, is it?

The rebel bitch Harrow caught.  Pretty piece, she is, but I'll wager you
already know that.  "

Nash looked at the man steadily as he considered his alternatives.  He could,
without much effort, exert the full force of his will and authority, cowing
the soldier and verbally beating him into submission.  If it came to it, he
could administer a physical reminder  of exactly why it was unwise to forget
one's place.  But all that would take time, something he had very little of.
Mindful of that, he turned away and strode toward an iron-bound door he had
spotted at the back of the room.  Without looking at the man, he said,

"Miss Marlowe is ready, is she not?"

The man scurried after him.  He caught up as Nash reached the door and
twisted the iron ring that secured it.

"I don't know if she is or not.  All I know is she's supposed to go with
you."  He grinned again.

"Good luck to you, guy.  Yer going to be needing it."  The door gave way.
Nash passed through it and found himself at one end of a long corridor.
Similar iron-bound doors ranked both sides.  He knew they secured cells, some
holding a dozen or more men, others with solitary occupants.  If his
information was correct, Deanna was in one of them.

"Show me," he demanded, and this time his tone made clear there would be no
further tolerance, no patience, only instant and decisive punishment if his
will was brooked in any way.

The man frowned but he was wily enough to know that he had gone as far as he
dared.  Grudgingly, he brushed past Nash and led the way down the hall.  At
the far end, he stopped and gestured toward a door.

"She's in there."

Nash nodded.  He looked straight ahead at the slab of heavy metal.

"Open it."

The man complied.  Again hinges creaked.  Beyond there was only darkness and
damp, fetid air.  Edward cursed under his breath.  He seized a lantern
suspended from a hook on the wall and stepped into the cell.  The circle of
light illuminated a small space, barely large enough for him to lie down in,
not that he had any intention of doing such a thing.  Dirty straw was piled
up in a heap in one corner.

In the straw, barely discernible in the faint light, something moved.

"Deanna?"

A faint moan reached him.  He cursed and went quickly toward the sound.
Bending down, he reached out a hand.

She recoiled instantly, pressing back against the wall.  In a voice slurred
by fatigue and painfully faint, she said,

"Get away or I'll kill you."

It was a ridiculous threat, but he did not smile.  His eyes raked over the
slender form before him.  The hair he remembered as red gold was dark with
dust and grime and hung in matted strands around her shoulders.  The gown she
wore might once have been blue.  In its present condition it was impossible
to tell.  The sleeves were torn, and he could see bruises on her shoulders.
Her eyes were wide and dark with apprehension, yet the fires of defiance
still glittered within their forest-green depths.  Another livid bruise
disfigured her delicate cheek.  Her lips, normally soft and full, looked as
though they had been badly bitten.

Nash took a deep breath, steeled himself and said,

"Get up."  Before she could obey, or more likely refuse, he put an arm around
her waist and pulled her upright.  She swayed on her feet and might have
fallen but for his implacable strength.

"Let me go," she said, and curled her hand into a fist, attempting to strike
him.

Nash easily evaded the blow.  He set the lantern down and scooped her up.
Ignoring her struggles-- and the widemouthed interest of the warden's
helper--he strode from the cell.

"Ye've got to sign for her," the man remembered, almost too late.  He came
running after Nash, waving a piece of dirty paper he'd dragged from beneath
his shirt.

"Warden said you must."

Nash muttered under his breath.  Without putting Deanna down, and still
ignoring her futile struggles, he seized the stump of lead the man held and
scrawled his name.  The proprieties thus observed, he turned and continued on
his way out of the jail.  "Where're ye going?"

the man asked, hopping after them.  Nash did not reply.  They passed through
the entry room and out into the alley that ran in front of the jail.  A
carriage was waiting.  The driver, an older, portly man, glanced down, saw
Deanna in Nash's arms and scowled.  But he said nothing, nor did he leave his
seat as Edward thrust the carriage door open and pushed the unwilling woman
inside.

The sudden touch of the carriage seat against her back woke Deanna from her
half stupor.  This wasn't a dream, it was real.  Nash was here, he had taken
her, and unless she did something very quickly, he was going to make off with
her.

By comparison, the jail albeit hideous, seemed almost a sanctuary.

Terror galvanized her.  She lashed out, kicking with all her strength, and
caught Edward  on the shin just as he entered the carriage.  The blow was
hard enough and sufficiently well aimed to catch him unawares.  He cursed but
did not withdraw.  In a rush, he was beside her on the narrow seat.  The
carriage door banged closed behind him.

"Stop that," he ordered.

Deanna barely heard him.  All her attention was focused on getting away.  The
carriage seemed suffocatingly small.  His presence shut out all the light and
air.  It was the cell again, but more so.  He had her, caught, trapped, like
a hunted animal.  With him there would not be even the pretense of a trial,
or any hope that the British court would give mercy to a woman it might
consider young and misguided.

With the court she could hope for imprisonment, possibly transportation.
There would be a future, a chance.

But with Nash?  God help her, there would be only pain.  She had been through
so much already--betrayal, arrest, interrogation, jail.  For days now, she
had lived on the edge, fighting fear, resisting panic.

This sudden appearance of the man she feared most in all the world was too
much.  She simply could not, bear it.  Without thought, even knowing how
easily he could defeat her, she struck out again.  She had the satisfaction,
faint though it was, of landing a blow to his jaw before his arms closed like
steel bands around her.  Still, she struggled, driven by desperation more
profound than any she had ever known.  Far off, she heard his voice and knew
he was trying to talk with her, but beyond the sternness of his tone, she
understood nothing.  The threat he represented overrode all else.

The carriage had begun to move.  He was taking her away.  In another moment,
she would be beyond help.

With the last of her strength, she wrenched her knee up, slamming it not
where she had intended but into his chest.  The blow drove the air from him,
and for a scant instant caused his grip to lessen.  It was just enough.
Deanna tore herself from his grasp and turned frantically to the carriage
door.  Her fingers fastened on the latch.

She managed to push it open.  Cool evening air touched her fevered face.  She
could make out a scattering of lights along the wharves behind the jail.

The horses' hooves clattered over cobblestones still slick from an earlier
rain shower.  The driver urged them on.  At this speed, to jump from the
carriage could kill her.

But the alternative?

She inhaled sharply, squeezed her eyes shut and leapt.  As she fled, she
heard Nash shout her name and felt the brush of his fingers against her
waist.  The last thought in her mind was a burst of regret for how very
different it all might have been.  If only it had not begun as it had.

Chapter One March 1781 Belle Haven A crack of gray light shone between the
trees as Deanna Marlowe stepped quietly from her father's house and walked
toward the barn.

The day was freshening.  A fragrant breeze blew off Long Island Sound,
directly south of the house.

Deanna felt a pang of yearning.  On days like this, she had loved to take her
sketchbook and walk along the beach near Daniels' Neck.

There, in the shelter of the boulders that looked as though they had been
thrown down by a giant's hand, she had drawn the great variety of birds who
came to rest and feed on the land her family had owned for more than a
century.

Occasionally she would see a seal, and several times whales had spouted
within sight.  In the summer, there would be mussels and blueberries to
collect, and on the hottest days, refreshing swims.

She had grown  up with the beach and loved the meeting place of land and
sea, but it was many months since she had gone that way.

There was always so much to be done.  In the three years since the war began,
many of the young men from Belle Haven had gone to fight.

There were far fewer available to hire on as farming hands.  The older men
did all they could but more and more of the labor fell to the women.  They
were the ones who kept the fields planted, harvested the crops, spun the
cloth, cared for the children, tended the animals and kept body and soul
together as day crept after day and peace seemed more elusive than ever.

And all the while, they had the British to contend with, for Belle Haven was
a garrison town, under the boot of General Tyron.  Had it not been for the
prestige of Deanna's father, Nathaniel, who was an avowed Tory, soldiers
would have been billeted at Daniels' Neck.  As it was, they were one of the
few families to escape that burden.

Deanna's conscience stirred her, as it always did when she thought of what
most of the families of Belle Haven were enduring.  She tried not to think
about the war or politics.  As a dutiful daughter, she knew that her
political position should reflect her father's.  And yet she could not help
thinking that the rebels weren't altogether wrong.  The British had
mistreated their colonies, imposing harsh taxes and taking other repressive
measures.  It was only natural for strong, proud people to rebel against such
treatment.

Why didn't the King understand?  If only he and Parliament had behaved
differently, the entire business could have been avoided.  But it was too
late now for such regrets, too late by far.  Too much blood had been shed for
compromise.  The war would end in victory or defeat, nothing in between.

None of which changed the fact that she had cows to milk.  There were four of
them in all, far fewer than the herd the Marlowes had kept before the war.
Her father's pro British sentiment had not spared them from all hardship, but
at least they were paid for their confiscated livestock.  Not so her uncle's
family, living to the north on another Marlowe holding.

Duncan Marlowe was the elder son in the family and, by rights, the owner of
Daniels' Neck.  Yet he had chosen the larger and more fertile property inland
for his own, ceding to his younger brother the family's hereditary homestead.
Before the war, her uncle and father had been close friends, with the two
parts of the family visiting back and forth frequently.

All that had changed when Nathaniel remained loyal to the British while
Duncan supported the rebels.  Deanna saw her cousins now only when they
happened to go into town at the same time.  Even then, they did not speak but
averted their eyes as though she carried some contaminant they did not wish
to touch.

The rift in the family deeply saddened her, but life was not without its
brighter side.  Privately, she thought she had lived too sheltered and
pampered an existence before the war.  Her father had taken great pleasure in
surrounding his only daughter with every luxury and comfort a wealthy
merchant could provide.

He had taken her to England with him the year before the rebellion began and
had been delighted by the number of suitors she found there.  If he'd had his
way, she would have married a wealthy British nobleman and settled down to
the life her father envisioned for her.

But something in Deanna rebelled.  She wasn't sure exactly why, but she
simply didn't feel ready for marriage yet, not even to Charles Peter Harrow,
a baronet whom she had met in London.  Smiling, she splashed milk into the
pail as she considered what Charles would say if he could see her now.
Undoubtedly, he would have some witty remark, for he was never at a loss for
words.  He might even be amused.

She sighed, wondering why she didn't miss him more.  He was everything she
should want in a husband--handsome, landed, self-assured.  Most any young
woman would have been delighted to be chosen for his wife, and especially so
one from the colonies whose family, though eminently respectable, was not on
the level of the Harrows.

Charles, being suitably cautious in his ardor, had expressed the intention to
visit the colonies and to call upon her family for purposes of becoming
better acquainted.  Had it not been for the accursed revolution, he would
long since have done so.  It was even possible that she would have been
several years his wife by now, with a babe dandling on her lap.

The thought made her flush hotly, yet it was not unfounded.

Certainly, the letters he had managed to send to her suggested his interest
remained intact and  perhaps had even grown through the shared experience of
separation.  The cow turned her head slightly and looked at Deanna with
solemn reproach.  Sighing, she brought her mind back to the task at hand.
When she finished, she hung the pails from a wooden trestle, slipped it over
her shoulders and, going slowly to avoid spills, carried the milk to the
cooling shed behind the barn.  There it would be churned to make butter and
poured into molds for cheese.

Nothing was wasted.  In times of such austerity, nothing could be.

The shed smelled of fresh straw mingling with the slightly sour tang of curds
and the deep, heavy aromas of aging cheese.  Deanna lingered a few moments
after completing her task.  The sun had fully risen and light filled the sky.
The beauty of it stood in sharp contrast to the havoc humanity seemed intent
on wreaking.  Impatiently, she shook her head.  It did no good to dwell on
such things, especially not when the horses still needed attention.

More than anything else, that the Marlowes still possessed a half dozen good
mounts proved how well Nathaniel stood in the favor of the British.
Everywhere else, steeds suitable for the battlefield had been confiscated,
leaving only broken-down hacks and a handful of mules to struggle with the
plows, drag the wagons and provide an occasional ride for the children.

But not here.  The horses nickered softly as Deanna opened the high wooden
door.  She stepped inside and paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to
the dimmer light.

Romany, her favorite gelding, was in the nearest stall.  He tossed his head
and pawed with his front hooves against the ground.  In the next stall down,
Fleur, a sweet-tempered mare, did the same.  Deanna frowned.  She had grown
up with these horses, had known them or their sires and dames all her life.
They didn't act like this.  "What's wrong?"  she murmured, stroking From-
any's velvety nose.  The horse nickered again and thrust his muzzle into the
palm of her hand.  His big body shook slightly and his eyes rolled.  Deanna's
breath caught.

The last time she had seen Romany like this was just before a violent spring
thunderstorm hit the previous year.  Slowly, she withdrew her hand and walked
down the rank of horses, pausing to reassure each.

They all trusted her but none appeared convinced.  Each was clearly nervous.

She stopped in the center of the stable and slowly looked around.

Everything appeared exactly as it should be except for the behavior of the
horses.  That and.  A small pile of hay lay on the floor below the loft.
Deanna stared at it.  The hay had not been there the previous night when she
checked on the horses.  It should not have been there.

Beside the hay was a wooden ladder that reached into the loft.  Deanna put
her foot on the bottom rung.  She hesitated.  If an animal had gotten into
the loft, it might not be pleased to see her.  She plucked a shovel from its
hook on the wall and continued climbing.  The loft was under the eaves at the
back of the  stable.  It was lit only by the light that could filter in
through a few cracks in the planks.  The air was heavy with the scent of hay.
Several barn swallows nested on the rafters.  They fluttered softly, as
though sharing the horses' nervousness.

Deanna glanced around.  She could see nothing, but | she heard.  What?  A low
sound, rhythmic and oddly familiar.  It couldn't have come from an animal,
unless it happened to.  Snore.

Her hand tightened on the shovel.  This could be anyone--a woman, even a
child, one of the many people who had lost their homes because of the war.
But if it was, why not come to the door and ask for help in the proper way?
The Marlowes never refused assistance to anyone.

Their generosity was well- known throughout Belle Haven, even if many of
their rebel neighbors refused to credit them for it.

Who had come in the dead of night, sneaking past the house to hide in the
barn?  Who was there still?  .

Slowly, she crept forward.  The loft was so low she had to crouch.  Her skirt
brushed against the hay, making it rustle.  She was almost all the way to the
back before she spotted the huddled shape.

A sliver of light shone through the planking, illuminating the face of a
sleeping man.  He lay on his side, his legs drawn up toward his chest and his
arms wrapped around himself.  His hair was dark, and his jaw was shadowed by
at least a night's growth of beard.  As Deanna observed him, she noticed his
breathing appeared labored.  As well it might be, she realized, if the
reddish-brown spots of blood on the  hay near him were anything to go by.

Caution forgotten, she dropped the shovel and moved forward quickly.

Exhausted as he was, and injured as well, her presence pierced the veil of
sleep around him.  He woke suddenly, almost violently.

Instinctively, he lashed out, clenching her arm.

' "Who... ?"  he murmured in a voice that was deep and rasping.  His grip was
painful.  Deanna tried to pull away only to discover that she could not.
With wisdom she had not known she possessed, she ceased all attempts.  at a
struggle and instead spoke to him slowly and calmly.

"My name is Deanna Marlowe.  You're in my family's barn on Daniels' Neck.
You must have come here last night."

The man's piercing gray eyes never left her face.  He nodded slowly.

"Marlowe... I remember now."

"You're injured.  I must get you into the house.  We have bandages and
salves..."

"No!  It's too risky.  I wouldn't have come here if there were someplace else
to go."

The brief effort at speech appeared to sap what little strength he had.  His
grip eased as his hand fell away.

Deanna didn't move.  She remained by his side and looked at him more
carefully.  He was dressed simply in a cloak of good quality wool, a white
lawn shirt undone at the neck and snugly fitted black breeches.

The shirt's left sleeve was stained with blood and looked as though it had
been pierced by a sword.

"What happened to you?"  she asked softly.

The man grimaced.  Even wounded, he was ruggedly handsome.  His features
appeared carved from marble by a master hand, and his body, what she could
see of it, was heavily muscled.  Her breathing became just slightly labored
as she struggled to keep her thoughts on the far more important fact that he
was injured and in need.  Also, quite possibly, in danger.

"I was ambushed," he said with a note of disgust that suggested he blamed
himself.

"A couple of Tyron's men caught me out of town.  I was lucky to get away."

Not knowing why she did so, Deanna asked,

"Did they...?"  He shot her a hard, assessing look.

"No."

She swallowed with difficulty and told herself not to be a fool.  They were
in the midst of a brutal war.  Violence was all around them.  Did she expect
him not to defend himself?

Then, too, there was the fact that Tyron's men were well known for their
brutality.  They looted and burned at will, using the slightest infraction as
an excuse.  In Deanna's mind, they were not honorable soldiers but criminals
eager to exploit a tragic situation.  "Why did you come here?"  she asked
quietly.

' "A message... your father..."

"Duncan?"

"That's right, Duncan Marlowe.  I must speak with him."  Deanna sat on her
knees.  She took a deep breath  to steady herself.

"You've made a mistake.

Duncan is my uncle, he lives several miles to the north.  "

The man's dark brows drew together.

"You said..."

' "My name is Marlowe, but my father is Nathaniel, Duncan's brother."

His eyes narrowed.  With a speed she would not have thought possible, he sat
up.  In an instant, a steely arm closed around her throat, pressing her back
against him.

Held as she was, she could not see him.  But she could feel the deadly
strength that threatened to press the life from her.  And she could hear, all
too clearly, the words he spoke against her ear: "Tory bitch."

Chapter Two E/dward cursed under his breath.  Damn the ill luck that had
brought him to this place at such a time, wounded and in mortal danger with a
Tory woman in his arms.  Truly, the gods of fortune were laughing at him.

His mission was vital; he had to reach Duncan Marlowe.  But all he had
succeeded in doing so far was revealing himself--and Duncan--to a hated Tory.
Never mind that the girl was Duncan's niece; that didn't mean she'd have any
qualms about betraying him.  As for himself, it was a safe wager that she
would take pleasure in hastening him to the gallows.  Either eventuality was
unpleasant, but his mission counted above all.  He could not allow it to
fail.  His arm, honed by a lifetime of rigorous labor in a variety of
activities--some appropriate for a gentleman and some not--flexed against her
neck.  It was so slender that he could snap it almost without effort.  Easy
words.  He had never killed a woman, had never considered having to do such a
thing.  Could he manage it?

Coldly, almost experimentally, he tightened his grip further.  He felt her
stiffen but she made no attempt to struggle.  Was she simply too frightened
or was it possible that she understood the complete futility of any such
effort and preferred not to waste her strength?

With his arm around her throat, her head was pressed against his shoulder.
Curious, he glanced down at her face.  The light filtering through the stable
walls illuminated a profile of shocking beauty and delicacy.

And yet, surely he wasn't mistaken.  there was strength in the gently rounded
chin, in the perfectly shaped lips, in the eyes half shadowed by the thick
fringe of her lashes yet which still met his unflinchingly.

Very softly, for in truth she could hardly speak at all, she said, "You've
opened your wound again."

Startled, he looked at his arm.  Blood dripped from his arm to hers, staining
the fabric of her dress and soaking through it to touch her skin.  She had
felt his suffering while he had remained unaware of it.

And so she spoke of it, not of her own life, making no plea, only pointing
out to him with perfect reasonableness that he was not alone in being
endangered.

Nash hesitated.  It was only for an instant and almost imperceptible, but it
was enough.  Deanna bent her arm at the elbow, took as deep a breath as she
could manage, and slammed back with all her strength straight into his
stomach.

Pain exploded in him, not so much from the blow itself, although that had
been surprisingly effective,  but from the breach of the fragile
understanding they had reached only seconds ago.  His shoulder felt as though
a red-hot poker had been thrust into it.  He groaned and all but doubled
over.  Dimly, he expected Deanna to run, and he cursed his inability to stop
her.  But she did not move.  Instead, she remained close at hand, watching
him cautiously as she would watch a dangerous animal, but without making any
attempt to flee.

When the burning mist of pain had subsided, at least enough for him to
breathe again, she said,

"You have to trust me.  You have no choice."

Nash glared at her.  As a child, he had been a small, slightly built boy
whose pride drove him to take more than his share of thrashings at the hands
of bullies.  In his thirteenth year, he had suddenly begun to grow, adding
inches and muscles with stunning speed.  From that year on, no one had ever
beaten him.  Yet here he lay, felled by a blow from a woman who by all reason
should have been cowering in terror and plea dr ing for her life.

It was a highly unsatisfactory situation.  Also a bewildering one.

"How the hell did you know to do that?"  he demanded as he put his hand over
the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Deanna looked straight at his arm and didn't so much as flinch.

Coldhearted bitch, he thought, but he couldn't make the words stick.

Truth be told, he couldn't seem to catch hold of anything except the fact
that she was stunningly beautiful, there before him in the half light of the
stable, where her face seemed to waver, coming nearer, fading, nearer.
"Hold on," Deanna said through the fog that seemed suddenly to surround him.

He heard a sound like ripping and opened his eyes enough to see her tearing
away the hem of her petticoat.

"It's clean," she murmured as she began to wind the length of white cotton
around his shoulder.

Clean.  like the scent of a rain washed summer day when the lavender is in
bloom.  Like the perfume of her skin.  her hair.  the coolness of her touch.
The pain eased to a dull ache and with it took the fog that had threatened to
engulf him.  He lay, alert again, and watched her as she concentrated on her
task.  Her lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes were shadowed.
Perhaps she was not quite so immune as she liked to appear.

The thought gave him some grudging satisfaction but it did nothing to solve
his immediate problem.  Who exactly was Miss Deanna Marlowe, and could he
possibly afford to trust her?

When she was done, she sat on her knees and looked at him.  Without preamble,
she said,

"I'm sorry I hit you, but you left me no choice.

You were obviously upset.  I had to defend myself.  " Since he'd been
considering the possibility that he might have to kill her, this seemed a
sensible enough position.

"How did you?"  The corners of her mouth lifted.

"I have three brothers.  Unlike some men," she said, shooting him a
deliberate glance, 'they believe a woman should be able to protect herself.  "

"Paragons, the bunch of them.  I suppose they're  off fighting for the
Brits."  He was being grumpy and he knew it, but like most people, he hated
being in the wrong.  It wouldn't actually hurt him to go a little easier on
her, give her a chance to explain herself.  The trouble being, after years of
an increasingly horrible war, the more humane aspects of his nature were
nearly extinct.  "Charles is farming in northern Connecticut," she said.

"John is in France, and Peter" -- She broke off and her eyes clouded.

"He's disappeared, but I suspect Uncle Duncan knows where he is.  Father
probably does.  He just refuses to talk about it."  Edward's eyebrows rose.
A brother fighting for the cause?  If so, it might explain her willingness to
help him.

"Speaking of your father..."  The words came out as little more than a croak.

Deanna frowned.  She put a cool, silken hand to his brow.

"You're feverish."

"I'm not."

She shrugged.

"Have it your way."  Quickly she rose, gathering her skirts around her.

His heart tripped.  He scowled at her, hating his weakness, hating her seeing
it, hating the way she made him feel.

"Where are you going?"

At least it came out as a question, not the plaintive don't go he had feared
he would blurt, like a whining child clinging to its mother's skirts.  Damn
woman, damn situation, damn, damn.  "I need a few things.  It won't take
long."

' "For what?"  he demanded.

"You," she said, and turned on her heel, disappearing down the ladder.

He was left alone.

Chapter Three Q^gy^s^sQ .  Deanna dropped the last three rungs to the
ground.  She landed on one foot, caught her balance, hiked her skirts up and
ran.  The last of the morning mist was gone and already the air was growing
warm.  It would be warm in the barn, too, before very long, worsening the
situation of a wounded, fever-ridden man who could not be moved safely until
nightfall.

Her mind raced.  What exactly did she need and where was it?  She had to
clean the wound, stop the bleeding, do something about the fever, get water
into him, make sure he wasn't hurt in any other way.  On and on the list
went, but it soothed her.  She had been trained for this; she knew what to
do.  That steadied her and stopped her from thinking--for the time being at
least--about the extraordinary feelings the stranger unleashed in her.

She entered the house through the back door, directly into the kitchen.  A
century ago, it had been the main room, the first one built by her great
grandfather, Garrick Marlowe.  In front of the door was a large slab of stone
sunk into the ground.  Engraved on it  were the words: Amelia Daniels' House.

Garrick had incised those words on the stone when he began what had truly
been a labor of love.  In the decades that followed, generation flowed into
generation and the house had grown.  It encompassed twelve rooms, six on the
first floor and an equal number above, all graciously ornamented and
furnished.

But Deanna's favorite room was still the kitchen, with its smooth stone
floor, big fireplace and exposed rafters from which fragrant flowers and
herbs hung.  Just behind it, in what had been Amelia's still room she kept
her medical supplies.  Amelia's healing skills had been passed down in an
unbroken line through the women of the family, coming now to rest in Deanna's
capable hands.  Or at least she prayed they were capable.  In the still room
she gathered clean strips of bandage, which she always kept on
hand--especially in these times.

They went into her basket, along with neatly twisted lengths of gut, a
package of needles, salve of sanicle and yarrow to stop bleeding, liquid
camphor and, with only the slightest hesitation, a bottle of brandy.

With a quick glance out the window to make sure no one else was about, she
left the house and hurried back to the stable.  The stranger was just as she
had left him, lying on his side in the straw.  For a moment, she thought he
was asleep, or worse, unconscious.  But as she neared, his eyes opened and he
looked at her directly.

"You're back."

Her heart was pounding wildly, from the hurrying, she told herself.

Briskly, she knelt beside him and  began unpacking her supplies.  Without
looking at him, she said,

"I told you I would be."

"Why?"

Her head shot up.  Will-she, nill-she, the full force of his gaze struck her.
On a thread of sound, she asked,

"What do you mean, why?"

' "Why would you come back?"  He made a gesture toward the basket.

"Why help?  I thought you'd run to get your father."

"My father is away in New York," Deanna said.   She spoke quietly and with
dignity.

But, for the briefest moment, she wished that somehow this man would
understand how it was for her and why she did the things she did.

What folly such a thought was.  Her own family didn't even understand.

How could she begin to think that he might?

The stranger's eyes hardened.  She had thought them a shade like pewter, but
upon reflection she realized they more closely resembled the summer sky
blasted by violent thunderheads.  They suited him.  "You are alone here?"

"Except for the servants and the hands."  In fact, there were only two, and
both elderly, but she wasn't about to tell him that.  Though weakened, he was
still dangerous.  Let him think she was protected by an army of loyal
retainers.

In the back of her mind, she suspected that it wouldn't have mattered if she
were.  This stranger who had come so suddenly into her life would still do as
he chose.

Deanna began to unwind the bloodied bandage.

"What is your name?"

He did not answer right away.  Instead, he continued to stare at her in a way
that made her stomach quake.  Determined not to let him see the effect he had
on her, she kept her gaze firmly on his wounded shoulder, which deserved
attention.  The sword that had slashed him had left a deep and jagged mark.
Deanna frowned.  Nursing the injury would be no easy matter.

"Nash," the man said finally.

"Edward Nash."

"You aren't from around here, are you?"  She merely asked the question to
distract him as she removed the scissors from her basket and with quick
efficiency cut away what was left of his shirt.  Later, there might be an
opportunity to admire the broad sweep of his chest, burnished by the sun and
lightly dusted by dark whorls of hair.  For the moment, she had other
concerns.

"I'm from Boston," he said, again grudgingly.

"You don't sound like it."

"All right then.  New York."

She moistened a cloth with camphor and laid it lightly on the wound.

He flinched and his mouth set in a hard, thin line, holding back a groan.

"Better," she said, "but how about Philadelphia?"  His eyes narrowed.  Her
refusal to take him seriously appeared to irk him.  She rather liked that and
decided to stick with it.  It would help in the difficult moments ahead if he
had something to think about other than what she was doing to him.

"I perceive," he said, "that you were much indulged as a child."

"Indeed, what makes you think that?"  The camphor had done its work,
deadening the sensation around the wound enough for her to proceed.

"You lack the proper decorum for a woman."

Gravely, Deanna nodded.

"That is true."

"It doesn't seem to concern you."

"Oddly enough, I manage without it."

The corner of his mouth lifted.  For all the beating his iron strength and
will had taken, he was not without a sense of humor.  He took a deep breath
and exhaled slowly.

They looked at each other.  Quietly, Deanna said,

"The wound cannot heal as it is now.  It must be stitched."

Nash spared a single glance for the wound.  Grimly, he nodded.  His concern
seemed more for her than for himself.

"Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I have seen worse.  Our midwife died two years ago.  Since then I have
delivered nineteen children.  Also, the only physician in these parts is well
known to put his political sympathies ahead of his duties.

Those not in the good graces of the British stay clear of him.  " " And come
to you instead?  "

She shrugged.

"I care not for who a man is or what he does."  He said nothing, but the look
he shot her was frankly doubtful.  Deanna ignored it.  There was nothing more
she could say to reassure him.

Only her  actions would count.  She drew the brandy bottle from the basket
and uncorked it.

"Here."

Nash sighed as he took the bottle.

"Is this supposed to inspire confidence?"

"It's supposed to keep you quiet enough to let me work.  I cannot hold you
down.  If you fight, you will hurt us both."

He grimaced but did not dispute her.  Taking a long swallow of the brandy, he
handed the bottle back.

"Sure you don't want one, too?"

The thought was tempting, although Deanna never drank spirits.  And this
wasn't the time or place to break tradition.  Resolutely, she shook her head.

"Have another."

"That bad?"

"Just to be on the safe side."

He took the hint and swallowed again, more forcefully.  She watched the
ripple of muscle along his powerful throat and told herself she was merely
observing her patient.

Fortunately, he was very fit.  Quite extremely so.  His body was honed by
hard work and the rigors of wartime.  There wasn't an ounce of fat anywhere
on the whole, long length of him.  from the top of the midnight dark hair
down the chest ribbed by muscle over his flat abdomen to.  Stop!  She
absolutely could not do this.  Her cheeks were flushed and her hands, which
she quickly tucked behind her back, were shaking.

This was not how a healer behaved.  She took a deep breath and expelled the
air slowly while she instinctively sought the hidden inner place where
healing began.  This time, more  than ever, it was imperative that she find
it.  She never had been so distracted by a patient, so conscious of her own
vulnerability, so simply and plainly confused.

And yet, amid the confusion, the place was awaiting her like a cool forest
glen lit by dappled sunshine and perfumed by the scent of fecund earth.  The
place at the center of her spirit where there was only stillness and
certainty, and the strength she needed to do what must be done.

Her hands touched him lightly, urging him back onto the straw.  He went,
cautious and watchful but without resistance.  The light in her eyes
distracted him, made him forget the pain that was coming.  The taste of
brandy was on his lips, and the scent of woman hovered near, wrapped in
silence.  For a small space of time, the world seemed to narrow to this
single moment in the old barn behind the stone house close by the sea.

She moved deftly and lightly, with merciful speed.  He felt the sting of the
needle and the tightness of his flesh being drawn together, but it was all as
though from a great distance.  The light in her held him, the stillness
enveloped him.  Pain ebbed to a dull throb.  He breathed in, wondering
suddenly if he had been breathing at all, and stared at her.

She was very pale, so much so that the freckles along the bridge of her nose
stood out starkly.  A pulse beat in the smooth, white line of her throat.
But her hands were steady as she patted the fresh bandage in place.  Her
voice was strong.

"It should be fine now, but you have to rest.  It  would be best for you to
sleep.  After nightfall, we'll see about moving you."

A sudden wave of fatigue washed over him.  He fought against it.  ' "Moving
where?"

"To Uncle Duncan's.  It's the only place I can.  think of where you'll be
safe."

His tongue felt thick, his mouth moving with difficulty.

"How far?"

"Several miles, but don't worry, we'll find a way."  She touched a hand to
his brow.

"I'll be back soon.  Try to sleep."  He heard the rustle of her skirts as she
rose.  The hay was very soft.  A slight breeze whispered through the cracks
in the barn wall.  His shoulder throbbed but not greatly.  He stirred,
finding a more comfortable spot.

It wouldn't hurt to shut his eyes for a few minutes.  He'd been on the move
for two days.  His whole body ached with fatigue.  He'd just relax for a
little while before he figured out what to do next.  It was all well and good
for her to talk about getting him to Duncan's but realistically, that was
too much to expect.  She was handy with a needle, though, he had to admit,
and when she touched him.  A wave of pure pleasure moved through him.  He
laughed faintly at his own wayward self.  Life stirred in his body again,
banishing the death that had ventured nearer than he wanted to believe.  His
eyes closed, and he slept.

Chapter Four Q^ro^s^Q ' "That's fine," Deanna told Old Martha.

"I don't think we'll need many more potatoes.  Why don't you sit down and
rest for a while?"  The woman, now in her seventieth year, eyed Deanna
indulgently.  Martha had been there all Deanna's life, having come to Belle
Haven as a young bonds woman She stayed on to gain her freedom, marry and
raise a family.  With her husband dead and her children grown, she had gone
to work for the Marlowes, where she had been ever since.  It suited her to
mother Deanna with a gentle and sensible love, which was always kindly
received.  Now, age was creeping over her, dulling her perceptions and
sapping her strength enough that the thought of rest was tempting.

"If you're sure..."  she said.

"I am," Deanna told her gently.

"You've already done so much.  I don't know what I would do without you and
Lucas."

Lucas was the only hand still on the farm.  He was sixty and had a lame leg,
and it took him longer and longer to complete the daily chores.  More
frustrating  for him, there was little he could do to help the rebels he
privately supported even though he wasn't absolutely sure freedom for the
colonies would make much of a difference to blacks like himself.  "I'll take
the beans with me,"

Martha said.

"Least I can do is snap a few while I sit."

Deanna nodded.  Usually, Martha would take her basket down to the orchard and
settle herself on a bench near one of the apple trees growing heavy with
fruit.  For a few minutes, she would busy herself with the beans until the
combination of a drowsy day and her own fatigue overcame her.  Then she would
sleep for at least an hour or two.  .

"That's fine," Deanna said.  As casually as she could manage, she asked,

"Where's Lucas?"

"Went fishing," Martha replied.

"Said he was going to get us a nice couple of trout for supper."

"Sounds perfect.  I'll fix them just the way you like."

"Best get those beans done," Martha said, half to herself, as she gathered
up her basket.

"Beans always sit well with trout."  The kitchen half door closed behind her.

Deanna waited through the space of several breaths before she quickly dumped
the potatoes into water, checked that they were well covered and wiped her
hands.  With a last glance to make sure Martha was out of sight, she left the
kitchen.

The air in the stable was still and warm.  As she crept closer, she could see
the stranger, cradled in the hay, sleeping deeply.  His breathing was barely
perceptible.  Some color had returned to his face, but in  blotches.  She
touched a hand to his forehead.  His skin was hot and dry, exactly as she had
feared.

From her pocket, she drew the small stone jug of tea she had prepared.  She
lifted his head carefully, holding it in her lap as she urged a few drops of
the tea between his lips.  He resisted, grimacing at the taste, but she
perservered and was rewarded when he swallowed.

The willow in the tea would ease his fever.  She had also added raspberry for
strength and a dash of calming valerian.  All the plants grew near Daniels'
Neck, some in the herb garden Amelia Daniels had planted, which had been
lovingly tended ever since.  With bought medicines harder and harder to come
by--and of dubious quality anyway--Deanna had no choice but to rely on what
she could prepare herself.

Nash stirred in his sleep.  He turned his head slightly so that his face
brushed against her bodice.  Deanna stiffened.  His touch was fleeting and
completely unintended, yet her body couldn't help responding.  Her face
flamed as she felt her nipples harden.  The demands of her life had taken her
far from the innocent young girl she might have been.  Despite her experience
as a healer, she was untried in many ways, namely, as a woman.  The sudden
rush of desire that surged through her caught her unawares.  She trembled,
scrambling to her feet.

Nash murmured something she could not make out, then drifted deeper into
sleep.  Satisfied that she had done all she could for the moment, and
convinced it was not prudent to remain, Deanna turned to go.  Earlier she had
let the horses out to pasture.  The stable was empty as she passed through
save for a drowsing cat who looked at her with squinted eyes as she passed by.

Outside in the sun, she paused before deciding what to do next.  There were
plenty of responsibilities to occupy her time, but only one to occupy her
thoughts--the man asleep in the loft.  Try though she did, she could not
regard him as simply another patient.

The emotions he unleashed were dangerous.  She needed a calm head and a
steady hand to see them both to safety.  But she felt she possessed neither.
Her condition improved little as she walked toward the house, having decided
that the best cure for her state was to tackle the soap making, which she
loathed.  She would do an hour's penance melting fat and ash in the big iron
kettle.  By the time she was done, she ought to have her wayward thoughts
well in hand.

Before she could do more than stack kindling under the kettle, her plan was
interrupted.  A cloud of dust rising beyond the trees caught her eye.  She
straightened, standing tall and watchful as a party of men emerged on the
nearby road.

They came in a narrow line, a solitary rider in front, the rest behind on
foot, stoically breathing the dust the war-horse kicked up.

Their red coats flashed in the sun.  Officer and men alike wore
three-cornered hats.  Golden epaulettes shone on the shoulders of the front
rider.  A sword hilt gleamed at his side.

Deanna took a quick, hard breath and summoned her courage.  It had been a
fortnight and more since  any of Tyron's men had ventured out to Daniels'
Neck.  Knowing her father's sympathies, they had little reason to come near.
Yet, here they were, at the worst possible moment, looking too much like a
war party in search of trouble and hoping to find it.

The officer was all courtesy as he doffed his hat, offered her a sweeping bow
and said,

"Good day, Mistress Marlowe.  I trust we find you well?"

The smile on her lips was patently false, but the young man was fooled.  He
saw only a plainly dressed but breathtakingly beautiful young woman who
inclined her head graciously.

' "You do, indeed.  Lieutenant Haverston.  I trust you are the same?"

The officer beamed, delighted that she remembered his name.  They had met
once, about three months before, at a dinner given by General Tyron, which
her father insisted Deanna attend.  The young lieutenant had been one of many
eager to dance attendance on Marlowe's pretty--and presumably Tory--daughter.

"I am in the pink of health.  Mistress Marlowe," he assured her.

Gallantly, he added,

"But never better for being in your charming presence."

Behind him, the men shuffled their feet and rolled their eyes, exasperated by
such gallantry but too disciplined to give way to the ribald comments
undoubtedly floating through their minds.  That, more than anything, was
testament to the favor in which Nathaniel stood.

Among the rebels and their sympathizers, these men felt free to pillage and
loot at will.  But to Marlowe's daughter, they would not risk even the
smallest insult.

Drawing hope from that knowledge, Deanna gestured toward the well.

"Surely your men are thirsty.  The water is cool.  They are welcome to it."

The lieutenant sighed.  He would have liked nothing better than to tarry
awhile at Deanna's side, but duty--and more particularly, the harsh authority
of General Tyron--called.

"Alas, we cannot linger.

There are rumors of a rebel agent in these parts.  I only stopped by to warn
you.  "

Deanna summoned a doubtful frown.

"A rebel, here?  Surely that would be the height of foolishness."

Young Haverston smiled tolerantly, very much the man of the world
explaining-its ways to an innocent and sheltered young woman.

"No one has ever accused the rebels of being intelligent.  They're nothing
more than a mob with delusions of grandeur."  On a more somber note, he
added," " Unfortunately, they are capable of doing damage.  With your father
away--I understand he's gone to New York--it might be wise for you to come
into town, at least until we can determine that there is no longer any
danger.  "

"How kind," Deanna murmured, thinking furiously of a way to decline what was,
unfortunately, a reasonable suggestion under the circumstances without
arousing suspicion.

"But I have absolute confidence that if there is a rebel in the area, you
will deal with him most effectively."

Haverston preened ever so slightly.  He was no more immune to flattery than
the next young and impressionable officer far from home.  In his case, there
was also a streak of arrogance that made him particularly susceptible to
Deanna's apparent admiration.

"Rest assured.  Mistress Marlowe, no quarter will be shown any rebel.

This cursed war has gone on far too long.  We must demonstrate once and for
all that treason brings only death and destruction.  " Deanna thought of the
burned-out farms, the shattered families, the despair and anguish that
stalked every road and lane.

"I would say you have already made that quite clear.  Lieutenant."
Suppressing her anger, she went on swiftly,

"But tell me, who is this rebel exactly?"

' "I know little about him except that he killed two of our men yesterday.
At least, it may have been him.  No one around here is trustworthy, yourself
exempted, of course."

"Of course," Deanna murmured.  She was now anxious for Haverston to be gone.
Every moment he lingered increased the possibility that something in her
manner would arouse his suspicion.  Fortunately, he seemed able to
concentrate on little save the snugness of her bodice.

The dress was old, much laundered and shrunken, which she wore only for work.
Ordinarily, his attention would have annoyed her, but under the
circumstances she could only be grateful that he was not more perceptive.

Mustering a smile, she said,

"I do appreciate your stopping by.

Lieutenant, but I mustn't keep you from your duties any longer.  " " If you
are sure.  Mistress Marlowe.  "

"Quite."

"I still think you would be better off in town."

"If I see or hear of anything in the least upsetting, I will leave here
instantly."

Convinced that he had done his best, and mindful of how Tyron would view any
further delay in his mission, Haverston agreed.  He roused his men and, with
a final flourish of his hat, continued on his way.  When the soldiers were
well out of sight and the dust had settled behind them, Deanna's shoulders
slumped in relief.  That had been very close.

If they had come later in the day, asked to rest their horses, gone into the
stable.  The thought of what would have happened made her stomach turn.  She
had to reassure herself that the stranger was all right.  Quickly, she made
her way up to the hayloft.

But when she straightened in the half light and looked around, the loft was
empty.  Only a depression in the straw and a few rusted spots of blood
remained to show that Edward Nash had ever been.  Taken by surprise, she
turned toward the ladder to go in search of him; He might be delirious,
unaware of where he was or the danger he was in.

If he wandered beyond the farm and happened to encounter Haverston and his
men.  A steely hand closed on her wrist.  She was dragged hard against muscle
and sinew, enveloped in unrelenting male strength.  His breath, warm and with
the scent of brandy, scoured her cheek.

Remorselessly, Nash demanded,

"What did you tell them?"

Chapter Five ' '0 vJh, for heaven's sake," Deanna muttered.  Exactly how
much was she supposed to put up with from this great lout of a stranger with
his towering suspicions and nasty temper?  No matter what she did for him, he
seemed determined to think the worst of her.  So be it.

"I

told them you were in the stable," she said from between gritted teeth.  "
They could have just come in and got you but they thought it would be more
amusing to go hide down the road and grab you when you try to escape.  "

His hold on her loosened slightly.  Sounding as though they were standing in
a drawing room somewhere chatting politely, he asked.

"How old are you?"

She twisted her head around, the better to shoot him a dagger-edged glare.

"Twenty-three.  Why?"

"And unmarried," he said with satisfaction.

"Un- courted, too, I'll bet.  You'd scare the very devil off."

"Oh, really?"  This didn't seem like the proper time to mention Charles Peter
Harrow, baronet and major in His Majesty's loyal army.

Better to turn the  .

"Then what are you doing here?"  Abruptly, he laughed.  The sound was like
deep water running over stone.  It sent an unexpected surge of pure pleasure
through her.  She had to force herself to remember that he was a violent and
bad-tempered man, one she was helping only out of simple human kindness.  The
sooner she saw the back of him, the better.  "All right," he said, relenting,
"you told them nothing.

You're a paragon among women and I should be ashamed of myself for doubting
you.  How's that?  "

She wiggled free and made a great show of rubbing her wrist, which, truth be
told, was uninjured.

"They know you're in the area and they think you're responsible for killing
two of their men.  They won't rest until they find you."

He shrugged dismissively.

"I've been in tighter spots."  "Indeed?

Tyron has over two hundred men garrisoned here and another five hundred
within easy reach.  The population has been so terrorized that most people
are afraid to lift their heads up for fear of getting them lopped off.
You're alone and injured, several miles from where you intended to be.  Just
out of idle curiosity, how exactly do you propose to manage?  "

His white teeth flashed in the half light.

"Throw myself on your tender mercies?"

She widened her eyes in mock dismay.

"You are in trouble."

"Now wait a minute.  You said you'd help me get away after nightfall.

I saw the horses in the paddocks.  All I need is one.  " " I'm not giving you
a horse," Deanna said flatly.

"I'd never see it again.  Besides, if that wound opens, you won't be able to
ride."  He took a step closer, towering over her.  Their eyes met and held.
"I'll ride," he said softly.  A slow, lazy smile spread across his burnished
features.

"You'll be surprised how well."

She blushed without beginning to understand why.  Infuriating man.  He could
turn her emotions upside down without even trying.  Five years before, at the
start of the war, she would have been completely unable to deal with him.
But the years had strengthened and tempered her.  Defiantly, she lifted her
head.

"You'll go in a wagon or you won't go at all."

He scowled, a fearsome sight that would have struck terror into her had she
not been so preoccupied with standing up to him.

"Why is it better for me to struggle with a wagon rather than a horse?"

"Because I'm driving, that's why.  You'll stay out of sight in the back and
rest at the same time."

"You're proposing to go with me?"  He made it sound outrageous, as though she
had suffered some injury to her head and he hadn't realized it until then.

Deanna refused to be discouraged.  Stubbornly, she said,

"To my uncle's house.  I know the way far better than you, and if we're
stopped for any reason, I can make some excuse."

' "For being on the road late at night and apparently alone?"

"I'll think of something," she insisted.

"At any rate, you have no choice.  I won't let you go alone."

He opened his mouth to say something, something undoubtedly scathing.

She braced herself for whatever it might be, absolutely determined not to
give in.  But he surprised her.  Without warning, he smiled, a wolfs grin
that sent a tremor down her spine.

"As you wish," he said, "we'll go together."  As though he hadn't a care in
the world, he stretched out on the hay, laced his fingers together across his
broad chest and closed his eyes.  Dismissed, Deanna went down the ladder
muttering to herself about the vagaries of men and the inability of any woman
to ever understand them.

The day dragged on.  Twice she went to check on Edward, finding him
peacefully asleep.  His ability to rest so completely despite his wound and
the danger that surrounded him amazed her.  Once he woke, and she gave him
more of the tea.  He made a face but drank it willingly enough.

Lucas came back in late afternoon with a brace of trout.  Martha, refreshed
by her nap, joined them for supper.  With Nathaniel away, they ate together
at the big oak table in the kitchen.  "Saw some soldiers out today," Lucas
mentioned after they had said grace and complimented one another on the food.

"Seemed like they were looking for something."

"Trouble," Martha said.

"That's all they want.  Go about bothering honest people under their own
roofs."  She sniffed and broke off another piece of the  bread she had baked
that morning.  ' "Crying shame, if you ask me.  A body ought to be secure in
their own house."

Lucas smiled.  His hair was more white now than black, and his face was
deeply seamed, but his eyes were still alight with energy and good humor.

"You're sounding more like a rebel every day," he teased the elderly woman.

"That piece of paper they all signed at the start of this had plenty to say
about old King George not respecting people's rights.

Problem is, he doesn't realize we have any.  "

"We don't," Deanna said quietly.

"At least not so long as this war goes on.  All we can hope to do is survive."

Lucas sighed.

"That's the truth, sad to say.  Too much dying going on.

Getting to the point, people forget how to live.  "

Deanna reached for the stone jug of hard cider she had placed on the table.
She filled her friend's cups and added a splash more to her own.  Lifting her
cup, she said softly,

"To peace."

Lucas and Martha drank with her.  She filled their cups again but left hers
untouched.  Although she felt guilty at deceiving them, she was determined to
protect them from any knowledge of what she was doing.

The deeper they slept, the better.

Dinner ended in a jolly mood.  Deanna assured Martha that she didn't mind
clearing up by herself.

"You're a good girl," the older woman said, patting her on the cheek.

"But then you always were."  She took a candle and made her way slowly but
steadily up the stairs to bed.

Lucas lingered a little longer.  There was a watchful air about him.

Quietly, he asked,

"Anything happen today while I was fishing?"

Deanna wiped her hands on a length of toweling and hung it over a wooden pole
near the stone basin.

"Those British soldiers stopped for a few minutes but they went on readily
enough."

"And why shouldn't they?  This is Nathaniel Marlowe place and everyone knows
he's a good King's man."

"He believes in loyalty," Deanna said softly.

"Without it, he fears we will slip into chaos."

"That's possible," Lucas agreed.  The prospect didn't seem to worry him as
much as it did Deanna's father.  But then society had arranged itself in such
a way that Lucas had far less to lose.

He stood beside the door, half open to the balmy night.  A few stars
flickered between the overhanging branches of the trees.  Lucas could name
the stars in a language he alone spoke, having learned it from his father
long ago.  So, too, could he move like a wraith through the darkness,
vanishing in the blink of an eye with a skill any Pequot or Mohawk would have
envied.  He had spent his life with plow and hoe, but there was an air of the
warrior about him that made him keen-eyed and unflappable.  He put his hand
to the latch but hesitated.

"If you need anything..."

Deanna turned and met his gaze.  For an instant she was tempted, but then she
remembered his age and the special, terrible vulnerability he withstood
simply because of his race.

"I'm fine," she said, so firmly that he was left with  no choice but to
believe it.  He nodded and went out into the night, closing the door gently
behind him.

She waited, counting minutes.  Five, ten, fifteen.  A light flickered in
Lucas's cabin beyond the trees.  Sometimes he stayed up late carving delicate
wooden figures by lantern glow.

Not tonight, she prayed silently.  Let the hard cider and the long day
combine to send him into restful sleep.  Let oblivion wrap around Daniels'
Neck as thoroughly as the darkness did.

The light dimmed, faded into nothingness.  Quickly, she went to the high
carved chest beside one wall and drew out paper, pen and ink.

Martha could read a little, Lucas more than that.  They would understand her
well enough.

"I have gone to visit Uncle Duncan," she wrote.

"Don't worry, everything will be fine."

Deanna knew they would sense then that everything was not fine, but they
would wait, giving her time to return, before raising any hue and cry.  The
ink sanded, she laid the paper in the center of the table.  All her
preparations were made.  Now there was nothing left to do but act.

Chapter Six JNash was awake and waiting for her.  He declined her help
getting down the ladder despite the pain that caused a white line to form
around his mouth from clenching his jaw.  She judged that the camphor she had
applied to deaden the pain and the medication she had administered since were
wearing off, and tried to convince him to take more.

"No," he said, the single syllable cutting off all discussion.

Stubbornly, he insisted on helping her harness the horse and wagon.

They worked quickly and silently.

A full moon rode in the cloudless sky.  It would light their way but it would
also leave them completely exposed in the war-torn land.

"There are blankets in the back," Deanna said.

"I've tried to make it as comfortable as possible."  She was thinking of his
shoulder and the painful battering it would take as the wagon moved over
roads rutted from the spring rains and summer mud.

Nash shrugged.  He bent over to pick up something he had left in the shadows
beside the stable door.

When he straightened again, he was buckling a sword belt around his narrow
hips.

Deanna gaped.  The injured, feverish man she had tended throughout the
endless day stood before her, armed for battle.  Besides the sword, a musket
was slung over his uninjured shoulder and a knife gleamed from a leather
sheath around his thigh.  A powder horn and a sack of deadly shot hung from
his belt.  If she had any doubts at all about his warrior nature, they
vanished at that instant.  Nash spared a small smile for her obvious
confusion as he swung lightly up into the seat.

"I'll drive," he said and reached for the reins.

"Like hell," Deanna replied.

He froze and looked at her in shock.  Clearly, his opinion of her had not yet
sunk to such a level that he could anticipate such language from her.  While
he was still grappling with her utter lack of ladylike demeanor, she climbed
onto the seat, took the reins from him and slapped them lightly across the
horses' backs.

The grays were well schooled and long accustomed to her touch.  They
responded instantly, setting off down the road at a slow, steady pace.

"It makes no sense for you to drive," Deanna said, not daring to look at the
silent man at her side who was still staring at her.

"You don't know the horses or the route, and besides, if we run into trouble,
I'm sure you'll want to have your hands free."

"I don't think you really want to talk about what I'd like to do with my
hands right about now," Nash  muttered.

"Did your father never discipline you at all?"

"He took my favorite pony away one time for an entire week."   Nash shook
his head in mock astonishment.

"What heinous crime could you have committed to warrant such punishment?"

Deanna was loath to tell him, but neither was she eager to provoke him any
further.  Reluctantly, she said,

"He caught me sneaking out of the house at night and said it had to stop."

Slashing black eyebrows shot up.

"How intolerant of him.  He actually objected to his daughter going off at
night on her own?  Who were you meeting?"

"No one.  I was only eight at the time."

Nash frowned.

"WTiy did an eight-year old want to wander around alone at night?"

"I just liked it," she admitted, feeling embarrassed.  At the time, she
hadn't thought much about it except to resent her father's dictate.  But now
she supposed it did sound strange.  A little feebly, she said,

"I always stayed on our own land."  She did not add that she had gone in
search of night-blooming flowers and rare herbs, or that she had loved the
night, feeling perfectly safe and never encountering the least bit of trouble.

He thought badly enough of her already.  There was no point in raising the
dark, writhing word her father had thrown at her in the instant before he
wrapped his arms around her in a fiercely protective bear hug.  She was not a
witch, had never been, never would  be.  In these enlightened days, who even
believed in such things?  All she did was follow the old ways laid down by
Amelia Daniels and honored since by the women of her family.

If the men in her family found that difficult to understand, there was no
reason to trouble them with it.

Deanna noticed Nash shift in his seat.  She knew his shoulder must be hurting
him but did not mention it.  There was no point, he would only snap at her
again and deny any need for help.  None the less, there was something
comforting about having him beside her.  Maddening man that he was, she felt
oddly safe with him.

Her shoulders were stiff.  She flexed them surreptitiously and urged the
horses on.  It was a good seven miles to her uncle's farm in the back country
north of Belle Haven.  The town was gradually spreading out in his direction,
although now there were only a few isolated holdings perched along the narrow
dirt road that had been a Pequot hunting track.  Much of the primeval forest
remained, pressing in close against both sides of the road in places before
suddenly falling away to reveal cultivated fields and land cleared for
pasture.  Above it all, the moon shone, casting a ribbon of silver light over
the slumbering land.

Deanna's fingers loosened on the reins.  She was very tired.  The day had
been long and fraught with danger.  She felt drained of all strength just
when she needed it most.  Several times, she sat up suddenly only to slowly
slump down again as exhaustion  claimed her.  This time, her head, brightly
silvered in the moonlight, fell forward.

Nash sighed as he took the reins.  He would have argued more with her to
begin with but he'd presumed it was only a matter of time before the trials
of the day took their toll.  She was a woman, after all, and a young one at
that, not hardened to the rigors of life or inured to physical needs as he
was.  All things considered, it was surprising she had held up as long as she
did.  Now, she resembled nothing so much as a bedraggled doll bouncing along
with every jolt of the wagon and in danger of being toppled over.

He shook his head at the thought of stubborn females who didn't have enough
sense to stay home where they belonged.  He reluctantly put an arm around
her, drawing her against the shelter of his body.  She made a low sound deep
in her throat and snuggled closer.  Nash grimaced.  He forgot the throbbing
in his shoulder, the ever present sense of peril, everything except the woman
who leaned so trustingly against him.  Her hair smelled of honeysuckle and
lavender, her skin felt soft and warm.  It took very little effort to imagine
what it would be like to drive the wagon into the forest, take her in his
arms and forget that the rest of the world existed.  Until, of course, she
objected.

There was passion in her, he had seen it in the gleam of her eyes, the
stubborn tilt of her chin, the proud carriage of her body.  But there was
also fierce pride and courage, which would make her no easy tumble for any
man.

Tempted though she might be--he was confident  enough of his own abilities
with the opposite sex to give himself that much--there could be only one end
to such an encounter.  She would protest and he would stop, for the idea of
forcing any woman was repellent to him.  Far better to let her sleep and
continue on their way.  The sooner he reached Duncan Marlowe's, the sooner he
could set his mind once again on the life and death struggle called war
coming at last to its bloody conclusion.

But first they had to negotiate the forest track.  Up ahead, it divided, one
fork going west, the other continuing north.  Nash stopped.  He knew the
approximate location of Duncan Marlowe's farm but obviously he didn't know it
well enough or he wouldn't have made the mistake that landed him in
Nathaniel's stable.

The horses stood patiently as he pondered the situation.  The wagon no longer
creaked, the harnesses did not jangle.  There were only the night sounds of
the woods, small animals and insects, the flutter of a predator's wings.  and
something more, still faint and far off but coming closer, borne on the night
wind.  Men's voices.  Cursing, he stood, sliding Deanna down on the seat
behind him, and slapped the reins hard.  The horses started--not used to such
treatment--but they calmed quickly and moved at a brisk pace off the track
into the concealment of the trees.

The sudden movement jostled Deanna from sleep.  She woke and sat up, holding
onto the seat to keep her balance.

"What...?"

"Quiet," Nash said tensely.

"Someone's coming."

She said nothing and moved with silent agility from the wagon to stand before
the horses, soothing them with a touch.  They shied slightly, nervous in the
night and the sudden sense of danger, but not by so much as the flick of a
tail did they betray their presence.

Nash gestured to her to stay where she was and moved forward, staying in the
shadows of the trees, until he could see the road.  Nothing moved along it,
nor could he hear anything.  He almost believed that he had imagined the
voices until, after the space of several minutes, he heard them.  again.

The sounds were louder and closer, hearty in their tone and interspersed with
laughter.  The men, whoever they were, weren't making any attempt to conceal
their presence.  On the contrary, they seemed determined to announce it.

Nash shifted the musket from his shoulder.  He took a measure of shot from
the pouch at his waist and poured it into the barrel.  He came upon Deanna so
silently that she was not aware of him until he was standing almost directly
beside her.

She jumped, her face whitening.  Tensely, she whispered,

"What is it?"

He held out the musket.

"Do you know how to use this?"  She nodded, her eyes never leaving him.

"Why?"  "There are six men, maybe more.

They sound drunk.  "

" Renegades?   "

' "Most likely.  Are there many around here?"

"Too many.  They travel in packs like animals.  Some claim allegiance to the
rebels, others call themselves Tones.  It doesn't matter, they're all the
same.  For them, the war's just an excuse to commit crimes that would have
gotten them hung a few years ago."  His eyes darkened.  It was as he had
thought.  Not a party of friends returning late from some innocent excursion,
but men who saw the present turmoil as an excuse to let loose the darkest
sides of their natures.

Without further delay, he took the musket and the shot and powder from his
belt and handed them to her.

"What about you?"  she asked.

Nash smiled grimly.  He gestured to his sword and the knife strapped to his
thigh.

"I do better with these anyway."

She slipped the musket onto her shoulder.  The way she handled the weapon
reassured him.  She had told the truth.  At some point in her life, Deanna
Marlowe had learned to wield a gun.

"Who taught you?"  he asked.

"My brother Peter."

"The one who's disappeared?"

Deanna nodded.

"My aim is true but I've never actually shot at anything except a rock or a
piece of wood."

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her so that she had no choice
but to look directly at him.

"You'll do what you have to, understood?  With a bit of luck, they'll never
notice us.  But if worse comes to worst and one of them gets past me, I'll be
counting on you to stop him.  Don't let me down."

Deanna swallowed convulsively.  Nash squeezed her shoulders once before
releasing her.  As silently as he had come, he disappeared into the
surrounding forest.

She waited, her hand gripping the musket, barely breathing.  In the stillness
of the night, the men's voices rang ever more loudly.  Nash was right, they
did sound drunk, and all the more dangerous for it.  A tremor ran down her
back.  She murmured again to the horses and swiftly took their reins, tying
them to a nearby tree.  Her heart beat painfully.  Hardly breathing, she
crouched behind the wagon and waited.

Chapter Seven -Dehind a tree near the road, Nash waited.  He told himself
the odds were overwhelming that the men would never notice them.  They would
go on their way without trouble.  But the prickling at the back of his neck
and the sudden tightness in his stomach said otherwise.  Through long
experience, he knew to trust those warnings of impending danger.

Still, he hoped his intuition was wrong, not so much for himself, for he had
been in so many battles and skirmishes that one more seemed hardly to matter,
but for her.  Never before had he faced such a situation with a woman in his
care.  He felt the burden of that keenly.  The thought of Deanna falling into
the hands of such men sent a red mist roiling through his mind.  His hand
closed around the knife strapped to his thigh.  Eyes on the road, he eased
the blade from its sheath.

They came around a bend in the road, six as he had guessed, poorly mounted on
horses that looked tired and ill cared for.  Several of the men were listing
in their saddles.  They wore an odd assortment of  clothes, likely, the
fruit of their pillaging.  A bottle was being passed back and forth.

One of them struck up a drinking song, loudly and off key.  The others took
it up.  Nash waited grimly, counting the moments.  They passed directly in
front of him and continued farther down the road.  Ahead lay another bend
that would take them quickly out of sight.  He had just begun to believe
there would be no trouble when one of the men suddenly drew rein.

"Got to piss," he said, his voice slurred.  Awkwardly, he lowered himself out
of the saddle.

The other way, Nash thought.  Go the other way, you stupid lout.  But the man
turned so that his grizzled face was visible and began fumbling with his
clothes.

Several of the other men decided that seemed like a good idea and also
dismounted.  The rest continued passing the bottle around.  Nash shook his
head in disgust.

Those who were on foot fumbled with their clothes and turned to remount.  It
was almost over.  In another moment they would be gone.  A high, piercing
shriek tore a rent in the night.  The men jumped, whirling in the direction
from which it had come.  "What's that?"

"Over there!"

"Sounds like a horse."

"Something spooked it."

"Let's go!"

Scenting prey, they kicked their animals into a  rough and tumble rush off
the track and into the forest, straight toward where Deanna was hiding.

Nash cursed.  He had no idea what had set the horse off, but there was no
doubt what the result would be unless he acted with utmost speed.

Running flat out, he caught up with the men and hurled himself at the nearest
rider.  Coming from the shadows without warning, he took them by surprise.
The first man was on the ground, stunned into unconsciousness, before he had
a chance to realize what was happening.

The others would not be so easy.  Crude, undisciplined men that they were,
they were five to his one.  And they were no strangers to dirty fighting.
Nash sideswiped a blow from an ax that would have killed him, yanked another
man from his saddle as he was trying to load a musket, and only just managed
to avoid being trampled by a cursing, wild eyed brute who galloped straight
at him.

This last man drew a sword, and, brandishing it over his head, tried again to
ram Nash.  His maddened horse reared, hooves flashing in the moonlight,
missing Nash's head by inches.

Two of the men lay on the ground, alive but unmoving.  The other three were
in disarray, unsure how many attackers there were and disoriented by the
surrounding woods.  The wild-eyed sword wielder was made of sterner stuff.
He curled his lips to expose blackened teeth, stood straight up in his saddle
and charged Nash again.  Nash dodged this way and that, knife drawn.  He was
by far the better fighter, vastly more experienced,  honed for battle and
relentless.  All he needed was a single opening to get the knife in and end
the contest.

Sooner or later, the horse would rear in the right direction and he would
strike.

It had rained the day before.  The forest floor was still moist and slippery.
Before he could find the chance he needed, his foot slipped on the wet
ground and he lost his balance.  The renegade moved in for the kill.  Nash
rolled, trying to put distance between himself and the sword's lethal steel.
His body slammed into a boulder, momentarily blocking all escape.

The sword started downward.  To Edward, it sang through the night air of
death and destroyed hopes, of life thrown away in a forest glen and of
bitter, savage regret when he thought what would surely be his last thought
ever--beautiful, helpless Deanna.

A shot rang out.  It sundered the night, sending flocks of startled birds
whirling frantically into the sky.  The renegade paused, frozen in surprise,
staring down at the red stain that blossomed suddenly across his chest.

Twenty feet away, Deanna lowered the musket.  She stood motionless, white and
gleaming in the moonlight, less a mortal woman at that moment than a woman of
dreams.  Or so it seemed to Nash, who stumbled to his feet as the man who
would have killed him toppled slowly from his saddle.

The others fled.  The clamour of their flight echoed through the arching
branches, then died away.

A breathless hush settled over the glen.

Chapter Eight Ueanna bent slightly and leaned the musket against a nearby
tree.  If she moved too quickly, she feared she would shatter.  A blessed
sense of unreality settled over her.  She felt like a spectator staring down
at a scene fascinating in its horror.  Except she was there in the middle of
it, her shoulder still stinging from the recoil of the gun and a man lying
dead at her hands.

Her knees wobbled.  She reached out for the tree, but before she could try to
grab hold of it, Nash was there.  He caught her around the waist just as she
began to fall and lifted her high against the solid wall of his chest.

Swiftly, he carried her from the glen to where she had hidden with the
horses.  They were still there, tied to a tree, looking frightened but not
about to bolt.  While he felt a fleeting sense of relief at that, all his
attention was focused on the pale, still woman in his arms.

Gently, he lowered her onto the moss draped ground.  Her eyes were shut.  Not
a breath of color  shone in her translucent skin.  She could have been
carved from marble.  Had she fainted?  The thought was oddly terrifying.  She
was such an indomitable woman, so stubbornly courageous, maddening in her
insistence on standing up to him and irritating to the extreme--absolutely
the wrong woman in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Utterly, totally wrong.

Sweet heaven, he had to remember that.  She was the worst thing for him, the
absolute worst.  Get to Duncan's, thank her for saving his life--possibly
twice--give her a quick pat on the head and be done with it.  His hands were
shaking and his breath was ragged.  It was all he could do to keep from
roaring in anger that she was here, unconscious and in danger, and he was
seemingly helpless to do anything about it.

Her eyelids fluttered.  He stared, caught in a moonlit web as they lifted.
Dark, gold-sharded green light held the mysteries of her soul.

"Nash..."

Her voice was a breath on the wind.  She raised her hand, pale and absurdly
delicate, and lightly--so lightly--touched his cheek.

"Don't cry," she said.

Only then did he feel the hot tears trickling down his cheeks.  They stunned
him.  He didn't cry, hadn't since he was a very small child.

But now?  Here?  With her?  God in heaven, what was happening to him?  He had
faced death before, often enough that he did not find it a stranger.  It
wasn't that.  What had shaken him to the very core of his being were his
feelings for her, the desperate, tearing need to protect  her combined with
the uncontrollable drive to possess her fiercely.  She shifted slightly in
his arms.  He felt the warm strength and slender grace of her body.  Her eyes
were wide, filled with questions.  Her lips parted.

He bent his head, dark against the silvered glow of the moonlight.

The scents of moss and trampled grass mingled with the perfume of her skin.
She did not move but remained quiet in his arms, waiting.  Her mouth was
impossibly soft.  He melted into it, trying so hard to go slowly and finding
that he could not.  All the passions of the bloody, beautiful day abruptly
snapped inside him.  With a low groan, he lifted her closer.  His tongue
plunged deeply, stroking and tasting.

Distantly, he heard her moan but the small, female sound only drove him on.

His big, callused hand slid down her back to cup her buttocks through the
thin cotton dress.  Slowly, he pressed, released, pressed again in the same
rhythm as his tongue moving within her.  It was unfair.  He was an
experienced man, well schooled in pleasuring a woman.  She was an untried
girl.

Truth be told, she matched him touch for touch.  Within minutes, he was
trembling like a boy, on the verge of losing all control.  If there was any
chance to stop, it had to be now.

Slowly, he pulled away, grimacing at what felt like actual pain.  She
protested softly and reached out for him, but he caught her hands in one of
his and shook his head.

Hoarsely, he said,

"Don't.  This was more than I expected... much more.  I can't be
responsible..."

She lay back against the moss, her hair a golden cloud around her head, and
looked at him.  No words passed between them, but there was understanding all
the same.  He saw it in her eyes, which seemed suddenly to hold all the
world, saw the surprise and wonder, the yearning and still, thank heaven, the
caution.

Her own wariness strengthened his.  He would do the right thing even if it
killed him, which, he thought wryly, seemed a real possibility at the moment.
Every inch of his body ached.  Fire raged in his blood.

He had left behind his normally calm, rational mind.  Slowly, he stood and
held out a hand to draw her up.

"Are you all right?"  he asked.

She nodded but did not speak.  They walked to the horses.  Nash untied the
reins and helped Deanna into the seat.  She averted her eyes as they passed
the fallen men.

When they reached the road, Nash handed the reins to her.

"You know the way.  I'll keep watch."

She nodded, appearing relieved to have a task on which to concentrate.  It
had grown cooler.  He took his frock coat off and laid it over her shoulders.
She shot him a quick, grateful smile and turned back to the horses.

They traveled northward.  An hour passed and then another.  The track forked
twice more and turned back on itself more times than Nash could count.
Belatedly, he realized that without Deanna, he would never have found his
way.  But then he wouldn't have been alive to try.

He owed her his life.  It was a strange sensation to be so beholden to
another individual--especially a  woman.  No woman had done as much for him
since his long-dead mother brought him into the world, only to promptly leave
it herself.  His whole life, he had looked to women for pleasure, nothing
more.  This was different, far beyond the limits of ordinary relationships.
It was a realm he hesitated to enter.  Surely once involved, he would have no
greater luck traveling the labyrinthine byways than he could finding his way
through this forest thicket.

The road widened.  Deanna straightened her shoulders.  She looked very weary
but determined.  Softly, she urged the horses on.  For the first time in a   
long while, she spoke.

"It isn't much farther."  He nodded and shifted the musket in his hand.  He
had kept it there, primed and ready, since leaving the shelter of the trees.
But the renegades were long gone.  Only the solitary flight of an owl and
some scurrying in the trees disturbed the night silence.  They rounded a bend
in the road.  Ahead lay the dark silhouette of a house, the first they had
seen for many miles.

"Uncle Duncan's," Deanna said as she drew rein.

No light shone in the house.  It appeared that all within were asleep.

But barely had the wagon rolled to a stop than a shuttered window was opened
on the ground floor and a man peered out.

The barrel of a musket preceded him.  He was taking no chances.

"Who's there?"

"Friends," Nash called out.

"The one you were told to expect and another."

"It's me, Deanna.  I came to show him the way."

The shutters were flung aside.  A moment later, the  front door of the
farmhouse was thrust open.  The man who stood there was almost as tall as
Nash but several decades older, a burly, bearded man with an unrelenting
stance.  When he stepped into the moonlight, his face was incredulous.

"Deanna?  Is it really you?"

She slid from the seat and went to him.

"It is, Uncle Duncan.  I hope you don't mind."

The man lowered his musket.

"Mind?  Sweet lord, girl, you're as welcome a sight as I've ever seen.  But
how do you come to be here?"

He looked from her to Nash and back again.  Some ripple in the air between
them made him frown.

"I don't understand."

"I was wounded and sought shelter in Mistress Marlowe's stable," Nash said.
He stepped from the wagon but made no move to join Deanna.

Whatever differences there were between the Marlowe brothers, they clearly
did not extend to the honor of their womenfolk.

"She was kind enough to help me."

"So I see," Duncan said as he loomed over her protectively.  His manner
gentled somewhat as he faced Deanna.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you , how foolish this was?"

"What should I have done?"  she asked quietly.

"The British were looking for him.  If I'd left him where he was, or worse
yet, let him go off on his own, they would have found him for sure."

 "True,"

Duncan acknowledged.  He shook his head.

"Still, it's a hell of a mess.  If your father finds out, he'll have my hide,
and Nash's, too."

"Then I suggest we don't tell him.  Now if you don't mind, I could do with a
bit of rest."  Without  looking at either man, she stepped briskly into the
house.  Duncan and Nash eyed each other.  The older man relented first.
Sighing, he said,

"Women.  Be a dull world without them."

 "Indisputably.   Still, she is a complication."

Duncan laughed, a short bark that was both affectionate and rueful.

"She's that, all right.  Always was.  I meant it, though.  If her father gets
wind" -- "As she said, it would be best if he didn't."  Nash glanced up at
the moon flirting behind the leafy branches of the trees.

"We have a few hours left until dawn.  Let us see to our business."  Duncan
nodded curtly.  He stood aside to let Nash enter the house.  The front room
was empty.  Soft footsteps sounded above.

"My daughter's room is above.  She married half a year ago and moved away.
Deanna will sleep there."

Nash took his eyes from the ceiling and nodded.  Would she sleep after the
events in the forest?  And if she did, what would she dream of, death
staining the trampled earth or life soaring above the trees?  He would not
know.  In hours, he would be done and gone.  Grimly, he moved to a nearby
table and withdrew the map folded in his pocket.  Duncan brought a lantern.
Together, the two men bent over the paper.  Their talk was low and urgent,
and went on for some time.

Chapter Nine Lucas lowered the hoe he had been using to weed the kitchen
garden and put his hand up to shade his eyes.  There was dust on the road.

Someone coming.

"Martha."

The older woman stuck her head out the back door.  She squinted in the same
direction he was looking.

"Please, Lord," she murmured.  They hurried out past the stone wall and the
gate to stand together, watching.  The dust came closer.  The rattle of a
wagon and the familiar snort of horses rose above the lazy drone of insects.
Deanna was sitting on the seat, the reins in her hands.  Beside her was a
strapping young man, blond haired and broad shouldered, with a musket
balanced on a knee.  A second man, almost twin to the first, rode in the back.

"There you are!"  Martha exclaimed.  She tried hard to look stern but failed,
so great was her relief.

"We were worried sick.  What were you thinking of, going off like that?"

"Hush, now," Lucas murmured.  More that Martha,  he had seen the utter
weariness stamped on Deanna's finely drawn features.  Gently, he laid a hand
on the older woman's arm.

"Be time for that later."

Martha relented, but as soon as Deanna got out of the wagon she quickly
stepped forward and hugged the young woman fiercely.

"Are you all right?"  she asked, her voice quavering.

Deanna managed a tired smile.

"I'm fine."  She gestured to the two young men.

"You remember Sean and Colin?"

"This can't be them," Martha protested.

"They were little sprouts last time I saw them."

Lucas laughed all the harder when Duncan's sons flushed.  In the five years
since war had driven a wedge through the family, they had grown from gangly
boys to strong men.  So far, Duncan had managed to keep them from the
fighting.  But he didn't kid himself.  Unless the war ended soon, he stood to
lose them both.

"We just came along in case of trouble," Colin said.  He was the older of the
two.

From the back of the wagon, Sean shrugged regretfully.

"There wasn't any."

"Come in and have some cold cider before you start back," Deanna suggested.

Without further encouragement, they leapt down from the wagon and untied
their horses.  As they hitched them in front of the house, Sean said softly,

"It looks just like it always did."

"We've missed this place," Colin said.   He was the more outspoken of the
brothers, while Sean tended to be somewhat gentler and more thoughtful.

"I rem em her all the fun we had down on the beach when we were growing up.
You remember, De?"

Deanna nodded.  She looked away, not quite trusting herself.

"It's been hard on all of us."

Looking at the three bright haired young people, Martha sniffed.

"Come on in now," she said, and bustled ahead into the kitchen.  Lucas took
the wagon to the stable.  He came into the house a few minutes later after
settling the horses.  A frock coat was slung over his arm.

"This yours?"  he asked Colin.

"No, it's" -- Deanna reached out quickly and took the coat.

"Someone forgot it.

I'll take care of it.  "

The older man's eyebrows went up but he said nothing more.  Duncan's sons
drank their cider.  The talk was low and soft and broken by frequent
stretches of silence.  After a time they left, riding home through the
slanting shadows of afternoon.

Lucas went back to his weeding, and Martha took her nap.  Alone in her
bedroom under the eaves, Deanna laid the frock coat on her bed.  She smoothed
the fine wool absently as she thought of the man who had placed it over her
shoulders, the man for whom she had killed.  The man who had awakened her to
passion unlike any she had ever known.

Edward Nash was gone, vanishing into the dark before she awoke.  She could
not expect to ever see him again.  If she had half the sense she credited
herself with, she would be profoundly grateful for that.  He turned her life
topsy turvy and filled her with longings that were as frightening as they
were exhilarating.  There was no place for jitters and day dreams in a life
where survival had to be the only priority.  She had to believe that in time
she would forget him.  But the hollow ache at the center of her being said
otherwise.  Lifting the frock coat, she buried her face against it.  The
fabric smelled of sun and grass, leather and man.  It was an oddly comforting
scent.

Slowly, she sank into the chair beside the window, the coat still in her lap.
Tiredness swept over her.  Although she had slept the previous night, it had
been only for a few hours and badly.  Now her eyes fluttered shut and her
breathing deepened.

The sun had drifted westward behind the trees when she was awakened by sounds
in the front yard.  She jumped up and peered out the window.

A sudden surge of pleasure rose in her.  Her father was home safely.

But the happiness at his return died in an instant when she realized who he
had brought with him.

Charles Peter Harrow had dismounted.  He stood looking around with frank
interest.  At six feet, hard and trim with light brown hair and aquiline
features, he was every bit as handsome as Deanna remembered.

His appearance should have overjoyed her.  Instead, it filled her with dread.

Gold flashed at his shoulders.  He turned, caught sight of her and raised a
scarlet-clad arm in greeting.

Chapter Ten <.  if^ v^ould have knocked me over with a feather," Nathaniel
said.

He sat in his favorite armchair in the front parlor, his long legs stretched
out in front of him, a glass of brandy in his hand and a satisfied smile on
his face.

Deanna sat on the set tee nearby.  Charles was by the window, also sipping
brandy, gazing at her fondly.

"Ran into him in Fruncis Tavern," Nathaniel went .  on.

"Only just got off the boat.  Quite a surprise."

Deanna managed a weak smile.  She was still , deeply shaken by Charles's
sudden appearance and the contradictory feelings it set off in her.  This was
the man she supposedly loved and whom she might have married a few years
before.  By all rights, she should be overwhelmed with delight to have him
there.  But instead, she could think of little except how very different he
was from Edward Nash.  The American spy was danger and passion, fiery
promise, challenge and desire--all the things that had been missing from her
staid, safe, workaday world.

Whereas Charles was.  was what?  She hadn't seen him in more than five
years.  He looked little changed, only a bit heavier and more mature.

It was she who was different, different in ways he could not see or even
begin to suspect.  He had known a protected, even somewhat spoiled girl who
took for granted that life would always offer her happiness.  But she was a
woman now, in mind if not fully in body, far wiser and more aware of how
treacherous life could be.  "I've been seconded to General Clinton's staff,"
Charles said, oblivious to her troubled thoughts.

"He's assigned me to be liaison with General Tyron here in Belle Haven.
Unfortunately, I'll have to travel back and forth to New York fairly often,
but at least I won't be a complete stranger."

"Couldn't have worked out better, could it?"  Nathaniel asked.  He was as
satisfied as if he had personally arranged the matter.  "I didn't realize you
were in the army," Deanna said weakly.  She still couldn't get used to the
sight of Charles in the bold scarlet uniform, redolent as it was of arrogant
confidence and the relentless will to dominate.  He had seemed a gentler man,
yet the uniform suited him.

' "I only just bought my commission.  Frankly, with Father still going
strong, there wasn't a great deal for me to do at home.  I thought it would
be a good time to see a bit of the world, while serving King and Country, of
course."

"Of course," she murmured.

' "I imposed on a few friends to see that I was billeted over here."
Abruptly, he blurted,

"I

must say, Deanna, you're a sight for sore eyes.  "

Nathaniel laughed as he set his brandy on the sideboard and stood up.

"I like a man who's not afraid to speak his mind.  How long are you staying
this time, Harrow?"

"At least a week, sir.  General Tyron is giving a ball and he expects all of
the officers to appear.  I wonder if Deanna would like to accompany me?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself?  I've work to be done."  With a nod at them
both, Nathaniel sauntered out of the room.

Deanna stared after him in dismay.  Her father had never left her alone with
a male over the age of fifteen.  He knew that in the ordinary course of her
day, she often encountered men alone, but when he was around she was never
left unchaperoned.  She supposed it was his way of making a point.  And it
had worked.  Until now.  Now he had quite deliberately, even pointedly, gone
off and left her alone with Charles.  The message couldn't have been clearer.

Charles cleared his throat.  He advanced toward the set tee and slowly lowered
himself upon it.  Hesitantly, he took Deanna's hands in his.

"I don't think I realized until now how much I missed you."  Her cheeks
warmed.

"That's kind of you," she murmured.

"I mean it.  We only had a few months together when you were in England, but
I knew then that you were the woman for me.  I should have declared myself.
Instead, I foolishly let you go thinking I would  join you shortly and we
would have a chance to get to know each other better.  It was a mistake."

Charles was not given to long speeches; this was the most talk she had ever
heard from him.  And she could not recall him ever expressing his feelings
more clearly.  Her throat tightened.  This should have been the most glorious
moment of her life, but instead it only filled her with dread.  She had a
sudden, terrible fear that he was actually about to propose.  In an almost
desperate bid to prevent that, she said,

"This ball the general is giving, do tell me about it."  Charles looked a bit
startled at her sudden interest, but recovered manfully.

"Well, as to that, I don't really know much about it, only that he's giving
it, of course, and that he expects a good turnout."  Realizing belatedly that
he was making the affair sound too much like a duty call, he added,

"Bound to be fun, don't you think?  Show the colors and all that."

Showing colors--British, American, any at all-- was not to Deanna's taste.
She had long ago decided on a stance of strict neutrality in order to stay
loyal to both sides of her divided family and to carry out her duties as a
healer.  But she could hardly tell Charles that.

Instead, she smiled faintly.

"Sounds a bit ambitious.  I can't remember the last time there was a social
event in these parts."  Charles grimaced.  His hands tightened on hers.

"You poor little thing.  I really do blame myself.  I should have come and
gotten you, taken you away from all this.  When I think how deprived you've
been" "Actually, we've managed quite well," Deanna interjected.  He appeared
to be working himself into a fervor, something she most certainly did not
want.  Briskly, she pulled her hands away from his and stood up.

"It is good to see you, Charles."  Good didn't really describe it but she was
determined to be polite.

He rose, frowning but left no choice.  Courtesy constrained them both.

' "Yes, well, I suppose I should be going..."

"If you must.  I do have quite a few chores I need to see to."  They walked
to the door together, Deanna doing her best not to hurry.

"About the ball," Charles said.

"The ball, yes, of course."  She did not want to go.  The very thought filled
her with dread, but there was absolutely no way she could refuse without
disappointing her father and hurting Charles.  Neither man deserved such
treatment.

"I will be honored to go with you."  She was rewarded by the relieved smile
that wreathed his features.  When their eyes met, she noticed that his were
warm with approval and something more--something she would not have been able
to recognize even a day before.  "Until then," he said and raised her hand to
his lips again.

Chapter Eleven Q^T^s^Q 4 ^TT nold still," Martha said through a mouthful of
pins.

"I swear, you wiggle more than a worm on a fishhook."  Deanna grimaced.

"Maybe because that's how I feel."  Martha looked up from where she was
trying to pin the hem of Deanna's dress.

"Why?"  she demanded.

"Because you're going to a ball?  How many girls do you think would like to
be in your spot?"

 "Plenty," Deanna admitted.

"I know I sound horribly ungrateful but" -- "No buts.  Charles Harrow is a
fine man.

Besides, you could do with a touch of fun.  "

Deanna bit back a sigh.  There was no point arguing with the woman.

Ever since she learned of Charles's arrival, Martha had been in a romantic
frenzy.  Charles was the answer to all her concerns.  He would whisk Deanna
away from her dangerous surroundings, bestow upon her the position and
material well-being she fully deserved and spend the rest of his life being 
a loving, protective husband.  In short, he was perfect, which meant that the
dress had to be, too.

Deanna didn't want to ask where Martha had gotten the flowered muslin for the
bodice and overskirt or the rose silk for the petticoat, much less the
delicate Flanders lace to trim the wrists and neckline of what promised to be
the loveliest gown she had ever possessed.  Such luxuries had long since
vanished from the war-torn country.  Sea captains who managed to run the
British blockades brought in far more important goods, namely weapons.  Only
very rarely did anything else slip by.

But Martha had her ways--and her friends.  She was rightly pleased with
herself, and Deanna didn't have the heart to change that.  She took as deep a
breath as she could manage and made a valiant effort not to move.

Directly opposite Deanna was a full-size mirror set in a mahogany standing
frame.  The mirror was very old.  It had belonged to Amelia Daniels Marlowe.
The glass needed to be re silvered but it was still clear enough for Deanna
to be startled by the sight of the woman reflected in it.

It had been so long since she had seen herself in anything other than plain,
serviceable clothes that she had forgotten what she could look like in
anything different.  The woman in the mirror was a stranger, a creature of
cool beauty and elegance who eyed her levelly, revealing nothing of her
thoughts.

Sweet heaven, was that her?  More to the point, was that how she would look
to Charles?  Innocent she might still be, unaware she was not.

Martha's comment about the worm had been more fitting than she had realized,
for surely the woman in the mirror was intended to bait a baronet.  She
cleared her throat and ventured a tentative suggestion.

"The neckline is a bit low, don't you think?"

Martha didn't even deign to look up.

"You're not a wee lass any more, are you?"

' "I'm not a married woman, either."  And she didn't intend to become one any
time soon.

"It's not appropriate for me" -- Martha muttered something under her breath
and stood up laboriously.

She made a show of massaging her knees as though to emphasize that she was an
old, weak woman deserving of better treatment.  But there was nothing weak in
her manner as she demanded,

"Deanna Marlowe, what is the matter with you?  I've never seen you like
this."  More gently, she added,

"Child, whatever troubles you, tell me.  I'm not so old that I don't remember
what it's like between a maid and a man.  There can be many a rough spot
along the road before a soft bed is reached."

"It's not like that" -- Deanna began, only to break off when she realized
that it was exactly like that.  The problem was that the man vying for her
attention was Charles Harrow.  Not Edward Nash.  Heaven help her, she was
still thinking about the American.  Her face flamed.

She averted her eyes from the mirror and said softly, "There's nothing wrong,
Martha, truly."

It was the greatest lie she had ever told, and she feared her bright cheeks
would give her away.  But the older woman, though she appeared far from
convinced gave quarter.  She went back to her pinning and shortly had it done.

"There," Martha said, satisfied.

"Take it off careful now."  Deanna complied.  She put her homespun dress back
on with relief.  The gown lay spread out on her bed like a hothouse flower
sprouting at the edge of a barren field.

"It is beautiful," she said, unable to hide her longing.  If only the world
were different, if only she were the young, carefree girl she had been.

"And so will you be," Martha said.  She patted Deanna's cheek with her
careworn hand, gathered up the gown and was gone.  Deanna stood at the
window, staring out at the verdant landscape.  She had been penned up all
morning and could bear it no longer.  On the spur of the moment, she tugged
on her oldest leather boots, grabbed her bonnet and hurried down the stairs.

Nathaniel had gone into town.  Lucas was about his chores.  Martha sat in the
kitchen, the gown in her lap, humming softly to herself as she stitched.  She
seemed sublimely happy, undoubtedly imagining what the ball would be like.

Deanna felt guilty as she sneaked past her and slipped out the front door.
She should be able to share Martha's enthusiasm but all she could muster was
a dull sort of apprehension.

The day demanded better.  Sparkling sunlight, air scented by the sea and the
cacophony of bird song beckoned her away from unhappy thoughts.  Deanna didn't
hesitate.  She headed straight toward the beach.

Guilty pleasure bore her along.  She walked, swinging her bonnet, which she
truly had meant to put on, until she came to the sand.  There she paused
beneath a twining blackberry bush to remove her boots, leaving them along
with her bonnet.

The sand was warm and ticklish between her toes.  Picking up her skirts, she
ran lightly to the water's edge.  Foam flecked wavelets played catch along
the length of the beach.  Sandpipers darted out as a flock of brown pelicans
bobbed fifty feet from shore.  Deanna laughed with the sheer joy of it all.
After the confusion and worry of the past few days, she felt reborn.  She
pulled the ribbon from her hair and let it flow behind her on the wind as she
ran down the beach.

For a moment, she was tempted to do as she had as a child, find a secluded
spot, shuck her clothes and go swimming.  But she was a child no longer, and
the fact remained that many boats frequented the waters around Belle Haven.
Privacy could be a fleeting thing.

Instead, she compromised by hoisting up her skirts to mid-thigh and wading
into the water.  Small fish darted around her legs, and crabs skittered out
of the way.  Lobsters moved lazily among clumps of seaweed.  Farther up the
beach, black mussels gleamed on the rocks where the tide had lately covered
them.

Deanna couldn't resist.  She remembered too well the seafood stews of her
childhood and how they had always tasted best when she did the catching
herself.  Bending slightly so that her long hair trailed in the water, she
plucked a lobster from its watery den, taking due care not to be clawed, and
dropped it into her  upheld skirt.  Several crabs followed.  She moved up
the sand to the rocks, collecting mussels as she went.  So intent was she
that she did not notice the man standing half concealed in the shadows of the
nearby pine trees, watching her.

Chapter Twelve JN ash grimaced at the taut hardness of his manhood.  He was
a fool to have come here, a fool to ask for more trouble than he'd already
had.

A fool to be longing after a woman who should mean nothing to him.

Angrily, he turned away from the sight on the beach.  He had not expected to
find her like this.  It had never occurred to him that she would be any place
but at home, tending her chores with her servants nearby, and possibly also
her father, who was known to have returned.

It was the challenge as much as anything else that had driven him to take
such a feckless risk.

He had thought--if he thought about it at all--to surprise her, claim the
return of his frock coat as his excuse and conduct a few minutes of chaste
conversation during which he would thank her politely for saving his life
twice and then formally take his leave.  All so much fluff, he thought,
disgruntled.  He had really wanted to reassure himself that the sudden
appearance of one Charles Peter Harrow, baronet, had not changed her.  But of
course it must have.  She was  only human, after all, a woman as susceptible
as any to the blandishments of wealthy, powerful men.

Truth be told, he had used those self-same blandishments to good effect
himself.  He could hardly blame that Harrow chap for doing the same, damn him
to hell for all eternity.

His hands clenched.  This had to stop.  He had a mission, people were
depending on him.  Never had he shirked his duty, no matter how painful or
difficult.  No reason to start now at this most critical of turning points.

Silently, he moved away from the beach but the image of the golden woman
laughing with a child's pleasure among the caressing waves stayed with him.
He could not get it from his mind.  That most likely explained his
distraction, and how it came to be that he, experienced woodsman and ardent
practitioner of stealth, was taken by surprise.

The man dropped ten feet ahead of him, coming out of the trees to land
upright on the path, blocking Nash's way.  He was tall and rangy, dressed in
deerskins, with a musket slung over his back, a knife in his hand and a hood
pulled down to conceal his features.  Edward crouched, cursing under his
breath, and in an instant had his own knife out.  Behind him a soft thud
announced that the other man was not alone.  Nash could not afford to turn
around to see who else was there.  Instead, he moved forward cautiously,
trying to maneuver into a better position.  The man blocked him at every
turn.  There seemed to be no alternative to a fight that would, at the least,
be  bloody.  But suddenly, the man straightened, put his hands on his hips
and laughed.

"I don't believe it," he said as he pulled the hood off.

"Edward Nash ambushed.  There's one for the record books."

Nash scowled even as he sheathed his knife.  He was embarrassed and
determined not to show it.

"Haven't you anything better to do, Wesskum, besides run around in the woods
playing children's games?"

"Game, is it?  You wouldn't have thought it was funny if I'd been a Brit."

"If you'd been a Brit," Nash said succinctly, "you'd be dead."  He nodded his
head toward the second man.

"You and your friend here."

Wesskum grinned.

"Big talker."  He nodded to his companion who, after a quick glance at Nash,
vanished silently into the forest.

"I heard you were in these parts," Wesskum said.

The menace of a few moments before was gone.  In its place was matter-of-fact
pleasantness as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about them
meeting in such a way.  But then, Nash thought, in these times there probably
wasn't.

"Is there anyone who hasn't heard?"  he asked, grumbling.

"Maybe we ought to print up handbills.

Wouldn't do to have the Brits miss anything.  "

" You're in a mood.

What's the problem?  "

"Nothing, everything's fine.  I've just about got what I came for and I'll be
on my way."

"Not so fast.  Something's come up."

Nash's eyes narrowed.  He knew Fletoher Wesskum  more by reputation than
anything else, although the two men had worked together occasionally in the
past few years.  The woodsman and scout was an ally the Americans were glad
to have.  He had been born in Belle Haven of partly Indian stock that dated
back generations.  Although he said little about himself, and was known to
disappear for weeks on end, he had a way of turning up with useful
information just when it was needed most.  Now, for instance.  "Did you know
Tyron's giving a ball?"  Wesskum asked.  Nash frowned.  He had a sudden,
piercing image of Deanna in Harrow's arms, dancing.

"I heard."

"Did you also hear that Clinton's coming up for it with some of his officers?
He and Tyron are going to use the occasion to have a face-to-face meeting."

Nash looked hard at the scout.

"Are you sure of this?"  "Dead-on.

Wouldn't mind being a little bug on the wall.  How about you?  "

"Can't say I wouldn't," Nash said thoughtfully.

"If there's any way..."

Pletcher plucked a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth.  With
studied casualness, he said,

"There's a closet in the room where they'll meet.  If somebody got in there
ahead of time and managed to go undetected, who knows what might be
gathered?"

 "It's worth a try.

Who did you have in mind?  "

"I'd go myself, but unfortunately there's only one way into the room--right
smack through the rest of Tyron's headquarters.  I can slip through any
forest on  earth without being seen, as I believe you just witnessed.  But
the minute I set foot indoors, I stick out a mile."  He cast a daunting look
at Nash.

"We wouldn't happen to know somebody who can pass for a nob, would we?"

"Who've you calling a nob?"

"You, laddie.  You can swag with the best of them.  What do you say?"

"Might be worth a try," Nash said.  He fell silent, thinking.  After a time
he smiled.

Chapter Thirteen Q^zn^ssfQ 1 orches lit the way to Tyron's headquarters.  Up
and down the road in front of the single-story wooden building, carriages and
horses jostled for room.  Deanna had seen nothing like it since the years
before the war.  She stared dumbfounded at the crush of people and animals,
the darting firelight, the laughter and the music.  It seemed like another
world, one very far removed from her own.  Charles smiled reassuringly and
patted her hand.

"Have I told you how lovely you look?"

She sat back against the padded leather seat of the carriage.

"Several times."

Aside from a slight flush he was unrepentant.

"It bears repeating.

You were beautiful enough in London five years ago, but now.  " A certain
light came into his eyes.  He leaned closer.  Hastily, she said,

"I believe the line is moving."  He withdrew reluctantly, and a few minutes
later they were able to leave the carriage with a stable hand in front of
General Tyron's headquarters, which was situated a short distance from.  the
river landing.  In  peacetime, the building had been a tavern where barges
and other vessels customarily put in.  Just down the broad, hard-packed road
was a popular stable and across from it was the church.  In front of the
church was the town green, which legend had it Amelia Claniels had laid out.

In its earliest years, the church had been the site of a meetinghouse and
fort where the first inhabitants of Belle Haven had been forced to take
shelter during an attack by renegade Pequots.  Not until several decades
later did they feel safe enough to remove the high, protective walls and add
a church onto the meetinghouse Even in the midst of war--or perhaps
especially then--the church was a busy place on a Sunday morning.  But at the
moment, the former tavern was the focus of all attention.

On Charles's arm, Deanna climbed the three narrow steps to the wooden porch.
The double doors stood open.  She caught sight of scarlet-clad men and gaily
gowned women milling about inside.

Apart from the women, very few civilians were in evidence, and those,
well-known Tory supporters.  With the exception of her father, who had passed
the event off as being "for the young people," it looked as though most
everyone had accepted General Tyron's invitation.  Charles signalled a
passing servant and got them both a drink--Rhenish wine for himself, cider
for her.  She took a sip while eyeing the room over the rim of her glass.
General Tyron was holding court in a corner of the main room, surrounded by
a group of officers He was a short, round-faced man of stocky build with a
pugnacious expression and somewhat florid features.

Deanna disliked him intensely for the brutal way he treated Belle Haven's
inhabitants, but she knew better than to let her feelings show.  As Charles
drew her over to be introduced, she settled her features into what she hoped
was an amicable expression and took a firm grip on her temper.

Tyron saw them coming.  He broke off his conversation with a young,
eager-to-please lieutenant and smiled benignly.

"How nice to see you.

Miss Marlowe Your father mentioned you'd be coming by.  " Turning his
attention to Charles, he added,

"Do I gather I'll be seeing you often in Belle Haven, Major?"

The young officers relegated to the background eyed Charles with envy and
admiration as he responded.

"Yes, sir, you've gathered correctly."

Tyron laughed.  He was said to like people who weren't afraid of him, perhaps
because there were so few of them.

"Good lad.  Clinton speaks well of you.  I hope he's right.  We're riding
into difficult times."

It was on the tip of Deanna's tongue to point out that they had been in them
for quite a while now.  The British hadn't even considered the possibility of
the war dragging on five years.  They had expected a quick, decisive victory,
and indeed, in the early months of the conflict, it had seemed they would get
it.  But the Americans had rallied and against all expectations had managed
to hold on.  It was whispered now that they had even gained the advantage.
Unless  the British could end the struggle soon they might actually lose.
Defiantly, a tremor of pleasure ran through her at the thought.  With her
precious neutrality more at risk than ever before, she was glad of a sudden
disruption by the door that diverted Tyron's attention.  He swept forward to
greet the man who had just arrived.  Loudly, so that all could hear, he said,

"General Clinton, welcome.  I trust you and your men are well rested from
your journey and prepared for our revels?"

The tall, genteel man he addressed frowned slightly.  Unlike Tyron, Clinton
had a reputation for restraint.  He prided himself on being a gentleman and
never allowed the war to get in the way of proper conduct.

"Rested, yes," he said.

"As for the revels, I trust they will be properly restrained as is keeping
with the times."  Tyron's brows knit.  Clearly, restraint was not his chief
concern.  But Clinton was the senior officer, and Tyron was far too adept to
oppose him directly.  Instead, he merely shrugged.

"Of course.  But the good people of Belle Haven--loyalists all--will be
disappointed if we turn aside their hospitality."

Having thus neatly transformed the ball into a testament of support for King
and Country they could not possibly discourage, he led Clinton forward to the
groaning board and signaled a servant to make sure everyone had a drink.

"A toast," Tyron said when they had all been  served.

"To His Most August Majesty, King George III."  Voices rang out,

"Hear, hear."  Glasses were solemnly lifted.  A hearty baritone began to sing

"God Save the King,"

with the others quickly joining in.

Or most of the others.  Deanna stood mute.  If necessary, she would claim
later that she had a poor singing voice and did not wish to disgrace herself.
Several of the other women, she noticed, appeared to have the same
affliction.  As for the men, they were oblivious, caught up as they were in
the ringing proclamation of their allegiance.

At length, the song was done and conversation resumed.  Charles introduced
Deanna to several of his fellow officers, all up from New York with Clinton.
They were faultlessly cordial even if their eyes did tend to linger rather
longer--and lower--than she would have liked.

She blamed the dress, which fit her to perfection.  Martha had outdone
herself.  No woman in the room was better gowned, not even those who through
their husbands--or lovers--had access to smuggled goods.

Certainly, Charles approved of her appearance.  He barely took his eyes off
her as they circulated around the room.  Deanna found the exercise boring
until it dawned on her that he was showing her off with a proprietary air
that the other men could not possibly miss.

Resigned to making the best of it, she was relieved when he suggested that
they dance.  An impromptu ballroom had been set up outside with planks of
wood laid over the ground and lit torches lashed to posts.

"It's hardly London," Charles said as he led her out, 'but it will make for
an amusing story years from now, how we danced under the moon in the midst of
war.  "

Deanna's throat tightened.  He was presuming a great deal, yet in all honesty
she had done nothing to discourage him.  Her coolness was no more than was
proper for a well-bred young woman.  As for her thoughts, they were entirely
her own, un confided to anyone.  The dance was a minuet, for which she was
thankful.  Its intricate steps demanded concentration and separated her from
Charles at regular intervals.

They were back together for the pirouette when her glance happened to turn in
the direction of the doors leading into the building.  For a moment, she
froze and only with difficulty managed to resume the steps.

The dance ended.  Deanna looked frantically around, telling herself she could
not possibly have seen what she thought she had.  She had just begun to shrug
off her folly when Charles suddenly raised a hand in gesture.

In a pleased voice, he called,

"Nash!"

Chapter Fourteen Q^^ps^Q -Hearing his name, Edward stopped just as he was
about to enter the building.  He spotted the man bearing down on him.  With a
muttered curse on his lips, he strode forward to greet Charles.  "Harrow, I
heard you were around.  What sort of fancy maneuvering got you this billet?"

"Pure enterprise, my boy, nothing less.  It's been a dog's age since I've
seen you.  How have you been?"

"Middling.  Yourself?"

"Can't complain.  I heard you were back this way.  Any particular reason?"

Nash shrugged.  He had scrupulously avoided looking at Deanna but knew that
he couldn't keep that up much longer.  For one thing, it would look too
suspicious.  For another, his self control simply didn't stretch that far.

"It seemed a decent enough place to be," he said.

"I don't believe I've had the pleasure, Miss...?"

"Miss Deanna Marlowe," Charles said.   He put his arm around Deanna's waist
in an unmistakably possessive gesture.

"We're old friends.  In fact, I re quested this posting so that I could call
on Miss Marlowe again."  Nash bared his teeth in a feral smile.

"How comforting to know that the war isn't inconveniencing you, Charles.

Are you from around here, Miss Marlowe?  "

Her eyes flashed dangerously.  For a moment, he thought she was going to tell
him off.  But she got a grip on herself and merely scowled.

"I

was born in Belle Haven, Mr. "

"Nash," Charles said quickly.

"Edward Nash.  We were at school together."

Deanna's eyes widened.

"In England?"

Charles laughed.

"Of course in England.  Where did you think?"

"I didn't... That is, Mr. Nash sounds rather American."   Charles groaned in
mock dismay.

"Now you've done it.  I assure you, Edward, she doesn't usually insult people
she's just met."  Deanna opened her mouth again, undoubtedly to say something
improper, but Nash forestalled her.  Smoothly, he said,

"No insult taken.  Miss Marlowe can't be expected to know about my... shall
we say mixed background."

He turned to Deanna and with a kindly air continued.

"My mother was from Virginia originally.  My father was British.  I was born
here but educated there, and I like to think that I'm at home on either side."

"I'll just bet you do," Deanna muttered.

Startled, Charles looked at her.

"What was that?"

"Nothing," she said quickly.   She took Charles's  arm and stared at him
through the thick fringe of her lashes with a display of coquettish ness that
made Nash frown.   Ignoring him, she said,

"The music is starting again and you're such a wonderful dancer it would be a
shame to miss an opportunity."  , Harrow appeared surprised by her sudden
flirtatious ness but more than willing to give in to it.  Nash was about to
turn away in disgust at the wiles of shameless females when they were
suddenly interrupted.  A young aide to Clinton appeared at Charles's side.

"Excuse me.  Major, the general would like to have a word with you."
Reluctant though he was, Charles could not ignore the call to duty.  Yet
neither did he want to disappoint Deanna.  Under the circumstances, what
could be more natural than to turn to a convenient friend?

"Would you mind, Nash?  It's not fair to Deanna to have to sit out, and
you're not a bad dancer yourself."

"Oh, no," Deanna said quickly, "that's quite all right.   I wouldn't want to
impose on" -- "It's no imposition," Nash assured her, a mocking light in his
eyes as he sketched a quick bow.

"What are friends for?"

"Good man," Charles said.  He placed Deanna's hand in Edward's, awarded them
both a benign smile and followed the young officer.

Barely had he gone than Deanna snatched her hand back and glared at Nash.

"Please don't trouble yourself.  Charles means well, but if he had any notion
about you" "Actually, he knows me quite well.  We were at school together,
after all."

She paled.  Keeping her voice very low, she said,

"I can't tell if you're mocking me or him, but I do know I want no part of
it.  Good evening."

Without hesitation, his hand lashed out.  Bronzed fingers closed around her
wrist.  She resisted.  He refused to let her go.  Thus they stood, unnoticed
in the milling crowd but in danger of drawing attention at any moment.
Still, neither was willing to give in.  Just as the standoff seemed certain
to continue dangerously long, Deanna relented.

"All right, I'll dance with you.  But that's an end to it.  After that, I
don't want to see you again."

"Fine," Nash muttered.  He let go of her wrist, put her arm through his and
led her onto the dance floor, just in time for the strains of the landler to
begin.

The dance was of German origin, made popular in Britain by the Hanoverian
kings and thought by some to be scandalous because it involved men and women
touching far more than was usual.  Nash had always liked it, but now he
cursed his bad luck.  The last thing he wanted to do was hold Deanna Marlowe
in his arms.  Gingerly, he drew her to him.

"Relax, it'll be over soon."

"Not soon enough," she said and made a point of not looking at him as the
dance began.

And yet, neither was immune to the music and the night, the torches leaping
high and, more importantly, the nagging sense of war.  By degrees, hesitantly
and  with real resistance, anger fled.

Suspicion subsided.  Other feelings, no less fierce but entirely different in
their nature, reawakened.  She was as a wand in his hands, slender and pliant
but with undeniable strength.  Her perfume filled his breath.  The silken
smoothness of her skin dazzled as precious jewels could not.  He felt
surrounded by feminity in its purest, most essential form, without the
frippery of falsehood, proud and challenging, calling to him in an ancient
way he could not deny.

He remembered the touch of her hands on him when he lay bleeding and in pain.
The look in her eyes after she fired the musket that brought down the
renegade.  The weary courage with which she had refused to abandon him,
insisting instead on seeing him to safey.  The playful, innocent joy with
which she teased the ocean waves, oblivious to his presence.  And the ability
to make him rigid with desire with a flick of a glance from the corner of her
eye, a toss of her head, a mere breath of sound.

Madness enveloped them under the moon as they danced in the circle of
torchlight.  Absolute, unalloyed madness.

And yet, Nash could not for the life of him deny what she released in
him--the need to possess and protect, the longing to trust, the conviction
that here at last, however unlikely, was a woman he would forget not, even
into eternity.

A foolishly romantic notion, to be sure, the kind that got men killed.  But
one he could not shake no matter how desperately he tried.  Although with her
in  his arms he was perhaps not struggling quite as valiantly as he might.
Or struggling at all, for when he did at last speak to her, the words seemed
to come from a man who was ready to admit defeat.

"I need your help," he said.

Chapter Fifteen Ourely she had heard wrong?  He couldn't possibly have said
what Deanna thought he had.

"My help?"

Nash nodded.  In a low, urgent voice, he said,

"I'm going to disappear in a few minutes.  If anyone asks where I am, it
would help greatly if you'd say I wasn't feeling well and went off to get
some fresh air."

"Not well?  air?"

"I realize this is unusual, but" -- "Unusual?  It's bizarre.  What are you
talking about?"

"Lower your voice.   If anyone overhears you, it's my hide on the line, not
yours."

If he thought she could be so easily bowled over, he was very much mistaken.
Never mind how devastatingly handsome he looked in black velvet breeches and
a black frock coat with a splash of white lace at his chest and cuffs.  Never
mind the bronzed skin stretched taut over finely chiseled bone and sinew, the
sweep of ebony hair in a queue at the back  of his neck, the aura of male
strength and will that hung about him.  The sudden acceleration of her pulse
coursed through her.

"You cannot possibly expect me to be such a fool.  I have no idea what game
you're playing but I will tell you this, if you bring harm to Uncle Duncan, I
swear before God that I'll hunt you down like the swine you are and finish
you myself."

It should have been a ludicrous threat but Nash didn't laugh.  He appeared to
take it seriously.

"Your uncle's perfectly safe.  Just because I was schooled in England and
know Harrow doesn't make me one of them."

"How do I know that?  It's possible that you're working both sides.

Why should I trust you?  "

His mouth tightened.  He could feel his anger mounting and wondered if it
would break free.  But instead, he took a visible grip on himself and said,

"Because you saved my life.  If you believe the Chinese as I do, that makes
you responsible for it."

"Of all the outrageous" -- "Temper.  I'm not asking you for the world, only
to cover for me if it should become necessary."

"Cover what?  You could be doing absolutely anything.  You can't possibly
expect me to" -- Color darkened his high-boned cheeks.  With a muttered
curse, he swept her off toward the edge of the dance floor where they were
less likely to be observed.

"You are a most infuriating woman."  Deanna ignored the rapid beating of her
heart and feigned a sweet smile.

"Thank you."

"I mean it.  No wonder you're attracted to Harrow.

You know you can twist him around your little finger.  Well, there happen to
be men made of sterner stuff.  "

Daring greatly, she tilted her head and met his eyes.  The light in them
jolted her.  Truly, this was no patient, courtly Charles Harrow.

This was a man she would do very well not to toy with.  Knowing that was not
enough.  Boldly, with the air of one stepping out into thin air, she said,

"If you think you're one of them, you should need no help from me.  Nor will
you get any unless I'm convinced it's merited."

"You weren't so stingy last time."

She flushed, thinking exactly of the liberties she had permitted.

"All the same, I will not be kept in ignorance."

"Not even when knowing may endanger you?"   "Danger lies in ignorance," she
countered.

"Has anyone suggested to you that women are supposed to be demure and
compliant?"

"Yes, but I didn't take it seriously."

He sighed and looked heavenward as though in search of divine inspiration.
Finding none, he shook his head in resignation.

"All right, but not here."

"Where?"

By way of answer, he drew her farther away from the dance floor, into the
shadows beyond the flickering torches.  There, in the hushed stillness of the
night, Deanna struggled to regain her breath.  The boldness in the midst of
the crowd was gone.  She was suddenly, vividly aware of being alone with him.

"We should go back," she began.

"We will, in a moment.  But first" -- He moved  slightly so that her back
was to a stalwart oak and he was standing very close.  His head bent, shading
her from the light of the moon.  "You wanted truth."

"An explanation, a reason..."

"Truth."

His breath was warm, lightly scented with brandy, arousing to a degree she
never would have believed possible if she hadn't already experienced this
feeling with him once before.

And all that merely with a kiss.  For an instant, she allowed herself to
imagine what it would be like if more had happened between them.

The thought alone was enough to make her hastily back away.  But the oak was
against her, Nash was before her, and the night was suddenly spinning out of
control.

"No," she said and put a hand to his chest, holding him off.  He stopped.

The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Why, Mistress Marlowe, what is it you imagine I'm about to do?"

Embarrassment shot through her.

"You... I..."  "Yes?"  he drawled.

"Was there something you wanted?"  She gave his chest another shove.  Her
hand touched stone lightly covered by skin and velvet.  She could no more
move him than she could rearrange a mountain.

He made a show of yielding and spread his hands as though in surrender.
Deanna shook her head in exasperation.

"Truth," she said succinctly.

"The truth about you and what you are doing here.  And" she added for good
measure "--I suggest you man age to tell it, soon, before some of Charles's
fellow officers start wondering where his good friend has taken me."

"About Charles, what exactly are your intentions toward him?"   "My
intentions?   Don't you mean" -- "Yours.   His are clear enough."

"I fail to see why I should discuss this with you."

 "His pride's his downfall."

"What is that supposed to mean?"  Deanna demanded.  "Only that he was bred to
arrogance.  They all are.  In the end it will finish them."

"They being the British?"

"Who else?  They're raised to believe they're superior to everyone else.  If
they didn't think that, they'd have won this war a long time ago.  It's only
because they've consistently underestimated us that we've been able to hang
on."

"Interesting theory, but this is hardly the time to examine it.  Once and for
all, what are you doing here?"

He sighed as though resigned to the stubbornness of women, and propped
himself comfortably against the tree.  Arms crossed over his chest, a
pleasant smile pulling at his lips, he looked for all the world like a man
taking a relaxing stroll in the woods.

"I'm preparing to sneak into a closet where, if I manage not to get caught, I
should be able to overhear a meeting between Clinton and Tyron.  The
information gleaned from it may prove vital.  All I want you to do is pre
vent anyone from wondering where I've gone.  That's not too much to ask, is
it?"

She stared at him for a long moment.  Nothing in his expression suggested he
was telling other than the truth.  "You're mad," she said.

"Quite possibly, but you'll still help, won't you?"  Deanna's fists clenched.
She fought against the desperate impulse to pummel some sense into him.

"Don't you realize how dangerous this is?  If you make a sound or if someone
just happens to look in the closet, you'll be finished.  They'll drag you out
of there and hang you, probably without even a trial."

Her voice was shaking.  To her horror, she felt tears burning her eyes.
Frantically, she turned away, but not before Nash saw.  With a muttered
exclamation, he drew her against the hard wall of his chest.

Chapter Sixteen q^t^ts^q -Little fool," Nash said gruffly.  His big hand
stroked her hair with clumsy tenderness.

Deanna sniffed and rested her head against him.  She really shouldn't be
doing this, but it felt so good, so right.  Surely just a moment or two
wouldn't hurt?  She couldn't remember when she had felt so safe and protected
which was absurd, really, all things considered.  Yet there she was, unable
to quell the wayward thoughts tumbling through her.

She could feel the beat of his heart under her cheek.  His strength was
gentled.  She raised her head and met his eyes.

"I really don't want them to hang you."

He smiled a little crookedly.

"So I gathered."

"Yes, well, so long as that's clear" -- He lifted a finger to catch the
glittering tear slipping down her cheek.   Deep in his throat, he murmured,

"Don't cry."  "I'm not."

"Yes, you are."  His head bent.  Gently, with perfect naturalness, he caught
the next tear on his lips.

A moment later, his arms wrapped taut around her  and the steely hardness of
his body blocked out the world.  Then she tasted his lips, salty against hers.

Salt and tears, sweetness and promise, all mingled together for a timeless
instant.  Her lips parted, expecting the slow thrust of his tongue.  They
clung together, heedless of danger, until the sudden snap of a branch not far
away forced them to part.

Nash let her go and took a step back, but his hand remained on her waist,
steadying her.

"I've changed my mind," he said, his voice rasping like water over stone.

"Don't say anything.  Keep out of it."

Her eyes widened, reflecting in their forest green depths a world of captured
light.

"Why?"

"It's too dangerous.  I was wrong to involve you."  He turned away and looked
toward the building, his features hard.

"I'll go first, you follow.  We shouldn't be seen together again."  Deanna
straightened.

The hazy cloak of passion evaporated.  She shot him a flinty eyed stare that
would have felled a lesser man.  "Absolutely not."

He shook his head in exasperation.

"Not two minutes ago, you wanted nothing to do with it."

"I never said that."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Of course you did.  It was unmistakable.  You said" -- "I said you couldn't
expect me to cover for you when I had no real idea of what you were doing.
However, your explanation is acceptable."

"It is?"

She nodded.

"Not sensible or even particularly in Chapter Sixteen Q<$2n^s^ ) t <T Little
fool," Nash said gruffly.  His big hand stroked her hair with clumsy
tenderness.

Deanna sniffed and rested her head against him.  She really shouldn't be
doing this, but it felt so good, so right.  Surely just a moment or two
wouldn't hurt?  She couldn't remember when she had felt so safe and protected
which was absurd, really, all things considered.  Yet there she was, unable
to quell the wayward thoughts tumbling through her.

She could feel the beat of his heart under her cheek.  His strength was
gentled.  She raised her head and met his eyes.

"I really don't want them to hang you."

He smiled a little crookedly.

"So I gathered."

"Yes, well, so long as that's clear" -- He lifted a finger to catch the
glittering tear slipping down her cheek.  Deep in his throat, he murmured,
"Don't cry."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are."  His head bent.  Gently, with perfect naturalness, he caught
the next tear on his lips.

A moment later, his arms wrapped taut around her and the steely hardness of
his body blocked out the world.  Then she tasted his lips, salty against
hers.  Salt and tears, sweetness and promise, all mingled together for a
timeless instant.

Her lips parted, expecting the slow thrust of his tongue.  They clung
together, heedless of danger, until the sudden snap of a branch not far away
forced them to part.

Nash let her go and took a step back, but his hand remained on her waist,
steadying her.

"I've changed my mind," he said, his voice rasping like water over stone.

"Don't say anything.  Keep out of it."

Her eyes widened, reflecting in their forest green depths a world of captured
light.

"Why?"

"It's too dangerous.  I was wrong to involve you."  He turned away and looked
toward the building, his features hard.

"I'll go first, you follow.  We shouldn't be seen together again."

Deanna straightened.  The hazy cloak of passion evaporated.  She shot him a
flinty eyed stare that would have felled a lesser man.

"Absolutely not."

He shook his head in exasperation.

"Not two minutes ago, you wanted nothing to do with it."

"I never said that."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Of course you did.  It was unmistakable.  You said" -- "I said you couldn't
expect me to cover for you when I had no real idea of what you were doing.
However, your explanation is acceptable."

"It is?"

She nodded.

"Not sensible or even particularly in a telligent.  But I do believe you
intend to spy on Clinton and Tyron.

That part is clear enough.  "

Nash scowled.

"What do you mean, not sensible or intelligent?  What's wrong with it?"

' "Besides the likelihood of your being hanged?"

"Don't start on that again."

"How do you know they're going to say anything useful?  It seems more likely
they'll just sit around, hoist a few and swap old war stories."

Her candor disconcerted him but he made a valiant effort to take it in stride.

"You have a most unflattering view of the hapless male.

Miss Marlowe.  There are times when we do more than drink and brag.  "

' "Certainly there are.  Unfortunately, the results are usually regrettable.
You could be risking your life for nothing."

For a moment, he was tempted to tell her that he had direct information about
the purpose of the meeting.  But that would have been unjust to Fletcher
Wesskum, even without mentioning his name.

"Possibly," he said.

"But you still intend to go through with it?"

Nash shrugged.

"I really don't have much choice.  Even the chance of getting information on
their plans can't be passed up."

Deanna paled.  Solemnly, she nodded.

"All right then, I will help you.

If anyone appears to be noticing your absence, I will say you drank too much
and had to relieve yourself.  "

Nash winced.

"Couldn't you be a bit more discreet?"

She looked puzzled.

"And leave the possibility that I might not allay suspicion?"

"It would be enough to simply say I was indisposed and needed fresh air."

"I fail to see why."

"Because proper young ladies are not supposed to know about men drinking to
excess or the physical results."

She sighed.

"We're back to proper again?"

"No, but I do feel compelled to keep trying.  Why didn't your father leave
you in school in England?"

"He tried.  I ran away."

"Good God, really?"

"I'm afraid so."  She shrugged and looked away, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"It's difficult to explain, but I love this place quite inordinately.  There
are times when I feel as though I could never belong anywhere else."

"Then why are you involved with Harrow?"

"I'm not," she protested.

"He thinks you are.  He thinks he's going to marry you and take you back to
England to serve tea, eat crumpets, ride to hounds and breed more little
Harrows.  I don't believe it's occurred to him for a moment that you have any
significant attachment to Belle Haven.  In fact," he went on remorselessly,
"if anyone ever did suggest that to him, he'd think it was ludicrous."

"Why?"  Deanna demanded.

"There is no lovelier place on earth, and when you consider what people--
including my ancestors--went through to create Belle Haven, you can hardly
disregard it."

"I don't," he corrected.

"But Harrow does.  It's just another wide spot on the road to him.  Worse
yet, it's in a rebellious country populated by traitors in need of a good
thrashing.  He undoubtedly believes he is doing you the greatest favor by
taking you away from all this."

Deanna's eyes flashed but she refused to give in to the anger he sparked.

"I don't want to talk about Harrow.  He's not the problem.

You are.  If you're really going to go ahead with this harebrained plan, then
I am going to help.  "

He took a deep breath, visibly fighting for calm, and glared at her.

"Has it occurred to you that you could come under suspicion yourself?"

She looked at him as though he had been dropped on his head a time too often.

"Do you imagine I haven't already?"

"What do you mean?"  A sudden thought went through him.  She had a quick,
astounding glimpse of Edward Nash actually looking afraid before the mask
slammed down again.

"No one knows you helped me, correct?"

"Only Uncle Duncan and the boys, and I don't think you need to worry about
them.  What I meant was that I've always made some people think twice.  I got
used to it a long time ago..."

"Why?  You're a beautiful young woman, the daughter of a wealthy and
influential Tory.  Why should anyone look at you askance?"

The innocence of men astounded her sometimes.  They believed themselves so
worldly, when often they missed what went on right in front of them.

"I'm a healer," she said quietly, "and a woman.  It hasn't been that long
since people like me were burned."

He flinched and stared at her in disbelief.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, I know, this is supposed to be the age of reason.  But people don't give
up their fears that easily.  The more irrational those fears are, the more
inclined they are to cling to them."  She grimaced, real pain following hard
on the thought.

"There are some nights when I think I can still smell the burning lingering
in the air.  The trick is learning to ignore it and go on."

Having said all she intended to on the subject, Deanna straightened her
shoulders, smoothed her skirts and stepped in front of Nash.  With her back
to him, she touched a finger to her lips surreptitiously.

Her lips felt slightly swollen and tender.  Anyone who really stopped to
notice might wonder why.  For all her proud speech, she understood full well
the danger she was about to step into.  Yet she held her head high and her
shoulders straight as she walked into the torchlight.

Chapter Seventeen They had barely rejoined the crowd inside
when Nash caught Deanna's eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.  She
stiffened, swallowed hard and managed a faint smile that was meant to be
encouraging.  He returned it.  For a moment, their eyes met until the
experience of looking at him--and the sensations it evoked--became too
painful.

Deanna glanced away, blinking rapidly, and reached out blindly to take a
glass from a passing tray.  She swallowed the contents in a single gulp only
to discover too late what it was.

Whiskey.  Ah, well, she'd had it before--when her monthlies hurt more than
usual or she'd been caught in a dank rain.  Whiskey wouldn't hurt her.  There
were times when it qualified as medicinal.

Such as now.  Another waiter passed.  She exchanged her empty glass for a
full one.  Prudently, she took only a small sip as she glanced around.

There was Charles, emerging from his chat with Clinton.  He looked well
pleased, handsome and confident, as though he hadn't a care in the world.

Deanna started toward him.  She intended to attach herself to him, the
better to forestall any curiosity about Nash's whereabouts.

But before she could do so, Charles caught sight of Edward just leaving the
room.

"Nash," he called, "there you are.  Don't hurry off.  We were just about to
catch up on old times."  Smiling broadly, he linked his arm through Edward's
and led him inside.

Belatedly, Deanna realized that she wasn't the only one who had perhaps been
injudicious in the consumption of alcohol.  Charles had a decidedly rosy
glow, suggesting he'd been imbibing with Clinton and the other officers.  The
fuzzy cheer of alcohol prompted him to insist on his old school chum's
company, not minding that the chum in question was trying his best to
extricate himself.

"Not just now, Charles," Nash said.

"I really must..."

"By God, jthat's a fine round of Stilton," Charles said, happily ignoring him
as he studied the groaning board.

"Remember that night at school when we demolished the proctor's cheese?"
Chuckling, he headed toward the table, still linked to Nash.

Deanna bit her lip to keep from laughing, a whiskey induced response that--if
the glare Edward shot her was any indication--would not have been well
received.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Clinton and Tyron with
their heads together.  They were making their way slowly toward the door.

Nash was caught, dragged to the center of the room, with Charles determinedly
regaling him about their school days and no hope of slipping away.  In a
moment, the generals would be gone.  Once they were in the meeting room,
there would be no hope of slipping in unseen.

Deanna took a final sip of the whiskey, put the glass down, and as casually
as she could manage, strolled over to Charles.  She put on her best winsome
smile, shamelessly batted her eyelashes and took every care not to look at
Nash.

Even so, she could feel the heat of his scathing scrutiny, almost as though
in those few seconds he had guessed what she was about to do.

Before he could say anything to prevent her, she touched her hand to
Charles's sleeve and murmured,

"I have just a bit of a headache.  I'm going to lie down for a while."

Charles broke off in mid-sentence and frowned with concern.

"If you're ill" -- "Oh, no," she assured him hastily.

"It's merely the excitement.  I'm unused to it."

Again she smiled as though to say she was only a woman, after all.

Such things were to be expected.  He knew that, man of the world that he was.
She could count on him to understand.  Without hesitation, she gave him a
slight shrug of her alabaster shoulders, the merest tilt of her head and a
tiny wave of her hand.

Charles understood perfectly.  He took her hand, touched it to his lips and
said,

"There is a retiring room upstairs for the ladies."

Deanna made a little sound, gave him a grateful look and, still avoiding Nash
with all her might, slipped away.  Once halfway across the room, she speeded
up and was just on the verge of running as she reached the hall.  Coming to
an abrupt halt, she looked around.

Three doors led from the hall.  One was toward the back and undoubtedly led
to the kitchens.  Another gave way to a small parlor in the front of the
building.  The third, about halfway down, stood open to reveal a small room
in the center that looked like little more than an overly large closet.  A
table was set with a pair of chairs, glasses and several bottles.  On a
smaller table nearby were several large paper rolls that might have been maps.

Deanna hesitated.  People were passing through the hall, coming in and out of
the building and the room where the party was being held.  She could easily
be seen.

Seconds passed.  Her throat was dry and her heart beat painfully.  She took a
deep breath, waiting.  waiting.

The hall was momentarily empty.  Seizing the chance, she stepped quickly into
the small ropm and went immediately to the closet.  If it was full, if there
was no room inside, if.  The closet was empty.  She darted in and was
shutting the door behind her when men's voices heralded the arrival of the
generals.

Chairs scraped around the table.  Seconds later, the door to the meeting room
closed.

Nash could not believe what had happened.  How could such a simple plan go so
stunningly wrong?

Here he was, trapped, listening to Charles Harrow reminisce about Stilton,
of all the bloody things, while Deanna Marlowe--beyond question the most
insufferably stubborn female he'd ever had the misfortune to
encounter--pulled what had to be the stupidest stunt on record.

Didn't she realize the risk she was running?  The odds were overwhelming that
she would be caught.  Did she imagine she would be able to smile and sigh her
way out of trouble?  Didn't she know the British were every bit as capable of
hanging a woman as they were of hanging a man?  Heaven knew, they'd done it
before.

His stomach knotted.  It was all he could do not to double up his fist and
smash it into Charles's smiling face, an action that had as its sole drawback
the fact that it would raise too many questions he didn't care to answer.

Charles was still going on about the bloody Stilton.  Incredible.  Nash hated
Stilton and couldn't even remember the incident mentioned, but Harrow seemed
to hold it in fondest memory.  Now he was starting in on something else.  a
certain establishment in London known for its hospitality to discerning
gentlemen.  God, how the man could talk.  Did he hold silence no virtue at
all?

Apparently not, for having attracted an audience of appreciative officers who
seemed to consider him something of a raconteur, Charles was clearly in his
element.  Indeed, he seemed to just be getting warmed up.

Nash waited--not something he did well--until at long last Charles appeared
sufficiently distracted by his own wit to allow him to slip away.  But once
out in the hall he hit an immediate snag.  Two young stone-faced British
officers had positioned themselves in front of the meeting room.  Their iron
stance said clearly that no one would be allowed to pass.

Cursing under his breath, Nash went outside and skirted the side of the
building.  Exactly as Fletcher Wesskum had said, the room was windowless.
Short of breaking through a wall, there was no way in.

It was a measure of his desperation that Nash actually considered trying to
do so.  He gave it up when he realized he would only succeed in attracting
attention where he least wanted it.

There seemed no alternative but to wait for the meeting to end in the hope
that Deanna would somehow manage to escape detection.  But once he got her
back.  ,.

Grimly, Nash set about considering exactly how he would express his
displeasure to that stubborn, reckless, maddening young woman.  It made him
feel a little better, but nothing could ease the stomach-knotting anxiety
that dogged him.

Unable to go into the room where Charles was holding court, Nash remained
outside.  The night was clear and warm.  He took a cheroot from the inside
pocket of his frock coat and lit it from a silver tinder box he'd had since
his school days.

Leaning against the building, he turned the box over in his hand, looking at
it absently.  There was a small dent in one corner of the intricately carved
lid.  It had gotten there during a wrestling match with an older boy who
tried to take the box from him.  He'd kept the box, defending himself and
establishing that he was not a good target for the bullying that was a
constant part of school life.  The grudging respect he'd won had kept him
safe enough.  He'd even managed to get an education of sorts.  But he never
lost his contempt for an institution that did nothing to protect the young
and weak.

Maybe that had something to do with why he was here, standing under the dark
sky in a land torn by war, worrying about a woman he would have preferred
just then not to even know.  Impatient--with himself, with Deanna and with
the entire insane situation--he tossed the cheroot aside and began to pace
back and forth.

Time crawled.  The strain of doing nothing wore on him.  His temper was razor
thin and his self control was perilously close to snapping when finally a
sudden flurry of activity inside announced that the meeting was over.

Clinton and Tyron emerged, still chatting, and went to rejoin their officers.
The two young men who had been on guard duty followed.

Seizing the opportunity, Nash entered the room and went directly to the
closet.  He yanked the door open and plunged a hand inside.

His fingers encountered the petal smooth warm skin of a woman.  A whiff of
honeysuckle rose tantalizingly.  He hesitated, intending to be stern but not
quite able to manage it when confronted by such unbridled femininity, such
bewitching womanhood, such innocence and passion all wrapped up in-- A snore
broke the silence.  It was followed swiftly by another.  Nash stared in
disbelief.  Beneath his hand, blissfully unaware, Deanna slept.

Fury shattered the sweet mist of passion.  The hours he'd spent agonizing
over her safety, the fears he'd had for her, the dreadful possibility of
capture, and all the while she'd been asleep?

Deanna blinked dazedly.  She put a hand up to shield her eyes and peered at
him from beneath it.  "What...?"

Muttering under his breath, Nash propelled her from the room and down the
hall to the outside.  He felt her reel back slightly as fresh air struck her.
"Breathe deeply," he ordered.

"Charles may buy the notion that you fell asleep in the retiring room, but it
would be just as well to have your wits about you before you face him.  That
is, if you have any wits."

Deanna shook her head to clear it and looked at him in bewilderment.

"What are you so angry about?"  she murmured.

His hand tightened on her shoulder.  Unable to stop himself, he shook her.

"Angry?  Why would I be angry?  You think I care that you not only risked
your life, you did it for nothing?  Maybe you enjoy this sort of thing, but I
don't.  Go back to Harrow, Miss Marlowe Marry him as fast as you can and make
his life miserable.  I'm grateful to you for saving mine, but I refuse to put
up with you."

He stopped, thinking that he'd said rather more than he meant but it was true
all the same.  He simply could not deal with a woman who turned his life
upside down the way she did.  He was right to say so and to get away from her
as quickly as he could.

Right to ignore the forest green light of her eyes as they met his or the
wry tilt of her delectable lips or the slight shrug of her alabaster
shoulders as she said-- "You're such a bear."

"Bear?  I'm no such thing.  You're the one who would drive the sanest man on
earth to" -- "I only fell asleep at the end," she interrupted.  Almost
casually, as though telling him something he should have had enough sense to
know, she added, "I heard everything they had to say right up to the end when
they started talking about somebody named Hortense at a Madam Philoma's in
London."  Her gaze narrowed.

"Do you know her, by the way?"

In fact, the name was familiar but she'd have to rip his heart out before
he'd admit it.

"No."

"Pity, it sounded as though she might be to your taste.  I, on the other
hand, found her boring and, as it was very warm in the closet, I drifted off."

If she was toying with him, Nash swore, she'd pay.  But first he asked,

"You heard?"

She gave him one small nod.

"Everything."

"Then we must talk."  He took her arm again and began marching off in the
direction of the nearest spot he thought might be suitable for such a
conversation.

But Deanna was having none of it.  She dug her heels in and refused to go.

"Don't be daft," she said.

"Charles must be wondering where I am by now.  Besides, my father will be
expecting me back.  We will have to find another time."

Nash hesitated.  She was right, damn her, but he hated the idea of letting
her go.  Nor did he particularly want to examine the source of his
reluctance.  But the moon was drifting westward, the ball was ending, and at
any moment Charles would come looking" All right," he said grudgingly.  On
principal--because he was a man and she a woman, and it did not do for her
to forget that too often--he dragged her close against his body, cupped her
chin in his hand and, murmuring,

"Later," put his mouth to hers.

Chapter Eighteen Q^yo^s^Q There you are," Charles said.  Seeing the
direction she had come from, he frowned.

"Were you outside?"

Deanna swallowed hard and resisted the temptation to put a hand to her lips.
They were still tender from the swift passion of Nash's kiss, which was like
a sudden violent storm shattering the night.

Clearly, she should have torn herself away immediately.  Without doubt, she
should not have succumbed even for an instant.  Most certainly, she should
not have returned his kiss with a fervor that shocked even herself and left
him bemused.

The kiss had ended in mutual confusion, leaving them to go their separate
ways.  He was out there still, somewhere in the darkness, plotting who knows
what.  But she absolutely wasn't going to think of that.  She was going to
put him from her mind and concentrate on allaying any suspicion Charles might
possibly have.

Forcing a smile, she took his arm.

"I needed some air.  Do forgive me.  I'm afraid I was quite overcome by all
the excitement."

He relaxed and patted her hand.  The thought of her as a sensitive female so
impressed by a provincial ball as to be done in by it did not seem to strike
him as odd in any way.

Deanna repressed a sigh.  She had to come to terms with the fact that Charles
knew her not at all, nor was that particularly his fault.  It was she who had
changed, not him.

It was up to her to make the most of his ignorance.  Sweetly, she allowed him
to hand her up into the carriage.  Winsomely, she permitted her hand to
remain in his.  Docilely, she listened as he rambled on about the evening.

"Good turnout--all things considered," he said.  "Can't say I really expected
it out here in the wilds."

"Belle Haven isn't exactly the wilderness," Deanna said.

"There are some who find it quite civilized."

He laughed as though she had made a particularly witty joke.  ^ "That's one
of the things that delights me about you.  Many women have no sense of humor
at all."

In the darkness of the carriage, he could not see her frown.  But the tart
edge of her tongue was not completely disguised as she said, ' "London is not
the center of the world, Charles.  To be honest, I found it dirty, smelly and
crowded.  In short, overrated."

He turned his head quickly in surprise.

"Really?  I had no idea.  You seemed content enough.  Not that it matters,
though.  I would perfectly understand your desire to remain in the country,
especially once children arrive.  It's far healthier."

Her lips could not really be stinging, Deanna thought.  They only felt overly
tender because her mind insisted on recalling Nash's kiss at that precise
moment, comparing him to Charles in a way that was not at all flattering to
the Englishman.

Impatient with herself, she resolved to do better, beginning by smothering
all thoughts of telling Charles that he was being insufferably presumptuous.
She was not about to be relegated to the country with children he had no
reason to believe were even going to exist.  She attempted to turn his
thoughts in a different direction.

"You were with General Clinton for quite a while.  He must depend on you
greatly."

Charles modestly forbore from preening but he was clearly pleased.

"Well, without wishing to say too much, I will say he has been most kind."

"I'm sure he has.  Tell me, is he as careful as his reputation claims?"

"Even more so.  Caution is his watchword.  He is never the first to jump into
any situation.  He holds back, prudently assessing what is needed before
acting."

Deanna nodded thoughtfully.

"I see, indeed that is wise."  Her words betrayed her thoughts.  Wise,
perhaps, for a man with all the time in the world to make decisions, but not
for a commander faced with a crisis in which the instant response might be
the only one posssible.

"How fortunate he is to have you with him," she murmured, hardly aware of
what she was saying, so preoccupied was she with thoughts of the British
general.  Charles's description of him agreed with what she had managed to
grasp during his conversation with Tyron.  Certainly, the occupier of Belle
Haven and the surrounding area seemed by far the more eager to be on about
the business of killing and burning, all under the heading of teaching the
rebel rabble a long-delayed lesson.  Clinton, for his part, seemed more
interested in not doing anything that might be later judged a mistake.  His
reputation concerned him most, not the results he got.

"Patience is called for," Charles pronounced as he moved slightly closer and
looked at her intently, 'in war as in love.  "

She was so busy recalling what she had overheard that Deanna didn't realize
the sudden change the conversation had taken until Charles's arm slid around
her shoulders.  She was drawn into his embrace before she thought to act.

Her hand to his chest, she said,

"Let us not overstep propriety."

"Propriety be damned," Charles replied.  In his sudden ardor, he attempted to
press her back against the carriage seat.

Deanna resisted.  She shook her head firmly and pushed hard to hold him off.

"You forget yourself.  We are unchaperoned."

"Your father could have insisted otherwise.  He trusts me and that is not
misplaced."

"Indeed?"  Deanna demanded.  Despite her best efforts, she was already
halfway down on the seat with Charles looming over her.  The position was
fraught with danger, not to mention extremely annoying.

"It seems utterly misplaced to me at the moment.  My father would be most
displeased to learn of this."

Charles did not appear to hear her.  His taut features, just visible in the
shadows, suggested a man in the grip of an ardor he could barely control.

Genuinely alarmed, Deanna considered the possibility that she would have to
defend herself.  To do so would certainly force Charles to consider her in a
different light, but there might be no helping it.

Cautiously, she began to draw up her knee.  His mouth was hot against the
curve of her cheek.  Distaste coursed through her.  In the back of her mind,
she marvelled at how she could react so differently to Nash's touch.  but
that did not bear thinking about just then.

"Stop this," she said angrily.

Charles laughed and put his hands to her breasts.  That did it.  Deanna
arched her knee and was about to deliver a telling blow when the carriage
suddenly hit a bump.

Charles was lifted several inches into the air, losing his hold on her in the
process.  She was able to scramble upright.  Quickly smoothing her clothes,
she glared at him.

"Keep away from me."

He paused confusedly, then thrust a hand out to seize her.  ' "Deanna..."

"Your behavior is disgraceful.  I don't know what you are thinking of and I
don't want to.  Kindly keep your distance."  She glanced out the carriage
window and was relieved to see that they were approaching Daniels' Neck.

"We will be there in a few minutes.  I trust you can control yourself at
least that long."

Her voice shook slightly.  For all her brave words and her justifiable
anger, she was also frightened.  The sudden display of Charles's passion had
brought home to her just how vulnerable she could be.  It was an unsettling
reminder.

"I'm sorry," he murmured with a note of resentment.

Deanna set her back to him and continued staring out the window until they
passed the stone wall and rattled down the lane to home.

She was the first out of the carriage, giving Charles no chance to help her.
Without a word to him, she sped up the walk to the door.  It opened as she
approached.

"There you are," her father said heartily.

"Have a good time?"

Not trusting herself to speak, Deanna brushed past him and hurried up the
stairs.  Behind her, she heard a gruffly voiced question and Charles's
stumbling effort to reply.

Chapter Nineteen -Ueanna opened the door to her room and stepped inside,
shutting it behind her quickly.  She leaned against it, her eyes closed, her
heart hammering.

Downstairs, she could hear the two men talking but their words were
indistinct.  Feeling exhausted, she tugged at the ribbon holding her hair and
pulled it loose.  Her feet hurt.  She kicked off her shoes and was just
beginning to undo the buttons down the back of her dress when she happened to
glance toward her bed.

Deanna gasped.  Nash lay there, stretched out full length, dark masculinity
against the white lace of her counterpane, a smile on his lips and an unholy
light in his eyes.

"Need any help with those?"  he asked, looking at the buttons.

"What are you doing here?"  Her voice shook.  She stared at him in disbelief.

"Waiting for you, of course."  He angled himself ; off the bed in a single
motion and walked toward her.  j His eyes raked her flushed face.

"What took you so long?"

"Nothing."  Not for the life of her would she reveal what had happened in the
carriage, and yet she couldn't shake the horrible thought that he somehow
knew.  Certainly, he was looking at her suspiciously enough.

"Nothing happened," she insisted more emphatically, thinking that in the
larger scheme of things, it wasn't really a lie.  Nothing of any consequence
had occurred except for that regrettable business about realizing that the
attraction she felt to Nash didn't extend to other men.  No, she had to be
drawn to an insufferable, high-handed male who stood there glaring at her as
though he was lord of the universe and she was some poor little scrap of
humanity who had dared to offend him.  The nerve.

' "How did you get in here?"  she demanded, barely managing to keep her voice
down.

"You couldn't possibly have gotten past my father.  He would have taken your
head off.  So how did you" -- "The window," Nash murmured.  He was smiling
suddenly, as though she amused him.

"I climbed the tree and came in through the window."  For good measure, he
added,

"If you don't want unexpected visitors, you should keep it shut."

' "That hasn't been a problem.  Most people have the decency not to go where
they aren't wanted."

' "You mean like into closets to listen to other people's conversations?"

She pressed her lips together hard to hold back the unladylike reply that
threatened to spring from them.

After a deep breath, she said,

"Never mind.  You were crazy to come here.  Just go."

"Not until we've talked.  This may be our best chance, and there's no time to
waste."

A door closed downstairs.  There were footsteps in the yard and the sound of
carriage wheels.  Charles had gone but her father remained.

Visions of what would happen if he discovered Nash's presence made Deanna
pale.  Throwing caution to the wind, she said, "I can meet you later.  I'll
slip away.  You can't stay here.  Surely you see that" "Hush."  His hands
closed on her shoulders.  Before she could make any effort to stop him, he
drew her into his arms and held her gently.

To her horror, Deanna realized that she was trembling.  So intense was her
fear for him that she could no longer control her reactions.

Feeling more vulnerable than she ever had, she lifted her head and looked at
him.

Her eyes were wide and luminous, reflecting the silver ribbon of the
moonlight flowing through the window.

"Please," she whispered, "don't endanger yourself like this.  I swear I will
meet you as soon as all is quiet.  It will be safe in an hour."

In the shadows, his face was hidden but his voice was oddly harsh as he said,

"No, it has to be now.  .  Tell me what the generals said."

At her wits' end, terrified that they would be discovered at any moment,
Deanna gave up her attempts ; to make him leave.  She could not imagine why
he \ refused but she was done arguing with him.  Her only i hope now was to
get through what she had to say as quickly as possible so that he would go.

"Clinton has received a message from General Cornwallis.  Cornwallis believes a
decisive battle may be approaching.  He alerted Clinton to be ready to ship
reinforcements south from New York on short notice."

Nash's hold on her shoulders eased.  He dropped his hands and moved away from
her slightly.  His brows creased.

"Indeed?  Cornwallis said that, did he?  And what was Clinton's response?"

' "He suggested to Tyron that he thinks Cornwallis is prone to exaggeration.
He said he doubts any battle of real consequence is on the horizon and he
expressed some hesitation about removing any troops from New York.  He seems
to believe they cannot be spared."

Nash stared at her intently.

"That's what he said?  You're sure?"

Deanna nodded.  She didn't understand precisely the significance of what she
had heard, but Nash's red action made it clear he thought it important.

"I'm sure," she said.

"They went over it several times."

"What did Tyron think?"

She thought for a moment.

"I got the impression he didn't want to disagree with Clinton directly but
that he wasn't fully in agreement with him, either."

Nash nodded.  He turned away, deep in thought.

Deanna waited a moment before touching a hand to his sleeve.

Tentatively, she asked,

"Is Cornwallis right?  Is a major battle approaching?"

' "He's one of their better generals.  If they were all as good as him, this
war would have been over a long time ago."

"And if Clinton fails to support him?  What happens then?"

A cold smile spread across Nash's face.

"Then all things are possible, sweet Deanna."  He fell silent again, but only
for a moment.

Recalled to his surroundings, he bent slightly and cupped her chin in his
hand.  Gruffly, he said,

"You are a brave woman."

Her throat was tight.  She knew without having to be told that it was the
highest compliment he could give.  Just as she knew that he was going to kiss
her and that she wouldn't do a blessed thing to stop him.

His mouth was hard and demanding.  She clung to him, her lips parting for the
thrust of his tongue.  Distantly, her boldness shocked her, but there was no
time to be concerned about that.  This, she knew, was farewell.  In all
likelihood, she would never see this man again.  But she would remember him
forever and remember, too, the hot, sweet longing he awakened in her.

The kiss ended far too soon for both of them.  They stood, breathless,
looking at each other until a shadow moved in front of the moon.  With
palpable reluctance, Nash released her and turned toward the window.

Halfway out, a dark shadow against the night, he looked back at her.

"Promise me something?"

Anything, she thought.  Absolutely anything.  The world, the moon, her heart.
Anything.

"What?"

"That you'll stop taking crazy risks."

A faint laugh broke from her, tinged with tears.  "That I'll stop?

What about you?  "

"That's different.  I'm a man and you're" -- "I know what I am."  She took a
breath, summoning patience and endurance for the pain that was already
settling over her.  On a breath of sound, she said, "I promise."

' "Really?"  He sounded pleased but surprised.  "If you'll be more careful.
Try to miss one or two fights.  You don't have to be in them all."  He
laughed softly and said,

"All right, I'll try."  In silence, she stood, her hands clenched, straining
for the last sight of him in the enveloping darkness.  Below, the stairs
creaked.  Nathanial was retiring.

Movement rippled the night beyond the window.  "Farewell," the darkness
whispered.  Tears stung her cheeks.  She turned away and shortly crept into a
cold and comfortless bed.

Chapter Twenty Q^yQ^Q An hour later, Deanna gave up the attempt to sleep.
She rose, stiff-limbed, and with her white nightgown clinging to her, walked
over to the window.  Peering out, she saw the landscape wrapped in night,
familiar in the way of well-loved things yet subtly transformed from its
daytime self.  A magical, mysterious place through which she loved to roam.

Even now, as a grown woman, even with the ache deep in her heart.  Or perhaps
because of it.  The night beckoned, warm, sultry, filled with the promise of
summer.

She plucked a long, fringed shawl from a drawer and with it over her
shoulders slipped on a pair of shoes.  Going lightly so as not to disturb her
father, she tiptoed down the steps, avoiding the treads that creaked, and
stepped from the house.

Moonlight wrapped around her, and drifting wisps of fog whispered over the
ground, still warm with the memory of day.  She went on un hesitantly
fearless in this place that was uniquely hers.  The trees of Daniels' Neck
stood sentinel all around her.  In the distance she could hear the sea
washing timelessly against the beach.

The air was fragrant with the mingled scents of land and water.  Every
shadowed rock, every rough- barked tree trunk and spreading branch was well-
known to her.  She could have walked with her eyes closed through the wood
but she went eyes open, drinking in the sights and sounds, the touch and
scent of night.

Slim and graceful, proud and strong, she moved through cathedral shafts of
moonlight and the ghost like wisps of fog until she came at last to the moss
draped rocks beside the pond.

And there she stopped, head up, breathing in the night as peace stole over
her and all the worrying fray of the workaday world slipped from her
shoulders like so much forgotten weight.

Slipped, too, like the fringed shawl and white lace night robe falling on a
breath of air over the velvet moss.  She stood, bathed in silver, her hair
tumbling down her back and her.  skin alive to the sudden, sensual pleasure
of the night.

Cool, silken water touched her, sliding over the slender curve of her calves
to her thighs, caressing the chalice of her hips and flowing smoothly above
her waist to brush lightly at her high, upturned breasts.

She sighed deeply and bent her head back.  Floating, drifting as in a dream,
she gazed up at the star- speckled sky just visible beyond the branches of
the trees.  The excitement and dread of the long day slowly eased from her.
She felt free and alive.  Worry and fear slipped away as though they had
never been.  She sighed contentedly and turned over, diving smoothly under
the water to surface some distance away.  Laughing with the sheer pleasure of
it, she shook the water from her hair and continued swimming across the
moonlit pond.

In the woods beyond, nothing stirred.  No breath of air fluttered the leaves,
no animal scurried for cover or peered curiously from burrow or branch.
There was only silence, broken solely by the sudden harsh intake of breath of
the man who stood, his back to an ancient oak, watching the scene before him.

A pulse leaped in Nash's jaw.  He stared transfixed, unsure if what he was
seeing was real or a figment of his own desires.  Hunger flared through him,
so raw and intense that it made him gasp.

In the water, silvered by the moon, Deanna hesitated.  She turned slightly
toward the sound as though suddenly unsure.

Nash moved swiftly into the shadows of the trees.  He felt like an intruder,
guilty at even so inadvertent an invasion of her privacy, yet unable to turn
away.  He had stayed behind, delaying his departure to meet again with
Fletcher Wesskum.  The woodsman, though, had left an hour ago or more, off to
the place he kept in the hills, yet still Nash had lingered.

He had told himself it was as well, travel by night was always dangerous.  He
had what he had come for, and he could afford to wait until morning to make
his way.  The canoe Fletcher had provided was well hidden in bushes by the
shore.  It would be there when he needed it.

With luck, he would reach New Jersey the day after tomorrow.  From there, it
was overland to Washing- ton's headquarters in Virginia, a trip of several
days' hard riding.  His shoulder still ached.  A night's rest would do him
good.

Not for a moment did he admit that he was reluctant to leave Daniels' Neck
and the woman who dwelled there.  Yet now, standing in shadow and moonlight,
held rapt by beauty that seemed almost otherworldly, he had to face the
truth.  Deanna Marlowe held him in thrall as no woman had ever done.
Unfledged woman that she was, and infuriating though she could be, he could
not free her from his mind.

Or, it seemed, from his body.  No hesitation there, no doubt, only raw hunger
that made his loins ache and sent his blood running hot and fast with need.

He made a sound deep in his throat, half groan, half curse.  His hand, braced
against the tree, dug into the bark.  Belatedly, he became aware of what he
was doing and yanked his hand away, but the damage was done.  In the silvered
light, he could see the white scar left by his touch.

Angry--at himself, at fate, at the whole infuriating situation--he turned
resolutely and began to walk deeper into the woods.  He would leave, go his
own way, forget what he had seen.

Perhaps he would have had a night breeze not blown over the pond at that
moment, setting Deanna to shivering and making her decide that she had been
swimming long enough.

Back turned, leaving, Nash heard the sound of water falling, sluicing
down long, silken limbs he envisioned all too easily.  He stopped, frozen in
place, held by the image his wayward mind presented.  Slowly, he turned and
looked toward the pond.

Deanna had left the water.  She stood at the edge, bending slightly as she
lifted her clothes.

He stepped toward her, harder than he had to, crunching the dried leaves and
pine needles beneath his foot.  In the stillness, the snap of a branch seemed
as loud as a rifle shot.

Deanna froze.  She stood, naked, hair tumbling down her back, the white
nightgown clutched in front of her, and stared into the dark woods.

"Who's there?"

He took a breath, drawing it deep into his lungs and letting it out slowly.
With it went the best of his resolve, fading into the night.

He took one step, and then another, until he emerged from the shelter of the
trees and stood looking at her.

"You're out late," he said.

Deanna did not move.  She made no attempt to flee or even to cover herself.
Instead, she looked at him with a kind of inevitability, as though his
presence merely confirmed something she had already been thinking.  Or hoping.

He didn't care to dwell on that.  His life was one of hard practicalities and
harsh decisions.  So he had survived and so he would continue.  There was no
room for moon-wreathed maidens and unspoken understandings.

"Put your clothes on," he said harshly.  His hands were clenched at his
sides.  There was a pain in his chest--an empty ache of longing--that was
almost beyond bearing.

Still she did not move.

But he did, closer yet, until he stood directly in front of her, so close
that he could see the delicate flutter of a pulse at the base of her throat.

"Have you no sense at all?"  he demanded.

"What were you thinking coming out here like this?  And why aren't you
running?  This is no dream, damn you.  It's real."  He grasped her shoulders,
as though to shake sense into her, but the effort was futile, for he was
suddenly, irrevocably swamped by the silken touch of warm, smooth skin and
the knowledge, shining from her eyes, that she was not in the least afraid of
him.

How could she possibly not be?  Was she daft?  Or did she perhaps know more
than he cared to admit?

Her eyes, he realized, were that impossible shade poised between green and
gold.  It was a color he had once encountered on a summer day as he stumbled
into a forest glen where he found, to his great relief, a cool spring and
safety for a time.  Leaving the glen, he had looked back, sensing unseen
presences that swept all around him, just beyond his touch, yet real all the
same.

Unseen, now seen.  Beyond touch, now touched.  And real, sweet Lord, this
woman was the stuff of dreams--yet exquisitely real beneath his hands.  Walk
away, his better self said.  Leave now, go while honor remained and nothing
un redeemable had happened.

Moments passed, the space of several heartbeats, and he stayed.  The chance
to leave, slim though it had been, closed like a door shutting in the night.

He stayed.  His eyes met hers, watchful and full of ^ questions.  His arms
beckoned her to him.  She could still halt and go her way.

But she did not.  There in the darkness and the moonlight, she moved toward
him.  His name was on her lips as she let the nightgown fall.

Chapter Twenty-One Deanna cried out softly.  The mossy ground
was against her back, Nash moved above her, holding her, shutting out all the
world.  His callused palms cupped her breasts, his mouth ignited fire down
her throat.  The rough wool of his breeches slightly abraded her thighs.

Slowly, rhythmically, his thumbs moved over her aching nipples, driving
pleasure so deep that it pierced her to the quick.

She moaned and grasped his shoulders, not knowing whether to draw him closer
or try somehow to push him off.  Caught between desire and doubt, overwhelmed
by sensations she had never even suspected could exist, she could only cling
to him.

He was strength and heat, power and certainty, holding her, touching her,
drawing taut every nerve in her body so that her back arched and her body
bowed like the string of a harp, exquisitely sensitive to his slightest
caress.  Breath caught in her throat.  His mouth closed around her nipple,
tugging gently, evoking a tide of sensation in her.

Wave after wave of need washed over her, blinding her to everything but the
man above her.  She could not be close enough to him.  It was impossible to
feel enough, give enough, know enough.

He raised his head, gazing down at her.  The dark pewter sheen of his eyes
held hers.

"Deanna...?"  It was a whisper, no more, harsh and hoarse.  His chest beneath
the finely woven linen of his shirt rose and fell swiftly.  Heat poured from
him.  She moved her head against the ground, seeking relief, looking for
something she did not understand but could not exist without.

"Nash... please..."  She barely recognized her own voice.  Who was this
passion-caught woman, shorn of pride, stripped to bare emotion?  Had this
other self been within her all this time, unsuspected, unreleased?  On this
night and in this place that was uniquely her own, had she been suddenly set
free?

He swallowed and she watched the play of muscles down his powerful throat,
taking comfort that at least she was not alone.  He, too, was caught in
passion's crucible, reason shorn.

Emboldened and reassured, she moved her hands down his chest to play at the
lace loosely holding the front of his shirt together.  Nimble fingers,
surprising in their cleverness, made swift work.  Swift, too, the reward as
they slipped beneath the fabric to find heated skin stretched tautly over
powerful muscles.

She gasped, swept by the shock of un recognition for this was not herself,
but a man who both fascinated and frightened her.  Fear?  A pale thing
compared to the curiosity that drove her on.

Daring greatly, she stroked his chest, her palms tingling at the rough
caress of down-soft hairs, the remarkable planes and curves so expertly
formed, held quiescent yet trembling in their restraint, waiting to be
unleashed.  It was as if she were touching fire, only she didn't pull away
from the singeing heat.  This time she went on, unable to stop, drawn by a
need vastly greater than any remnant of reason she still possessed.

Nash trembled beneath her questing hands.  He rocked with the effort to
control himself, long, rolling quakes surging through him.  His teeth were
clenched, his features strained with the struggle.

She gasped, looking at him, seeing what her thoughtless touch did.

"Don't..."  she whispered.  Fire flashed in his eyes, a wordless message she
grasped in an instant.  How easily misunderstanding could flare.  Her hand
moved, coming to rest at his waist.  Softly, she said, "I meant don't leave
me."

He relaxed slightly but his features were still tight.  "You don't know
what..."

"I'm saying?"  She managed a faint smile.

"Perhaps not, but I'm willing to learn."

"This is no joke," he remonstrated.  Sternly, he grasped her hands to push
her away, but the moment his fingers closed around hers, he hesitated.

She acted on the opportunity.  Raising herself slightly, she brushed the tips
of her breasts back and forth across his chest.  The sensation was
enthralling.  She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out.

He gasped and, instead of pushing her away, laid her hand against his skin.
His eyes closed against the waves of pleasure.  Beneath him, lying in the
cleft of his thighs, she felt his hardened manhood, press against her.

The strength and size of it made her gasp.  Trembling on the brink of
hesitation, she turned away from that timid edge and suddenly, surprising
herself, leapt into the unknown.

Her hands, shocking in their willfulness, touched the waistband of his
breeches, undoing the first button and the second.  On the third, she paused,
and looked at him.

He loomed above her, silhouetted against the darkness, all fire-borne heat
and moon madness.  Flames flickered in his eyes, flames that darted as he
curled his fingers around hers.

"Sweet heaven," he said, half incantation, half simple, male complaint at the
mockery of nature that weakens strength and endows the innocent with
unmatched wisdom.

In reluctant surrender, he smiled.  Rising above her, he stood and quickly
stripped off his clothing.  The white linen shirt fluttered to the ground.
The boots fell with a thud .  His breeches followed swiftly and with them his
sole remaining garment.

Bathed in moonlight, he stood before her, all sculpted muscle and sinew, raw
masculine power and unrelenting will.

Her mouth was suddenly dry.  She raised herself on her elbows and glanced
around, instinctively seeking some means of escape.  But before the thought
to flee could fully form in her mind, he came down beside her.  Hard hands
stroked her from ankle to hip, branding her with his touch.  His mouth, hot
and demanding, closed over hers devouringly.

Robbed of breath, reason melting, she grasped his shoulders to try to hold
herself still in a world swiftly spinning out of control.  The effort was
futile.  The instant she touched him, the last faint bonds of restraint she
still possessed snapped.

Crying out his name, she lay back against the earth, drawing him with her.
Urgently, she stroked him, caressing the bunched sinews of his back down to
his hard buttocks.  He groaned and moved a knee between her legs, pushing
them farther apart.

"Don't touch me," he said hoarsely.

"I want this to be right."

When she tried to protest, he seized both her hands in one of his, and with
his fingers twined around her wrist, raised her arms above her head.
Darkness stained his lean cheeks.  A lock of ebony hair fell across his brow.

"Lie still," he demanded.

"Let me do what I must."

Impossible, she thought dazedly, for every touch, every movement elicited
such a powerful response from her that she could not help but reach out to
him.  Her hips lifted, held captive by his caress.

Her eyes widened in shock as his hand moved between her legs, stroking the
delicate skin of her inner thighs.

"No," she whispered faintly.  She was embarrassed yet desperately wanted him
to continue.  When he did, lightly touching his thumb to the sensitive nub
hidden between the folds of her womanhood, she cried out.

Waves of ecstasy radiated upward.  The night shimmered all around her.

She was hardly aware of what was happening to her, only that he was touching
her again, with his hands, with his mouth, and finally with the strong,
smooth tip of his maleness.

Poised between her thighs, he lifted her, his fingers kneading her bottom,
opening her yet farther.  He hesitated a moment longer before lowering his
head to hers.

"Sweet," he whispered as he kissed her mouth and thrust his manhood within
her.

She stiffened at the stunning intrusion and the swift stab of pain that
accompanied it.  But both the strangeness and the discomfort fled in an
instant, overwhelmed by pleasure so intense nothing else could exist beside
it.

He waited, giving her time to become accustomed to him, before he began to
move again.  Slowly, drawing out each long thrust, he cleaved her body,
reshaping her to him while at the same time giving completely of himself.

Undulating ripples of release began deep within Deanna, reaching to the very
core of her being.  Her head fell back reflecting the silvered sky in her
eyes.

Nash grasped her hips, locking her against him.  He drove again, once more,
again.  A throbbing pulse filled them both.  Passionately, he cried out her
name.  The sound seemed to shatter the world and her with it.

Far off, as though in a dream, she soared above the trees, looking down with
wonder at herself, joined in such primal beauty with this man.  A piercing
sense of longing for what could not be filled her.

She held him fiercely to her, willing him never to go.  A single, burning
tear slipped down her cheek and fell upon the waiting earth.

Chapter Twenty-Two Q^nys^Q JNo," Nash said.  He spoke quietly in the firm
manner of one who knows beyond question that there will be no argument.
Without looking at Deanna, he added,

"I'm going with you."

She stood a little apart from him, dressed once again in the nightgown and
shawl.  Her arms were wrapped around herself.  She looked proud but
vulnerable, swamped by emotions he had no trouble recognizing because they
were in control of him, as well.

All too quickly, dazzling joy had given way to hard reality.  There was no
going back from what they had done and no chance of undoing it.  Remorse
filled him, and with it the hard edge of guilt.

He was the man, vastly more experienced and knowledgeable.  He should have
known better, should have controlled himself, should have called a halt while
there was still time.

Instead, he had surrendered to passion so intense and overwhelming that the
memory of it still stunned him.  Had it not been for the desire still
quickening within his body and the lingering scent of Deanna's skin against
his own, he might almost have believed it a dream.

But this was no dream facing him, rather a flesh and blood woman whose eyes
shone with bewilderment and what looked perilously like regret.

Pain stabbed through him.  He took a step toward her, hoping to somehow offer
her comfort and reassurance.  But his inner torment surfaced and he spoke far
more harshly than he intended.

"Don't be a fool."

She winced, but she held her head high and her gaze steady.

"It appears I already have been."

Nash froze.  Slowly, his hands dropped to his sides.  More gently, he said,

"It wasn't your fault.  I should have known better."

A hint of scorn flashed behind her eyes.  Without another word, she turned
and began to walk away.

Nash cursed under his breath and went after her.  He caught up before she had
gone very far but made no attempt to stop her.  She was going in the right
direction--toward the house.  When they were within sight of it, she stopped.
Still without looking at him, she said, "Surely this is far enough.
Consider your duty done."

She was right, of course.  It was madness for him to go any farther.

He could remain where he was and watch her until she was safely in the house.
Pride refused to let him.  He would not let it end like this.  The clouds
parted suddenly, bathing the edge of the forest where they stood in
moonlight.  His breath caught as he looked at her.

Never had he known a woman so beautiful in every sense of the word, who
enthralled not merely his body but his spirit, as well.

A woman he would gladly have swept into his arms and carried away for all
time.  If he had anywhere safe to take her.  If he could have offered her any
life beyond the struggle of war and the ever-present danger of defeat.

Cursing the fate that had thrown them together, he could not resist the
impulse to touch her one last time.  In the stillness of the wood, with only
the moon as a witness, he brushed his hand lightly against her cheek.

It came away damp.  He inhaled sharply as pain twisted within him.

With a low groan, he drew her into his arms.

She stiffened, and for a moment he thought she would resist.  But an instant
later, she seemed to melt against him, releasing a soft sigh.

With her head against his chest, she said,

"Don't come any farther, please.  I'm so afraid you'll be caught."

Nash's throat tightened.  He couldn't remember the last time anyone had
worried about him like that, had put his well-being first so completely and
generously.  "I can't leave like this.  It isn't right."

Before she could protest further, he set her a little apart from him, took
her hand and resolutely moved toward the house.  Deanna followed, without
objection, but he could feel her trembling.

Directly in front of them, on the lower floor of the house, a light flared.
The door to the kitchen opened.

"Someone out there?"

Nash tensed for a moment, readying himself for trouble.

"Martha," Deanna whispered with relief.  Loudly, she called,

"It's only me."

The door opened farther.  Silhouetted against the light, the old woman peered
out.

"Child, what're you doing wandering around this late?

Come inside 'fore you catch your death.  "

"I must go," Deanna said to Nash.  She waited for his response, staring
straight at his chest.

Nash took a deep breath, struggling for control.  He lifted the delicate hand
he still held and studied it for a long moment.  Slowly, not looking at her,
he said, "I don't want it to be like this."

She raised her head.  Her forest-green eyes met his.  "But it is and there's
nothing we can do about it."

He should be grateful for her acceptance.  There was no recrimination, no
blame, only a proud, strong woman telling him that she understood the way
things were.  Her courage made him ache all the harder inside.

, He uncurled her fingers one by one, and touched his mouth gently to her
palm.  A sweet surge of pleasure ran between them before he reluctantly
released her.  Still he did not move, but stood tall and dark against the
light.  Quietly, he said,

"If you need to get in touch with me, Fletcher Wesskum will know how."

She looked startled as his words sank in.  Her cheeks darkened.  There could
be more to come from this night than mere memory.

"That isn't necessary," she said stiffly.

"I can manage on my own."

He took a quick step closer, the words wrenched from him.

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

He remembered then what he should not have forgotten, that she was a healer,
skilled in the ways of herbs and other remedies, the kind of woman other
women turned to for help in delicate matters.

The thought hurt, oddly.  He had never been a sentimental man, never thought
much, if at all, about home and hearth, a loving wife and children tumbling
about her skirts.  Indeed, he would have laughed at the notion that such a
life held any attraction for him.  Would have laughed.  Until now.

Yet what could he say?  He could offer her nothing.  That failure, more than
anything else, robbed him of the right to place demands on her.

In the fundamental fairness of his mind, he knew that.  But something more
primitive than fairness stirred within him, an ancient urge to leave a part
of his being behind, safe with this woman.

"Child?"  Martha called.

Nash's hand cupped the back of her head.  He drew her hard against him, his
mouth branding hers in sudden, savage possession.  Against her lips, he said,
"Send word through Wesskum.  Understand?"

Her eyes bright with unshed tears, she wrenched away and moved swiftly toward
the door.

For a moment, he saw her there, poised against the rectangle of light.  Then
the door closed behind her, blocking out the light and leaving him in the
darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Three

' *T

It will do you good," Nathaniel said.

"I've got to go back to New York and I don't feel right about leaving you
here again.  Especially not the way you've been acting lately.  I'm still
worried that you're coming down with something."

"I'm perfectly fine," Deanna said.  To emphasize the point, she sat up a
little straighter and smiled.  They were seated at the oak dining table
brought over from England before the war.  It was the Sunday after the ball.
The windows stood open to admit a soft breeze.

Twilight was falling.

Martha, with Deanna's help, had prepared an excellent supper of turbot in
white sauce and glazed ham with compote of vegetables.  Nathaniel had scraped
his plate clean, enjoying it thoroughly.  Deanna had eaten little.  She'd
hoped her father wouldn't notice, but as usual he missed nothing.

Pouring a modest measure of brandy for himself from the carafe on the table,
he frowned.

"I know you'd enjoy a trip to the city.  Thanks to General Clinton, there's
still some fine shopping for the ladies there.  When was the last time you
freshened up your wardrobe?"

"When I had that dress made for the ball."

He waved a hand, dismissing that.

"I meant other things, day dresses, a new riding habit."  As though coaxing
her with a sweetmeat, he added,

"Hats.  You used to like them and now I hardly ever see you in one."

"I have several very nice bonnets."

"What, those old cotton things you wear in the fields?  I'm talking about
hats, girl, those frilly gewgaws with feathers and ribbons."  He was silent
for a moment.

"The fact of the matter is I don't think I've been a very good father to you
lately."

"That isn't true.  You" -- "Yes, it is.  This damn war has me all tied up in
knots, but that's no excuse for not doing better by you.  You're a beautiful
young woman.

You need to get out more, have some fun, do the things young people do.  "

Deanna hesitated.  She loved her father dearly and was touched by his concern
but she didn't want to leave him with any misconceptions.

"Does this, by chance, have something to do with Charles?"

Nathaniel shook his head.

"No, it doesn't.  I got the impression he pushed you too hard and you didn't
like it.  That's fine.  Maybe the two of you will patch things up and maybe
you won't.  It doesn't matter one way or the other to me.  I just want you to
be happy."

Deanna swallowed against the sudden tightening in her throat.

"You can say that and still deny that you're a wonderful father?"

Nathaniel looked pleased, if a bit embarrassed.

"If you really think I am, I'm glad.  But it's still not fair for you to stay
cooped up like this.  You're coming to New York with me, and by heaven, girl,
you're going to have some fun."

Deanna laughed.  She couldn't help it.  The heavy weight of the past week
lifted from her a little.  Maybe her father was right.  The best thing for
her might be to get away.  At least in New York she wouldn't be reminded of
Nash every time she turned around.  She could accompany her father to a few
of the parties that seemed to go on constantly in the city, perhaps even do
some of that shopping he'd mentioned.

A ripple of feminine pleasure moved through her.  "All right," she said.

"When do we leave?"

He surprised her.

"Tomorrow morning."  With a grin, he added,

"So you'd better get plenty of sleep tonight.  Unless I miss my guess, it
might be your last chance for a while."

He was exaggerating, Deanna thought a short time later as she made her way
upstairs.  They'd have a good time in the city but it wouldn't be like London
had been before the war.  Then she'd gone through several sets of dance
slippers every week and had rarely gotten home before dawn.

New York was, after all, a far smaller city, still clinging to the edge of
wilderness.  A city that for all its aspirations remained provincial.  A
larger version of Belle Haven, really.  It would be interesting, to be
sure--even entertaining--but it couldn't be expected to be.  Chaos.
Absolutely, unbridled chaos.  Clutching her skirts around her, Deanna jumped
back as a wagon raced past, taking the corner on two wheels.  Mud sprayed in
its wake, just missing her.  She took a breath, trying to steady her nerves,
and started to step into the street again only to leap back once more as
another carriage dashed past.

"My God," she said under her breath, "who are all these people and why are
they in such a hurry?"

Beside her, Nathaniel laughed.

"They're New Yorkers, lass.  They don't need a reason."

A small opening appeared in the traffic.  They hurried across the street,
managing to reach the other side just as a half dozen horsemen galloped by.
Deanna grimaced, shook the mud from her skirt and said, "It's worse than
London!"

"Or better," Nathaniel replied.  He stuck his thumbs in his vest pockets and
glanced around with a satisfied air.

"Depending on your point of view."

"You like it here."

He laughed.

"That isn't a sin, lass.  It's not a bad place once you get used to it."

"If you say so," Deanna murmured.  She didn't try to hide her skepticism.
Since their arrival in the city that morning, she'd been bombarded by sights
and sounds, not to mention smells, enough to make her head spin.  For a city
of no more than a few thousand perched on the tip of a largely unsettled
island, it had a remarkably self-important air.

Perhaps that was to be expected.  The city was headquarters for much of the
British force.  It had withstood rebel efforts to take it early in the war
and remained staunchly Tory ever since, or so it seemed.

As a result, the port stayed, busy, people appeared prosperous, and there
were no signs of the grim exhaustion that had scarred so many villages and
towns during the past five years.

Deanna felt a twinge of envy.  She pushed it aside firmly, reminding herself
that she was here to have a good time.  The sooner she started, the sooner
she could get it over with.

"General Clinton's wife is having a little soiree tonight," Nathaniel said.

"We've been invited."

Chamber music and conversation with British officers and their wives was not
exactly her idea of a rip-roaring evening, but it would have to do.

"Wonderful," she murmured as she wondered what she should wear.

It proved easy enough to decide.  Until she did the shopping she had promised
her father, the only remotely fashionable dress she had was the one made for
Tyron's ball.

Dressing that evening in her room in the inn, she did her utmost not to think
of Nash.  But the touch of silk against her skin and the rustle of the wide
skirt as she moved reminded her vividly of that evening and the night that
followed.

By the time her father knocked at the door to collect her, she was pale and
her hands felt cold.  Quickly, she pinched color into her cheeks.

"Lovely," Nathaniel said when she opened the door.  With a proud air, he
offered his arm.

"Now isn't this better than sitting at home with only Lucas and Old Martha
for company?"

"They're good friends," Deanna protested.

"Aye, they are, but they want what's best for you, too.  General Clinton's
lady sets the best table in New York.  I hope you're hungry."

Deanna wasn't hungry but she didn't dare say so.  Her father seemed happier
and more relaxed than he had been in a long time.  She wouldn't change that
for the world.

The General and Lady Clinton's residence was a pleasant two-story mansion
near Canal Street built of native granite and surrounded by a garden and
orchard.  The house was far grander than Tyron's headquarters in Belle Haven.

Well-dressed men and women were arriving either by carriage or on foot as the
Marlowes strolled up.  They joined the throng and shortly passed through the
high double doors to the entry hall.  Deanna yielded her shawl to a majordomo
and took her father's arm.  They shared a surreptitious smile.

"Remind you of anything?"  he asked.

"London," she said promptly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think they transported the entire house from
overseas--down to the last peg in the floor and the last bit of molding on
the wall."

"The General's lady is said to be a woman of high standards."

"Let me guess," Deanna said.

"She wasn't too happy about being sent over here and refused to come unless
she could live in the manner to which she was accustomed."

Nathaniel's eyebrows rose.

"How did you know that?"

"As I said" a guess.  I met ladies like her by the dozen in London.

Most thought we went about half naked, ate our meat raw and slept in trees.  "

"And those were the ones who were trying to be nice to you," a voice said
lightly.

Deanna whirled to find Charles close beside her.  In the press of the crowd,
she hadn't noticed his approach.  Now, it was impossible to ignore him.

With a cautious smile in her direction and a bow to Nathaniel, he said,

"I heard you might be coming this evening."

"Did you?"  her father murmured.

"I didn't know myself until we got the invitation earlier today."  .

Charles flushed slightly.  He stood with his hands tucked behind his back,
resplendent in his dress uniform.

"Actually, I asked Lady Clinton to send it."

"Very resourceful of you," Nathaniel said dryly.  He glanced at Deanna and
inclined his head toward the music room.

"The music seems to be starting."

Charles followed as they moved inside.  He took a seat next to Deanna,
carefully spreading the tails of his frock coat before lowering himself into
the chair.  Staring straight ahead, he said,

"I hope I'm not being presumptuous."

She lowered her eyes to hide the anxiousness in them.  The situation appalled
her.  She had known she would most likely encounter Charles during this trip,
but she hadn't expected it to happen so soon or for him to make his
continued interest in her quite so clear.

She could hardly tell Charles that there was no point in his sitting next to
her or doing anything else, so far as she was concerned, because she had
irrevocably given herself to another man, one she would probably never even
see again.  He would think her mad.  She had to wonder if he wouldn't be at
least a little right.

At a complete loss as to what to say or do, she was suddenly grateful for the
childhood etiquette lessons that had been so tiresome at the time but at
least had given her something to fall back on when she needed it most.

' "Do you enjoy this sort of music?"  she asked politely.

If he was surprised by the indirectness of her reply, he gave no sign.  With
a grave nod, he said,

"Upon occasion.  And you?"

"The same."

The first notes of the harpsichord relieved them of any further need for
conversation.  With a small sigh of relief, Deanna settled herself to listen.

Chapter Twenty-Four Iler relief was short-lived.  All too soon, it seemed,
the music ended temporarily and people began to circulate.  A literary
light--a poet from London--was holding court in the parlor.  Charles
suggested Deanna might find him interesting.

Father and daughter exchanged a glance.  There were people Nathaniel wanted
to talk with, men like himself anxious to do business despite the
difficulties imposed by the war.  He had returned to New York for that
opportunity.  She could not bring herself to deny it, no matter how
uncomfortable she might feel.

Giving her father a reassuring smile, she touched the tips of her fingers to
Charles's arm and accepted his escort.  With the poet.  Lady Clinton was also
in the parlor.  She was a plump woman tightly laced into an extravagant gown
of ruffles and bows, her powdered wig framing noble features.  She gave
Charles a chiding look as he came up to present Deanna.

"There you are, sirrah," Her Ladyship said.

"Do remind me, when was the last time you graced one of my little dos?"

Charles flushed but kept his composure.

"Alas, madame, duty too often calls me away."

"Nonsense, you simply prefer the gaming tables and pleasure parlors, like
most of the men in this dreadful place."  Belatedly noticing Deanna, Her
Ladyship added,

"Do forgive me for being blunt, dear, but the longer we are forced to remain
here, the more difficult it becomes to maintain one's standards.  Don't you
agree?"

Neatly put on the spot, Deanna debated what to say.  The proper response was
to defer to her hostess, but the plain fact was that she wasn't feeling
particularly deferential.  Indeed, the general's wife's arrogance struck a
nerve in her that she couldn't ignore.

"No, actually I don't," she said quietly.  Beside her, she felt Charles
stiffen.

"But then, I'm American, so it's only natural that I would be more
comfortable here than you."

Lady Clinton's rather small eyes widened visibly.  She stared at Deanna as
though she were some strange species of creature who had suddenly crawled out
of the carpet.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There is good to be found everywhere," Deanna said softly.

"You might be happier if you looked harder."

"Why, I never" -- "We've kept you from your other guests long enough,"
Charles said, stepping in hastily.  With a firm grip on Deanna's arm, he
added,

"If you'll excuse us" -- Not waiting for Her Ladyship's approval, he steered
Deanna away.  When they were out of earshot, he demanded,

"What in God's name did you think you were doing?  Next to Cornwallis, Clinton
is the most important representative of the King on this continent.  He also
happens to be my commanding officer.

Yet you just took it upon yourself to insult his wife.  Why?  "

Deanna was wondering that herself.  It was unlike her to be rude in any
situation, much less one that was so public.  Yet she'd done exactly that.
Apparently, her nerves were more frayed and her emotions more perilous than
she had realized.

"I'm sorry," she said with quiet dignity.

"It's only that she was being so insufferable.  I've been to London.
Contrary to what some people seem to think, it's not heaven on earth.
There's dirt and noise and poverty and violence, just as there is here.
That's the problem with you British.  You honestly believe you're superior to
everyone else and that everything you have is better than what any of the
rest of us can even hope for.  But that just isn't true."

It was difficult to say who was more surprised by her outburst, Deanna or
Charles.  She was taken aback by the force of her convictions, hitherto
little thought about, and by the frankness with which she had suddenly
expressed them.  For his part, Charles gave every appearance of being
stunned.  He stared at her in amazement.

' "How long have you felt this way?"

"I don't know.  Not long.  I didn't used to think much about it, but
lately..."

"Lately, something has happened to change you."

Her head.  shot up, her eyes meeting his.  He couldn't possibly know.  She
looked the same as she always had, she was even wearing the same dress he had
last seen her in.  The transformation in her, born of moonlight and passion,
was secret, hidden, not something that could be seen.

Or was it?  Was there some sign, perhaps not truly visible, but enough to
trigger a male instinct?

"Not something for you to be concerned with," she said quickly.  That was the
truth.  Even if there had been any hope of a future between them, which she
strongly doubted, having given herself to Nash, she would never under any
circumstances attempt to trick or deceive Charles.

She understood full well without having to be told that virtue was an
absolute requirement in anyone he would take to wife.  That she felt no
regret at having removed herself from the running told her forcibly that her
feelings for him had never been deep enough.  They were both better off, but
he did not realize that and she was in no position to explain it.

"All things regarding you concern me," Charles said.  He did not look happy
about it.  Still holding her arm, he led her farther off to the side in the
direction of French doors.  Several of the doors stood open to admit a
cooling breeze.  Beyond them was a stone terrace that gave way to the garden.

"Let's get some air," Charles said.

"I really don't" -- His hold on her arm was suddenly painful.  Through
clenched teeth, he said,

"Stop arguing.  I don't remember you being this contentious in London."

"That was five years ago," Deanna protested.

Short of making a scene, there was nothing she could do to stop him from
leading her out of the parlor and onto the terrace.  A scene was undoubtedly
just what Lady Clinton would have liked, the certain guarantee that any
possible romance between a promising officer and the young woman she now had
every reason to dislike would be finished for good.  That satisfaction Deanna
would not give her, not even with the little voice in the back of her mind
warning that such stubbornness might be shortsighted.

However annoyed he might be, Charles was a gentleman.  He would find a scene
no more to his liking than she did.  He might voice his disapproval, but
surrounded by fellow officers and other people of stature, he would not go
any further.  A few minutes on the terrace with him were not so great a risk,
and besides, she would slip away the first chance she got.

But Charles did not even pause on the terrace.  He yanked her down the few
steps to the garden and strode toward the shadows of the nearby orchard.
Before Deanna could attempt to stop him, they were alone, out of sight and
beyond earshot of anyone.

Chapter Twenty-Five I have tried to be patient," Charles said.

"We have been apart for five years and it was inevitable that you would have
changed to some degree.  But now I see that I did not fully appreciate the
strain you have been under.  A woman's mind is naturally weak.  You cannot be
expected to think clearly under difficult circumstances."

It was Deanna's turn to be taken aback.  She had grown up in a family where
her intelligence and general good sense were taken for granted.

To the best of her knowledge, no one had ever seriously questioned them.  Nor
had Charles given any sign that he thought her simpleminded in those long-ago
days in London.  She was tempted to congratulate him on having so effectively
pulled the wool over her eyes.  But sarcasm required more effort than she was
willing to muster.

Angrily, she said,

"I am sorry to hear that you feel that way.

Since I cannot abide a man who thinks me a dolt, this would seem a logical
time for us to take our leave of one another.  Goodbye.  "

Turning on her heel, she picked up her skirts and walked briskly toward the
manor house.  She got perhaps a half dozen yards before Charles caught up
with her.

He grasped her shoulder harshly and spun her around.  His eyes were furious,
his features taut.  There was a slight tremor to his mouth.

"No one turns on me like that.  You embarrassed me in front of the general's
lady.  We will go back inside and you will apologize, or by God, you will
regret it."

"I regret nothing except mistaking you for a reasonable man.  Now let go."

Instead, his hand tightened.  She had the sudden, frightening realization of
having gone too far.  His free hand rose to strike her.

There was a sudden burst of noise and laughter from the house.

Charles hesitated a scant instant.  It was enough.  Deanna wrenched herself
free and ran.  Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could not hear
whether he was following her or-not.  Out of breath and genuinely terrified,
she reached the terrace and darted quickly inside.  Several people looked at
her curiously.  She brushed past them and, still shaking, made her way
upstairs to a cloakroom.

It was, thankfully, empty.  She was able to sink down on the couch and try to
collect herself.  The magnitude of her own misjudgment was just beginning to
register.  Even after the episode in the coach, she still hadn't realized how
insistent Charles could be or what his pride might drive him to do.  He would
make a bad enemy.

Shakily, she rose and poured water from a ewer on a nearby table.  Bathing
her face and wrists made her feel a little better.  But the mirror over the
basin revealed a young woman with strained, pale features and shadowed eyes.
She could not let her father see her in such a state.  He would surely ask
questions she did not wish to answer.

Hearing feminine voices approaching, she slipped out of the cloakroom and
looked around for somewhere she might rest undisturbed for a short while
longer.  No place immediately presented itself until she noticed a door
standing open farther down the hall.

Quickly, she stepped inside, finding herself in a small but graciously
furnished bedroom.  By the look of it, and the lack of any personal objects,
it appeared to be kept for guests.  With a sigh, she sat down on the edge of
the bed, being careful not to wrinkle the counterpane, and looked at her feet.

Her slippers were ruined, damaged beyond repair by the trek in the orchard.
She would have to conceal them from her father, who would know beyond doubt
that she had not destroyed them dancing.  It would be one more lie and deceit
among what had already become too many.

Tears stung her eyes.  She blinked them back furiously and tried to decide
what to do next.  She had to go downstairs, find her father and wait
patiently until he was ready to leave, concealing from him any hint of what
had happened.  For the moment, that seemed beyond her.

She remained where she was.

Only gradually did she become aware that she was not alone.  A soft murmur of
voices reached her.  She started and looked around quickly.  There was no
one in sight, yet the voices seemed nearby.

Puzzled, she got up and began moving around the room.  At first, she thought
she must be hearing people next door.  But an ear to the wall proved this
wrong.  Minutes passed before she noticed the fireplace.  A quick check
revealed that the flue was open.  When she bent closer, the voices became
more distinct.  They sounded as though they were coming from directly below,
filtering up the chimney that must also serve a fireplace in a room beneath.

As nearly as she could make out, there were two men talking.  They sounded
relaxed and in good humor.  One of the voices was vaguely familiar.  It took
her a moment to realize that it belonged to General Clinton.

A faint smile touched her lips.  She seemed to have a talent for this
eavesdropping business.  All the same, she had been raised with certain
standards of courtesy.  Turning to go, she froze when a single word caught
her ear.

"Traitor."

"Harsh, don't you think?"  Clinton asked.

"After all, he's doing us a great service."

The other man murmured something Deanna could not make out, then added, ' "I
suppose we should be grateful.  Still, it gives me pause.  That sort of thing
shouldn't be necessary."

"It wouldn't be," Clinton replied, "if these Americans didn't have the
devil's own luck.  They should have been defeated long ago.  Now there
actually appears to be a chance they could win."

"The hell you say.  Bunch of rabble, that's all.  If it weren't for the
French helping them" -- "They would still be a problem.  Face it, my friend,
we need any edge we can get.  We're fortunate to have an agent in their
camp."  Clinton chuckled.

"Particularly when he's managed to convince them that he's actually working
for them."

' "Still leaves a bad taste.  Not the sort of thing either of us would do."

"But then we don't have to," the general replied.  "We have him."

The other man agreed, reluctantly.  A few moments later, their voices grew
fainter.  They appeared to have left the room, undoubtedly rejoining the
party.

Deanna remained where she was, frozen in place.  What had struck her as
amusing at first--her unexpected penchant for eavesdropping--was now anything
but.  Completely by accident, she had come into possession of information
that might be vital to the Americans.

The only question was what to do with it.

Chapter Twenty-Six Q^zr^s^sQ Hours later, alone in her room in the inn,
Deanna considered her options.  They were distressingly limited.  If she had
been in Belle Haven, she could have turned to Fletcher Wesskum for help in
contacting the Americans.  But he was miles away, and she was surrounded by
British loyalists.  There was no one to confide in and nowhere to turn.

She was badly frightened, a sensible enough reaction.  But she was also oddly
exhilarated.  Far too much to sleep.  Curled in the window seat, her knees
drawn up to her chin, she gazed out at the road immediately beyond the inn.

All day long, wagons, carriages, riders and pedestrians had moved along it.
But now it was still.  Even the noises that had been coming from downstairs
were gone, the last of the diners and drinkers departed.

Immediately next door, her father slept.  A stout wooden bar secured her
door.  The bed was clean and comfortable, a rarity in such places.

There was nothing to prevent her from seeking the rest she so badly needed.
Nothing except the turmoil of her thoughts.

Unbidden, the memory of Nash rose to torment her.  She made a small, pained
sound and turned away from the window.  With the wane of day, the air had
grown chill.  The thin nightgown she wore offered scant protection.

Going over to the clothes-press, she hesitated before reaching inside.

Her hand emerged clutching a dark, elegantly tailored frock coat.

Shivering, she wrapped herself in it and lay down on the bed.

It was foolish to be doing this, but she couldn't seem to help herself.  The
soft wool still held the fragrance of leather and woodsmoke, crisp soap and
night air, all so powerfully reminiscent of the man who had placed it around
her shoulders.  Enveloped in the remembered scent and touch of him, she
finally drifted into restless sleep.

It was morning when she awoke.  The street outside was once again filled with
noise, and her father was knocking at the door.

"Deanna,"

he called, "are you all right?"

She rose hastily, only just remembering to hide the frock coat under the bed
covers.  Seizing an extra blanket, she wrapped it around herself and opened
the door.

"I'm fine," she murmured groggily.

"What's wrong?"

Her father's face was strained with worry.

"I've been trying to wake you," he said.

"You didn't answer."

A stab of guilt went through her.

"I'm sorry.  I must have been sleeping more deeply than usual.  Is it very
late?"

He relaxed somewhat now that he could see that she was really fine.

"Not terribly.  There's still plenty of time for breakfast."

She flashed him a quick smile.

"Good, I'm starved.  I'll get dressed and join you downstairs."

Nathaniel nodded, satisfied that all was as it should be, and left.

Alone, Deanna shut the door and leaned against it, struggling for calm.

The night's rest--if it could be called that--had done her little good.  She
felt weighed down by apprehension, her nerves strung taut as though they
sensed some calamity about to occur.

But nothing did happen as she dressed and joined her father below.

They shared a hearty breakfast of porridge laced with honey washed down by
cider.  Despite her concern, Deanna did justice to the food.

She was young and healthy, after all, and she'd eaten nothing the night
before.  Besides, she'd always liked porridge.

"Seems like you were right," her father said as they left the inn.

"You are fine.  Now about that shopping" -- She sighed and pretended to
hesitate.

"Do I have to?"

"Sure do.  I've got to meet with my factor this morning, but there's some
real nice shops right by his office.  I expect you to go into each and every
one of them."

"I suppose it doesn't cost anything to look."

"No, but it does to buy."  He took a heavy sack of coins from his pocket and
dropped it into her hand.

Deanna gasped.  She didn't have to open the sack to know that it contained a
good deal of money.  "You're not serious."

"I am.  We've been hoarding every penny since this damn war started.

I'm sick of it.  It's time we forgot about the troubles and enjoyed ourselves
a little.  "

"This isn't a little," she protested.

"There's enough here to choke a horse."

Her father laughed.

"I'm sure you can find a better use for it.

Spread it around real good.  I don't want to see a bit of it coming back.  "

"I'd have no idea what to buy."  She couldn't remember the last time she'd
gone shopping.  Suppose she'd forgotten how?

"You can start right here," Nathaniel said, gesturing at the shop nearest to
them.

"There's a nice lady who's just waiting to make you up a bunch of pretty
dresses.  Oh, and don't forget that new riding habit I mentioned.  Tell her
you need that first."

"Why on earth would I need a new riding habit?  When people in Belle Haven go
hunting, they do it on foot and with a gun.  I'll never wear the thing."

Nathaniel lifted his eyes heavenward as though beseeching the Almighty for
patience.

"We should have stayed in England longer.  Maybe then you'd know riding
habits aren't just for hunting in.  You wear them to... well, to ride in so
as other people will know that you know what's what."

"So?"

"So day after tomorrow there's going be a promenade right through the city
streets and all the way up to Greenwich Village where the merchant's guild
will be hosting a very nice luncheon outdoors, complete with music and fine
food.  We'll be there."

Deanna frowned.  She knew she'd slept badly and had all sorts of things on
her mind, but this wasn't making any sense.

"Isn't this a strange thing to do in the midst of a war?"

"That's the point.  General Clinton thinks it's important to show confidence
at this stage."

"And what do you think?"

Her father was silent for a moment.  His smile had gone: Quietly, he said,

"That's British sterling I gave you.  It's been legal tender here for as long
as any of us have been around.  But maybe we should be getting something for
it while we still can."

Deanna took a quick breath.  Unless she was mistaken, her father had just
told her that he thought there was actually a chance the British might lose
the war.

Several soldiers walked past them.  There were more up and down the street,
as well as numerous civilians.  It was impossible to speak without the risk
of being overheard.

Since she now considered herself something of an expert on hearing
conversations that were not as private as people imagined them to be, Deanna
was inclined to be cautious.  Still, her father's sudden revelation demanded
some response.

"A riding habit?"  she asked.

"Hats and dresses?  Are those things we really want?"

He smiled down at her, his eyes suddenly tender.  "I want you to have them
and you can't tell me that deep down inside you don't want that, too."

' "What about seed stock?  A new plow?  Medicines, bolts of sturdy cloth,
things we're really likely to need if you're right" -- He touched a finger
lightly to her lips, stilling her.  Softly, he said,

"Sweet girl, I thought you understood.  If the worst happens, there'll be no
place here for men like me, those who stayed on the side of King and Country.
We'll have no choice but to leave."

Deanna's breath caught.  Standing on the busy street, surrounded by anonymous
passersby, she felt as though her world had shattered.  Her father had just
calmly told her that he was actively considering the need to leave Belle
Haven.

The thought tore at her.  She had a sudden, wrenching vision of the
well-loved house on Daniels' Neck slipping away from her as though down a
long tunnel into oblivion.

"No, you can't mean it."

Her father laid a hand on her arm in warning.  "Calm yourself.  This is not
the time.  I'm sorry to upset you but I thought you knew."  He shook his head.

"I've been remiss.  We will talk more later."

He gave her a small push in the direction of the shop.

"Go on now.

Enjoy yourself and don't worry about anything.  It'll all take care of itself
in the end, whatever we do.  "

Dazedly, Deanna obeyed.  She entered the shop, presented herself to the
proprietress and recited her needs.  What she said must have made sense, for
she was quickly shown to a chair where she could comfortably consider the
bolts of cloth brought for her examination.

Three hours later, she emerged having ordered a sizeable enlargement of her
wardrobe and secured the promise that the riding habit would be ready on
time.  Deanna couldn't imagine how the garment could be ready on such short
notice, but she presumed it had something to do with the exorbitant price she
was paying for it.

Anything else to do with her purchases had passed her in a blur.  If pressed
to describe what she had ordered, she would have been at a complete loss.
She could only trust that the garments would be suitable.

But for what exactly?  Exile in England?  Her stomach tightened in rejection.
If her father was right, the information she had gleaned about the traitor
in the American ranks might be more essential to the rebels than ever.  But
if she made any move to help them beyond what she had already done, she might
only be assuring the loss of the one place on earth she held dearer than any
other.  The only place she could call home.

Yet surely she had no right to put her own interests above those of an entire
nation struggling to be born.  And what of her brother, gone to aid the
cause?  And Uncle Duncan and his boys?  What of the brave people of Belle
Haven who had suffered all these years because they wouldn't swear loyalty to
a King they believed had abused them?  What of Nash?

Grimly, she thrust the thought of him aside.  Her emotions were too fragile,
her course too uncertain.  If she allowed herself to dwell on him, she would
be lost for certain.

She crossed the road and walked a little way down to a bookstore she had
noticed earlier.  It wasn't yet time to meet her father.  Having done his
bidding, she sought now to indulge her own.  The shop was small but
surprisingly well-stocked.  Barely had she opened the door than the fragrance
of leather bindings and crisp, uncut pages rose to welcome her.

The shopkeeper was in the rear.  He called out a greeting but left her to her
own devices.  She picked up a small volume of poetry and began to peruse it.

The door opened again.  She lifted her head idly as a bewhiskered captain
entered.  He nodded and continued on toward the back.  Behind him, a fragment
of the street was framed in the half-open doorway.

Deanna was returning her attention to the book when she noticed a horseman
passing by.

The door was swinging shut.  It closed even as she took a quick step forward,
telling herself she must surely be mistaken.  The man she had just seen
couldn't possibly be Nash.  He was supposed to be with General Washington in
Virginia.  Not here in New York on the very doorstep of the British!  Her
eyes had to be playing tricks on her.

Chapter Twenty-Seven 1 we days later, Deanna had all but forgotten about the
roan she thought she had seen.  She was far too busy with fittings, more
shopping and visits to her father's merchant friends to have any time to
dwell on the matter.  In what spare moments she could find, she tried to come
up with a way to contact the Americans.  But any possibility of that
continued to elude her.

On the second day, she woke early and began to dress with special care.
Nathaniel had procured two fine mounts for them to ride in the promenade.
She wanted him to be proud of her.

The seamstress arrived with her riding habit shortly after breakfast.

Dark shadows under the woman's eyes testified to the effort needed to ready
the garment so quickly.  But she was clearly pleased with the results, not to
mention her own reward.

"You look lovely, miss," the woman said after she had helped Deanna on with
the burgundy wool and velvet habit.  The shade was well-suited to her color
a ing,and the snug fit of the jacket emphasized the feminine curves of her
breasts and waist.

With only a small mirror to look in, Deanna couldn't really judge for
herself.  But she was content to take the seamstress's word for it.

She thanked the woman warmly and assured her that it would be fine to send
the other clothes on to Belle Haven when they were ready.

The seamstress gave her a grateful smile and took her leave.  Deanna spent a
few minutes fixing her hair.  She couldn't abide wigs and had no patience
with the stuffed and powdered artifices that were all the rage.  It was
enough to coil part of her heavy, golden tresses high up on her head, leaving
a gleaming length to fall beneath the pert, feathered cap that matched the
habit.

Confident that she would do her father proud, she left the room and descended
the stairs to find him waiting for her below.  Her heart tightened as she
caught sight of him.  Although in his fifties now, he was still a fine figure
of a man.

All her life he had been there to catch her when she fell, dry her tears and
assure her, often without words, that she was an important and valued person
worthy of being loved.  She had come to take him for granted, as children had
a way of doing.

But in the last few days, she had been forced to confront the possibility
that their lives would take them in very different directions.  If the
Americans won and her father chose exile in England, she would have to decide
whether or not to go with him.  The thought that she might not was like a
knife blade running through her, agonizing and impossible to ignore.

Yet she could say nothing of it to him, not by the slightest word or look
could she hint at what she was thinking.  It would hurt him too deeply.  With
a quick smile, she took his arm.

Softly, he said,

"You look absolutely lovely."

"Must be the company I keep."   With a flutter of her skirt, she stepped out
into the sunlight.

The riders assembled near the Bowery, almost at the tip of the island, and
with much cheering and laughing began to proceed up the broad way.  Beyond
the old city walls built by the Dutch, they spread out, following the tracks
of what had been hunting paths or the shallow beds of streams.

The day was fair, the sky cloudless and the breeze just brisk enough to cool
brows heated by the excitement.  Up ahead, Deanna caught a glimpse of Lady
Clinton resplendent in a black riding habit trimmed with ermine.  The general
accompanied her, surrounded by a group of his officers.  Charles was among
them.

He saw Deanna and frowned.  His eyes lingered on her as he appeared to debate
whether or not to approach her.  Discretion won out and he kept his distance,
for which she was grateful.  But from time to time, she felt him looking at
her.

Determined not to let anything spoil the day, she did her best to ignore him
and to a certain extent succeeded.  She had always enjoyed riding, but in
recent years there had been little opportunity to do so for pleasure.  Now
she gave herself up to it, listening idly to the conversation of her father
and his friends but otherwise letting her thoughts drift.

Shortly after noon, the road widened again as the party approached the
village of Greenwich.  People came out to welcome them, the children
shrieking in excitement while the adults waved and called out greetings.

Wryly, Deanna thought no one coming upon such a scene would think for a
moment that this was a country at war.  And that, she knew, was precisely the
point.  Clinton was determined to show that the population was utterly loyal,
so much so that he could relax and enjoy himself as well as any squire at
home in England.  He meant to put the lie to claims that the rebels were
gaining not only in the field but also in the hearts of the people.

But was he right?  Here and there, she thought she caught glimpses of faces
that did not appear so happy.  Eyes shadowed by unspoken thoughts.  Mouths
set with grim determination.

Perhaps she was imagining it.  Everyone seemed cheerful enough around the
large tables that had been set up on the village green.  White linen cloths
billowed in the breeze as liveried waiters stood by to serve the guests.

"Extraordinary," Nathaniel murmured under his breath.

"We could be on someone's country estate with no more to be concerned about
than whether the rain was going to hold off."

"The general apparently likes to enjoy himself," Deanna said mildly.

Her father made a disapproving sound.

"Maybe too much.  Someone might need to remind him that we're at war."

"Of course, he didn't actually arrange this.  The merchants did."

Nathaniel scoffed.

"Because they believe what he tells them."  He shook his head as though
exasperated.  "Damned if I can understand it.

I've known most of these men for years.  They used to be as sensible as the
day is long.  But they seem to have bought Clinton's notion that the
Americans can't win.  "

Deanna laid a warning hand on his arm.  His voice had risen slightly, enough
to attract the attention of several people nearby.

"This may not be the place."

He sighed but relented.  More softly, he said, "You're right.  Besides, I
don't want to spoil your outing.  Shall we stroll around a bit before getting
something to eat?"

Deanna allowed as to how that would be very nice.  She took her father's arm
and glanced around.

"This seems a pretty place."

Nathaniel nodded.

"Good duck hunting nearby."  He smiled wryly.

"You know, there are some who say the city's going to grow so fast that
eventually this little village will be in the thick of it."

"But that would make it huge--as big as London."

"Hardly likely."

Putting aside the notion of a city grown vastly beyond its present confines,
they set out across the green.  Before they could get very far, Nathaniel
encountered an acquaintance, a fellow merchant whom he'd not yet had a chance
to converse with.  After introducing Deanna, he quickly fell into a
discussion of the trade outlook in the coming year.

Left to her own devices, she watched a group of children playing with a
wooden ball, hitting it back and forth across the green with sticks.  Their
eager energy reminded her of herself at that age.  She was caught up in the
pleasure of remembered pastimes when the ball suddenly shot past her and
vanished into the trees behind where she was standing.

The children were still some distance away.

"I'll get it," she called and turned toward the wood.  The ball had rolled
into the underbrush.

She had some trouble finding it.  In the process, her hat was knocked askew
by a low branch and her skirt caught on some brambles.  Finally, she came up
laughing, the ball in her hand.  Only to find that she was no longer alone.

A tall, powerfully built man leaned against a nearby tree.  His arms were
folded over his broad chest, his long legs crossed indolently.

He wore black from the tips of his highly polished boots to the severely
tailored frock coat stretched over his wide shoulders.  His eyes gleamed as
he surveyed her.  Huskily, Nash asked,

"How is it.  Miss Marlowe, that I keep finding you where you aren't supposed
to be?"

Chapter Twenty-Eight

< "V

"You," Deanna said.  She took a quick step backward.  Her foot caught in the
underbrush and she lost her balance.  With an undignified umph she landed on
her posterior.

Nash sighed and held out a hand.  She ignored it and scrambled to her feet,
still holding the wooden ball.

"Did you find it, lady?"  a young, voice called.  The bushes parted to reveal
three worried-looking children studying her.

"Here," she said, and tossed it to the smallest.

He caught it with a grin and raced off whooping, the others in hot pursuit.

Task completed and in haste to depart, she gave her skirt a quick twitch,
nodded curtly to Nash and said,

"I must rejoin my father."

"He seems happy to be debating coffee futures with several gentlemen."

Her eyes widened.

"You spoke with him?"

"Only in greeting.  He looked as though he thought he ought to recognize me
but couldn't quite manage it."

"Thank heaven for that."  She started as Nash stepped closer.  Gently, his
long, blunt fingers brushed a stray leave from her cheek.

"Your hat's on crooked."

She flushed and tried to ignore the sudden torrent of sensation his touch set
off in her.  She refused to meet his eyes.

"It's supposed to be like that."

Nash frowned, looking doubtful.

"If you say so.  Now suppose you tell me what brings you to New York?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him it was none of his business and
good-day, but she had no actual reason to be rude to him, and besides, she
knew perfectly well he wouldn't allow her to get away with such an answer.
All she would succeed in doing was prolonging the encounter.  She refused to
admit to herself that she might want to do exactly that.

"I'm accompanying my father.  Now I really must" -- "Is that the only reason?"

She shook her head, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Not the redoubtable Charles."

Despite herself, Deanna winced.

"Good lord, no."

Nash's smile was insufferably self-satisfied.  Also savagely attractive, damn
the man.

"Just thought I'd check.  So are you enjoying yourself?"

"No, I'm not.  For one thing I'm being kept here standing in damp underbrush
under circumstances that at any moment could attract suspicion.  So if you
don't mind, I'll" -- She stopped short and stared at him.  Perhaps it was the
lack of sleep in recent days or more likely the sheer confusion he induced.
But there he was, the answer to her most recent prayers, and she hadn't even
realized it.

"Nash," she said suddenly, "we really must talk."

He frowned again, understandably enough given her swift change of mood.  Poor
male, he had no insight into it at all and promptly leapt to the wrong
conclusion.

"About what?"

' "A matter of great importance.  But not here, it isn't private enough.  We
must meet somewhere."

His frowned deepened.

"Do I understand you?  We have something of a private nature to discuss
that's important?"

"Yes, but" -- The sudden dark flush that suffused his cheeks was her first
clue.

The flare of light in his silvered eyes was the second.  His hands reached
for her.  In an instant, she was drawn into his arms and gently soothed.

"Dear girl, everything will be all right.  Believe me."

Deanna groaned.  This was really too much.  There she stood, torn between the
exquisite pleasure he unleashed with infuriatingly little effort and the
dreadfully serious business they needed to discuss.  And all the while, he
was off on some grand conclusion of his own that only too vividly reminded
her of what had happened between them.

"Not that.  For heaven's sake, I wouldn't even have time yet to know."

Her frankness startled him, enough so that he dropped his hands and stepped
back to get a better look at her.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."  she was struck by the suspicion of disappointment lurking in his
eyes.  What a baffling man he was.

"I overheard something else,"

she went on hastily, "at another party General Clinton attended.  I'm afraid
it may be" -- "Deanna," he interrupted, "you haven't been going around
playing spy, have you?"

She bristled at the notion.

"Certainly not.  I simply happened to be in a certain place quite
accidentally."  He looked unconvinced--and disapproving.

"I am hardly to be blamed if voices travel up a chimney and if flues are left
open when they shouldn't be.  At any rate, do you want to hear this or not?"

"Of course I do, but" -- "Deanna?"  Her father's voice erupted, sounding
close by and worried.

"Damn," she muttered.

"We can't talk here."

"I'll find you," he said quickly and gave her a little shove.

"Go on."

She went but not without glancing once over her shoulder.  Nash had vanished
into the woods.  Only the lingering sensation of his touch on her skin
assured her he had been there at all.

The party on the green in the midst of the village of Greenwich reminded
Deanna of something, but she couldn't quite place it.  Late afternoon
sunlight filtered through the tree branches before she remembered.

During their visit to England, she and her father had been invited to a ball
at the country residence of distant acquaintances.  The occasion had more
than lived up to her imaginings.  For three days, several dozen guests were
entertained by every sort of amusement as well as the finest food and drink.
The gaiety seemed unending, and yet it had also seemed oddly strained.

By the end of the visit, the hosts' ceaseless race to the next diversion, the
next pleasure, the next extravagance had taken on a frantic quality that
disturbed her.  When the time came to depart, she was exhausted .  and glad
to be leaving.

Barely had she and her father returned to London than word reached them that
their host and hostess had fled to the continent.  Unable to pay their
debtors and with their world about to crash down around them, they had chosen
to go out with a last, furious fling.

The present promenade and luncheon could hardly be compared to those three
days in the English countryside.  But something of the same mood hung about
the party goers.  A significant number were in their cups, and a good many
others seemed determined to get there.

"I think we should be going," Nathaniel said.

Deanna nodded her agreement.  They reclaimed their mounts and with a few of
the more sensible guests, began their way to the city.  It was early evening
when they reached there.  Deanna gratefully ac a accepted her father's
suggestion that she might enjoy a hot bath in her room before dinner.

Two cheerful young maids brought the tin tub up and filled it with buckets of
steaming water.  As they were leaving, one of the girls lingered.  With a
quick glance around, she drew an envelope from her apron pocket.

"For you, miss," she said, pressing it into Deanna's hand.  A quick grin of
approval flashed in the maid's eyes before she was gone.

Slowly, Deanna shut the door behind her and slipped the bolt into place.
Staring at the envelope, she sat down on the edge of the bed.

The paper was of the finest quality, cream-colored and heavy.  A red wax seal
secured the flap.

Breaking the seal, she slid out a single piece of paper.  Scrawled on it in
black copperplate were the words: "The barn behind the stable at midnight."

Her heart was pounding as she carefully set the letter aside and began
removing her clothes.  Slipping into the silken water, she laid her head back
against the rim of the tub, shut her eyes and began to count the hours.

Chapter Twenty-Nine The watchman had called the hour once since Deanna had
lain down fully dressed on top of the bed.  Her inner sense of time told her
that almost another full hour had passed.  Hardly breathing, she listened to
the sounds of the city beyond her window.  Aside from recognizable creaks in
the inn and the occasional slap of a loose shutter, she could hear nothing.

Supper was long since over and the last of the patrons departed.  Her father
had escorted her to her room before retiring to his own, where he was
undoubtedly asleep.  She, too, would have been asleep were it not for the
note and the taut anticipation it provoked.

For the twelfth time, she told herself not to be a fool.  She had already
tempted fate once.  It would be the height of folly to do so again.  If she
possessed any sense at all, she would meet with Nash only long enough to tell
him what she had overheard Clinton say.

After that, her part would be done.  It would be up to him to get word to the
Americans that there was a powerful traitor within their ranks.

Tell him what she'd heard, bid him good luck and depart.  That was all.  She
would be back in her bed-- and ready to sleep--before the covers had time to
cool.  Absolutely.

This time she would not let her emotions rule her mind.  She would forget the
glory of his lovemaking, the incandescent pleasure he released within her,
the magnificent sense of being united with a strong, courageous man who was
somehow the missing part of herself.

She would forget everything except duty, reason and prudence.  They would be
her watchwords.

Girding for what promised to be the battle of her life with her most
resourceful adversary--herself-- she lost track of passing time and was
startled by the watchman's call: "Mid of the night.  Quiet in the town.
All's well."

For him, perhaps, but her heart was beating so fast that she could scarce
hear her own thoughts.  Rising from the bed, she flung a dark cloak around
her shoulders and cautiously eased the bar up from across the door.

Moments later, she was racing across the stable yard.  The moon was high and
the night clear.  No one else appeared to be about as she slipped through the
wide wooden door and looked around.  The stable was large; there were stalls
for twenty or more horses, and most of those were occupied.  Drowsing mounts
flicked their tails in their sleep and snorted softly.  One or two, more
jittery than the others, woke and eyed her briefly before nodding off again.
The familiar, comforting scents of hay and straw, leather and horse,
surrounded her.  She moved slowly, unsure of exactly where she would go.
The air inside the stable was cool.  She wrapped her shawl more closely
around herself and shivered.

Nash frowned.  He stepped from behind the tree that had concealed him and
looked toward the stable.  Was that actually Deanna who had just gone in
there?  What would possess her to do such a thing?

He had been watching the inn since shortly after ten o'clock, waiting for a
safe moment to climb the tree near Deanna's window.  The plan was risky, but
she'd made it clear that they needed to talk and he could think of no safer
way to go about it.

Now here she was, slipping out of the inn alone and going into the stable.
Surely, she wouldn't try to go riding at this time of night?

Given her fondness for wandering around after dark, who knew what she might
intend.  He cursed under his breath and moved quickly across the stable yard.

Deanna shivered again.  She was just beginning to wonder if she had spmehow
misunderstood Nash's note when a footfall sounded behind her.

Whirling, she saw that she was no longer alone.

"There you are," she said breathlessly.

"I thought perhaps I'd Oh, never mind.  There isn't time.  We must speak
quickly."

Nash's brows drew together.  She didn't appear at all surprised to see him.
Why?

He had no chance to think further.  Deanna came up directly in front of him,
so close that he could feel the warmth of her body.  Her voice was low and
tense.

"You must get word to the Americans.  There is a traitor in their ranks."

His eyes narrowed.  Whatever he had expected, it wasn't this.  Her cheeks
were flushed and her eyes luminous in a most delightful way that made him
want to think of almost anything other than the god awful war.  Yet she
seemed absolutely certain of what she was saying.

He could not dismiss it.

"What are you?"

"Listen to me, it's true.  I heard Clinton talking about it.  There is
someone the Americans believe is their agent but who is actually working for
the British.  Left unchecked, he will do who knows what damage."

Nash took a long breath.  His mind was racing, trying to come to terms with
this astounding bit of news--and with how he should respond to it.  "You're
saying there's a double agent?"

"Yes, of course.  Washington must be told.  The Americans" -- "Who is it?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know.  Clinton never mentioned his name or anything else that could
identify him beyond the fact that the Americans believe he's working for
them.  The other man--whoever Clinton was talking to--seemed to think there
was something shameful about all this.  But the general denied it.  He said
the British need any edge they can get and are fortunate to have such an
agent."

"I'll bet he did," Nash murmured.

He was silent for a moment.  A gust of wind blew through the cracks in the
stable door.  Deanna shivered again.

"You're cold," he said, and without pausing to think, drew her to him.

She was slim and pliant in hjs arms, her head resting on his shoulder and her
heart beating with his own.  He inhaled the fragrance of her hair which
reminded him of a sun-washed day, and felt a sense of longing so intense that
it robbed him of breath.

The stable was wrapped in quiet.  There was privacy and a soft bed of hay.
When would they ever have a chance to be together like this again?

She lifted her head and looked at him.  No words passed between them, but the
light in her eyes mirrored thoughts similar to his own.  Her lips were so
very close, her body so soft.  He had only to.  Abruptly, he straightened and
stepped away.  This could not be.  He had placed her at intolerable risk once
by letting his passions rule him.

Honor and pride, besides simple decency, demanded that he not do so again.

"We can't," he said, the sound ofJhis own voice odd to his ears.

She flushed painfully and looked away.

It was all he could do not to gather her back up into his arms, throw caution
to the hindmost and refuse ever to let her go again.  But that choice wasn't
his.  For one thing, there was the startling revelation she had made.  He
couldn't pretend that didn't pose an enormous problem.

"Please," she said huskily, "just go.  Tell the Americans..."

He nodded, glad for a reason he could not resist.  "I will.  Deanna " She
shook her head, still keeping her eyes averted.  "Go now, please."

Slowly, the effort tearing him apart, Nash nodded.  She was right, of course,
but that did nothing to ease the pain.  His jaw clenched, and he turned to
go.  His last glimpse of her was of white lace and tumbled golden hair, stark
against the shadows of the night.

Chapter Thirty Ueanna spent a largely sleepless night, kept awake by her
longing for Nash.  When she rose shortly after dawn, her face was pale and
there were dark shadows under her eyes.  She did her best to conceal both but
was still not looking herself when she joined her father below for breakfast.

Nathaniel was studying a freshly printed newspaper.  He looked up, saw her
and began to smile, only to stop abruptly.

"What's wrong?"  -' She shook her head quickly.

"Nothing, I was just a bit restless last night.  Shall we go in?"  Taking his
arm, she steered him toward the dining room where several guests were already
seated.

Nathaniel went, but not without obvious reluctance.  When they had taken
their places across from each other at a table by the window, he said,

"I insist you tell me.  If you are feeling poorly, I will summon a physician."

Deanna winced at the thought.  In her opinion, most physicians were quacks
who did far more harm than good.  Besides, she knew perfectly well what ailed
her, and no physician could do anything about it.  Perhaps one of the wise
women of bygone days might have been able to manage a relief for her aching
heart, but she doubted even that.

"I'm fine."  She mustered a smile.

"What's in the paper this morning?"

Her father hesitated, unwilling to be diverted, but finally he perused the
front page and gave her a bland summary.

"News from England, mainly.  You'd think there was nothing going on here."

The waitress brought thick mugs of tea and a basket of bread.

Nathaniel took a slice but set it on his plate untasted.

"I'd like to return to Belle Haven tomorrow, if that's agreeable to you."

Deanna felt a surge of relief.  More than anything, she wanted to be home.

"I'd love that."

"You won't miss the city?"

"Honestly, no."  Trying again to reassure him, she added,

"I guess I'm just a country girl."

Her father nodded.

"Perhaps it's for the best.  But what about your clothes?"

"I've already arranged for them to be sent on when they're ready."

He smiled wryly.

"It sounds as though you're a step ahead of me."

She reached across the table and gave his hand a quick squeeze.

"As you said, it's for the best."

Nathaniel still looked unconvinced, but the waitress returned just then with
the rest of their food, and he allowed himself to be diverted.  He was
carrying his fork to his mouth when there was a sudden disturbance by the
door.

"Stand back," a loud voice ordered.

"The King's business."

Several people who had been in the way immediately scurried out of it.

Deanna caught a glimpse of several uniformed soldiers and at their front--
Charles?  What was he doing here?

Resplendent in his dress uniform, Harrow crossed the room directly toward
her.  Nathaniel saw him coming and smiled cordially.  He began to rise in
greeting.  "Charles, good" -- Unsmiling, his face rigid, Harrow stared at
them both.  He raised a hand, cutting off Nathaniel.

"Stay as you were."  Curtly, he gestured to the soldiers.  In an instant,
they encircled the table, muskets in their hands, their eyes hard.

Ignoring the order, perhaps because he could not comprehend it, Nathaniel
remained standing.  His napkin dropped onto his plate.

"What on earth are you doing, man?"

Charles's thin mouth parted 'in a cruel parody of a smile.  With obvious
satisfaction, he said,

"Arresting your daughter, sir.  You will rue the day you nurtured such a
viper."

Deanna gasped.  The color fled from her cheeks.  Shock exploded in her.

Hard on it came numbness.  Suddenly, she felt like an observer set aside from
the scene, watching it with astonishment.

Not so her father.  He turned fiery red, rage evident in every inch of his
being.

"Are you mad?  How dare you say such a thing?  Apologize at once!"

Charles laughed.

"Apologize?  For catching a traiand no physician could do anything about it.
Perhaps one of the wise women of bygone days might have been able to manage
a relief for her aching heart, but she doubted even that.

"I'm fine."  She mustered a smile.

"What's in the paper this morning?"

Her father hesitated, unwilling to be diverted, but finally he perused the
front page and gave her a bland summary.

"News from England, mainly.  You'd think there was nothing going on here."

The waitress brought thick mugs of tea and a basket of bread.

Nathaniel took a slice but set it on his plate untasted.

"I'd like to return to Belle Haven tomorrow, if that's agreeable to you."

Deanna felt a surge of relief.  More than anything, she wanted to be home.

"I'd love that."

"You won't miss the city?"

"Honestly, no."  Trying again to reassure him, she added,

"I guess I'm just a country girl."

Her father nodded.

"Perhaps it's for the best.  But what about your clothes?"

"I've already arranged for them to be sent on when they're ready."

He smiled wryly.

"It sounds as though you're a step ahead of me."

She reached across the table and gave his hand a quick squeeze.

"As you said, it's for the best."

Nathaniel still looked unconvinced, but the waitress returned just then with
the rest of their food, and he allowed himself to be diverted.  He was
carrying his fork to his mouth when there was a sudden disturbance by the
door.

"Stand back," a loud voice ordered.

"The King's business."

Several people who had been in the way immediately scurried out of it.

Deanna caught a glimpse of several uniformed soldiers and at their front--
Charles?  What was he doing here?

Resplendent in his dress uniform, Harrow crossed the room directly toward
her.  Nathaniel saw him coming and smiled cordially.  He began to rise in
greeting.  "Charles, good" -- Unsmiling, his face rigid, Harrow stared at
them both.  He raised a hand, cutting off Nathaniel.

"Stay as you were."  Curtly, he gestured to the soldiers.  In an instant,
they encircled the table, muskets in their hands, their eyes hard.

Ignoring the order, perhaps because he could not comprehend it, Nathaniel
remained standing.  His napkin dropped onto his plate.

"What on earth are you doing, man?"

Charles's thin mouth parted in a cruel parody of a smile.  With obvious
satisfaction, he said,

"Arresting your daughter, sir.  You will ru& the day you nurtured such a
viper."

Deanna gasped.  The color fled from her cheeks.  Shock exploded in her.

Hard on it came numbness.  Suddenly, she felt like an observer set aside from
the scene, watching it with astonishment.

Not so her father.  He turned fiery red, rage evident in every inch of his
being.

"Are you mad?  How dare you say such a thing?  Apologize at once!"

Charles laughed.

"Apologize?  For catching a traitor to the Crown?  I think not, old man."
Harshly, he shoved Nathaniel aside and reached for Deanna.

' We," she screamed, not for her own sake but because her father was trying
to intervene.  Two soldiers instantly moved to stop him.  They seized him
harshly, holding on to him despite his great struggles.

"This is criminal," Nathaniel cried.

"How can anyone do such a thing?

I demand to see General Clinton at once!  You won't get away with this,
Harrow.  I swear it!  "

Charles sneered.

"Swear it in hell, fool.  I caught her myself, last night in the stable.
She's been spying on General Clinton, trading secrets to the Americans."

An angry murmur ran round the room.  Deanna struggled to breathe.

Charles had a cruel hold on her.  There was no possibility that she could
escape.  And even if she could somehow manage to, she wouldn't get far.  She
was trapped, without any ally except her father, and there was nothing he
could do.

"Deanna?"  Nathaniel said, seeing the look on her face.

"What is this idiot saying?"

In misery, her eyes met his.  Softly, pleading for understanding, she
whispered,

"I'm sorry."

Before she could say more, Charles was dragging her away.  The soldiers
followed.  She stretched out a hand to her father, but he was already beyond
her reach.

Chapter Thirty-One Q^zny^Q i he straw was damp and cold beneath her cheek.
Deanna sat up, arms wrapped around herself.  She was shivering convulsively,
partly from the dank chill, partly from stark terror.  She could not believe
what had happened.

The jail was an old stone building near the river.  Its inner walls were
coated with slime.  The sound of water splashing against the nearby piers
filtered through Deanna's single barred window.

Just beyond it, people were going about their daily business.  Shops were
opening, ships arriving and leaving, soldiers drilling, women marketing, men
at work and children at their lessons.  All so blessedly ordinary.

Her throat tightened.  Panic swelled within her.  Valiantly, she fought it
down but not before wondering how much longer her courage could last.

She had been alone for several hours, ever since Charles pushed her into the
cell and slammed the door behind her.  Already, the passage of time was
becoming uncertain.  She couldn't tell for sure if it was mid a or late
morning.  All she really knew was that her father must be desperately
worried.  Thoughts of what he must be enduring stabbed through her.  She sat
down on the straw and buried her face in her hands.

The door creaked.  She looked up with a spurt of hope, only to have it die
when she saw the man standing outside.  Charles.

He seemed insufferably pleased with himself.  Smiling, he stepped into the
cell and shut the door behind him.  His eyes ran over her, lingering on her
breasts and hips.

"Enjoying yourself, my dear?"

Deanna got to her feet.  The cell was so small that there was nowhere for her
to go, but she felt safer standing.

"Where is my father?"

His eyebrows rose.

"Your father?  How should I know?  Perhaps he's left town."

"He wouldn't do that.  He would stay to help me."

"Are you sure?  I saw the look on his face when you admitted what you had
done.  He appeared as thoroughly disgusted with you as any right-thinking
person would be."  Charles took a step closer, his smile deepening.

"Incidentally, that admission will be damning against you in court."

"C-court?"

"Of course, court.  What did you think, that we'd hang you without a trial?
That would hardly be civilized, would it?"

Bile rose in Deanna's throat.  She took a deep breath, praying for calm.

"You have no real evidence against me.  It's only your word against mine for
what was said in the stable.  Besides, you will have to account for your own
presence there."

He scowled, angered by her courage.

"I will say that I brought a sick horse for care and went to check on it."

"At midnight?  Who will believe that?  Wouldn't any horse have received
better care at the regimental stable?"

"Not necessarily.  The innkeeper is known for his skill with animals."

Deanna had no idea if that was true or not.  Charles was ruthless and
arrogant, but that didn't prevent him from being clever.

"Even so, the idea of you leaving your bed to check on an ill horse won't
stretch very far."

He bent down slightly so that they were eye to eye.  With rage evident in
every word, he said,

"No one will care, you little fool.  No one will think twice about why I was
in the stable.  All they'll care about is you."

"And Nash.  What about him?  If you are such a valiant protector of Mother
England, why didn't you prevent him from getting away?"

Charles rocked back slightly on his heels as though she had struck him.  His
eyes glittered dangerously.  "An odd question about a man you are obviously
fond of."

She refused to be baited.  He had seen what he had seen.  She could hardly
try to convince him that her feelings for Nash were neutral.

But she didn't have to discuss them, either.

' "That is neither here nor there.  No court will think well of you for
letting him go."  Scathingly, she added,

"Not that it's any mystery why you would.  You were frightened, plain and
simple."

Barely were the words out than she regretted them.  Anger and pain were all
very well, but she would have been wise to hold on to just a little caution.
Now it was too late.

Charles's hand lashed out, catching her full across the face.  She cried out
and fell backward but managed to regain her balance.  He was advancing on
her, his fists clenched.

"Get away from me!"

"Not until I've taught you a much-needed lesson, bitch.  How dare you betray
me?  How dare you seek another man?  You belong to me.  You have ever since
England.  I'll teach you " He raised his hand again.  Deanna bent over,
trying to shield herself from the blow.  It caught her across the shoulders,
knocking the wind from her.  Her knees weakened, and again she thought she
would fall.

Pride came to her rescue.  She would not allow Charles, or any other man, to
do this to her.  Whatever the cost, she would fight back.

Desperately, she looked around for some kind of weapon, but there was nothing
in sight.  She had only the simple dress she had donned that morning.  that
and the long pins she had used to put up her hair when she woke too tired to
brush it fully.

Swiftly, she yanked one of the pins out and turned to face Charles.

"Get away from me."

Seeing what she held, he laughed.

"You need to be shown what a real dagger looks like.  Apparently, Nash
wasn't the man for the job."

Sickness roiled in her but she refused to let him see it.

"Get back, I mean it."

"And I mean this," he said as he reached for her.

Deanna didn't hesitate.  No weakening of will, no hidden timidity seized her.
She knew that what she was doing was absolutely right and she did it well.

The pin raked down Charles' cheek, drawing blood.  He yelled and clamped his
hand to the wound.  "Bitch!"

' "Your vocabulary grows as tiresome as your presence.  Go bother someone
else."

"I ... I..."  Shaking in fury, he advanced on her.

"Be careful," she warned.

"Your case against me won't hold up.  If you testify in court the way you
say, you'll be labeled a coward for letting Nash go.  Or even worse,
suspected of being a traitor yourself."

Charles's eyes narrowed.  A look of pure cunning nickered, across his face.

"Will I?  You're as stupid as you are rebellious.  Who do you think Clinton
was talking about?"

"What do you mean?"

"That Nash is the traitor, you fool.  It's really rather funny when you think
about it.  You warned him about himself."

"No!"  It couldn't be true.  Nash had risked his life to come to Belle Haven
to spy on Clinton.  He had killed two British soldiers in the process.  Or
had he?  She had only his word that he'd fought with the two and only his
explanation of what he was doing there.

No, she wouldn't think like that.  He was courageous and daring, fighting for
what he believed sacred.  Charles was a cruel, angry man.  He would say
anything.

"Think," he snarled.

"Nash and I were at school together.  He grew up as one of us.  Do you really
think he changed his views when he came back here?  Do you honestly think he
believes all this nonsense about freedom and equality?  For God's sake, how
foolish can you be?"

Deanna shook her head.

"You're lying."

"Who lured you to the stable?  Who sent the note that trapped you?  We were
in it together, he and I.  He'll testify against you himself."

"I don't believe you.  I don't!"

"Believe what you want.  You were hoodwinked by the best, I'll say that.  And
I hope you at least enjoyed it, because you're going to pay a hell of a
price."

More than even he knew.  Deep inside, a part of herself that had grown and
flowered since Nash's touch suddenly went still.  Slowly, irresistibly, it
began to shrivel.

"It's a shame in a way," Charles said more calmly.  "I would have treated you
very well.  But as it is" -- He broke off and reached for her again.

"I would hate to see you hang without having had you first."

His mouth twisted.  An unholy light burned in his eyes.

"Nash said you were good.  Let's see if he was right."

A sob of revulsion broke from Deanna.  The pin was still in her hand; she had
to use it.  But the terrible anguish was growing inside her, robbing her of
strength.  Charles's arms were around her, his hand pulling her head back,
his mouth almost on hers.  Her will had vanished.  She felt as though she was
dead inside.

The cell door opened.  A' young officer stood just outside in the corridor.
He looked from Deanna to Charles, plainly shocked by what he saw.

"Sir?"

"What in bloody hell do you want?"  Charles demanded.

"General Clinton wishes to see you."  For good measure, he added,
"Immediately."

Charles cursed under his breath but not even he could gainsay the general.
With a hard shove, he pushed Deanna down onto the straw.

Straightening his stock, he said,

"I'll be back, sweet ling Count on " " The younger man jumped out of his way
as Charles stormed past.  He glanced sympathetically at Deanna.

Before she could move or speak, the door slammed shut again with a ring of
finality.

Chapter Thirty-Two "I must see the general.  It is of the utmost
urgency.  "

The aide nodded, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel's face.  Quietly, he said,

"I understand, Mr. Marlowe However, General Clinton is not available at the
moment."

Nathaniel took a deep breath, struggling for calm.  Ever since the
extraordinary scene in the inn, he had been fighting a growing sense of
unreality.  The world had taken on the guise of a nightmare, one he could not
seem to wake from.

"He has to be available.  My daughter has been wrongly arrested and taken to
jail.  She is an innocent young woman.  It is unthinkable that she should be
left in such a place."

The aide sighed.  He rose from behind the inlaid desk that was his station
and walked round to the front.

"I am sorry but there is nothing I can do."

"There has to be!  She" -- The aide laid a hand on Nathaniel's arm.  With the
other, he gestured to the two guards posted nearby.  "Miss Marlowe was
detained on a writ signed by the general himself.  He believed there was
sufficient cause to bind her over pending investigation."

"That's insane!  She's my daughter.  She would never" -- "I'm sorry," the
aide said.  He nodded to the guards.

"You will have to leave now, sir."

Nathaniel protested.  But nothing he said or did was to any avail.  In short
order, he was out on the street and the door to the general's residence shut
against him.

"Can't do it," the warden said.  He was a fat, greasy man with a
black-toothed smile and an air of self-importance.

"Orders from the general his self No visitors."

"You are holding my daughter," Nathaniel said.  "She has been falsely
accused.  Surely, it will do no harm to allow me to speak with her for a few
minutes."  He reached into his pocket and withdrew his coin purse.

The warden looked at it with unconcealed interest.  Reluctantly, he shook his
head.

"Orders are orders.  Stretch 'em too far and they'll slap right back at you,
sure as not."  In what was apparently a concession for him, he added,

"Sorry."

Nathaniel tried again, going so far as to dangle the money.  But he could not
convince the man, and after a time he went away.  Slowly, he walked around
the corner of the jail.  Although he had strolled by it many times while in
New York, he had never really looked at it before.

It was a hideous building, low, and squat with nothing to recommend it
whatsoever.  Worse yet if the barred windows were anything to go by the cells
were located close to the waterline.  They would be cold and dank even on a
fair day.

Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder to be sure he was unobserved.

As softly as he could manage, he called,

"Deanna?"

There was no answer, only a faint cough from the other side.  Moving on, he
stopped beneath the next window and tried again.  Once more, there was no
result.

Nathaniel persisted.  Somehow, he had to reach her, if only to offer the
comfort of a few words.  Twice more he tried, a third time, a fourth.
Finally, on the seventh try, his efforts were rewarded.

"Deanna?"

"Father?"

"Thank the Lord I've found you."

"Oh, Father, I'm so sorry.  I can't begin to tell you."  Her voice sounded
weak and tremulous, not at all like his brave Deanna.  Grief surged in him.
No matter what she had done, she was his child.  He would protect her to his
dying breath.

"Never mind, I've only got a few moments.  Clinton's refused to see me but
I'll find some way to get help.  I swear it."

"There is no way," Deanna said softly.

"I was betrayed."  Her voice caught.

No response came.

"Father?"

"I'm still here."  Tears stung his eyes.  He could not believe that her cause
was hopeless.

"Don't hate me."

' "Hate you?  As though I could ever do such a thing.  I love you."

"Then do this for me.  Go home to Belle Haven.  Find Fletcher Wesskum.

Tell him to come quickly.  I must speak with him before.  "

"Before what?"

"Nothing, only do it.  I beseech you."

"What is Wesskum to you?"

In fact, Deanna barely knew the man.  But Nash had said he would know his
whereabouts.  She had to pray that didn't mean Wesskum was also in league
with the British.  If she was wrong about that, she was truly lost.

"Only tell him, please."

A wagon was coming around the side of the jail, full of slops to be dumped in
the river.  Nathaniel turned away from the wall.  His back to it, hands
clenched, he said,

"All right."

He heard a soft sigh of relief, nothing more, as he moved quickly away, but
it was enough to sustain him as he hurried to find the swiftest boat to carry
him home.

The wind was fair and the water calm.  Nathaniel reached Belle Haven as night
was settling over the land.  He asked in the tavern for Wesskum but was told
no one had seen him in several days.  With darkness descending, he would have
to turn for home, but not without first leaving word that he needed to see
the woodsman as soon as possible.

Martha met him at the door.  Without preamble, the old woman demanded, "Why
are you home so soon, and where's my lass?"

Nathaniel loathed the very idea of felling her, but he had known Martha far
too long to think she could be deceived.

"Sit down."  As gently as he could, he told her.

She was white and trembling when he finished.  In seconds, however, she was
on her feet.

"Where are you going?"  he asked.

"To get Lucas.  He has to know."

"I don't see what he's going to be able to do."

She turned, hands on her hips, and glared at him.  "Well, for one thing,
Nathaniel Marlowe, he can go help you look for Fletcher Wesskum.  We are
going to find that man before the sun is up or I am damn well going to go
after her myself."

Nathaniel stared, amazed by her temerity.  But after a moment, he laughed.
For the first time since leaving New York, he found a spurt of hope.

"Damned if you aren't right, Martha.  You go get him.  I'll saddle up the
horses."

"Saddle three."

"Three?  You can't be serious."

"Damn straight I am.  She's my baby girl, same as if I'd borne her, and no
one--I mean no one--is going to do her harm.  Now git!"

Nathaniel got.  He had one horse saddled and bridled and was starting on the
second when Lucas joined him.

Lucas said little, only nodded and gestured toward the wood.

"I

know some of the places Fletcher likes to camp.  Martha knows some others.
But just in case he's picked tonight to go fishing, how about you track along
the river?  "

"He fishes at night?"  Nathaniel asked.  Lucas grinned.

"He does anything he pleases, day or night."

"I still don't see how he can help my girl."

"He won't unless we can find him," Martha said as she joined them.   Lucas
gave her a boost into the saddle.   She was the first to ride out, leaving
the men to follow quickly.

Chapter Thirty-Three 0^'n^s^Q .  LLight.  nine.  ten.  " Deanna counted
softly as she paced back and forth across the narrow cell.  It was twelve
paces from wall to wall, ten from the window to the door.  She had walked it
over and over, sometimes in a cross, sometimes a star or rectangle,
alternating the patterns, forcing herself to concentrate, The dimensions of
the room were real.  If she focused on them long enough, she could keep her
mind from whirling away into a chasm of fear and dread.  Or so she hoped.

Ten days had passed since Charles's sudden appearance at the inn.  She had
marked each day on the wall near the window using a chip.  of stone.  Five
days were passed since his last appearance outside the cell door.

General Clinton had ordered that she be held incommunicado.  No one could see
her, not even her father or the attorney he had engaged upon his return from
Belle Haven.

Charles had managed to get the rules bent, but not entirely broken.

He had been allowed no further than the corridor outside her locked door.
She supposed she ought to be grateful, but he had used each occasion to taunt
her, reminding her of what a fool she had been to trust Nash.

The words had fallen like acid on her soul.  Even when he no longer
came--five days now--she could still hear his words.

The warden, who brought the food her father had procured, had unbent enough
to tell her that the general was out of town and that he had taken Charles
with him.  Her trial would not begin until they returned, probably within a
few days.

So her reprieve, such as it was, would be short- lived.

She stopped walking and pressed her hands against the wall.  Her hair was
uncombed and matted, her dress filthy.  With each passing day, she was able
to eat less and less.

The crack of sunlight that shone through the single window tormented her.
Sometimes she imagined she saw it at night, beckoning in her nightmare-torn
sleep.  It seemed to be receding farther and farther away, leaving her in a
darkness as deep as the grave.

Why hadn't Hetcher Wesskum come?  Her father had gotten word to her that he'd
found the woodsman and told him what had happened.  Wesskum had promised to
help.  Still, there was no sign of him.  Where had he gone?

A sob broke from her.  She pressed her lips together fiercely.  Tears slid
down her wan cheeks.  Earlier on, she had made it a point not to cry.  But
that strength was beyond her now.  Wearily, she leaned her head against the
wall and let the tears come.

Slowly, the sun passed beyond reach of the window.  Twilight descended, and
hard upon it darkness.  Night wrapped round the jail, smothering hope.

Nash paused immediately inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the dim
light.  The air was chill and dank, smelling of straw, unwashed bodies and
despair.  He nicked a stray speck of dust from the midnight blue cloak he
wore over meticulously tailored buff breeches, a high-collared silk shirt and
a black velvet waistcoat.

A heavy gold insignia ring gleamed on his left hand.  He was cleanly shaven,
and his skin was burnished by the sun.  Powerfully muscled, graceful in his
every movement, he was clearly a man of wealth and power.  Exactly as he
needed to be perceived on this night when so much depended on what happened
in the next few minutes.

A young, rawboned man stood near the door.  He wore the uniform of a British
regular but his breeches were dirty, his boots unpolished and he needed to
shave.

"Yerlate," he said.

"Am I?  And who might you be?"

"Regis Fuller, that's who.  The warden's gone for his supper.  He said you
were coming."  His lips split in a leer.

"For the woman, isn't it?

The rebel bitch Harrow caught.  Pretty piece, she is, but I'll wager you
already know that.  "

Nash considered his alternatives.  Tempted though he was to punish the man
for his insolence, that would take time, something he had very little of.
Turning toward an iron-bound door at the back of room, he said,

"Miss Marlowe is ready, is she not?"

"I don't know if she is or not," the man said, scurrying after him.

"All I know is she's supposed to go with you."  He grinned.

"Good luck to you, guy.  Yer going to need it."

The door gave way opening to a long corridor with cells on either side.

"Show me," Nash said.

At the far end, the man stopped and pointed.  "She's in there."

"Open it."

Hinges creaked.  Nash cursed under his breath.  He seized the lantern
suspended from a hook on the wall and stepped into the cell.

The circle of light illuminated a small space.  Dirty straw was piled in one
corner.  Something moved in it.

"Deanna?"

A faint moan reached him.  He cursed and went quickly toward the sound.
Bending down, he reached out a hand.

She recoiled instantly.

"Get away from me or I'll kill you."

His arm lashed out, closing hard around her waist.  He lifted her
effortlessly.

"Let me go."  She curled her hand into a fist, attempting to strike him.

"Ye've got to sign for her," the man remembered.  "Warden said you must."

Ignoring Deanna's continued straggles, Nash seized the stump of charcoal and
scrawled his name.

"Where're you going?"  the man asked as Nash walked swiftly out of the jail,
carrying Deanna.

Nash ignored him.  A carriage was waiting directly in front.  Nash thrust the
door opened and pushed Deanna inside, following her quickly.  She lashed out
suddenly, kicking him in the shin.  The blow caught him unawares.

"Stop that," he ordered as the carriage began to move.

Instead, she struck out again, landing a blow on his jaw.  He cursed and took
hold of her.  She felt so fragile in his arms and so weak.

Rage tore at him again.  More harshly than he intended, he said, "Deanna,
stop this.  It's me, Nash."

She seemed not to hear him.  Her struggles redoubled.  Desperate to avoid
hurting her, and at a loss to understand why she was acting like this, he was
unprepared when she suddenly wrenched her knee up and drove it into his
chest.  The blow drove the air from him, and for a scant instant caused his
grip to lessen.

Deanna tore herself from his grasp and thrust the carriage door open.

Cool, evening air poured in.  The horses' hooves clattered over cobblestones
slick from an earlier rain shower.

The realization of what she meant to do struck Nash like a thunder clap.  He
reached out, his fingers brushing her waist.

"Deanna, no!"

Chapter Thirty-Four A second later, an inch more and he would have lost her.
The realization ran like ice through Nash even as he pulled Deanna back into
the carriage.  She was still struggling, but her efforts were becoming weaker.

Clasping her to him with one arm, he yanked the carriage door closed and fell
back against the seat.  His breath was ragged and his heart threatened to
explode.  How could she have done such a thing?  Why would she?  Had the days
in jail so deranged her mind that she was truly mad?  Above all, what in
God's name was he to do?

Fiercely, he held her to him.  She whimpered as the last of her strength left
her and she went limp.

' "Need any help?"  the driver asked.

Nash shook his head.  He lifted Deanna carefully from the carriage.

They were well out of the city, having followed the road that ran north to
Greenwich Village.  Just beyond it was a small landing where boats put in.

"Head on back," Nash said.

"Get rid of the car a ri age and make yourself scarce.  If anyone asks, you
never saw me tonight."

The man nodded.  He was well paid and loyal besides.

There would be no problem with him, Nash thought as he walked swiftly toward
the landing.  The weather had turned colder and although he had wrapped
Deanna in his cloak, he was still concerned she would become chilled.

A torch flared near the landing.  Fletcher Wesskum was waiting.  He glanced
from Nash to the woman asleep in his arms.

"Everyone all right?"

"Fine, so far," Nash said.

"Let's go."

Fletcher led the way to the boat tied to the landing.  He doused the torch in
the water, but not before lighting the small lantern hanging in the prow.
The oars were muffled.  They made barely a sound as the village slipped away
behind them.

"Calm tonight," Fletcher said.

Nash nodded.  They had a long way to go.  He found a blanket and wrapped it,
too, around Deanna.  She stirred but did not wake.

They headed south toward the tip of Manhattan Island.  Their course required
them to pass some of the most heavily manned British positions.  But there
was no alternative since the nearest safety lay to the south.

A half hour later, they saw the lights of a British yawl lying offshore.
Fletcher muffled the lantern.  With the oars barely touching water, they
glided past.

A little farther on, the silhouette of cannons emerging from a stone bunker
could be seen.  The coast was extensively fortified.  They could expect to
see many more of the same fortifications before finally emerging on the
other side of the island, near the mouth of the Hudson River.

The current strengthened.  Fletcher had to pull hard to keep them on course.
His efforts were rewarded when a short time later they saw a faint glimmer of
light along the New Jersey shore.

"They're waiting," Nash said.

"Told you they would be."

The Indians came out of the night, moving silently.  They helped secure the
boat and stood by while Nash lifted Deanna from it.

"Thank you," Nash said, turning to Fletcher.

The woodsman nodded.  He flashed a grin.

"She's gonna be kinda surprised when she wakes up."

"I'll be glad if that's all she is," Nash said, remembering Deanna's actions
in the carriage.  He would think about that later; the Indians were waiting.
He gave a final nod to Wesskum and followed them.

A narrow path led from the water's edge deep into the surrounding forest.  It
was covered with pine needles which absorbed every sound.

In a small clearing about a quarter mile from the river, a log house stood.

One of the Indians led the way inside.  He lit a small fire in a stone pit
dug in the ground.  When Nash had lowered Deanna onto a bed of hides, the
Indian handed him a musket.

"Wesskum claims you're a good shot."

Nash hoisted the weapon, finding it well balanced.  He was glad to have it,
but he was also honest.

"I prefer a knife."

The man smiled his approval.

"Over there," he said, indicating & pile on the floor.

"Also food, clothes and some medicines for the woman, in case she needs them."

Nash's face was grim.

"She may very well.  She was badly treated."

"This whole thing is ending badly, but at least it is ending."

"Is it?  I've been out of touch for several days."

The Indian nodded.

"Cornwallis is retreating to Yorktown.  Word is he intends to make his stand
there."

It wasn't a bad choice.  The site was easily defensible, provided Cornwallis
had enough men to do it with.  Did he?

Nash pushed the thought aside and said farewell, offering his thanks, as well.

With the Indians' departure, he turned his full attention to Deanna.

She lay on her side, her face turned away from him.  As he knelt beside her,
he noticed a bruise on her cheek, several days old by the look of it.

Cursing, he eased the blanket from around her and unwound his cloak.

By the light of the small fire, the damage of ten days' confinement could be
clearly seen.  Her hair was matted with dust and grime, her face streaked
with dirt.  The bodice of her gown was torn, revealing purpling bruises on
her shoulders.  The dress, which he remembered as fitting her perfectly, now
hung loosely.  Looking farther, he found marks on her palms where she had dug
her nails into them.

His mouth set in a hard line.  Leaving her briefly, he went outside to find
water.  He returned with a bucketful and set it over the fire.  Then he
removed his frock coat.

With his sleeves rolled up, he returned to Deanna.

She was so exhausted that she showed no sign of waking even as, he carefully
turned her over and undid the buttons down the back of her dress.  The fire,
small as it was, gave off enough heat to warm the log house--and
Deanna--comfortably.  Slowly, he slipped the dress from her.  Beneath it, she
wore a white camisole and petticoat.

Fortunately, she hadn't bothered with stays, but then she was slender enough
to have no need of them.

Struggling to keep his mind on the task at hand, Nash removed her shoes and
rolled down the thin cotton stockings secured by garters.

That done, he took a manful breath and slipped the camisole over her head.
The petticoat followed.

When she lay naked on the bed of hides, he sat back and allowed himself the
luxury of looking at her.  But only for a moment.  The bluish shadows along
her ribs and the deep hollows on either side of her hips spoke forcibly of
her suffering.  She was still an exquisitely beautiful woman, easily the
loveliest he had ever seen.

But she was also in dire need of care.

With a soft cotton cloth dipped in the heated water, he gently began to wash
the grime from her body.  She stirred a little but remained deeply asleep.
His breath caught as he passed the cloth over her breasts.  Her nipples
puckered, becoming hard beneath his touch.  She made a small sound of
contentment.

Telling himself that only the world's worst churl would be tempted to take
advantage of a woman's unconscious response, he finished bathing her
quickly.  The camisole and petticoat she had worn were filthy; he couldn't
possibly put them on her.  But there were several clean blankets in the pack.
These he laid over her.  She sighed and snuggled farther into the hides.

Next, he set about to wash her hair.  For a brief moment he hesitated, not
wanting to wake her.  But her hair was filthy, and he knew she would be more
comfortable to have it clean.  Using a brush, he got out the worst of the
tangles, then fetched fresh warm water.  Going slowly, so as not to wet the
blankets, he carefully washed strand after strand.  Gradually, the dirt and
dust vanished, revealing the red-gold glory hidden beneath.

When he was finished, he looked around for something to dry it with.

His shirt was clean, he'd only worn it a few hours.  Stripping it off, he
gently squeezed the water out until only a slight dampness remained.  When he
brushed her hair again, it lay in a shining mass spread out over the hides.

Satisfied, he went outside to empty the bucket, returning to find Deanna
still fast asleep.  She lay on her side, one hand drawn up so that her
fingers curled beneath her chin.  With her features relaxed and her defiant
green eyes closed, she looked achingly vulnerable.

Also, exquisitely tempting.  Ignoring the sudden hardening of his body, he
added wood to the fire, then went through the supplies the Indians had left.
Assured that he had everything they needed, he secured the pack.  As he did,
fatigue washed over him.

When had he last slept?  Three days ago, before Wesskum found him?

That sounded about right.  Except for a few naps snatched on the back of a
horse or in the prow of a boat, he had been awake continuously.

But Deanna was safe now and cared for.  The release of tension forced him to
confront the exhaustion he had managed to hold at bay.  The bed of hides
suddenly looked tempting.  He hesitated, but the only alternative was the
hard ground.

Telling himself there was no harm in merely holding her, he lay down beside
Deanna and drew her into his arms.  Moments later, he, too, slept.

Chapter Thirty-Five Q^z^^Q Deanna was dreaming.  In her dream, she was
running across a field washed by sunshine.  Birds were singing, the sun was
shining and she felt blissfully free.  Far in the back of her mind, she felt
surprised.  Of late, sleep had meant nightmares.  But this was entirely
different.  She couldn't remember ever feeling so completely happy.

Well, yes, actually she could.  The memory warmed her cheeks.  But it didn't
matter.  This was only a dream.  Nothing could hurt her.  She could think of
Nash safely.

Or could she?  Her brow furrowed.  There was something about Nash, something
cold and terrible.  The bright dream twisted, the sun faded.

She was suddenly very afraid.

Deep in the sleep of exhaustion, Nash nonetheless felt the change in Deanna.
Slowly, a part of him resisting, he drove upward to consciousness.
"What...?"  he murmured groggily.

The fire had almost died, but the gray light of pre 9 dawn was seeping
through the walls of the log house.  He could make out her face.

She was frightened.  Still half-asleep, hardly aware of what he was doing, he
threw back the covers that had chastely separated them all night and gathered
her close against him.  Her bare breasts nestled against his chest.  The
warmth of her skin drove out the mild chill of his own.  Fire leapt in his
loins as his body responded instantly.

His mind followed more slowly.  She was under him on the hide bed, his hands
tangled in her hair, before he fully realized what he was doing.

Driven though he was, engulfed in hot, surging desire, he hesitated.

Muscle-corded arms held his weight off her.  He was suddenly acutely aware of
her vulnerability and of how very easy it would be to exploit that.

The thought of doing that filled him with disgust.  She had been through far
too much.  What she needed most was care 'and rest, not the passion that
seemed to have taken possession of his very soul.

He looked into her face, no longer pale, and saw with a start that her eyes
were open.  The forest-green depths were unfathomable.  They glittered with
shards of gold that seemed torn from the sun or from some deep, hidden
treasure trove never meant for the light of day.

"Deanna?"

Her lips parted on a breath of sound.  His name?  He couldn't be sure.

But there was little doubt of what the sudden touch of her breasts against
his chest meant.  Raising herself slightly, she twined her arms around his
neck in a gesture both natural and provocative.

Nash groaned as wave after wave of desire crashed through him.  Before such a
battering, his good intentions wavered.  He was, after all, only human.

Still, he tried.  The muscles of his arms corded as he lifted himself from
her.  Her embrace tightened.  She made a soft sound in her throat as she drew
him back to her.

This was better.  The sunshine had returned and with it the feeling of
unbridled freedom.  Whatever that cold, terrible thing was, it had gone away.
Best yet, Nash was here, strong, passionate, wonderful.

The terrifying experiences of recent days slipped from her as though they had
never been.  Only the smallest shadow of memory remained, but it was enough
to make her hold on fiercely to the man who was at once her lover and
protector.

Instincts as ancient as womanhood stirred within her.  Her hips raised
slightly, the apex of her thighs brushing against him.  Slowly, she frowned.
This wasn't right.

Her hand drifted down, encountering the waistband of his breeches.  He said
something harsh and rasping, but caught as she was between exhaustion and
passion, the words had no meaning.  Nothing did, except the overwhelming need
to be as close to him as possible.  Moaning softly, she cupped the bulge of
his manhood in her palm and squeezed lightly.

Nash gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.  Her artless innocence was
more enticing than the skills of the most practiced courtesan.  He didn't
understand how that could be, but neither could he deny it.  With a single
touch, she mocked his tenuous self-control.  With a brush of her nipples
against his chest, she shattered what little was left of it.

He moved abruptly, stripping off his breeches and kicking them away.

Naked, he came to her, gathering her into his arms.  His big hands stroked
down her back to cup her buttocks.  Kneading them lightly, he slipped his
thumbs into the soft, moist folds between her thighs.

Deanna cried out.  The sun was burning, the day incandescent.  She trembled
convulsively and clung to him.  His mouth lowered, seizing first one nipple,
then the other.  He sucked hard, raking the aching tips with his teeth,
tonguing them, his roughened jaw scraping over her delicate skin.

Her legs fell open.  Together, they tumbled back across the bed of hides.
All thought, all restraint had been stripped from Nash.  Still, enough of a
remnant of reason remained, that he did not immediately lay her beneath him
and plunge his length deep within.

Holding her by the hips, he trailed hot kisses across her dimpled navel and
satiny abdomen.  His fingers found her again, teasing, arousing, until she
sobbed his name and tried desperately to draw him to her.

She cried out again in mingled shock and delight when his mouth replaced his
fingers.  Driving her higher and higher, he waited until the first tremors
began to quake through her.  Only then did he part her legs yet farther and
slowly, groaning with the exquisite pleasure of it, sink himself into her.

She was hot and wet, but so tight that he feared he might hurt her.  Yet
when he made to withdraw, she arched her back, her hands sliding down his to
clasp his sinewy hips and hold him to her.

Sweet spasms of approaching release contracted around him.  He shut his eyes
against the force of almost unbearable pleasure.  The last shred of
hesitation vanished as though it had never been.

He thrust again, harder and deeper, over and over, half lifting her off the
bed in the fury of his need.  Until at last the world shattered around them
both and he collapsed, drained, on top of her.

Chapter Thirty-Six Deanna woke to a sense of well-being greater
than any she had ever known.  She stretched languorously, raising her arms
above her head and wiggling her toes into the warm, soft bottom of the bed
where she Bed?  Her eyes opened wide.  Instantly, they shut again as
sunlight, ten days all but unseen, stung them.  The cell, the clump of filthy
straw, the dank smell of the river, were gone.  In their place were comfort
and radiant day.

Abruptly, she remembered Nash, the carriage, her struggle.  The dream.

She paled and sat up, only to discover that she was naked.  Gasping, she
dragged a blanket around herself and got to her feet shakily.

Wherever she was, the ceiling was so low that her head almost brushed it.
Not only that, there was no furniture.  Except for the bed of hides, a
leather pack and a stone fire pit, the structure was empty.

The walls were of wooden logs chinked with mud.  But the mud had eroded,
probably since the winter, leaving numerous openings.  Through them sunlight
streamed.  And through them, too, Deanna peeked.

She was in a clearing surrounded by forest.  Two horses were tethered
nearby.  A cook fire was going, and by it, drinking from a tin cup, stood.
Nash.

She turned cold.  It hadn't been a dream.  It was real.  The lingering echoes
of pleasure still resonated within her.  She had made love with him despite
everything she knew, despite all the betrayal, despite dignity and pride, she
had given herself to this man.  Again.

She bit down hard on her clenched fist to keep from screaming.  How could she
have so betrayed herself?  What treacherous part of her nature had led her to
behave in such a way?

Desperately, she looked around "for her clothes but they were nowhere to be
seen.  Her gaze fell on the pack.  Opening it, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Inside were down-soft breeches small enough to fit her, a linen shirt, a
boy's frock coat and even a felt hat.  The garments were exceedingly strange
but at least they would cover her.  Quickly, she dressed, tucking her hair up.

Moving toward the door, she paused, struck by the unexpected freedom of
walking without the confines of a long skirt.  No wonder men were able to get
about so much more agilely.  It wasn't nature that made them so.  It was
simply fashion.

Cautiously, she stepped outside.  Nash had his back to her.  With just a
little luck, she could slip away into the surrounding woods and be gone
before he knew it.  What she would do after that she couldn't begin to think
of.  All that mattered was getting away.

But this was not Belle Haven where she could move with impunity, knowing
every rise and fall of the land as perfectly as she did the contours of her
own face.  This was unknown territory.

A branch snapped beneath her foot.  She froze.

"Damn."  The gruffly voiced expletive was followed instantly by steps
crunching, swiftly over the ground toward her.

Deanna's momentary paralysis vanished.  Unencumbered by the usual heavy
skirts, she ran as swiftly as a doe, leaping over a fallen log to vanish
among the trees.

Nash cursed again.  He'd left her asleep in the log house, convinced that she
would remain that way for some time and glad of a chance to deal with his own
feelings in private.  That had been a mistake.  He was no closer to sorting
out his confusing tumult of thoughts, and he had lost Deanna, if only
temporarily.

She was quick, he gave her that, and daring.  But when it came to moving
through a forest undetected, she was an utter novice.

He was not.  What boyhood in England-had not prepared him for, manhood in war
had.  He'd gone out of his way to learn as much as he could about survival in
the thick primal forests that covered most of the land.

Wesskum had taught him some, as had other woodsmen.  He wasn't as good as
they were, not yet, at least.  But faced with the challenge of tracking
Deanna, he was more than good enough.

He could hear her crashing through the underbrush directly ahead.

Grimly, he smiled.  For a slender woman, she managed to make an unholy amount
of noise.

In the grip of panic, Deanna hardly knew what she was doing.  She had no
idea in what direction she was heading.  The forest had thickened around her,
becoming so dense that she was hard pressed to get through it.  Wild grasses
tall as her waist slowed her at every step.  Vines twining over the ground
tripped her.  Brambles pulled at her clothes and caught her skin.

Scratched and bleeding, bruised by several falls and almost out of breath,
she kept going.  Just ahead, she caught a glimpse of water--a river--and she
renewed her efforts.  She was a good swimmer.  If she could reach the river,
she might have a real chance of escape.

The trees thinned at the river's edge.  She broke free of the underbrush and
ran forward.  In just another moment, she would be-- A steely arm wrapped
around her waist, pulling her back.  Her feet left the ground.  She kicked
out with arms and legs alike, but it was useless.  Easily evading her blows,
Nash carried her up the riverbahk.

"Fool," he said as he set her down but kept a hard hand on her arm.  ' "Just
what did you think you were doing?"

Deanna's breathing was ragged, her heart beating fiercely, and not all
because of her exertions.

"Trying to get away from you."

"Why?"

When she did not reply, or even look at him, he caught hold of her chin and
angrily turned her to face him.

"Look at me."

She did, but only a quick glance out of the corner of her eye.  It was
enough to remind her of every incandescent moment of the night before.
Fiercely, she blushed.

"Let me go."

His self-control--never reliable where she was concerned--threatened, to
crumble yet again.  Grimly summoning patience, he tightened his hold on her.

"I didn't go to all this trouble so you could walk right back into a British
jail.  The least you owe me is an explanation.  What the hell is wrong with
you?"

Deanna's eyes flashed dangerously.

Being a prudent man, Nash stepped back a notch.  He knew her well enough to
realize that her temper was at least a match for his own.

"Wrong?"  she echoed.

"With me?  Nothing at all except being the world's worst fool."  Her voice
caught.  She turned her head away, but not before he saw the sudden sheen of
tears in her eyes.

Astonishment roared through him.  What could possibly have happened to bring
this proud woman to the point of tears?  Had her treatment in jail been worse
than he'd realized?  Or was it their lovemaking she so bitterly regretted?

This last possibility made him wince.  Granted, his behavior had been
reprehensible.  But if she had resisted even in the least, if she'd merely
said no, he would have stopped instantly.  On that point, he was absolutely
sure.  Quietly, dreading what he would hear, he asked, "What are you talking
about?"

A tremor ran through her.

"I blame myself."

He was going to be patient, even if it killed him.  "For what?"

"Trusting you."

There it was, stark and ugly, the accusation he had most feared.  He took a
breath against the pain and wished for just a moment that he was in a battle
he knew how to win.

"I'm sorry."

She looked at him in astonishment.

"Sorry?  You're sorry?  Is that supposed to mean something?"

He had moved through drawing rooms where intrigue was the breath of life,
dealt with courtiers and courtesans, fought in duels and in war, made a
fortune and begun the making of a nation.  But never had he felt at such a
loss as he did at this moment, confronted with this woman.

"It means I'm sorry, I regret what happened."

"So do I," she said, trying to wrench her arm away.

But he had learned to know her at least well enough to anticipate that she
would never give up so easily.  He kept his hold and tried to speak
soothingly.

"I was exhausted last night.  We both were.  I don't think either of us fully
realized what was happening until it was too late."

Her cheeks burned.  Fiercely, she said,

"If you have an ounce of decency, you will not speak of that again."

All right, she didn't want to talk about their lovemaking.  But if they
couldn't talk about it, how could he convince her that he truly hadn't meant
to take advantage of her?  She seemed to have no memory of her own eager
participation, and it would be the height of churlishness to remind her.

Stymied, he was utterly unprepared when she said, "You know perfectly well it
has nothing to do with anything."

Chapter Thirty-Seven Q^Z^%s ) He was hurt.  It was an absurd reaction but
there it was.  Perhaps it was vanity, but he really would have preferred to
think that their lovemaking had some significance--however slight--for Deanna.

Apparently not.  Her dismissal of it with a handful of words left him at
first stunned, then angry.  She was a gently reared woman--never mind that
her father had afforded her a shocking amount of liberty.

She should have been reeling from what they'd done.  Instead, she appeared to
take it as casually as a man might a night beneath the covers with a light
skirt.  Only this time, the skirt--so to speak--was on him.  He found the
sensation singularly unpleasant.

"I see," he said, not because he did but because he had to say something.
She couldn't have it all her way.

"In that case, would you mind telling me why you're leaving so hastily?"

"To get away from you."

Whoever had said women were chatterboxes hadn't met Deanna.  Bending over so
that they were on eye level, he stared hard at her.

"Why?"

"You know why."

That did it.  She had toyed with his emotions, insulted his manhood and left
him floundering.  Now she had the nerve to claim he should understand.

"No, I don't," he almost shouted.

She looked at him with scorn.  As though delivering a death blow, she said,

"Charles told me."

Charles.  He was at the root of all this, curse his blighted hide.  If Nash
ever got his hands on the Englishman again, he would.  "Told you what?  And
don't," he added quickly, "tell me I know what.  I do not know.  I want you
to tell me.  In fact, I damn well insist on it."

She glared, her eyes shooting daggers, but the slight trembling of her mouth
suggested there was real pain beneath the anger.  So quietly that Nash could
hardly hear, she said,

"He told me that you're the traitor."

Through the fog of shock that immediately enveloped him, one thought stood
out clearly.

"You believe him."

"How can I not?  The two of you were in league together."  When he would have
denied it, she charged,

"You sent the note that drew me to the stable.  Charles was waiting to hear
what I'd be fool enough to say and carry it back to Clinton."  Her voice
broke but she plunged on bitterly.

"I'd forgotten that you were at school together.  But I had plenty of time to
remember in that cell waiting for them to hang me."

"Deanna, you can't seriously believe" -- ' "Let go!  I'm sick of your lies,
your treachery!  How it must have amused you to trap me as you did."  A sob
broke from her.

"What a gullible fool I was."

"I sent no note."

The words, uttered with quiet desperation, hung in the air between them.  She
fell silent and looked at him.

"What are you saying?"

"I know of no note."

She made a small sound of derision.

"You were there, at the stable, exactly as your note said you would be."

"I was watching the inn.  I saw you leave and followed you.  You said we
needed to speak privately.  The stable seemed as good a place as any, but I
had no idea why you were going there."  Holding her by the shoulders, he said
fiercely,

"I did not betray you.  But if I did, why would I come back to get you?"

Her eyes were resigned.  Without shirking, she said, "Because not even the
British could hang me without a trial first.  The truth about you would have
come out at it.  They wouldn't risk that."

She had decided it to her own satisfaction, worked out all the answers, all
the permutations.  In her mind, he was the one already tried and found
guilty.  Still, he made one last attempt.

"They could have tried you without witnesses."

Deanna shook her head.  It had all come together for her in these last few
minutes, the full realization of why Nash could not possibly have risked her
going to trial.  She should have seen it before and been prepared for what he
had done.

"You're too valuable an agent to them.  They couldn't take any risk of your
being exposed."  A sad smile touched her mouth.

"People talk and when they do, they are frequently overheard.  I, perhaps
more than most, know that."

"It seems you know a great deal," Nash said.  His voice was without emotion,
his face expressionless.  Later, he would deal with the pain ripping through
him.  But not just then.

"Come."

She dug her heels into the ground, resisting.  "There is no point.  I will
only keep trying to escape.  Eventually, I'll succeed."

Nash looked at her for a long moment.  Slowly, he nodded.

"So be it."

Before she had a chance to realize what he was doing, he pulled a leather
thong from his pocket and looped it around her wrists, securing it firmly.

"What do you think you're doing?"  Deanna demanded, outraged.

"I'd say I'm living up to your expectations," Nash replied.  Without a
further word, he pulled her after him into the woods.

By midday, the sun had risen high in the sky and the air turned noticeably
warm.  Astride the horse Nash had put her on, Deanna struggled to maintain
her balance despite having her hands bound and being without stirrups.  He
had removed them without comment before they started out.  Their absence made
it impossible for her to get away.

Thwarted at every turn, worn out in mind and body and more thoroughly
confused than she had ever been, it was all Deanna could do to keep from
weeping.  She had always cried more easily than she liked, but this time she
absolutely would not give in to it.  She would die before giving him that
satisfaction.

They had been riding for hours.  Their direction was south, which puzzled
her.  She wouldn't put it past Nash to deliberately travel in a circle to
keep her from guessing where they might be going.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him--as it had been since they set
out--but she stopped herself.  They could be on the road to Hades for all she
knew, and she wouldn't say a word.  Actually, couldn't would be a fairer
description.  Her throat was raw with unshed tears and her mouth painfully
dry.  In addition, she was hungry.

To her acute embarrassment, her stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.
Nash was riding directly ahead, holding her horse on a lead line.  He glanced
over his shoulder.

"We can stop if you like."

They were the first words he'd said to her in hours, and they were kindly
uttered, which made them all the worse.  Stubbornly, she shook her head.

He shrugged and continued on.  But before they got more than a few yards, her
stomach did it again.

Nash reined in and dismounted.  He lifted her from the saddle, catching her
as she staggered.

"I thought you rode," he said accusingly.

"With stirrups," she shot back, "and with my hands free.  You try it this way
and see how well you do."  Angrily, she tried to brush a stray lock of hair
out of her eyes but couldn't manage it with her wrists bound.

Nash did it for her, his fingers lingering a moment against her skin.
Catching himself, he abruptly pulled, his hand away.

"I will untie you on one condition."

She looked at him suspiciously.

"What's that?"

"That you give me your word you will not try to escape in the next hour."

Deanna hesitated.  She was struck by his apparent willingness to believe her,
but torn between her desire to continue resisting and the practical
realization that escape was at best a remote possibility.

She had no idea where she was, no food or weapons and little prospect of
finding her way to safety, presuming there was any such thing.  If she
accepted his offer, she would at least have a chance to regain her strength
and perhaps discover something about where they were and where they were
going.

Reluctantly, she nodded.  Nash's eyes held hers as he drew the knife from the
scabbard on his leg and cut the leather thong.

"See to your needs," he said curtly.

"I'll get a fire going."

When she returned to the small clearing a few minutes later, the fire had
been lit and a pot set over it.  Good smells teased her.  She accepted the
wooden bowl he offered and tried not to look too eager as he filled it with a
savory stew.

"I hadn't realized you cook."

"A friend provided this," he said without further explanation.  They ate in
silence for several minutes.  Deanna finished first.  Nash noticed and
refilled her bowl.  She nodded her thanks grudgingly and continued eating.

When they were done, he rose and began banking the fire.  The hour he had
allotted was almost over.

Deanna felt a pang of regret.  Despite the wall of betrayal that lay between
them, there had been an odd sort of pleasure to sharing the simple meal.

She rose reluctantly as he approached and held out her hands.  The thong he
had tied earlier had left faint red tracings on her wrists.

Seeing them, his face tightened.

' "It would save us both a great deal of trouble if you would simply agree to
come along peacefully."

Deanna debated within herself.  The more time she had to think about it, the
more she realized that escape was- not the solution.  Or at least it wouldn't
be until she had some idea of where to escape to.

Still, she was loath to simply give in to him.

"Come along to where?"

He smiled, as though anticipating her response.  "Virginia."

Chapter Thirty-Eight i i Virginia?  " Deanna repeated dazedly.  This made no
sense.  Virginia was the stronghold of the American forces.  Washington's
headquarters were there.  It had to be a trick.

"You wouldn't dare go to Virginia."

"Wouldn't I?  There's only one way for you to find out."

"It would be suicide," she insisted.

"Especially if I'm with you^ You would" -- She broke off and went pale.

Nash shook his head in disgust at her train of thought.

"You've already been a fool," he said harshly.

"Don't be a complete idiot."

Her suspicions embarrassed her, but she couldn't dismiss them entirely.  How
could he seriously contemplate walking right into the heart of the American
forces accompanied by a woman who believed him to be a traitor?

Either he was lying about where they were going or--or she was terribly wrong
about him.

"I don't understand," she said softly.

A rueful look of sympathy darted across his face.

"That makes two of us, but at least we can try to make the best of it.  Will
you give up the idea of escape?"

Deanna thought quickly.  Below Virginia were the Carolinas, still held by the
British, although in hot dispute.  If they went too far south, she would find
herself there instead.

But no alternative presented itself and finally, reluctantly, she said,

"I cannot be sure how far we traveled last night but my guess is that we are
somewhere west of the New Jersey Palisades."

His fleeting look of surprised approval told her she was right.

"From there," she continued, "it should take us no more than five days to
reach Virginia."

"That presumes a brisk pace."

"Yes," she agreed, "it does.  If we are not in Virginia by then, the truce
between us ends.  All right?"

He hesitated, clearly not pleased by the terms but at length he nodded.

"I suppose it will have to be."  Briskly, he strode over to where the horses
were grazing.

"Here," he said as he pulled stirrups, from his saddlebag and attached them
to her horse.

"If we're going to keep to that schedule, you'd better be able to ride
properly."

"I'll do my best," she murmured, and swung lightly into the saddle.

Four days later, Deanna had cause to regret her rash promise.  Not that she
was still thinking about escape.  That was out of the question.  She ached in
every bone of her body, was chafed in places she'd never really thought
about before, and had been bitten by what she was sure was a representative
of every kind of insect in North America.

They had traveled by horse and by ferry, along the coast and along rivers,
over hills and through marshes.  They had been scoured by sun, soaked by rain
and whipped by wind.  The savory stew by the campfire had proven a fleeting
thing.  Their food consisted of dried deer meat, handfuls of nuts and
whatever they could glean from the land.

By afternoon of the fourth day, she had begun to fantasize about long hot
baths and scented shampoo, silk undergarments and toasty fires.

Or just plain toast--that would be fine--spread with Martha's blackberry jam.

Her mouth watered.  She stifled a sigh and attempted for perhaps the tenth
time in the past hour to straighten her shoulders.  It simply wouldn't do to
let Nash see how terribly tired she was.  He'd think he was winning.

Not that this was any sort of contest between them--certainly not.

They were simply fellow travelers, thrown together by unlikely circumstances,
to be sure, but nothing more.

Indeed, they hardly spoke as they rode along.  And at night they went
chastely to their own beds on opposite sides of the fire, within sight of
each other, although she couldn't say she'd seen him looking whenever she did.

She didn't regret his aloofness, not even for a moment.  What she had allowed
to happen between them--twice no less--was inexcusable.

Obviously, where he was concerned, she couldn't trust herself.  Therefore,
it was best to have as little contact with him as possible during this
enforced journey.  which did not explain why she was staring straight ahead
at his back, watching the graceful play of muscles under the shirt he wore
and admiring how very well he sat a horse.

Exasperated with herself, she looked away and did not notice that he had
drawn rein until her horse almost walked into his.

"Why have we stopped?"  she asked.

Nash dismounted and began removing the tack.  "It'll be dark in a few hours."

"We could keep going until then."

He uncinched the saddle and pulled it off.

"I don't know about you, but I could use an early night.  Also, I'd like a
chance to get something to eat that a man can actually live on."

The thought of an early rest and a break to their monotonous diet delighted
her, but she restrained her enthusiasm.

"Oh, well, if you really feel you need to."

"I do," he said firmly.  Before she realized what he intended, he reached up
and lifted her from the horse.

"And so do you, so stop pretending otherwise."  He looked her up and down
critically.

"You look like a good puff of wind would knock you over."

Deliberately, she subjected him to the same scrutiny.

"At least I don't look like a grizzly."

His eyes widened.

"A what?"

"You heard me.  A grizzly.  You haven't shaved since we started out, your
hair's down to your shoulders, and as for your choice of garb" -- Her nose
wrinkled.

Nash looked at her in wonder for a moment before he threw his head back and
laughed.

"How remiss of me.  I didn't realize Your Ladyship was offended."

"I'm not.  I'll have you know I used to go on fishing expeditions with my
brothers that made this look like a picnic."

"You did, did you?"

She nodded.

"All the time."

"Does that mean you can actually catch something?"

She looked at him scornfully, ignoring the rapid- fire beat of her heart.

"Better than you, I'll bet."

"You're on.  There's line and hooks in the pack.  I'll get the horses
settled.  You find a couple of long green branches about like this."

He showed her with his hands.

"I know what to look for.  You worry about the horses."  She glanced around.
They were in a small clearing just off the trail.  It looked as though it
might have been used as a camp before.  She caught a glimpse of water through
the trees.

"I'll meet you by that creek."

Nash joined her a few minutes later.  She had waited to put her hook in until
he could do the same.  Fair was fair.

"Sure you want to fish from there?"  she asked as he settled comfortably on
the bank.

He shrugged.

"Seems fine to me."

"Suit yourself."  As for her, she had her eye on a spot a little down river,
out toward the middle where the water eddied in a way that suggested there
might be a deep pool just a short cast off.  The kind of place the big old
grandpa trout liked to be.

\yith an innocent smile, she waded out.  Her first cast was slightly off.
Her second was better.  It had been a long time since she'd fished but the
fine art of it was coming back to her.

Nash didn't bother to recast.  He left his line in the water and leaned back
against a nearby tree.  After a few minutes, his eyes drifted shut.

All the better.  Maybe she'd be nice and let him share what she caught.  A
splash in the pool caught her eye.  She moved forward eagerly, lifted her
line to cast again and-Her feet went out from under her.  She lost her
balance and fell, coming up wet and gasping.

"Of all the damn" -- "Language, Deanna," Nash said from the bank.  He had
awakened and was watching her with evident amusement.

"I'm shocked a lady of your bearing would indulge in any untoward conduct."

Considering that she looked anything but a lady just then, dressed in soaking
wet breeches and a linen shirt that was turning alarmingly transparent, and
considering that he had better reason than anyone to know exactly what sort
of untoward conduct she was really capable of, she thought his comments
tactless, to say the least.

Sputtering, she got to her feet and tried to recover her pole.  But it had
gone sailing down the river.  As she watched, a large, succulent trout--ten
pounds at least leapt out of the water, in a perfect arc and landed with
barely a ripple.

Gnashing her teeth in frustration, Deanna stomped up the bank.  She wrapped
her arms around herself, partly to ward off the chill that was fast seeping
over her but also to preserve what little modesty she still had.

"We might as well give this up.  I must have frightened off any fish for
miles around."

"What was that I just saw out there?"

"No one ever catches that kind.  They know it, they just like to taunt us."

He looked at her bemusedly.

"I never thought of fish as capable of that sort of sophisticated behavior."

"I assure you they are."

"It doesn't bother you, then, to eat something that's clearly more
intelligent than most of us?"

"From the look of things, that won't be a problem today."

"Oh, I don't know..."  Nash glanced at his line.  The green branch bobbed,
went still, bobbed again.  "Excuse me," he said.

Moments later, he landed a glistening trout, large enough to feed them both
well.

"What was that?"  he asked as they walked to the camp.

"Something about beginner's luck?"

"Dumb luck," Deanna said.  She shot him a quick glance.

"You're no beginner."

"No," he replied softly to her back.

"I'm not."  With a grin, he followed after her.

Chapter Thirty-Nine Q^y^s^sQ

( <T

Just one more bite?  " Nash suggested.  He held the spoon out.  A tempting
morsel of trout rested on it.

Deanna sighed.  Wrapped snugly in a blanket Nash insisted she put on to ward
off the chill she would otherwise undoubtedly take, she had found it almost
impossible to feed herself.  Not to worry.  He had gallantly come to the
rescue.

"I really shouldn't," she said, eyeing the fish greedily.  Her appetites
appalled her--all of them.  Worse yet, he seemed fully aware of her weakness.

"It would be a shame to let it go to waste," he said.

"You eat it."

"I'm full.  Besides, I think I had more than my share already."

She resisted any temptation to engage in a discussion of what he had or
hadn't had and swallowed the fish.  Her stomach was happy, her body was warm,
and she wasn't on a horse or a boat.  She should have been blissfully happy.
But all she could think of was Nash and how horribly, despicably nice he was
being.

"Tomorrow's the fifth day," she said to remind them both.

"So it is."

' "Are we in Virginia yet?"

"Almost."

"Horseshoes."

His eyebrows rose.

"Pardon me?"

"Horseshoes.  Almost only counts in horseshoes."

"Where did you hear that?"

"Somewhere, I forget.  Anyway, it's true."

He got up to rinse his plate in a bucket of water near the fire.  She watched
him perform the ordinary task, thinking how very like him it was.  To leave a
plate unwashed might attract scavengers to the camp.

He was a meticulously careful man who attended to details and seemed to leave
little to chance.  The kind of man a woman could count on.

And he was a blaze across the sun who had turned her life upside down and
left her with a heart that seemed destined to ache forever.  The kind of man
a smart woman which she obviously wasn't would run from as fast as she could.
It simply wasn't fair for any one man to embody such qualities.  Not fair at
all.

Her eyes felt weighted down by lead.  She hardly knew it when Nash lifted her
and carried her over to the soft bed of pine needles and blankets he had
made.  Moments later, he lay down beside her.

"This time," he said softly, "you sleep where you belong."

Deep in dreams already, she felt him draw her close against him and smiled.

His hand cupped her breast, the thumb rubbing lightly over her erect nipple.
His manhood pressed against her buttocks.  Slowly, he eased her over onto
her back and moved the blanket that covered her.

He was naked, his body gleaming like polished bronze in the moonlight.
Powerful and lithe, perfectly made, he came to her.

Holding himself above her, he looked into her eyes.  Gently, he said, "Are
you awake, Deanna?"

She hesitated, tempted to let herself believe that this was a dream.

It would be so much simpler if she could believe that.  But the man above her
was stunningly real.  She could see the scar on his shoulder made by the
newly healed wound.  She could see other scars, as well, older ones, garnered
over the years.  He had been hurt, almost killed.

He had bled and suffered pain.  He had fought and struggled and survived.
And he had brought her to a realization of her own womanhood that she would
not have imagined possible.

"I'm awake'," she said, soft on the night air, and met his gaze honestly.

"Touch me," he murmured.

"I need your touch so much."

Her hand slid down him, tracing the contours of his chest, the flat,
muscle-ridged abdomen and farther still, to the burgeoning strength of his
manhood.

He moaned and closed his eyes against the waves of pleasure that she felt as
surely as if they were her own.

"Tomorrow," he said as he bent his head and raked hot kisses down her
breasts, "is the fifth day."

Tomorrow, when the sun began to tilt toward the west, their bargain would be
over.  But not now, not yet.  Time could never be held at bay.  All she could
possibly do was store it up against the empty years ahead.

Her hands pressed against his shoulders.  He let her push him down onto the
bed and did not protest when she straddled him.  Exultant freedom coursed
through her.  Emboldened as she had never been, she explored his body fully
until his hoarse cry signalled that he could take little more.

He lifted her, holding her by the hips, and brought her onto him.  But it was
Deanna who joined them, encompassing him fully and bringing them both to
shattering ecstasy.

They slept finally, limbs entwined, and did not stir until the pale shadow of
the moon had yielded to the full blaze of day.

Neither spoke as they saddled the horses yet one more time and prepared to
ride out.  Deanna allowed herself only the barest glance at the little
clearing.  She swallowed hard, reminding herself that she had sworn to have
no regrets.  What had happened was of her own choosing.  She could only pray
the instincts born of the last few days had not been wrong.

They reached a hamlet shortly before noon.  Pausing on a rise above it, Nash
said,

"They've got a trading post here.  We can pick up some things."

Unspoken between them was the knowledge that the hamlet had a name.

It belonged to a place.  The question would be answered.

Slowly, Deanna followed him down the hill.  Where the road widened slightly,
a cluster of buildings stood.  The largest appeared to be a tavern.  Nearby
was a small church that doubled as a school.  Not far away was the trading
post.

They left their horses hitched outside and entered.  The place didn't appear
much different from the general store in Belle Haven, a little rougher around
the edges and not quite as well stocked but the same basic idea.

Deanna breathed in the familiar scents of tea and crackers, dried cod and
pepper.  Shelves held bolts of cloth, tins of every description, even a few
precious books.  A surprising indication of prosperity were the
glass-enclosed display cases filled with patent medicines and gewgaws for the
ladies.  The war had raged through the entire area but this particular
place-- wherever exactly it happened to be--seemed to be surviving fairly
well.

In fact, if she wasn't mistaken there was a dress hanging in the back that
looked suspiciously like it could have come directly from Paris.

Her eyes lingered on it.  For all her claims to the contrary, she did like
pretty clothes.  Breeches were a pleasant novelty, but she wouldn't want to
wear them forever.

Other, more important matters beckoned.  As Nash headed toward the rear of
the store, a plump woman bustled out from behind the counter.

She gave Deanna a cautious smile.

"Morning, lad.  What brings you to these parts?"

With her hair tucked up under the hat and the boy's frock coat on, Deanna
wasn't really surprised to have her sex mistaken.  But the moment she opened
her mouth, the secret was out.

"Just passing through."

The woman's eyes widened.  She burst out laughing.

"Darned if you didn't fool me.  We don't get too many females coming by on
their own."

"I'm not actually" -- She glanced around.  Nash was nowhere in sight.

"Never mind.  Could you... tell me something?"

"I can try."

"Where am I?"

"Why, shucks, honey, you're in King's Cross.  Where did you think you were?"

King's Cross.  Not precisely a common name, but there could have been a
hundred of them scattered around the colonies.  She took a breath.

"Where's that?"

The woman looked surprised.  She hadn't bargained on quite this level of
ignorance.

"How did you manage to get here if you got no idea where it is?"

"Dumb luck.  Would you mind..."

Some measure of her desperation must have communicated itself.  The woman's
face softened.

"Virginie, sweetheart.  You're in God's own country, the sovereign state of
Virginia.  Hey, now what's the matter?

You've gone all funny looking.  "

"I'm fine," Deanna assured her, although she was anything but.  Tom between
joy and shame, she felt as though she had just taken a hard physical blow to
the stomach.

"Excuse me," she said, and hurried for the door.

Chapter Forty JNash turned from his perusal of the fancy dress and looked
around for Deanna.  She was nowhere to be seen.  Frowning, he let the fragile
material drop from between his fingers and went in search of her.

"Why, Mr. Nash," the plump woman said, spotting him,

"I didn't know you were here."  Her eyes turned suddenly shrewd.

"You wouldn't happen to be with that pretty girl who was just in here, would
you?"

"I sure hope I am, Nellie," he said.

"Right now it seems a little up in the air.  Where did she go?"

"Outside," Nellie replied with a chuckle.

"She wasn't looking so good.  Something about finding out she was in Virginia
set her off."

Nash was halfway out the door before this last part was said.  The horses
were both still hitched to the post, a good sign.  But where was Deanna?

She had been through so much in the past fortnight, more than many men he
knew could have borne.  And now she had to face the discovery that he hadn't
lied to her.

If he could have found a better way to convince her, he would gladly have
taken it.  But she'd been adamant in her suspicions and, truth be told, he'd
been too hurt to try to talk her out of it.  Instead, he'd opted to show.
Now, he had to wonder if that hadn't been too harsh.

The road in front of the trading post was deserted.  It was a Saturday, he
realized, so the school was empty.  The neighborhood children would be off in
the fields helping their parents.  But the tavern never lacked for customers.
Maybe someone there had seen her.

Three buck skinned woodsmen were enjoying a midday libation.  They looked up
sharply when Nash entered, relaxing when they saw who it was.

"Howdy, Nash," one of them said.

"Come on over and sit a spell."

"I'd like to.  Rand, but I've got a problem at the moment."  Briefly, he told
them what it was.

The men looked at each other in astonishment.

"A filly?  You gone and lost yourself a filly?  Shoot, Nash, that don't sound
like you."

"That's right," another said.

"You got a certain reputation to uphold."

"This is different," Nash muttered.

"Have you seen her or not?"

"Ain't seen nothing, specially not a girl dressed up like a boy running away
from you."

This was apparently a knee slapper.  Leaving the trio to enjoy themselves at
his expense, Nash headed outside, his face grim.  She had to be somewhere
nearby, he guessed.  Not even Deanna would be crazy enough to go off on
foot.  Maybe she'd just decided to take a look around.  Except Nellie had
said she wasn't looking so good.

Angrily, he berated himself for everything he'd put her through.  If he'd
tried harder, he could have found some way to spare her this.

He'd just been so hurt and There, by the side of the trading post was that a
flash of golden hair he saw?  It was, but very little else about Deanna was
looking golden at the moment.  She was wan and shaken, her eyes great pools
of darkness.  When she saw him, she took a quick step back.

"Nash."

He stopped, suddenly aware that he simply couldn't go barging up to her like
this.  He'd already done that far too many times.  She needed gentler
handling.  Damn it, she deserved it.

"I was looking for you," he said, trying hard not to show how very anxious he
had been.

"Are you all right?"

She managed a weak smile.

"Fine.  Something I ate must not' have agreed with me."

They'd eaten the same things for five solid days and nothing had bothered
him.  Or maybe it had.  Standing there looking at her, he was starting to
feel a little light-headed.

"Come on back inside," he said, trying to urge her along without appearing to
do so.

She came without an argument, something he took as a bad sign.  The fight
seemed to have gone out of her.

At the door to the trading post, she turned and looked at him.

"Nash," she said softly,

"I'm so terribly sorry."

But he was the one who felt repentant.  Repentant for not having protected
her better, for not having thrashed Charles to within an inch of his life
while he had the chance, and for not being able to offer her what she truly
deserved.

"Don't say that," he told her gruffly as he gathered her to him.

There, on the porch in front of the store, smack in the middle of busy King's
Cross, within sight of the three rogues peering from the tavern window and
Nellie, smiling with delight, they embraced.

It was Nellie who finally drew them apart.  She bustled over to the door, put
her hands on her ample hips and said,

"You don't let that child sit, she's gonna fall down."

Deanna laughed.  She felt vastly better than she had, but there was no
denying, her knees were weak.  From the sheer emotion of it all, she told
herself.

Nash led her inside and made sure she sat down.  He leaned against the
counter nearby, never taking his eyes from her.

"So what's the story?"  Nellie demanded.  Gossip good as this didn't come
along too often.  She wasn't about to miss out on the details.

"Miss Marlowe's a patriot," Nash said quietly.  "Things got a little hot for
her in New York so I'm taking her home."

This was news to Deanna.  She had the distinct impression that Belle Haven
was in the opposite direction.  And besides, if things had been hot for her
in New York, they'd be no better in General Tyron's Belle Haven.  Sadly, she
had to acknowledge that for her, going home was impossible, at least until
this horrible war was over.

But none of that seemed to bother Nash.  It took her a moment to understand
why.

Nellie looked at him disapprovingly.

"You still got that fellow, what's his name--Hargreave--working for you?"

Nash sighed.  This appeared to be an old argument.  "He's not such a bad
sort, Nellie.  You just never gave him much of a chance."

"No reason why I should.  He's English."

"So am I, partly, and you put up with me."

Nellie laughed.

"You know dam well why that is."

"I don't," Deanna chimed in.  She thought it was past time for her to say
something.  Not a whole lot was making sense.

"Shucks, girl," Nellie said, "this here's just about the best damn--pardon
me, dam--privateer in all of Virginie.  Nash's boats been running the
blockade since the war began.  Ladies around here sure would be missing their
fancy Brussels lace and the gentlemen would be running real low on brandy by
now if it hadn't been for him.

"Not that that's all he brings in, or even mostly, but any time there's been
just a little room left over in between the crates of guns and shot, he's
squeezed in a few fripperies."  a "Actually," Nash said, "it's my captains
who do that.  They deserve the credit."

"You were right out there with them," Nellie in a sis ted "least up till
this past year, when you found something else to do."

' "What was that?"  Deanna asked faintly.  Her mind reeled.  Nash a
privateer?  Who was Hargreave?  And above all, when was her stomach going to
stop doing loop the loops and settle down again?  Not any time soon, it
seemed.  At least not if Nellie had anything to say about it.

"He turned to spying," she pronounced.

"Wasn't enough to be running the blockade.  He had to go light in among the
damn British, eye to eye with them, and trick them into giving up their
secrets."

"You're not supposed to know about that," Nash objected.

"Ah, heck, everybody around here knows about it.  You may be a smart man,
Edward Nash, but you got to realize, people talk.  Speaking of which" -- She
cast a shrewd look at them both.

"You aren't seriously thinking of taking Miss Marlowe here home to that
snooty Hargreave dressed the way she is?"

"Who's Hargreave?"  Deanna demanded.

"My butler," Nash murmured.  He had the grace to look abashed.

"Your what?"

"Butler, honey," Nellie said.

"But don't you worry none.  You seem a right well-spoken young woman.  You
just lay down the law to him first thing, make sure he understands who's in
charge, and you won't have no trouble at all.  I'm sure."

"You have a butler?"  Deanna asked.  Nellie's assurances notwithstanding, she
was still stuck on that point.

"He used to be a butler," Nash said, hedging.  "Now he more or less manages
the estate for me while I'm gone."

"The estate?"

Nellie let out a prolonged whoop.  This was getting better and better.

"Shucks, honey.  Holy croft's more like one of them feudal manors used to be.
Goes on absolutely forever.  Why, you can't ride across it in less than a
couple of days.  But then you know that already, don't you?"

"Do I?"  Deanna asked faintly.

Nellie looked surprised.

"You came down from New York, right?  Well, then, you been on Holycroft land
for at least the last day."

"I inherited it from my mother," Nash said as though that somehow made it
better.  It didn't.

"About what she's wearing..."  Nellie bustled off to get the fancy dress,
hanging up at the back of the store just like it had been waiting for Deanna.

Chapter Forty-One The dress was exquisite.  It was fashioned of white lace
and silk and trimmed with tiny embroidered rosebuds down the skirt and
bodice.  The neckline was modest as such things went but the dress itself was
so rigorously elegant and uncompromisingly feminine that only a confident
woman could get away with wearing it.

Deanna had no choice.  It was that or the buckskins, as Nellie was quick to
remind.

"Think of this pretty thing as armor, child.  You'll be a whole lot better
off in it than in those boy's things you had on."

"I'm not sure about that," Deanna murmured.

"Why not?"

"I can't run as fast in this."

Nellie laughed.

"Honey, the trick is not to have to run at all.

Haven't you figured that out yet?  "

"I'm working on it."  Deanna glanced in the mirror Nellie had propped up on
an old wooden trunk in the back room and said,

"My hair's a mess."

The older woman grinned, rightly taking this as a sign of progress.

"Don't you worry none.  You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I used to be
real good at fancy hair when I was down in Charleston."

"Were you a lady's maid?"  Deanna asked in all innocence.  How else would
anyone gain experience doing hair?

' "Heck, no.  I worked in a whorehouse.  One of the best in those parts."

"Really?  How did you happen to come back here?"

"Now that's a real long story, honey.  But fortunately, you got a lot of hair
so maybe I'll just have time to tell you."

A half hour later, Nash returned from the tavern where he had sought a
fortifying round or two and caught up on the news.  The drink had been
welcome, the news was not.  Time was even shorter than he had thought.

The door to the back room was still securely shut but he.  could hear
laughter coming from behind it.

Curious, he stepped closer in time to hear Deanna say,

"No, not really?  How did he ever get it out?"

"Brought up a tub of lard, they did," Nellie said.  "Wasn't any other way."

Whatever they were talking about, it set off fresh gales of merriment.  And
prompted Nash to open the door.  Immediately, both women broke off.  They had
the vaguely guilty air of having been up to something they shouldn't have
been, but which they had enjoyed all the same.

Probably talking about men, he thought glumly.  Women seemed to do that often
enough.  He suspected whatever they had had to say wasn't necessarily
flattering.  But any concern he had on that score vanished the moment he
looked at Deanna.

He quite simply stopped and stared.

He had always thought her lovely, never more so than those moments when she
lay naked in his arms.  But this was different.  She was radiant, cool,
womanly and extraordinarily beautiful all at once.  The proud tilt of her
head, the warm flash of her eyes and the perfection of face and form all
combined to drive home to him how very special she really was.

And how swiftly their time together was slipping away.

Fiercely, he repressed that thought.  It would be there to be dealt with
later.  But not now, not here.  Not with her.

"It's time to go,"

he said and held out his hand.

Holycroft glowed white in the setting sun.  Riding toward it with Nash at her
side, Deanna felt as though she was leaving one world and entering another.
Behind her lay war and despair, turmoil and pain.

Ahead lay only peace.

As Nellie had hinted, the house was a proud manor built in the Georgian style
with two wings framing a center structure.  Built of native stone, it rose
nobly from the rolling lawns that surrounded it.  Deanna had seen such houses
before in England but never on this side of the ocean, although she had heard
that they existed in such places as Virginia, where men held vast tracts of
land and ruled like feudal barons.

Nash turned, and reaching across the distance that separated them, took her
hand.  Instantly, she responded, her body feeling the now familiar tingle of
pleasure that happened whenever they came in contact and her spirit
recognizing the even more profound bond that existed between them.  A bond
she could no longer deny, no matter what it cost her.

"Holycroft," Nash said, indicating the surrounding countryside with his free
hand.

"The borders stretch a day's ride in either direction.

We had some fighting when the war began but it's since moved far off.

You'll be safe here.  "

Deanna nodded but did not try to speak.  She believed him explicitly yet she
also noted what he had not said.  You'll be safe, not we'll.

"Where is the fighting now?"

He hesitated, and she knew her guess had been right.  In Nellie's store,
she'd thought she saw something in his face, some piercing regret she
couldn't identify then.  Softly, he said,

"Cornwallis was defeated in the Carolinas.  He has marched on Yorktown.
Apparently, he intends to make his stand there."

"I see..."  Her throat was suddenly tight.  The magnificent house lying
before her shimmered behind a veil of tears.

"The British fleet sails to his aid," Nash went on.  "Washington will need
every man and every ship he can get."

She raised her head, proud, against the gathering night.  The long heritage
of strength forged in her ancestry, the strength of Daniels' Neck and the
heritage of Amelia, came to her relief.

"Promise me one thing?"  she asked.

Chapter Forty-Two Q^y^ssyQ S~i.  e was fire in her arms, driving strength
and remorseless male hunger.  Beneath him, around him, lost in his power, she
quivered helplessly.

They lay in the high four-poster bed in the master suite, draped in
embroidered curtains, wrapped in night, lost in each other.  Deanna only
dimly remembered arriving at the house, meeting the formidable Hargreave and
listening as Nash gave instructions.

To give the butler credit, she remembered that he never flinched.

Supper had been served on damask and china, lit by tall white candles in
silver sticks, discretion and luxury in every tiny detail.  She had hardly
tasted the food but she presumed it had been excellent.  The wine had
glistened in crystal goblets.  A fire had burned beneath the marble mantel.
The huge bed had beckoned.

Nash had undressed her in front of the fire with exquisite care, slowly
removing each fragile garment.  He took his time despite the effort it
clearly cost.  His cheeks were flushed and his pewter eyes gleaming when at
last she stood naked in front of him, garbed only in reflected flame and the
heat of his desire.

It was her turn then, though her hands were shaking, to undo the stock at his
throat, unlace the fine linen shirt and undo the buttons of his breeches.
Before she could finish, his control snapped and he finished the job hastily.

The bed was beyond their reach.  On the floor in front of the fire, cushioned
by the thick Araby carpet, they claimed each other.  Their coupling was swift
and fierce, but brought only faint surcease.

Gathering Deanna to him, Nash carried her to the bed.  With infinite care, he
laid her across the damask sheets.  Her body was rosied by his lovemaking and
he stood back and looked at her.

"I will remember this," he said, "all my life and beyond."

"And I," she whispered, her body arching, her nipples hard and aching,
needing him desperately.

He came to her with fierce strength, consuming her, leaving no part of her
untouched.  She welcomed him, matching his passion with her own, wishing only
for this night to continue forever.

His mouth worshipped her, his hands adored her.  With all his body he paid
homage to her womanhood.  When at last they joined again it was a true union
of their very souls.

Slumber claimed them, but even in its grip they held tight to one another.
Nash slept on his side with Deanna curled into the arc of his body.  One big
hand laid possessively on her abdomen.

Barely had the first gray light of dawn begun to cast away the shadows of
night than they woke to love again.

When at last they drew apart, neither sought sleep again.  It was beyond
them.  Morning had come.

Servants brought buckets of hot water to fill the tub set in the dressing
room.  They entered through a separate door so Deanna did not see them, nor
they her.  But she could hear them going quietly about their task.

When they were done, she waited until she heard the water splash slightly.
Rising, she walked naked into the dressing room.

Nash was stretched out in the tub.  His eyebrows rose when he saw her.

"Care to join me?"

The thought was tempting but she shook her head.  "That doesn't look big
enough."  Indeed, the hard, burnished length of him completely filled the tub.

He sighed in resignation.

"At least keep me company."

Forever, she wanted to say, but this was not the time.

"I'll do better than that."  She mustered a smile.

Nash groaned with pleasure as she scrubbed his back.  She made a thorough job
of it before going on to other things.  A great deal of water splashed on the
floor before they were done.

"I still say you look like a grizzly," she observed some time later.

Curled up in a chair near the tub, she watched him shave with unbridled
fascination.  At length, the week's worth of beard was gone and his square
jaw once again revealed.

"About the hair," she said.

They changed places.  Still as naked as a jaybird, she fussed over him,
brushing and trimming his hair until it was again contained in a neat queue
at the back of his neck.

"You're very good at that."

Straight-faced, she said,

"Nellie gave me some tips."

"I'll just bet she did."  Nash reached for her.  Too soon, he remembered
himself.  With palpable regret, he let her go.

"I must dress."

She nodded, determined not to let him see her anguish.

"I suppose I should do the same."  She left him then and went back to the
bedroom.

The white lace and silk dress had been left on a chair.  She put it on
carefully and did her hair the way Nellie had showed her, so that soft curls
framed her face.

She finished just as Nash emerged from the dressing room.  He was garbed in
black, the way she had first seen him, relieved only by the flash of his
white stock.  A sword was buckled around his lean waist.

He looked equally well prepared for a fancy dress ball or a war.

That thought struck her as oddly touching.  She went to him and laid her hand
on his arm.  Her voice was husky.

"I want you to know I'm going to be good about this."

His gaze searched hers.

"Are you?"

"Marlowe women are known for it.  The British have nothing on our stiff upper
lips."

"Actually, I find your upper lip delectable.  Also the lower one."

She shut her eyes for a moment, calling on all the pride and courage she
possessed.

"Don't," she whispered, her only concession to the pain that threatened to
wrench her apart.

They walked down the long, curving staircase together.  Hargreave awaited
them at the bottom.  Deanna remembered him vaguely from the previous day.  He
was a slightly built man of medium height, and didn't look quite the ogre he
had been painted.

"Miss Marlowe will be staying," Nash said.

Hargreave inclined his almost bald head.  He did not look at Deanna.

"Sir."

"She may wish to make some changes."

It was difficult to say who was the more startled, Hargreave or Deanna.  As
brief as her acquaintance with Holycroft had been, she had the distinct
impression that it was perfect.  She said as much.

Slowly, as though he hadn't much practice doing it, Hargreave smiled.

"Thank you, miss."

Nash looked from one to the other, satisfied.  That will be all," he said.  .

Hargreave bowed.  Softly, he said,

"Godspeed, sir."  With utmost discretion, he walked away, leaving them to
share a final few minutes alone.

Deanna's lips were tender and full.  She stood at the large window near the
door, staring out.  An immense black stallion had been brought from the
stable.  He snorted and pawed the ground but quieted when he saw Nash.

Once mounted, horse and man were one.  Nash turned, looking toward the window
and the woman framed there.  Framed, too, by the great house all around her,
the walls stretching out as though against Epilogue Ueanna slowly put down
the letter from her father and stared into the fire.  It was warm in the
library of Holycroft, but outside the first chill winds of autumn were
beginning to blow over the land.  A silver tea service was on the table
beside her, along with a bell for her to ring should she require anything.
Anything at all, Hargreave had stressed.

He seemed to think it was his duty to look after her and make absolutely sure
she did not exert herself.  When he'd caught her the previous day laying a
fire in the sitting room, it had been all she could do to calm him.  Any hope
of more ambitious endeavors was clearly out of the question.

She was left with her knitting, which she was slowly getting good at, her
reading, which she genuinely enjoyed and sedate rides on a gentle mare.  That
and the letters that came frequently from her father, less so from Nash.  But
then her father was at Belle Haven, holding on as best he could, and vastly
comforted to know that she was safe.  Nash was in the thick of it, at the
siege of Yorktown.  Deanna prayed daily that a climactic victory there would
end this terrible war.

Charles was dead.  So her father had informed her.  He had perished not
gloriously or even to any purpose, but in a boating accident in New York
harbor, the result apparently of a drunken excursion by officers who had
nothing better to do.

Clinton had kept his forces in the city.  Despite repeated orders from
Cornwallis, he had yet to march to the relief of Yorktown.  That decision,
more than anything else, emboldened the Americans, who fought with the
desperation of men who knew this might well be their only chance at victory.

Her father, who now knew the full story of her arrest and escape--or as full
as propriety allowed-- agreed with her that it was likely Charles had sent
the letter that brought her to the stable.  Nathaniel had noticed Charles, at
the picnic in Greenwich Village, watching her and Nash as they emerged from
the woods.

Nathaniel admitted a little wryly that he had wondered who the man she was
talking with was and had thought about asking her, but before he could do so
events had overtaken them.  He seemed reconciled to the fact that his
daughter's rescuer was a rebel American, as he also seemed to accept the
possibility of British defeat.

"The hand of destiny," he wrote, "may yet decree that this vast, sprawling
land is meant to be self- governed after all.  Perhaps it would even be for
the also determined to go their separate ways.  As for Nathaniel, he was
planning his return to England although he allowed as to how he might visit
from time to time when, as he said, things had settled down.

The thing he had most particularly in mind was Deanna's happiness, but he was
gracious enough not to stress the point.

She spared a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure the library door was
closed and stood up to poke the fire.  After all those years of helping to
look after Daniels' Neck, she couldn't simply sit back and do nothing.

When the fire leapt again, she tossed around for some other way to engage her
restless energy.  She could write to Nash, as she frequently did, but she
couldn't be sure that in the chaos of an approaching battle he would have any
chance of receiving the letter.

Besides, what concerned her most, apart from the immediate issue of his
safety--the consuming fact that dominated her days--she would not write of at
all.  Nor would Hargreave or anyone else, for she had expressly forbidden it.
Nash had far too much on his mind to worry about her.  He needed to believe
her safe, content and utterly without concern.

Would that it were true.  She touched a hand lightly to her belly and smiled.
If her calculations were correct, the life within her had begun that final
night of their journey after they entered the borders of Holy- croft.  That
seemed fitting somehow.

On an impulse, she left the library, and with a cloak thrown around her
shoulders, wandered outside.  Everywhere she looked, the vast demesne of
Holycroft was being prepared for the winter ahead.

Bountiful crops had been brought in, provisions of every sort laid up,
buildings repaired.  There was no shirking of the slightest duty, but on
every face and in every act was the knowledge that it might be for naught.

If Clinton did suddenly leave New York, if the British fleet proved as
formidable as it always had been, if destiny simply willed otherwise, the
whole great adventure of freedom would come crashing down around them all.

It did not bear thinking of, not here in the bright autumnal sunshine scented
with the aromas of wood- smoke and apples, drying hams and corn cobs and the
first faint whiff of approaching winter.  Not here on the land of Holycroft,
please heaven, where she walked with her child growing in her, and thought
also of that other place, Daniels' Neck, the two now joined in her mind as
one.

A brisk walk in the sunshine and a healthy dose of self-discipline kept her
thoughts at bay, but only for a time.  Too soon, shadows deepened and the
lights began to go on one by one in the great house as night wreathed it.

Deanna ate a light supper served by Hargreave, who fussed over her with such
solicitude that she was finally compelled to tell him she could not possibly
take another bite.  At his suggestion, she settled in the sitting room but
declined the offer of coffee.  Her nerves already felt painfully jangled.

Because the butler would not go to bed until she did so herself, she retired
early, but sat up in bed trying to concentrate on the book she was reading.
It was a good tale, all about love found, lost and found again.  But she
could not give it much heed.

Night sounds intruded through the window she had left open a notch--the
hooting of owls, the flutter of wings, the whisper of the wind.  They were
mournful sounds that stirred her thoughts to melancholy and made her shiver
in the bed.

In her mind's eye, the sounds transformed into the clash and fury of battle,
the screams of dying men and horses, the blood red mist of destiny hanging in
the balance.

She woke with a start, unaware that she had slept, and sat up.  The battle.
It had been so real.  She had smelled the powder and the iron tang of blood,
been close enough to touch the frayed standards, waving above the advancing
forces, lit by exploding shells as the fortifications were breached and-This
was madness.  She could not possibly know of such things.  It was only her
imagination set at a devil's pace to torment her.

The bed that had been a comfort was turned suddenly treacherous.  She could
not trust herself to sleep again, not when such dreams lurked just around the
corner of unconsciousness.

It was chill in the hallway but the robe she wore kept her warm enough.  She
knew, thanks to earlier noctural wanderings, that the fires would be banked
in the kitchen.  She could make herself a cup of warm milk.

But she had gotten only a little way, no farther than the central hall, when
a new sound reached her through the night.  Not hoot nor flutter nor breath
of wind but the swift, sure pounding of what?  Horse's hooves, coming,
coming, faster now over the land of Holycroft.

Deanna ran toward the door and wrenched it open.  This, too, might be a
dream, even more tormenting than the last.  But she had to know, had to see
for herself, had to pray that it might be The black stallion reared, dark
against the night, silver hooves flashing beneath the moon.  A deep voice
murmured soothingly.  The horse settled and was quiet as his rider dismounted.

He was limping.  That was what she saw first and what pierced through her.
Without thought, she ran to help him.

He stopped, gazing at her like a man long parched for water.  His arms
opened.  On a wing, she went into them and was gathered close.

"Nash... I didn't dare hope.  Your leg..."

"A nothing wound but honorably gotten."  There was a smile in his voice.  He
squeezed her again hard, then set her slightly aside so that he could look at
her.  His eyes gleamed, fierce and proud.

"It is done."  With a sudden, triumphant laugh, he repeated,

"Done and well done, by God!  Scarcely two days ago.  I came as swiftly as I
could."

He had crossed Virginia in two days, riding injured to reach her.  She
swallowed hard and did her utmost to look stern.

"We must see to that nothing wound of yours before it becomes something more."

"Do your worst, sweet ling he said with a grin.

He wrapped his arm around her and turned toward the house.  Only then did he
freeze, his eyes widening as he felt the slight thickening of what had been
willow slim.

"Deanna?"

"Hmm?"  Bursting with happiness, she tilted her head to the side and looked
at him.

The corners of his mouth quirked.  He gave a huge, masculine sigh.  ' "It
appears just as well I have been in correspondence with your father."

Not fair.  She had been just about to gain the upper hand with her precious
secret, and he seemed not at all astounded.  Indeed, he appeared to take it
in happy stride.

"My father..."

' "He wrote to say he intended returning to England.  I wrote back offering
to buy Daniels' Neck."

"You did what?"

Nash looked at her with mock sternness.

"Hear me out, woman.

However, he also suggested that if I truly had a yen to divide my time
between there and Holycroft, you were, the person to discuss it with.  "

"I?"

"You," he affirmed, his hand sweeping over her belly with frank
possessiveness.

"He means to deed it to you."

Deanna's shoulders straightened.  He could be the most infuriating man,
always taking her by surprise.  She would really have to put a stop to that
if they were to deal well together.

"I will never sell Daniels' Neck," she said.

He stroked a finger down her cheek and smiled when she trembled.

"Then perhaps we can work out something else."

A sigh escaped her.  Tomorrow she would begin the business of managing him
better.  Or perhaps the day after.  He was home, that was all that counted.
Time was theirs now.

"Perhaps we can."

She was rewarded when he swept her into his arms, into love everlasting.
Into the future.

***** Author's Note I hope you've enjoyed this second visit to Belle Haven
and that you'll join me again for the third book of the Belle Haven saga.
The Tempting of Julia.

A century has passed since Deanna and Nash found each other in the midst of
war.  Belle Haven has changed from a quiet farming community to a retreat for
the cream of New York society.

But other, more enduring qualities have remained the same.  For Deanna's
great-granddaughter, Julia Nash, the challenge is still to find love in the
midst of a world that too often seems to conspire against it.

Belle Haven has become very real for me.  I hope it has for you, too, and
that you'll return there often.